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\ j
A LITERARY MAP
OF
ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND
ENGLISH FbETfcV AND PROSE
. . • •'• r.. • i .
' *' OT THE
ROMANTIC MOVEMENT
SELECTED AND EDITED WITH NOTES, BIBLIOGRAPHIES,
AND A GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
BY
GEORGE BENJAMIN WOODS, Ph.D.
qf English tit Carleton College
SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK
('OFTKIGHI 1016
BY SCOTT, FORFSMAN \\D
To
Who hat shared tlic pleasure and the laltar
(J' prcpartng this
PREFACE
The purpose of this volume is to supply in convenient form a body of reading
material suitable for use in a eourse of study dealing with the Romantic Move-
ment in English literature The selections included have been chosen with a
two-fold intention : first, to provide in one book all the material, with the single
exception of the novel, necessary to acquaint the student with the best and most
characteristic work of the men who made the years 1798 to 1832 one of the notable
epochs of English literature , secondly, to add to this body of prose and verse
on \\hich critical appreciation has set the seal of final approval, and which not
to know is to argue oneself unknown, enough of what preceded and accompanied
the triumph of the Romantic temper to show the inception of the Movement, its
growth, its contrasts, its failings. Selections from Percy's R cliques of Ancient
English Poetry and from Scott's The Mnitticlsy of the Scottish Border are
included because of the recognized influence of both of these collections upon the
Romantic Movement , Percy and Scott were the most conspicuous of the group of
antiquarians who were consciously concerned with the revival of interest in
inedie\al ballads and romances Tt seemed advisable also that the Gothic revival,
another important phase of Romanticism, should be given representation, and
therefore selections have been included from Walpole's The Castle of Otranto
and from Beckford's The Hittoiy of the Caliph Vathck. With these exceptions,
the novelists have been excluded, inasmuch as a novel does not readily lend itself
to selection, and had best be studied in its entirety
It has been the aim to include, whenever possible, literary wholes, but in
some eases the desne adequately to illustrate all the Romantic interests of a
given \\riter has made it necessary to melude only extracts from the longer
uorks. But as a rule these extracts are distinctly characteristic in themselves as
well as self-explanatory , where needed, summaries of omitted portions have been
supplied in the notes Tn the ease of such works as Don Juan and The Prelude,
enough is given to make the use of other books practically unnecessary. As it
was impossible to give space to all of any one of Scott 's longer poems, two cantos
of The Lady of the Lale have been included as representative of this side of
Scott's work The complete poem, as well as Marmion, which is represented in
the text only by songs, may easily be procured in cheap editions, if it is so desired.
The selections under each author are arranged in the order of writing, so
far as this eould be determined, except that in the case of writers from whom
both poetry and prose are included, the /selections of poetry are placed first
Dates of writing and publication, when known, are given at the beginning of
V
yi PEEFACE
each selection; dates of writing are printed in italics. Lines of verse are num-
bered as in the complete poems; dots are used to indicate editor's omissions;
asterisks are used as the authors used them and usually denote that the selection
in which they occur was left incomplete. Unless the original spelling is dis-
tinctly important, as it is in the case of Chatterton's poems, modern spelling is
employed. In the references to pages in this volume, the letter a is used to
indicate the first column on the page ; the letter ft, to indicate the second column.
Brief glossarial notes are given at the foot of the page , additional notes, both
explanatory and critical in character, are given in the Appendix, where are also
to be found bibliographies and reference lists, selections from the writings of
Pope, Johnson, and Burke, a table of important historical events and a list of
English, German, and French writers of the period, a glossary of proper nainea
occurring in the text, and an index of authors, titles, first lines of poems, and
first lines of lyries found in the dramas and other long works printed in this
volume
I wish to express my thanks to the Houghton Mifflin Company, to Qinn and
Company, to the Macmillan Company, to the John Lane Company, and to E P.
Dutton and Company for the privilege of quoting extracts from their publica-
tions; to the Librarian of the Harvard University Library for the use of a
number of books which otherwise would have been inaeeessible to me , to Pro-
fessor Arthur W Graver, of Miami University, and to Professor George Benedict,
of Brown University, for suggestions regarding individual writers and selections ;
to Miss Iva Firkins, of the Library of the University of Minnesota, and to Mr.
B. L Walkley, of the Minneapolis Public Library, for help in preparing the
bibliographies , to several of my colleagues and students who have been generous
of their time in supplying necessary information or other help , and especially to
Professor Lindsay Todd Damon, of Brown Universit}r, whose careful supervision
and keen critical judgment have made for countless improvements throughout
the book.
In a book of this size and nature, it is extremely difficult to preserve com-
plete consistency of treatment, and no doubt inaccuracies have resulted I
shall appreciate notification of any corrections which may occur to students or
instructors using the volume G. B W.
Carleton College,
September 1, 1916.
CONTENTS
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORE-
BUNNEB8
PAGE
Countess of Wlnchllsea (1661
1720)
The Tree 1
From The Volition for nn Absolute Ke-
treat 1
To The Nightingale 2
A Nocturnal Reverie 2
Thomas Parnell (1679 1718)
A Fanv Tale
A Night-Piec-e on lV.it h
A Hymn to Contentment
Allan Ramsay (1686 1758)
The Highland Lnddie
My IVggv
8*eet William's Ghost
Through the Wood, Laddie
An Thou Weie My Am Thing
From The Gentle Shepherd
Patie and I'eggy
Piefaee to The Kvei green
William Hamilton of Bangour (1704
1754)
The Braes of Yarrow
David Mallet (1705-1765)
William and Margaret
Tho Birks of Endeimaj
John Dyer (1700-1758)
Gi ongar Hill
The Fleece ---
From Book I
James Thomson (1700-1748)
The Seasons
Ffom Winter
From Summer .
From Autumn
A Hymn on Tho Seasons
The Castle of Indolence
From Canto I
Tell Me, Thou Soul of Her I Lo\e
To Amanda
Preface to Winter ........
PAOI
Edward Young (1681-1765)
Night Thoughts
AVom Night I 33
From Night III 34
From Night V 35
From Night VI 35
From Night IX 35
From Conjectures on Original Compo-
sition ... 86
Bobert Blair (1699-1746)
From The Grave
7
7
8
9
9
9
11
13
15
15
16
17
18
19
21
23
24
32
32
1318
William Shenstone (1714-1763)
From The 8t hoolrmst rebs
Mark Akenslde (1721-1770)
The Pleasures of the Imagination
From Part I
For a Grotto ,
Ode to the Evening Star
... 87
40
44
46
47
William Collins (1721 1759)
A Song from Shakes pear 'B Cymbelyne 48
Ode to 8implicit\ 48
Ode on the Poetical Character 49
Ode Wntten in the Beginning of the
Year 1746 50
Ode to Evening 50
The PaRsionH 51
Ode on the Death of Mr Thomson 52
An Ode on the Popular Superstitions of
the Highlands oi Scotland . 53
Thomas Gray (1716 1771) C,
Ode on the Spung 57
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton Col-
lege a 57
II\mn to Adversity 58
Elegy Wntten in a Country Churchward 59
The Progress of Poesy 61
The Bard 63
Ode on the Pleasure Arising from Vicis-
situde 65
Song (Thyisis, when we parted, swore) 66
The Fatal Sisters 66
The Descent of Odin . 67
The Triumphs of Owen . 68
The Death of Iloel 68
Caradoc . 68
Conan 66
vtt
OONTENTS
Thomas Ofay (Continued)
From Journal in France .
From Gray ' s Letters
To Mrs Dorothy Gray
To Bichard West
To Horace Walpole
To Bichard Stonehewer
To Thomas Wharton
To the Reverend William Mnnou
To the Reverend William Mason
To Thomas Wharton
To Horace Walpole
To Richard Kurd
To Horace Walpolc
From Journal in the Lakes
Thomas Warton (1728-1790)
From The Pleasures of Melancholy
From Ode on the Approach of Summer
The Crusade . . .
Sonnets
Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's
Monasticon 77
Written at Stonehenge 78
While Summer Suns o 'er the Gay Pios-
pect Play'd 78
On King Arthur's Bound Table at
Winchester 78
From Observations on the Fairy Queen
of Spenser 79
Joseph Warton (1722-1800)
The Enthusiast or The Lover of Nature 80
I Ode to Fancy 84:
From Essay on the Genius and Wiitings
of Pope . 85
PAOE PAGE
Thomas Ohatterton (1752-1770)
69 Bristowe Tragedie, 01, The Dethe of Syr
Chailes Bavidin 125
69 The Accounte of W Canynges Feast . . 130
From JElla. A Tragyc.il Eutcrlude
Mynstrelles Song (The boddynge flour-
ettes bloshes atte the Ivghte) 130
Mynstrelles Song (Of synge untoc mic
roundelaie) 131
An Excelpnte Balade of Cliantip 132
Epitaph on Robeit Canynge .. 134
William Beckford (1759-1844)
Ftom The History of the Caliph Vathek 134
William Oowper (1731-1800)
From Olney Hymns
Lovcst Thou Me?
70
71
71
71
72
72
1244
11263
1264
1265
73
</
75
76
77
Light Shining Out of Darkness
Task
145
145
The Sofa
The Time Piece
The Winter Walk at
James Macphorson (1738-1796)
Caithon A Poem 86
Oina-Morul A Poem 91
From Fingal An Ancient Epic Poem
Book I . . .92
Bichard Hard (1720-1808)
Ftom Letters on Chivalry and Romance
Letter T 97
Letter VI 98
Horace Walpole (1717-1797)
From The Castle of Otranto
(Trapter I 100
The
From Book I
From Book II
Ftom Book VI
Noon
The Poplar-Field
The Negio's Complaint
On the Receipt of M> Mothpr's Picture
out of Norfolk
Yardlcv Oak
To M,irv
The Casta\\nv
From Oowppr's Letteis
To William TTmun 1202
To William ITmun 1247
To Mrs rowi>er 12*7
To Mr .TohnHon 124S
To William Unwin 1248
145
147
148
148
148
140
151
153
154
From Preface to The Castle of Otranto 1350
Thomas Percy (1729-1811)
From Reliques of Ancient English Poetry
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 110
The Ancient Ballad of Chevy-Chase 112
Sir Patrick Bpence . 116
Edom o' Gordon 117
Lord Thomas and Fair Elhnor . . 118
James Seattle (17354803)
Retirement . 119
The Minstrel , or, The Progress of Genius
from Book I ..................... 120
George Orabbe (1754-1832) i,/
From The Village
Book I 134
From The Borough
Letter I General Desciiption IftO
From Pieface to The Borough 1251
William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850)
At Tynemonth Puory . 164
The Bells, Ostend 164
Bereavement 164
Bamborough Castle 164
Hope 165
Influence of Time on Giief 165
Approach of Summer 165
Absence 165
William Blake (1757-1827) V
To Spring 166
How Sweet I Roamed 169
My Silks and Fine Army 166
To the Muses 166
Introduction to Songs of Innocence 166
The Shepherd 167
The Little Black Bov 167
Laughing Song . 167
The Divine Image 167
A Dream ............ . 168
CONTENTS
William Blake (Continued)
The Book of Thel . 168
The Clod and the Pebble 170
Holy Thursday . . 170
The Chimney-Sweeper 171
Nurse's Song . .. 171
The Tiger . . 171
Ah, Sunflower 171
The Garden of Love . 171
A Poison Tree 171
A Cradle Song 172
Auguries of Innocence 172
The Mental Traveller 173
Couplet (Great things are done when men
and mountains meet) 174
From Milton 174
To the Queen ... 174
Robert Bums (1759-1796) ^ *
0, Once I Lov 'd a Bonie Lass 175
A Pr.nei in the Prospect of Death 175
Marv Monson 175
My frame, O 175
Poor Mm lie 'a Elegy 176
Green Grow the Rashes, O 176
To Daw 177
Epistle to J Lapraik 177
Epistle to the Re\ John M 'Math 179
The Jolly Beggais 180
The Holy Fair 185
The Cotter's Saturday Night 188
To a Mouse 190
Address to the Deil 191
A Bard's Epitaph 193
Address to the Unco Guid, or, The Rig-
idly Righteous 193
To a Mountain Daisv 194
To a Louse 194
The Silver Tassie 195
Of A' the Airts 195
Auld Lang Sjne 195
Whistle O'er the Lave O't 1P6
My Heart's in the Highlands 106
John Anderson Mv Jo 196
Sweet Afton 196
Willie Brew 'd a Peck oi Maut 197
Tarn Glen 197
Thou Ling 'ring Star . 198
Tarn o' Shanter 198
Ye Flowery Banks 201
Ae Fond Kiss . 201
The Deil's Awa \\T th' Exciseman 201
Saw Ye Bonie Lesley '202
Highland Mary 202
Last May a Braw Wooer 202
Scots, Wha Hae / 203
A Red. Red Rose . 203
My Name's Awa . 203
Contented wi' Little .. 204
Lassie wi' the Lint-White Locks 204
Is There for Honest Poverty 204
O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 205
O, Lay Thy Loof in Mine, Lass 205
Preface to the First, or Kilmarnock Edi-
tion of Burns 's Poems 205
PAGE PAOB
Bobert Burn* (Continued)
Dedication to the Second, or Edinburgh
Edition of Burns 's Poems 200
Holy Willie's Prayer 1212
Letter to Thomson . 1217
Letter to Alison 1280
II. NINETEENTH OENTUBT ROMANTI-
CISTS
Samuel Rogers (1763-1855)
The Pleasures of Memory
From Fart I . . . . 207
An Italian Song 269
Written at Midnight 209
Written in the Highlands of Scotland 209
An Inscription in the Crimea 209
The Boy of Egremond 210
From Italy
The Lake of Geneva 210
The Gondola 211
The Fountain . 212
William Godwin (1756-1836)
Enquiry Concerning Political Justice
From Book I Of the Powers of Man
Considered m His Social Capacity 213
From Book V Of the Legislative and
Executive Power 219
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem,
Composed in Anticipation of Leav-
ing School % . 223
Written in Very Early Youth 223
From An Evening Walk 223
Lines Left Upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree 223
The Revene of Poor Susan 224
We Are Seven 225
The Thorn 225
Goody Blake and Harry Gill 228
Her Eyes Are Wild 229
Simon Lee 230
Lines Written in Early Spring . 231
To My Sister . 231
A Whirl-Blast from behind the Hill 2,12
Expostulation and Reply . 232
The Tables Turned . 232
Lines Composed a Pew Miles above Tin-
tern Abbey 233
The Old Cumberland Beggar . 234
Nutting . .... 237
Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known 238
She Dwelt among the Untrodden Wavs. 238
I Travelled among Unknown Men 238
Three Years She Grew in Bun and Shower 238
A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 239
A Poet's Epitaph 239
Matthew . 239
The T\\o April Mornings. . 240
The Fountain . . 240
Lucy Gray 241
The Prelude
From Book I Introduction — Childhood
and School-Time ... 242
From Book II. School-Time 245
CONTENTS
William Wordflwortli (Continued)
From Book HI. Residence at Cam-
From Book IV Bummer Vacation .
From Book V. Books
From Book VI. Cambridge and the
Alps
Book VIII Betrospect — Love of Na-
ture Leading to Love of Man
From Book XI France
From Book XII Imagination and
Taste, How Impaired and Restored
Book XIII Imagination and* Taste,
How Impaired and Restored (con-
cluded) .
Michael
It Was an April Morning
'Tis Said That Borne Have Died for Love
The Excursion
From Book I The Wanderer
Pehon and Ossa
The Sparrow's Nest
To a Butterfly
My Heart Leaps Up
Written in March
To a Butterfly
To the Small Celandine
To the Same Flower
Resolution and Independence
I Grieved for Buonaparte
Composed upon Westminster Bridge,
September 3, 1802
Composed by the Sea-bide, near Calais,
August, 1802
It Is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and
Free . ...
On the Extinction of the Venetian Re-
public
To Toussaint L'Ouverture . . .
Composed in the Valley near Dover, on
the Day of Landing
Near Dover, September, 1802
Written in London, September, 1802
London, 1802
Great Men Have Been among Us
It Is not to Be Thought of That the
Flood
When I Have Borne in Memory
To H C
To the Daisy . ...
To the Same Flower .
To the Daisy
The Green Linnet .
Yew-Trees
At the Grave of Burns
To a Highland Girl
Stepping Westward .
The Solitary Reaper
Yarrow Unvisited. . .
October, 1803 ..
To the Men of Kent . . .
Anticipation, October, 1803
To the Cuckoo. ... .
She Was a Phantom of Delight
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
PAGE FA0K
William Wordsworth (Continued)
The Affliction of Margaret 295
247 Ode to Duty . ... 296
247 To a Skylark 297
248 Elegiac Stanzas .. 297
To a Young Lady . . .. 298
249 Character of the Happy Warrior 298
Power of Music 299
250 Yes, It Was the Mountain Echo . 300
259 Nuns Fret Not at Then Convent's Nar-
row Room . 300
261 Personal Talk . 300
Admonition . 301
How Sweet It 1% When Mother Fancy
262 Rocks 301
266 Composed bv the Side of Grasmere Lake 302
273 The World Is too Much with Us, Late
273 and Soon 302
To Sleep 302
274 November, 1806 .. 302
281 Ode Intimations of Immortality 303
281 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation
281 of Switzerland 305
282 Characteristics of a Child Three Years
282 Old 305
282 Here Pause the Poet Claims at I^east
2S2 This Praise 306
281 Laodamia . » « 306
281 Yarrow Visited 308
285 Hast Thou Been, with Flash Incessant 309
Composed upon an foemng of Extraor-
285 dinary Splendor and Beautv 309
To a Snowdrop 310
286 There Is a Little Unpretending Rill 310
Between Namur and Liege 310
286 Composed in One of the Catholic Cantons 311
Fiom The Rner Duddon
286 Sole Listener, Duddon 311
286 After-Thoutfit 311
From EccleHiastiral Sonnets
287 Mutability 311
287 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cam-
287 bridge 312
287 To a Sk\lark 312
287 Scorn Not the Sonnet . 312
To the Cuckoo . 312
28S Yarrow Revisited 312
288 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott
288 from Abbotsford, for Naples 314
288 The Trosachs . . 314
289 If Thou Indeed Derive Thy Light from
290 Heaven . 314
290 If This Great World of .Jov and Pain . 314
290 " There ?" Said a Stripling, Pointing
291 with Meet Pride 314
292 Most Sweet It Is with Unuphfted Eyes 315
292 To a Child . . 315
293 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of
293 James Hogg . 315
294 Hark! 'Tis the Thrush .. ..316
294 A Poet!— He Hath Put His Heart to
294 School ... . .316
294 So Fair, So Sweet, Withal So Sensitive 316
295 The Unremitting Voice of Nightly
295 Streams 316
CONTENTS
PACK
FACT
William Wordsworth (Continued)
Bobert Southey (1774-1843)
Preface to the Second Edition of Several
of the Foregoing Poems (Lyrical
Ballads) 317
From The Idiot Boy 1243
To the Poet, John Dyer 1260
From Written After the Death of Charles
Lamb 1296
Preface to The Thoin 1357
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)
Life
Pantmocracy
To a Young Ass
La Fayette
KoskniRko
To the Reverend W L Bowles
The Eolian Harp
Reflections on Having Left n Place of
Retirement
Sonnet to a Friend Who Asked Ho* I
Felt When the Nurse First Pre-
sented Mv Infant to Me
Ode on the Departing Year
This Lime-Tree Bower My Piison
The Dungeon
The Rime of the Ancient Manner
Frost at Midnight
Fiance An Ode
Le\nti 01, The fnuisMan Lo\e Chant
Fears in Solitude
The Nightingale
The Bullnd of the Daik Ludie
Kubla Khan
Lines Written in the Album at Elbnige
rode
Love
Dejection An Ode
Hjnin before Sunnse, in the Vale of
Ghanioum
Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath
Answer to a Child's Question
The Pains of Sleep
To a Gentleman
Time Real and Imaginar} .
From Remorse
Hear, Sweet Spirit, Hear the Spell
Ftom Zapolya
A Sunny Shaft Did I Behold
The Knight's Tomb
To Natlire
Youth and Age .
Work *ithoi\t Hope . ..
The Garden of Boccaccio
Phantom or Fact
Epitaph
The Wanderings of Gam
From Biographia Literana
Chapter XTV
Chapter XVII
From Chapter XVIII
Chapter XXII
Characteristics of Shakspeare's Dramas
328
328
328
329
329
329
329
330
331
331
334
.H5
3 "15
343
350
351
352
353
356
358
358
359
359
360
362
364
364
364
365
366
366
366
367
367
367
368
368
369
370
370
372
375
381
382
395
Sonnet Concerning the Slave Trade 400
The Battle of Blenheim 400
The Holly Tree . . . . 401
The Old Man's Comforts 401
God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop 401
From the Curse of Kehama
The Funeral 403
The Match to Moscow 405
Ode (Who counsels peace at this mo-
mentous hour) 406
My Days among the Dead Are Past 408
From A Vision of Judgment
The Beatification 409
The Cataract of Lodore 410
From The Life of Nelson
The Battle of Trafalgar ... 411
Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)
The Pleasures of Hope
Ftom Part I 417
Ye Manners of England 419
Hohenhnden 420
LochiePs Warning 420
Lord UJlm >s Daughter 421
Battle of the Baltic 422
The Last Man 423
The Death-Boat of Heligoland . 424
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
The Lake of the Diurnal Swamp
A Canadian Boat Song
From Irish Melodies
Oh, Breathe Not His Name
When He Who Adores Thee
The Harp That Once Thiough Tara's
Halls
Ohf Blame Not the Bard
Lesbia Hath a Beaming Eye
The Young May Moon
The Minstrel Bov
Farewell* — Bnt Whene\er You Wel-
come the Hour
The Time I 've Lost in Wooing
Dear Harp of My Country
She Is Far from the Land
From National Airs
Oh, Come to Me When Davlight Sets
Oft, in the Stilly Night
Lalla Rookh
From The Light of the Haram
From Fables for the Holy Alliance
The Dissolution of the Holy Alliance
424
425
425
425
426
426
426
427
427
427
428
428
1309
428
428
429
430
Charles Wolfe (1791-1823)
The Burial of Sir John Moore at Coninna 432
Sonnet (My Spirit's on the mountains,
where the birds) 432
Oh Say Not That My Heart Is Cold 432
fllr Walter Scott (1771-1832)
William and Helen 433
The Violet . . 436
To a Lady . 436
Glenfinlas , or Lord Ronald 's Coronach 436
Cadyow Castle . . 439
Xll
CONTENTS
PAGE
Sir Walter Scott (Continued)
From The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Bor-
der
Kinmont Willie 441
Lord Randal . . 444
The Lay of the Last Minstrel
From Canto VI 444
Harold (The Lay of Rosabelle) 445
The Maid of Neidpatii 446
Hunting Song . . 446
From Marmion
' Where Shall the Lover Rest 446
Lochinvar . 447
From The Lady of the Lake
Canto I The Chase 448
From Canto II Boat Song 455
From Canto III. Coronach 456
Canto VI The Guaid-Room 456
From Rokeby
Brignall Banks 464
Allen-a-Dale ... . 465
From Waverley
Hie Away, Hie Away 465
From Guy Mannering
Twist Ye, T*me Ye 465
Wasted, Wearv, Wherefore Stav 466
Lines on the Lifting of the Banner of the
House of Buccleuch 466
Jock of Hazeldean 467
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 467
From The Antiquary
Why Sitt 'st Thou by That Ruin M Hal! t 467
From Old Mortality
And What Though Winter Will Pinch
Severe . 468
Clarion 468
The Dreary Change 468
From Rob Roy
Farewell to the Land 468
From The Heart of Midlothian
Proud Maisie 468
From Ivanhoe
The Barefooted Pnar 468
Rebecca's Hymn 469
From The Monastery
Bolder March 469
From The Pirate
The Song of the Reim-Kennar 470
Farewell to the Muse 471
From Quentm Durward
County Guy 471
From The Talisman
What Brave Chief 471
From The Doom of Devergoil
Robin Hood 471
Bonny Dundee 471
When Friends Are Met 473
From Woodstock
Glee for King Charles i 473
The Foray . .... 473
Joanna Bafflie (1762-1851)
From The Beacon
fisherman's Song 474
Woo 'd and Married\nd A ' 474
A Scotch Song 474
FAGS
Allan Cunningham (1784-1842)
The Lovely Lass of Preston Mill 475
Gane Were But the Winter Cauld 476
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 476
Jamas Hogg (1772 1835)
When the Kyo Comes Hame 476
The Skylark 477
When Maggy Gangs Away 477
From The Queen 's Wake
Kilmeny 477
The Witch o' Fife 481
A Boy's Song 482
M'Kimman . 482
Lock the Door, Laiiston 483
The Maid of the Sea 481
Isabelle 12J8
George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-
1824)
Lachin y Gair 484
Farewell' If Ever Fondest Pra>er 481
Bright Be the Place of Th> Soul! 485
When We Two Parted ' 485
From English Baids and Scotch Rc\ieu
ers 485
Maid of Athene K?e We Pait 41)6
The Bride of Abydos 496
Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 510
She Walks in Beaut* 511
Oh* Snatch 'd Away in Beauts 'H Bloom r>12
My Soul Is Daik 512
Song of Saul before His Lant Battle 512
Herod's Lament for Manamnc 512
The Destination of Sennacherib 5X3
Stanzas for Music (Theie's not a ]oy
the *orld can gi\e) 513
Fare Thee Well 513
Stanzas tor Music (There lie none of
Beauty's daughters) 514
Sonnet on Chillon 514
The Prisoner of Chi I Ion 515
Stanzas to Augusta 518
Epistle to Augusta 519
Darkness 521
Prometheus 522
Sonnet to Lake Leman 522
Stanzas for Music (They sa> that Hope
is happiness) 523
From Childe Hai old's Pilgrimage
Canto III 523
From Canto IV 541
Manfred 549
So, We'll Go no More A Roving 568
My Boat Is on the Shore • 568
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the Times 568
Mazeppa . 569
From Don Juan
Dedication 577
From Canto I 579
From Canto II 587
From Canto III 595
The Isles of Greece 596
From Canto IV . 601
From Canto XI 609
CONTENTS
xiii
PAGE
George Noel Gordon (Continued)
When a Man Hath No Freedom to Fight
For at Home . . 613
The World Is a Bundle of Hay 61 J
Who Kill'd John Keatbf 613
For Orford and for Waldegrave 613
The Vision of Judgment 613
Stanzas Written on the Road between
Florence and Pisa 626
On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth
Year . . . . 626
Letter to Murray . 1224
Letter to Murray 1225
Preface to The Vision of Judgment 1227
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
Queen Mab
From Section II
Section VIII
Mutability (We are as clouds that veil
the midnight moon)
To (Oh! there are spirits of the
air)
To Wordsworth
Feelings of a Republican on the Fall of
Bonaparte
Alastor, or The Spirit of Solitude
Hymn to Intellectual Beauty
Mont Blanc
Linos (The cold earth slept belo\\)
To Marv
627
631
634
634
634
635
635
644
646
648
648
650
650
650
650
651
Death (They die— the dead return not)
Lines to a Critic
Ozymandias
The Past
On a Faded Violet
Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills 651
Stanzas (The sun is warm, the skv w
clear) 654
Lines Written during the Castlereagh Ad
ministration 655
The Mask of Anarchy 655
Song to the Men of England 650
England in 1819 659
Ode to the West Wind 660
The Indian Serenade 661
Love's Philosophy 661
The Poet's Lover 661
Prometheus Unbound 662
The Sensitive Plant 699
The Cloud 703
To a Skylark 704
To (I fear thy kisses, gentle
maiden) 706
Arethusa 706
Hymn of Apollo 707
Hymn of Pan 707
The Question. 707
The Two Spirits- An Allegory 708
Autumn- A Dirge 709
The Waning Moon . 709
To the Moon . 709
PAOl
. 710
710
720
728
728
. 728
. 729
(Music, when soft voices die) 729
(When passion's trance is
729
Percy Bysflhe Shelley (Continued)
An Allegory .
The Witch of Atlas
Epipsychidion
Song (Barely, rarely comest thou)
To Night ....
Time
To Emilia Viviani . . . .
To
To
overpast)
Mutability (The flower that smiles to-
day) 729
A Lament 729
Sonnet* Political Greatness 729
Adonais . 730
From Hellas
Life May Change, but It May Fly Not 737
Worlds on Worlds Are Boiling Ever 738
Darkness Has Dawned in the East 738
The World's Great Age Begins Anew 739
Evening 739
To (One word is too often pro-
faned) 739
On Keats . . 740
Tomorrow . 740
Remembrance 740
To Edward Williams 740
Music 741
Lines (When the lamp as shattered) 741
With A Guitar To Jane 742
To Jane 742
From Charles The Fit st
A Widow Bird Sate Mourning for Her
Love 743
A Dirge 743
Lines (We meet not as we parted) 743
The Isle . 743
From A Defense of Poetry 743
To the Nile 1278
Preface to Prometheus Unbound 1333
On Love 1339
Preface to Adonais 1340
Fragment of an Elegy on the Death of
Adonis 1341
Fragment of an Elegy on the Death of
Bion . 1341
To Stella . 1341
John Keats (1795-1821)
Imitation of Spenser . . . 751
To Byron . ... 752
To Chatterton 752
Woman! When I Behold Thee Flippant,
Vain . . 752
Written on the Day That Mr Leigh Hunt
Left Prison 753
To a Young Lady Who Sent Me a Laurel
Grown ... . 753
How Many Bards Gild the Lapses of
Time . ... ... . . 753
Keen, Fitful Gusto Are Whispering Here
and There 758
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 753
CONTENTS
PAGE
PAGE
763
763
763
764
764
John KeatB (Continued)
As from the Darkening Gloom a Silver
Dove .... ' ' ' l2l
Sonnet to Solitude 754
To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent 754
Oh! How I Love on a Pair Summer's Eve 754
I Stood Tiptoe upon a Little Hill 754
Sleep and Poetry . 758
Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon 763
To G. A. W . -
Stanzas (In a drear-mghted December)
Happy la England
On the Grasshopper and Cricket
After Dark Vapors Have Oppress 'd Our
Plains .... • • •
Written on the Blank Space at the End
of Chaucer's Tale of "The Floure
and the Lefe"
On a Picture of Leander
To Leigh Hunt, Esq . . . •
On Seeing the Elgin Marbles
On the Sea
Lines (Unfelt, unheard, unseen)
On Leigh Hunt's Poem "The Story of
Rimini"
When I Have Fears That I May Cease to
Be
On Sitting Down to Bead "King Lear"
Once Again
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern
Robin Hood
To the Nile
To Spenser . .
The Human Seasons
Endymion
Isabella, or The Pot of Basil
To Homer
Fragment of an Ode to Maia
To Ailsa Rock
Fancy . .
Ode (Bards of Passion and of Mirth)
Ode on Melancholy
Ode on a Grecian Uin. . .
Ode on Indolence
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
On Fame
Another on Fame
Ode to Psyche
Ode to a Nightingale
Lamia ... • • •
The Eve of St Agnes
The Eve of St. Mark
Hyperion . * •
To Autumn
To Fannie
Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As
Thou Art
From Keats 's Letters
To Benjamin Bailey
To John Hamilton Reynolds,
To John Taylor
To James Augustus Hessey
To George and Georgiana Keats
To John Hamilton Reynolds
764
764
764
765
765
765
765
765
766
766
766
767
767
767
767
818
825
825
825
826
826
827
827
828
829
830
830
830
830
831
832
842
848
849
860
861
861
861
862
863
864
864
865
John Keats (Continued)
To Percy Bysshe Shelley 865
To George and Georgiana Keats . 1226
To Benjamin Bailey 1287
To John Hamilton Reynolds 1289
To George Keats 1290
To George and Georgiana Keats 1290
To Benjamin Bailey 1291
Preface to JEndymion 1288
Junes Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)
The Story of Rimini
From Canto 111 .... 866
To Hampstead . 867
To the Grasshopper and the. Cricket 868
The Nile .... 868
Mahmoml . 868
Song of Fairies Robbing Orchaid 869
Abou Ben Adhem and the Augel 869
The Glove and the Lions 870
Rondeau 870
The Fish, the Man, and the Spn it 870
Hearing Music 871
The Old Lady 871
Getting Up on Cold Moming* . 87.1
Fwm On the Realities of Imagination 874
A " No*, " Descriptive of a Hot D») 877
Shaking Hands 878
Fiom Dreams 011 the Borders of the Land
of Poetry
I The Demands of Poetiv 879
. II My Bower 880
III On a Bust of Bacchus . 880
Of the Sight of Shops
From Part II . 880
Proem to Selection from Kents's I*octr> 8812
Fiom Preface to The Stoiy of Rimmi 1276
Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850)
From Crabbc 's Poems 884
Fiom Alison's Essays on the Nature and
Principles of Ta<*te 887
From Wordsworth's The Excursion 892
From Wordsworth's The White Doe of
Rylstone 902
From Ghilde Harold 's Pilgrimage, Canto
the Third 904
John Wilson Oroker (1780-1857)
Endvmion A Poetical Romance by John
Keats • 91<<
Charles Lamb (1775 1834)
The Midnight Wind . . 915
Was It Some Sweet Device of Faery 915
If from My Lips Some Angry Accents
Fell &16
Childhood .... .916
The Old Familiar Faces 916
Hester »*7
The Three Graves 917
The Gipsy's Malison. »17
On an Infant Dying As Soon As Born 917
PAGE
PAOT
Oharta Lamb (Continued)
Walter Savage Landor (Continued)
She Is Going .... 918
Letter to Wordsworth 918
From Characters of Dramatic Writers
Contemporary with Bhakspeare 920
Thomas Heywood 921
John Webstei 921
John Ford 921
George Chapman 922
Francis Beaumont — John Fletcher 922
From On the Tragedies of Shakspeaie,
Considered vuth Reference to Their
Fitness for Stage Representation Q23
The South-Sea House 927
Chiist's Hospital Five and Thirty Years
Ago . 931
The Two Races of Men 937
Mrs Battle's Opinions on Whist 940
Mackery End, in Hertfordshire 944
Dream-Children 946
A Dissertation upon Roast Pig 948
Old China 951
Poor Relations 954
Sanity of True Genius 957
The Death of Coleridge 959
Letter to Wordsworth 1299
Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)
From Gebir
Book I 459
Rose Aylnier 963
Child of a I>a\, Thou Knowest Not 963
For an Epitaph at Fiesole 963
Lyrics to I ant he
Homage 963
On the Smooth Brow and Clustering
Hair 963
Heart 's-Easc 963
It Often Comes into My Head 963
All Tender Thoughts That E'er Pos-
sess M 963
Thou Hast Not Raised, lantlie, Such
Dcsiie 963
Pleasure' Why Thus Desert the Heart 96.1
Renunciation 964
You Smiled, You Spoke, and I Be-
lieved 964
So Late Romo\ed from Him She Snore 964
I Held Her Hand, the Pledge of Bliss 964
Absence 964
Flow, Precious Tears' Thus Shall My
Rival Know 964
Mild Is tho Parting Year, and Sweet 964
Past Rmn'd Hion Helen Lhes 964
Here Ever Since You Went Abroad 964
Years After . 965
She I Love (Alas in Vain') 965
No, My Own Love of Other Years 965
I Wonder Now That Youth Remains 965
Your Pleasures Spring like Daisies in
the Grass 965
Years, Many Parti-Colored Years , 965
Well I Remember How You Smiled 965
A Fiesolan Idyl ... ... 965
From The Citation and Examination of
William Shakspeare
The Maid's Lament 966
Upon a Sweet-Briar . 966
From Pericles and Aspasia
Comma to Tanagra, from Athens 967
I Will Not Love 987
The Death of Artemidora 967
Life Passes Not as Some Men Say 968
Little Aglae to Her Father on Her
Statue Being Called like Her 968
We Mind Not How the Sun in the Mid-
Sky 968
Sappho to Hesperus . 968
Dirce . 968
On Seeing a Hair of Lucretia Borgia . 968
To Wordsworth 968
To Joseph Ablett . 969
To the Sister of Eha 970
On His Own Agamemnon and Iphigeneia 971
I Cannot Tell, Not T, Why She 971
You Tell Me I Must Come Again . 971
Remain, Ah Not in Youth Alone 971
"You Must Give Back," Her Mother
Said . 971
The Maid I Love Ne'er Thought of Me 971
Very True, the Linnets Sing 971
To a Painter 972
Dull Is My Verse Not Even Thou 972
Sweet Was the Song That Youth Sang
Once 972
To Sleep 972
Why, Whv Repine , 972
Mother. 1 Cannot Mind My Wheel 972
To a Bride, Feb 17, 1846 972
One Year Ago My Path Was Green 973
Yes, I Write Verses Now amKThen 973
The Leaves Are Falling, So Am I . 973
The Place Where Soon I Think to Lie 973
Give Me the Eyes That Look on Mine 973
Twenty Years Hence My Eyes May Grow 974
Proud Word You Never Spoke 974
Alas, How Soon the Hours Are Over 974
My Hopes Retire , My Wishes As Before 974
Various the Roads of Life; in One 974
Is It Not Better at an Early Hour 974
Pursuits! Alas, I Now Have None 974
With an Album 974
The Day Returns, My Natal Day 974
How Many Voices Gaily Sing 975
To Robert Browning 975
From The Hellenics
On The Hellenics 975
Thrasymedes and Eunoe 975
Iphigeneia and Agairetnnon 976
The Hamadryad 977
Shakespeare and Milton 981
To Youth . 981
To Age 981
The Chrysolites and Rubies Bacchus
Brings 982
So Then, I Feel Not Deeply 982
On Music (Many love music but for
music's sake) . 982
xvi
CONTENTS
PAGE
Walter Savage Landor (Continued)
Death Stands above Me 982
On His Seventy-fifth Birthday 982
I Entreat You, Alfred Tennyson 982
ToE Arundell ' 982
Age . 982
To His Young Rose an Old Man Said 983
^ayy Thank Me Not Again for Those 983
One Lovely Name Adorns My Song 983
Separation . 983
All Is Not Over While the Shade 983
God Scatters Beauty as He Scatters
Flowers 983
Thou Needst Not Pitch Upon My Hat 983
To a Cyclamen . . 983
On Southey 's Death 983
The Three Roses 983
Lately Our Songsters Loiter 'd in Green
Lanes .. . 984
From Heroic Idyls
Theseus and Hippolyta 984
They Are Sweet Flowers That Only Blow
by Night 985
Memory 985
An Aged Man Who Loved to Doze An ay 985
To My Ninth Decade 985
From Imaginary Conversations
Tiberius and Vipsania 985
Marcellus and Hannibal 987
Metellus and Manus. . 989
Leofric and Godiva 991
From Pericles and Aspabia
Pericles to Abpasia 993
Pericles to Aspasia 993
Aspasia to Pericles 993
Pericles to Aspasia 993
Aspasia to Pericles 993
Aspasia to Pericles . 994
Aspasia to Pericles 994
Aspasia to Pericles 994
Aspasia to Cleone 994
Aspasia to Pericles 994
Pericles to Aspasia 995
Pericles to Aspasia 995
The Pentameron
From Fifth Day's Interview
The Dream of Boccaccio 996
From On the Statue of Ebenezer
Elliott .. 1260
lanes on the Death of Charles Lamb 1296
Thomas Lore Peacock (1785-1866)
Beneath the Cypress Shade 998
From Headlong Hall
Hail to the Headlong . 998
From Nightmare Abbey
Seamen Three » What Men Be Yet 998
From Maid Manan
For the Slender Beech and the Sapling
Oak 998
Though I Be Now a Gray, Gray Friar 999
Oh! Bold Robin Hood Is a Forester
Good 099
Ye Woods, that Oft at Sultry Noon. . 999
Margaret Love Peacock . . 1000
PAGE
1000
1000
1001
1001
1324
1002
Thomas Love Peacock (Continued)
From The Misfortunes of Elphin
The Circling of the Mead Horns
The War Song of Dinas Vawr
From Crochet Castle
In the Days of Old
From Gryll Grange
Love and Age
From Paper Money Lyrics
Chorus of Northumbrians
William Oobbett (1763-1835)
From Rural Bides
William Hailltt (1778-1830)
From Characters of Shakespcar's Plays
Hamlet . 1007
On Familiar Style 1011
The Fight . 1014
On Going a Journey 1022
My First Acquaintance uith Poets 102S
On the Feeling ol Immortality in Youth 1037
Thomas De Qulncey (1785-1859)
Confessions of an English Opium Eater
From Preliminary Confessions 104.1
The Pleasures of Opium 1060
From Introduction to the Pains of
Opium 1067
The Pains of Opium 1070
On the Knocking at the (I a to in Ma< both 10SO
From Recollections of Charles Lamb 1082
Style
From Part 1 1087
From Autobiographic Sketches
The Affliction of Childhood 1080
From Suspiria de Profundui
Levana and Our Ladies ol Son cm 10<)7
Savannah-la-Mar 11 00
Fiom The Poetry of Pope
Literature of Knowledge and Litera-
ture of Power 1101
The English Mail Coach
Section 1 — The Glory of Motion 1104
Section II — The Vision ol Sudden
Death 1117
Section III— Dream-Fugue H2,r>
Postscript to The English Mail-Coach 1259
Thomas Lmll Beddoes (1803 1849)
Lines (Write it in gold — A spirit of the
sun)
From Tlie Bride's Tragedy
Poor Old Pilgrim Misery 112Q
A Ho! AHo» ....... ll.*0
From The Second Brother
Rtrew Not Earth with Empty Stars 11^0
From Torriamond
How Many Times Do I Love Thee,
Dearf . . 1130
From Death's Jest Book
To Sea, To Sea! ..... 1130
The Swallow Leaves Her Nest 1110
If Thou Wilt Ease Thine Heart 1131
1129
TVii
PAOT
Thomas LoveU BeOdoes (Continued)
Bobert Stephen Hawker (Continued)
Lady, Was It Fair of Thee 1131 Are They Not All Ministering Spirits?
A Qjrpress-Bough. and a Bose- Wreath
Old Adam, the Carrion Crow
We Do Lie beneath the Grass
The Boding Dreams
Dream-Pedlary
Let the Dew the Flowers Fill
John Eeble (1792-1866)
From The Christian Year
First Sunday After Trinity
Twentieth Sunday after Tinnt\
United States
Thomas Hood (1799 1845)
Song
Faithless Nell\ Gray
Fair Ines
Ruth
I Remember, I Remember
The Stars Are with the Voyagei
Silence
False Poets and True
Song (There is dew for tlie flon fiet)
H31
1131
1132
1132
1132
1133
1135
1136
1136
1136
1187
1137
1137
1137
Autumn 1137
Ballad (It *as not in the nintei) 1138
The Dream of Eugene Aram, the Mur-
derer
The Dentli-Bed
Sally Simpkin's Lament
The Song of fhe Shirt
The Bridge of Sighs
The Lav of the Laborer
Stanzas (Fare* ell, life!
Queen Mab
1138
1140
1140
1141
1142
1143
senses sT\im)1144
1144
Wlnthrop Mackworth Fraed (1802-1839)
From The Troubadour
Spirits, that Walk and Wail Tonight 1145
Oh Flv with Me» 'Tm Passion's Hour 1145
Time'H Song » 1145
Ftom Letters from Teigiimouth
I— Our Ball 1146
From Ever} -Day Characters
The Belle of the Ball-Room 1147
Tell Him I Ixwe Him Yet 1148
Fairy Song 1148
Stanzas (O'er yon churchyard the storm
may lower) ..... 1148
The Talented Man ....... 1149
Stanzas on Seeing the Speaker Asleep 1149
Bobert Stephen Hawker (1804-1873)
The Song of the Western Men 1150
Glovelly 1150
The First Father 1151
Mawgan of Melhuach . 1151
Featheratone's Doom 1151
The Silent Tower of Bottreauz 1152
"Pater Tester Pascit Ilia" . 1152
Death Song .. 1152
Queen Guennivar's Round
To Alfred Tennyson
John Wilson ("Christopher
(1785-1854)
From Noctes Ambrosiann
PAOT
1153
1153
1153
North")
1153
Felicia Dorothea Hemang
A Dirge
1133
1133
1134
(1793-1835)
'l!60
England's Dead 1160
The Graves of a Household 1160
The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in
New England 1161
The Homes of England 1161
William MotherweU (1797-1835)
The Suord Chant of Thorstein Raudi 1162
Jeaxne Morrison 1163
My Heid Is Like to Rend, Wilhe 1164
The Forester's Carol 1164
Song (If to thy heart I were as near) 1165
Ebenezer Elliott (1781-1849)
Song (Child, is thy father dead*) .1165
Battle Song . .1165
The Press 1166
Preston Mills 1166
8])enserian » 1167
A Poet's Epitaph 1167
Sabbath Morning 1167
The Way Broad-Leaf 1167
Religion . 1168
Plaint 1168
From Elegy ou William Cobbett 1231
Bryan Waller Procter ("Barry Corn-
wall") (1787-1874)
The Sea 1168
The Stormy Petrel 1169
The Hunter's Song 1169
Life 1169
Peace! What Do Tears Avail 1170
A Poet's Thought 1170
The Poet's Song to His Wife .1170
Inscription for a Fountain 1170
A Petition to Time 1170
Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849)
Song (She is not fair to outward view) 1171
An Old Man's Wish 1171
Whither Is Gone the Wisdom and the
Power 1171
November 1171
Night ... . . 1171
To Shakspeare . 1172
May, 1840 1172
"Multum Diteit" .1172
Homer . 1172
Prayer 1172
CONTENTS
PAOT
APPBNPg Edmund Bute (1729-1707)
PAOK .From Reflections on the Revolution in
Alexander Pope (1688-1744) France 1186
From Windsor Forest . .. 1175 Bibliographies and Note* . . 1199
From An Essay on Criticism
Part I . . 1176 Glossary of Proper Name* 1377
From An Essay on Man
Epistle I . . 1178 Ctoief English, German, and French
p Writers (1720-1840) . . 1411
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) important Historical Events (1730-
Fran Preface to Shakspeare 1180 1350) 1412
The Lives of the English Poets
From Pope 1185 Index of Authors, Titles, and First
Letter to Macpherson . 1305 Lines . . 1413
ENGLISH POETRY AND PROSE OF THE
ROMANTIC MOVEMENT
L EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
ANNE, COUNTESS OF WIN-
CHILSEA (1661-1720)
THE TREE
1903
Fair tree, for thy delightful shade
'T is just that some return be made;
Sure some return is due from me
To thy cool shadows and to thee.
6 When thou to birds dost shelter give
Thou music dost from them reeene;
If travellers beneath thee stay
Till storms have worn themselves away,
That time in praising thee they spend,
10 And thy protecting pow'r commend;
The shepherd here, from scorching freed,
Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed,
Whilst his lov'd lymph in thanks
bestows
Her flow'ry chaplets on thy boughs.
15 Shall I then only silent be,
And no return be made by me?
No! let this wish upon thee wait,
And still to flourish be thy fate ;
To future ages mayst thou stand
20 Untouch'd by the rash workman's hand,
Till that large stock of sap is spent
Which gives thy summer's ornament;
Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive
To shock thy greatness whilst alive,
26 Shall on thy lifeless hour attend,
Prevent1 the axe, and grace thy end,
Their scatter 'd strength together call
And to the clouds proclaim thy fall ;
Who then their ev'nmg dews may spare,
30 When thou no longer art their care,
But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn,
And some bright hearth be made thy urn.
Prom THE PETITION FOR AN
ABSOLUTE RETREAT
1713
Give me, 0 indulgent Fate!
Give me yet, before I die,
A sweet, but absolute retreat,
'Mongst paths so lost, and trees so high,
* come before ; anticipate
6 That the world may ne'er invade,
Through such windings and such shade,
My unshaken liberty.
No intruders thither come,
Who visit, but to be from home;
10 None who their vain moments pass,
Only studious of their glass.
News, that charm to list'ning ears,
That false alarm to hopes and fears,
That common theme for every fop,
15 From the statesman to the shop,
In those coverts ne'er be spread.
Of who's.deceas'd, or who's to wed,
Be no tidings thither brought,
But silent, as a midnight thought,
20 Where the world may ne'er invade,
Be those windings, and that shade!
Courteous Fate! afford me there
A table spread without my care
With what the neighboring fields impart,
25 Whose cleanliness be all its art.
When of old the calf was drest —
Tho' to make an angel's feast —
In the plain, unstudied sauce
Nor truffle,1 nor morillia1 was;
30 Nor could the mighty patriarch's board
One far-fetch'd ortolane2 afford.
Courteous Fate, then give me there
Only plain and wholesome fare
Fruits indeed, would Heaven bestow,
36 All, that did in Eden grow,—
All, but the forbidden tree,
Would be coveted by me:
Grapes, with juice so crowded up
As breaking3 thro9 the native cup;
40 Figs, yet growing, candied o'er
By the sun's attracting power;
Cherries, with the downy peach,
All within my easy reach;
Whilst, creeping near the humble ground,
45 Should the strawberry be found,
Springing wheresoe'er I strayed,
Thro' those windings and that shade.
*A kind of edible
fungus
»A small bird, tbe com-
mon European bant-
ing, often served as
a delicacy.
•as if about to break
2
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEBUNNEB8
For my garments, let them be
What may with the tune agree;
80 Warm, when Phoebus does retire,
And is ill-supplied by fire;
But when he renews the year
And verdant all the fields appear,
Beauty every thing resumes,
55 Birds have dropt their winter-plumes;
When the lily full display 'd
Stands in purer white array 'd
Than that vest which heretofore
The luxurious monarch1 wore
60 When from Salem 's gates he drove
To the soft retreat of love,
Lebanon's all burnish 'd house.
And the dear Egyptian spouse,-
Clothe me, Fate, tho' not so gay,
w Clothe me light, and fresh as Ma>.
In the fountains let me view
All my habit cheap and new,
Such as, when sweet zephyrs fly,
With their motions may comply,
70 Gently waving, to express
Unaffected carelessness.
No perfumes have there a part,
Borrow 'd from the chemist's art;
But such as rise from flow'ry beds,
TO Or the falling jasmine sheds!
Twas the odor of the field
Esau's rural coat did yield
That inspir'd his father's prayer
For blessings of the earth and air
80 Of gums or powders had it smelt,
The supplanter, then unfelt,
Easily had been descry 'd
For one that did in tents abide,
For some beauteous handmaid fs jov
85 And his mother's darling boy.1
Let me then no fragrance wear
But what the winds from gardens bear
In such kind, surprising gales
As gather fd from Fidentia's vales
90 All the flowers that in them grew;
Which intermixing, as they flew,
In wreathen garlands dropt again
On Lucullns, and his men,
Who, cheer M by the victorious sight
96 TrebPd numbers put to flight.
Let me, when I must be fine,
In such natural colors shine;
Wove, and painted by the sun,
Whose resplendent rays to shun,
too When they do too fiercely beat,
Let 8*6 find 8ome c^O8e retreat
Where they have no passage made
Thro9 those windings, and that shade
• • • • •
i Solomon T Kinff*, 7 M2
TO THE NIGHTINGALE
1718
Exert thy voiee, sweet harbinger of
Spring!
This moment is thy time to sing,
This moment I attend to praise,
And set my numbers to thy lays.
6 Free as thine shall be my song;
As thy music, short, or long
Poets, wild as thee, were born,
Pleasing best when unconfin'd,
When to please is least design 'd,
10 Soothing but their cares to rest ;
Cares do still their thoughts molest,
And still th' unhappy poet's breast,
Lake thine, when best he sings, is plac'd
against a thorn *
She begins; let all be still!
16 Muse, thy promise now fulfil'
Sweet, oh ! sweet, still sweeter yet !
Can thy words such accents fit!
Canst thou syllables refine,
Melt a sense that shall retain
20 Still some spirit of the brain,
Till with sounds like these it join f
'Twill not be f then change th v note ;
Let division2 shake thy throat.
Hark* division now she tries,
25 Yet as far the muse outflies
Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune;
Tnfler, wilt thou sing till June?
Till thy bus 'ness all lies waste,
And the time of building's past!
30 Thus we poets that have speech,
Unlike what thy forests teach,
If a fluent \em be shewn
That's transcendent to 0111 oun,
Criticise, leform, or preach,
35 Or cenmire what we cannot reach
A NOCTURNAL REVERIE
1713
In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confin'd,
And only gentle zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, btill waking, sings ,
5 Or from some tree, fam'd for the owl's
delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand 're r
right;
In -such a night, when passing clouds
give place,
Or thinly veil the Heav'ns mysterious
face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
1 A popular mwratltion See Young*! Wglit
Thought*. 1, 439 ff
9 \ wrles of notoR to be rang In one breath to
ouch syllable
THOMAS PARNULL
8
10 The waving moon and trembling leaves
are seen;
When freshen 'd grass now bears itself
upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest
invite,
When spring the woodbine and the
bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip shelter 'd
grows,
35 Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove
takes,
Yet chequers still with red the dusky
brakes ,
When scatter 'd gkro-uoims, hut m twi-
light fine,
Show trivial beauties watch their hour
to shine,
Whilst Salisbury stands the test of e\erv
light
20 In perfect charms and perfect \irtne
bright ,
When odois which deohn'd impelling
day
Thro* terap'rate air uiiinteriupted j*tra> ,
When darken 'd gro\es then softest
shadows wear,
And falling waters \u» dKtmcth heai ;
25 When thro' the crlooin more \enerable
shows
Some ancient fabric, auful in repose,
While sunburnt lulls their swarthv looks
conceal
And swelling haycocks thicken up the
When the loosM horse nou, ns Ins pas-
ture leads,
30 Coiner slowl\ praxins? thro' th* ad]oimn£
meads,
Whose stealing1 pace, and lenjrthen'd
shade we fear,
Till torn up forage in his teeth *e hear,
When nibbling sheep at large pursue
their food,
And unmolested kine re-chew the cud ,
35 When curlews crv beneath the \illaQe-
walls,
And to her straggling brood the pnrt-
ridge calls,
Their shorthv 'd jubilee the creatures
keep,
Which but endures whilst tyrant-man
does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels.
40 And no fierce light disturb, whilst it
reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something too hierh for Rvllables to
speak;
Till the free son! to a compos 'dness
charm M,
Finding the elements of rage disarm 'd,
45 O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th9 inferior world and thinks it
like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain
Till morning breaks and all's confus'd
again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are
renew 'd,
60 Or pleasures, seldom reach M, again pur-
su'd
THOMAS PARNBLL (1679-1718)
A FAIRT TALE
IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE
1721
In Britain's isle and Arthur's days,
When midnight faeries daunc'd the
maze,
Liv'd Edwin of the green;
Edwin, I wis,1 a gentle youth,
r> Kndow'd with courage, sense, and truth
Though badly shap'd he been
His mountain back mote well be said
To measure beighth against his head,
* And lift itself above:
10 Yet spite of all that nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dar'd to love.
He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
15 Could ladies look within;
But one Sir Topaz dress 'd with art,
And, if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win
Edwin, if right I read my song,
20 With slighted passion pac'd along
All in the moony light:
'Twas near an old enchannted court,
Where sportive faeries made resort
To revel out the night
25 His heart was drear, his hope was
cross 'd,
'Twas late, 'twas fair, the path was lost
That reach 'd the neighbor-town;
With weary steps he quits the shades,
Resolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,
80 And drops his limbs adown.
But scant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,
'know
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOBEBUNNJSK8
A trembling rooks the ground.
And» well I ween1 to count aright,
86 At once an hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.
Now sounding tongues assail his ear.
Now sounding feet approachen near,
And now the sounds encrease,
40 And from the corner where he la>
He sees a tram profusely gay
Come pranckhng o'er the place.
* s r
But, trust me, gentles, never yet
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glasses with a wish come mj; h.
And with a wish retire.
85 But now to please the faerie king,
Full every deal1 they laugh and sing,
And antick feats devise;
Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other-some transmute their shape
90 In Edwin's wondering eyes.
_... , , , ., , n . . ,. , , ,
Till one at last that Robin hight,2
Rcnown'd for pinching maids by night,
perfumes,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.
Now whilst he gaz'd, a gallant drest
60 In flaunting robes above the rest,
With awfull accent cried,
What mortal of a wretched mind.
Whow sighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here presumed to hide 7
» ™ere by the back the >outh he hung
To 8Prftul ™neath the roof.
From thence, "Reverse my charm," he
cries.
«And let lt £airly nou sufficfi
Th6 ^^ has been ghown »
100 But Oberon answers with a Muile,
Content thee, Edwin, for a while,
The ,ant 1& thine
55 At this the swain, whose venturous soul
No fears of magic art controul, 106
Here ended all the pliantome play;
They smelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
Advanc'd in open sight,
"Nor have I cause of dreed," he sai<lr
"Who view, by no presumption led,
60 Your revels of the night
Then screaming all at once they fly
" 'Twas grief for scorn of faithful lo\e, no And all at once the tapeis die;
The whirling wind that bore the crowd
Has clapp'd the dooi, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.
Poor Edwin tails to floor;
Forlorn his state, and dark the place,
Was ne\er wight in sike4 a case
Through all the land before.
Which made my steps unweeting8 love
Amid the nightly dew."
'Tis well, the gallant cries again,
65 We faeries never injure men
Who dare to tell us true. lr _ .
115 But soon as Dan5 Apollo lose,
Full jolly creature home he
„ ?c fe?}* hl8 back,thfe .
gis honest tongue and btead> mind
70 Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce, 1M «»« rid him of the lump behind
Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce, 12°
Be little Mable thine
Exalt thy love-dejected heart,
Be mine the task, or ere we part,
To make thee grief resign;
***** success.
__ . ... jj xi
He spoke, and all a sudden there
7s ^h* mUBlck » wanton air'
The
With Edwin of the green.
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
WAnd«ker««mchafeartw.8,n.de
As heart and lip desire;
with lugty ,ivelyhed« he talks
He seems a dauncing as he walks;
„ gt &oon ^ook -,
And beauteous Edith sees the youth,
12B Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Without a buncir behind-
The story told, Sir Topaz movfd,
The youth of Edith erst approved,1
1fbtok
•OreMed
. ^ _,
•iioknowlng
•certainly
pany)
• was called
•nulled
«micb
• liveliness
Mho yonth formerly
approved by Edith
THOMAS PABNELL
To see the revel scene:
180 At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome
All on the gloomy plain.
As there he bides, it so befell,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
"5 A shaking seiz'd the wall:
Up spnng the tapers as before,
The faeries bragly1 foot the floor,
And mu&ick fills the hall. "
But certes3 sorely sunk with woe
140 gir Topaz sees the elfin show,
His spirits in him die*
When Obcron cries, ''A man is near,
A mortall passion, cleepcd* fear,
Hangs flagging in the sky ' ' N
"5 With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents faultenng ay for ruth
Intreats them pity graunt,
For als he been a mister wight4
Betray 'd by wandering in the night
150 TO tread the circled haunt
"Ah loselP Mle'" at once they roar,
"And little skill M of faerie lore.
Thy cause to come we know ,
Now has thy kestrell8 coinage fell,
155 And faeries, since a he you tell.
Are free to \\ork thee \\oo "
Then Will,7 who'beais the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,
The caitive upward flung,
160 There like a tortoise in a shop
He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where whilome Edwin hung
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deffly8 they fnsk it o'er the place,
165 They hit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolick mirth beguile.
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while
Till all the rout retreat
By tliis the stairs besran to wink.
170 They shriek, they flv, the tapers sink.
And down ydrops the knight*
For never spell bv faerie laid
With strong: enchantment bound a glade
Beyond the length of nififht
1prondlT;
•certainly
•called
•became he U a poor
fellow
* worthier ponton
• A term often used in
contempt, an of a
mean kind of hawk
\ kestrel I* a com-
mon European fal-
"* Chill, dark, alone, adreed,1 he lay,
Till up the welkin* rose the day,
Then deem'd the dole was o'er:
But wot ye well his harder lott
His seely* back the bunch has got
180 Whieh Edwin lost afore.
This tale a Sibyl-nurse4 ared;*
She softly strok'd my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
"Thus some are born, my son,'9 she
cries,
186 "With base impediments to nse,
And some are born with none.
But virtue can itself advance
To what the favorite fools of chance
By fQrtune seem'd design 'd;
190 Viitue can gam the odds of fate.
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind."
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH
1721
By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er.
5 Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.
Hou deep von azure dyes the sky,
10 Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide!
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
15 Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
20 Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
Theie pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
26 And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
"Time was, like thee they life possest,
And time shall be that thou shalt rest"
1 afraid
jld woman pro-
feaaing to haye the
Klft Of
like that L__
the indent
•told
EIGHTEENTH GBNTUBY FOBEBUNNEBS
Those graves, ipith bending osier1 bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled
ground,
to the glancing thought disclose,
toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame,
35 (Which ere our set of friends deca>
Their frequent steps may wear awa>,)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown
The marble tombs that rise on high,
40 Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured
stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the nch, or praise the great,
45 Who while on earth in fame they In e,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
Hah! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades.
The bursting earth unveils the shades1
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with
shrouds,
50 They rise in visionary crowds,
And all with sober accent cry,
"Think, mortal, what it is to die "
Now from yon black and funeral yew,3
That bathes the charnel-house with dev ,
w Methinks I hear a voice begin ,
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking dm,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground f )
It sends a peal of hollow groans.
60 Thus speaking from among the bones
"When men my scythe and darts supph,
How great a king of fears am II
They view me like the last of things.
They make, and then they dread, rm
stings
65 Fools! if you less provok'd your fears.
No more my spectie-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod.
If man would ever pass to God;
A port of calms, a state of ease
70 From the rougrh rape of spelling seas
"Why then thy flowing sable stoles.
Deep pendant cypress,8 mourning poles,4
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
I willow
•The yew is a common tree in graveyards
•A kind of thin cloth, often used for mourning
• A pole (pile) Is a fabric with n heavy nnp
Long palls, drawn hearses, covered
steeds,
76 And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the scutcheons of the deadf
"Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe,
As men who long in piison dwell,
80 With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their guttering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence
85 On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years they waste; '
But. when their chains are cast aside.
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tower a\ia>,
»° And mingle with the blaze of day."
A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT
1721
Lovely, lasting peace of mind!
Sueet delight of human-kind!
Heavenly-born, and bied on high.
To cro\\n the fa\ontes of the bky
5 With more of happiness below,
Than A ictors in a triumph kno\v !
Whither, O whither nit thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head?
What hnppv resnon dost thou please
18 To make the seat of calms and ease?
Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state*, to meet thee there
Encreasing avarice Mould find
Thy presence in its gold eushrinM
15 The bold aclxenturer ploughs his \\u\
Through rooks ninidst the foam in? sea,
To spun thy lo\e, and then perceixes
Thou wert not in the rocks and \\im^
The Bilent heart, which grief assails,
20 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks, as I have vamlv done,
AmuRinsr thought, but lea ins to know
That solitude's the nurse of uo<
2" No real happiness i« found
Tn trailincr purple o'er the ground;1
Or in a soul exalted hijrh.
To range the circuit of the *k\.
Converse \iith stars above, and know
30 All Nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise
Lovely, lasting1 peace, appear!
Tins world itself, if tbou art here,
1 1n
the purple robot of royalty
ALLAN RAMSAY
35 IB once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast
Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
40 The branches whisper as they wav'd;
It seem'd as all the quiet place
Con f ess 'd the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke: "Go rule thy will;
Bid thy wild passions all be still,
46 Know God, and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow
Then every Grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."
Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
60 In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ
With sense of gratitude and joy!
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer,
66 Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleas 'd and bless 'd with God alone:
Then while the gardens take1 my sight,
With all the colors of delight,
While silver waters glide along,
60 To please my ear, and court my song,
111 lift my voice, and tune my string,
And Thee, great Source of Nature, sing
The sun, that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day ,
66 The moon, that shines with borrow *d
light;
The stars, that gild the gloomy night;
The seas, that roll unnumber'd waves,
The wood, that spreads its shady leaves,
The field, whose ears conceal the grain.
70 The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me:
They speak their Maker as they can,
Flit* want and ask the tongue of man.
75 Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes.
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.
ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758)
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE
1721
The Lawland lads think they are fine,
But 0 they're vain and idly gaudy;
How much unlike that gracefu' mien
And manly looks of my Highland
laddie!
• _%. — _^ • V i •it*^i»
1 mam ; ocwitcD
Choru*
* 0 my bonny, bonny Highland laddie!
My handsome, charming Highland lad-
die!
May Heaven still guard and love reward
Our Lawland lass and her Highland
laddie!
If I were free at will to chuse
10 To be the wealthiest Lawland lady,
I'd take young Donald without trews,1
With bonnet blew and belted plaidy.
The brawest1 beau in borrows town,8
In a9 his airs, with art made ready,
16 Compared to him, he 's but a clown ;
He's finer far in 9s tartan4 plaidy.
O'er benty* hill with him I'll run,
And leave my Lawland km and dady;
Frae winter's cauld and summer's sun
20 Hell screen me with his Highland
plaidy.
A painted room and silken bed
May please a Lawland laird and lady,
But I can kiss and be as glad
Behind a bush in 's Highland plaidy.
86 Few compliments between us pass*
I ca' him my dear Highland laddie;
And he ca's me his Lawland lass,
Syne rows6 me in his Highland plaidy.
Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend
10 Than that his love prove true and
steady,
Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end
While Heaven preserve my Highland
laddie.
MY PEGGY
1721
My Peggy w * young thing
Just enter 'd in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
5 My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm na very auld,
Yet weel I like to meet her at
The wanking o' the fauld.T
10
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
* trousers ' covered with coarse
• finest trass
•royal borough 'then rolls
•woolen cloth check- 'watching of the
ered with narrow *hcep-fold
hands of various
colors
8
EIGHTEENTH OENXHBY YOBEBUNNEB8
I wish nae mair to lay my care, -
I wish nae mair o9 a' that's rare,
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a9 the lave1 I'm cauld,
16 But she gars1 a' my spirits glow
At wauking o' the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly
Whene'er I whisper love,
That I look doun on a' the toun,
20 That I look dpun upon a croun.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
It maks me blythe an' bauld,
An9 naething gies me sic8 delight
As wauking o' the fauld
26 My Peggy sings sae saftly
When on my pipe I pla},
By a9 the rest it is confest,
By a9 the rest that she sings best
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
80 And in her sangs are tauld
Wi9 innocence, the wale o' sense,4
At wauking o' the fauld
SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST
1724
There came a ghost to Margret 's door,
With many a grievous grone,
And ay he tirled at the pin,8
But answer made she none.
6 Is this my father Philip f
Or is't mv brother John?
Or is't my true love Willie,
From Scotland new come home?
'Tis not thy father Philip,
10 Nor yet thy brother John.
But 'tis thy true love Willie
From Scotland new come home
O sweet Margret! 0 dear Margret f
I pray thee speak to mee:
15 Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.
Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,
Of me shalt nevir win,
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.
20
*.SL
•such
«ifoul of sense
•A tirllnr wan former-
ly used Instead of a
knocker, it consist-
If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy kpp,
Thy days will not be lang.
26 0 sweet Margret! 0 dear Margret!
I pray thee speak to mee-
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.
Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,
*° Of me shalt nevir win,
Till thou take me to yon kirk yard,
And wed me with a ring
My bones are buried in a kirk yard
Afar beyond the sea,
36 And it is but my sprite, Margret,
That's speaking now to thee
She stretched out her lily-white hand,
As for to do her best*
Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,
God send your soul good rest
40
ed of n notched
motal bar (the pin)
with a loom* nii'tnl
ring, which was
drawn o\or It to
make a sound
Now she has kilted1 her robes of green,
A piece below her knee
And a' the live-lang winter night
The dead corps followed shee
45 Is there an> room at your head, Willie?
Or any room at >our feetf
Or any room at your side, Willie t
Wherein that I may creep?
There's nae room at my head, Margret,
50 There's nae room at my feet,
There's nae room at my side, Margret,
My coffin is made so meet 2
Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
55 'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret,
That I were gane away.
No more the ghost to Margret said,
But, with a grievous prone,
Evanish 'd in a cloud of mist,
60 And left her all alone
0 stay, my only true love, stay,
The constant Margret cried •
Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een,
Stretch 'd her saft limbs, and died
1 tucked up
•cloic fitting
ALLAN RAMSAY
9
THROUGH THE WOOD, LADDIE
1724
0 Sandy, why leaves thou thy Nelly to
mourn f
Thy presence would ease me
When naethmg could please me,
Now dowie1 I sigh on the bank of the
burn,2
6 Ere through the wood, laddie,— until thou
return
Though woods now are bonny, and morn-
ings are clear,
While lavrooks* are singing
And primroses springing,
Yet nane of them pleases my eye or my
ear,
10 When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna
appear.
That I am foisaken some spare no to tell ,
I'm fashed4 wi' their scorning
Baith evening and morning,
Their jeering aft gaes to my heart wif
a knell,
16 When through the wood, laddie, I wan-
der mysel'.
Then stay, im dear Sandie, nae langer
away,
But quick as an arrow,
Haste here to thy mariow,"
Wha's living in languor till that happy
day,
20 When through the \\ood, laddie, we'll
dance, sing, and play
AN« THOU WERE MY AIN THING
1724
Chorus
An thou were my am thing,
I would lo\e thee, I would love thee,
An thou were my am thing
How dearly I would love thee
6 Like bees that suck the morning dew,
Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue,
Rae wad I dwell upon thy mow7
And gar" the gods envy me
Rae laner's I had the use of light
" f 'd on thy beauties feast mv sight,
Syne in saft whispers through the night
I'd tell how much I loved thee.
1 mate
•If
T mouth
• ninko
How fair and ruddy is my Jean!
She moves a goddess o'er the green.
15 Were I a king thou should be queen—
Nane but myself aboon thee.
I 'Id grasp thee to this breast of mine.
Whilst thou like ivy on the vine
Around my stronger limbs should twine,
20 Formed handy to defend thee.
Time's on the wing and will not stay,
In shining youth let's make our hay;
Since love admits of no delay,
O let na scorn undo thee
25 While love does at his altai stand,
Hae,1 here's my heart, gie me thy hand,
And with ilk2 smile thou shalt command
The will of him who loves thee.
so
Chorus
An thou were my am thing
I would love thee, I would love thee;
An thou were my am thing,
How dearly I would love thee
Prom THE GENTLE SHEPHERD
1725
SCENE IV.
Behind a tree upon the plain,
Pate and his Petty meet;
In love, without a vicious stain,
The honnv lass and cheerfu* swain
Change vows an* kisses sweet
PATIE AND PEGGY
Peggy. 0 Patie, let me gang, I
maunna stay;
We're baith cry'd hame, an' Jenny
she's away.
Patie 1 'm laith to part sae soon, now
we're alane,
An' Roger he's awa' wi9 Jenny gane;
5 They're as content, for aught I hear or
see,
To he alane themsells, I judge, as we.
Here, where primroses thickest paint the
green,
Hard by this little bumie8 let us lean.
ITaik, how the lav 'rooks4 chant aboon our
heads,
10 How saft the westlm winds sough thro'
the reeds!
Peggy The scented meadows,— birds,
—an' healthy breeze,
For aught I ken, may mair than Peggy
please.
Patie. Ye wrang me sair, to doubt my
being kind;
• bothorod
'have
•each
•brook
Marks
10 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBtJNNEBS
In speaking sae, ye ca' me dull an9 blind ; 45 Or lisp out words, I chocs 'd ye frae the
** Gif I cou'd fancy aught 's sae sweet or thrang
fair 0' a the bairns, anf led thee by the
As my dear Meg, or worthy o' my care. hand,
Thy breath is sweeter than the sweetest Aft to the tansy knowe,1 or labhy3 strand,
brier, Thou smiling by my side:-- 1 took delyte
Thy cheek an' breast the finest flow'rs To pou the rashes green, wi' roots sae
appear. white,
Thy words excel the maist dehghtfu' G0 O9 which, as weel as my >oung fancy
notes, cou 'd,
20 That warble thro1 the merl or mavis'1 For thee I plet* the flow'ry belt an'
throats. snood.4
Wi' thee I tent1 nae flow'rs that busk8 Peggy When first thoti gade wi'
the field, shepherds to the hill,
Or riper bemes that our mountains An' I to milk the ewes first try'd rav
yield. skill,
The sweetest fruits that hing upon the To bear a leglen5 was nae toil to me,
tree *5 When at the bught8 at e'en I met wi'
Are far inferior to a kiss o' thee. thee.
26 Peggy. But, Patrick, for some wicked Patie When corn grew yellow, nn' the
end, may fleetch,4 heather-bells
An ' lambs shou'd tremble when the foxes Bloom 'd bonny on the mini7 an' rising
preach fells,
I daurna stay, ye joker, let me gang Nae birns,8 or briers, or whins,9 e'er
Anither lass may gar5 you change your troubled me
sang; Gif I cou 'd find blae-bernes ripe for thee
Your thoughts may flit, and I may thole6 fi° Peggy When thou didst wrestle, run.
the wrang. or putt the stane,
80 Patte Sooner a mother shall her An' wan the day, my heart was flight-
fondness drap, 9im fain,10
An' wrang the bairn sits smiling on her At a' these sports thou still gie jo\ to
lap: me;
The sun shall change, the moon to change For nane can wrestle, run, or putt wi '
shall cease, thee.
The gaits to clim,T— the sheep to yield Patie. Jenny sings saft the Broom o9
their fleece, Cowdenknowei,
Ere aught by me be either said or done, 65 An' Rosie lilts11 the Milktncj o9 the
85 Shall skaith8 our love, I swear by a ' aboon Ewes;
Peggy. Then keep your aith — But There's nane like Nancy Jenny Nettles
mony lads will swear, sings;
An' be mansworn to twa in bauf-a-year At turns12 in Maggy Louder, Marion
Now I believe ye like me wonder weel . dings :1S
But if a fairer face your heart shon'd But when my Peggy sings, wi' sweeter
steal, skill,
40 Tour Meg, forsaken, bootless might The Boatman, or the Lass o9 Path's Mill,
relate, 70 It is a thousand times mair sweet to
How she was dawted9 anes by faithless me;
Pate Tho9 they sing weel, they canna sing like
Patie. I'm sure I canna change; ye thee.
needna fear; Peggy. How eith14 can lasses trow
Tho' we're but young, I've looed you what they desire !
mony a year. iknoll overgrown • charred items of
I mind it weel, when thou cou'dst hardly with tansies ~ heather
•plaited; wove *° fluttering with glad
or tnranh'i ' goati to climb « KM d bund BOM
; watch • harm • milk-pall u ring! with spirit
'made much of; *the pen In which the * A turn is an o
droned ewes were milked ment In music,
-walk 'heath "wjjela
an orna-
ment In mi *
jxaela
ALLAN BAMSAY . U
t
An', roos'd by them we love, blaws up The maiden that o'er quickly tines1 her
that fire;1 power,
But wha looes best, let time an' carriage* Like unripe fruit, will taste but hard an1
try; sour
75 Be constant, an' my love shall time defy. Patie sings.
Be still as now; an' a' my care shall But ^ they Mng o»er hng up(m thc
tree
H°Wthee COnt"Ve What pleasnnt " for 105 Their sweetness they may tine; an' w
Patie Were thou a gfelet eawkv' likp RrfJlffi ye completely ripe appear,
better than our nowt' be- An' " « ™* "<"* ™>'d * ^ h"f-
have; year
80 At naught they'll ferly;8 senseless tales
believe; " **9M> ««tf&V, A* * into Patie's anus.
Be blythe for silly heghts,T for trifles Then dinna pu' me, gently thus I fa'
grieve-- , ^ xl A , Into ray Patie 's arms, for good an ' a ',
Sic ne'er cou M win mv heart, that kennn no But stint your wishes to this kind em-
how brace/
Either to keep n prize, or yet prove An' mint8 nae farer till we've pot the
true; grace
But thou, in better sense without a flaw.
88
How to contrive what pleasing: is for 0 charming armfu'! hence, ye cares,
thee away,
Peggij. Agreed —But hearken ! von '& I'll kiss my treasure a' the hve-lang day:
auld aunty's cry, A' night 111 dream my kisses o'er again,
I ken they'll wonder what can mak us 115 Till that day come that ye '11 be a' my
stay. ain
90 Pahe An' let thorn ferlv — Now n Sung by both.
kindly kiss. „ ' .
Or five-score cuid anes wadna be amiss: hun» gallop dowii the westlin skies,
An f syne we'll sin? the sang, wi ' tunef n ' ^ ?a^ «» *° Wf an' quickly rise;
g]ee 0 lash your steeds, post time away,
That T made up last owk* on you and And haste about our bridal day!
me 12° An' if ye 're wearied, honest light,
Peqgy. Sing first, svne claim your Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night.
hire
W Patie. Weel, I agree. PREFACE TO THE EVERGREEN
1724
Patie sings. I have observed that readers of the best
By the delicious warmness of thy mouth, and most exquisite discernment frequratly
An' rowinp een° that smilinir tell the complain of our modern writings as filled
^PQth Wlt" a"ecte<* delicacies and studied re-
T guess, ray lassie, that, as weel as I, 5 finements which they would gladly ex-
You 're made for love, an' why should ve dmiiw for that natuial strength of
^env thought and simplicity of style our fore-
fathers practiced. To such, I hope, the
Peggy sings. following collection o$ poems will not be
W But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o'er soon, 10 displeasing.
Ye think us cheap, an' svne the wooing 's When these good old bards wrote, we
done- had not yet made use of imported trim-
ming upon our clothes, nor of foreign
»tbe flre of love, kin- • cattle embroidery in our writings. Their poetry
££ buVrn.thuT we S3&. * M the product of their own country, not
simpleton • MllnR e w J loros • attempt
4 rent niive smreriMi
12
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNERS
and spoiled in the transportation
from abroad. Their images are native,
and their landscapes domestic; copied
from those fields and meadows we every
day behold.
The morning rises (in the poet's de-
scription) as she does in the Scottish
horizxra. We are not carried to Greece or
Italy for a shade, a stream, or a breeze.
The groves rise in our own valleys; the
rivers flow from our own fountains, and
the winds blow upon our own hills. I find
not fault with those things as they are in
Greece or Italy; but with a Northern poet
for fetching his materials from these
places in a poem of which his own country
is the scene, as our hymners to the spring
and makers of pastqrals frequently do.
This miscellany will likewise recommend
itself by the diversity of subjects and
humor it contains. The grave description
and the wanton story, the moral saying
and the mirthful jest, will illustrate and
alternately relieve each other.
The reader whose temper is spleened
with the vices and follies now in fashion,
may gratify his humor with the satires
he will here find upon the follies and vices
that were uppermost two or three hundred
years ago. The man whose inclinations
are turned to mirth will be pleased to
know how the good fellow of a former age
told his jovial tale; and the lover may
divert himself with the old fashioned
sonnet of an amorous poet in Queen Mar-
garet and Queen Mary's days.1 In a word,
the following collection will be such an-
other prospect to the eye of the mind as
to the outward eye is the various meadow ,
where flowers of different hue and smell
are mingled together in a beautiful irregu-
larity.
I hope also the reader, when he dips into
these poems, will not be displeased with
this reflection, that he is stepping bark
into the times that are past and that exist
no more. Thus, the manners and customs
» The sixteenth centur j.
then in vogue, as he will find them here
described, will have all the air and charm
of novelty; and that seldom fails of ex-
citing attention and pleasing the mind.
6 Resides, the numbers m which these
images are conveyed, as they are not
now common!} practiced, will appear new
and amusing.
The different stanza and varied cadence
10 will likewise much soothe and engage the
ear, which in poetry especially must be
always flattered. However, I do not ex-
pect that these poems should please every-
body; nay, the critical reader must needs
15 find several faults, for I own that there
will be found m these volumes two or
three pieces whose antiquity is their great-
est value. Yet still I am persuaded there
are many more that shall merit approba-
80 tion and applause than censure and blame.
The best works are but a kind of miscel-
lany, and the cleanest corn is not without
some chaff; no, not after often winnow-
ing. Besides, dispraise is the easiest part
28 of learning, and but at best the offspring
of uncharitable wit. Even clown can see
that the furrow is crooked; but uhere is
the man that will plow me one straight?
There is nothing can be heard more silly
M) than one's expressing Ins ignorance of his
native language; yet, such there are who
can vaunt of acquiring a tolerable peifec-
tion in the French or Italian tongues if
they have been a fortnight in Paris, or a
ff month in Rome. But show them the most
elegant thoughts in a Scots dress, they as
disdainfully as stupidly condemn it as bar-
barous. But the true reason is obvious-
every one that is born nexer so little
40 superior to the vulgar would fain distin-
guish themseh es from them by some man-
ner or other, and mich, it would appear,
cannot arrive at a better method. But this
affected class of fops give no uneasiness,
46 not being numerous; for the most part of
our gentlemen, who are generally masters
of the most useful and politest languages,
can take pleasure (for n change) to speak
and rend their own,
WILLIAM HAMILTON
18
WILLIAM HAMILTON OF
BANGOUR (1704-1754)
THE BRAES* OF YARBOW
IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTS
MANNER
1724
A. Bubk9 ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny
bride,
Busk >e, busk yc, my winsome mar-
row,8
Husk ye, busk >e, my bonny boun>
bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes
of Yarrow
5 B Where gat yp that bonny bonny bride T
Where gat yo that winsome mar-
row*
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
Puing the bnks4 on the Biaes of
Yarrow.
Woop not, weep not, m> bonnj bonny
bride,
10 Weep not, weep not, m> winsome
marrow ,
Nor let thy heart lament to lene
I'uing the birks on the Braes of
Yarrow
B Why does she weep, lh> bonny bonny
bride?
Why does bhe weep, thy nunbome
marrow T
15 And why dare ye nao mair weil be
seen
Puing the birkb on the Braeb of
Yarrow ?
.1 Lang maun bhe ueep, lans* maun she,
maun she weep,
l-ani* maun she weep uith dale3 and
sorrow ,
And lang maun I nae mair weil be
seen
-° Pump: the birks on the Braes of
Yarrow
For she has tint6 licr luver, luver
dear,
Her luver dear, the cause of sor-
row;
And I hae slam the comhest swam
That eir pn'd birks on the Braes of
Yarrow
30
40
'banks
snrrav adorn
•mate
• pulling the birches
•Srlef
•font
Why rins thy stream, 0 Yarrow*.
Yarrow, reidf
Why on thy braes heard the voice
of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weids
Hung on the bonny birks of
Yarrow T
What's yonder floats on the rueful
rueful fludef
What's yonder floats f 0 dule and
sorrow!
0 'tis he the comely swain I slew
Upon the dulef ul Braes of Yarrow.
Wash, 0 wash his wounds, his wounds
in tears,
HIE. wounds in tears with dule and
sorrow;
86 And wrap his limbs in mourning
weids,
And lay him on the Braes of
Yarrow.
Then build, then build, ye sisters,
sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with
sorrow;
And weep around in waeful wise
His hapless fate on the Braes of
Yarrow.
Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless
shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of
sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his
breast,
His comely breast on the Braes of
Yarrow.
46 Did I not warn thee, not to, not to
luvel
And warn from fight f but to my
sorrow
Too la&hly bauld a stronger aim
Thou mett'st, and fell 'at on the
Braes of Yarrow.
C. Sweet smells the birk, green grows,
green grows the grass,
60 Yellow on Yarrow's bank the
gowan,1
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.2
A. Flows Yarrow sweet f as sweet, as
sweet flows Tweed,
A 8 green its grass, its gowan as
yellow,
i the daisy
•flowing
14
55
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBS
70
80
90
10°
As sweet smells on its braes the bnk,
The apple frae its rock as mellow
Pair was thy luve, fair, fail indeed
thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him
fetter;
Tho' he was fair, and ueil belin M
again
1 Than me he never luv 'd thee bettei
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny
bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome
marrow,
Busk ye, and luve me on the banks oi
Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Biaes
of Yarrow.
C How can I busk, a bonny bonnj bride?
How can I busk, a winsome raai ro\\ f
How luve him upon the banks oi
Tweed,
That slew my luve on the Braes ol
Yarrow f
0 Yarrow fields, may never, ne\ei
rain
Nor dew thy tender blossoms ccner
For there was basely slain m> hue.
My luve, as he had not been a lover
The boy put on his robes, his robes of ]or>
green,
His purple vest, 'twas my a*n
sewing:
Ah! wretched me' I little, little
kenn'd
He was in these to meet his ruin
The boy took out his milk-white, milk-
white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow
But ere the to-fall1 of the night
He lay a corps on the Braes of
Yarrow
Much I rejoyc'd that waeful, waeful
day,
I sang, my voice the uoods return-
ing:
But lang ere night the spear was
flown,
That slew my luve, and left me
mourning.
; What can my barbarous, barbarous
father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me*
> close
115
My luver's blood is on thy spear.
How canst tbou, barbarous man,
then wooe me?
My happy sisters nm> be, may be
proud
With ciuel and ungentle seoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My lu\ei nailed in Ins coffin
My brother Douglas ma> upbraid, up-
braid,
And strive \vitli threatuing \\uids
to mu\e me.
My luver's blood is on thy speai,
How canst thou e\er bid me luxe
thee?
Yes, >es, prepare the bed, tlie bed of
hue.
With bridal sheets my bod\ co\ci,
Unbar, ye bndal maids, the door.
Let in the expected husband 1m ei
But who the expected husband hus-
band is?
His hands, metlunks, aie hath'd in
slaughter
Ah me' what ghastly spa-tie's \un
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding
after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, la\ him
down,
0 Ja\ his cold head on in\ pillou ,
Take aff, take a if, these bndal weids,
And croun m\ careful head with
willou
Pale tho' thou ait, vet best, \et best
beluv 'd,
0 could my warmth to life restore
thee»
Yet lye all mrfit between mv breists.
No youth la> ever there before thee
Pale, pale indeed, 0 hivelv, Invelv
youth !
Foigive, forgi\e so foul a slau»htei
And lye all night between mv
breists ;
No youth shall ever l\e there after
A Return, return, 0 mouinful, mourn-
ful bride,
' Return, and drv th> useless soirou
Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs.
He lyes a corps on the Braes of
Yarrow
DAVID MALLET
15
DAVID MALLET (1705.1705)
WILLIAM AND MARGARET
1724
'Twas at the wlent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
4 And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud ;
And clay-cold was her lily hand
8 That held her sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown.
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
12 When death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew ,
The rose was budded in her cheek,
16 Just opening to the view
Rut love had, like the canker-worm.
Consumed her early prime,
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek,
20 She died before her time
"Awake*" she cried, "thy true lo\e
calls.
Come from her midnight grave
Now let thy pity hear the maid
24 Thy love refused to save.
"This is the dark and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain ;
When yawning graves give up their
dead,
28 To haunt the faithless swam
"Bethink thee, William, of thv fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath !
And give me back m> maiden \ow,
82 And give me back my troth
"Why did you promise loie to me.
And not that promise keepf
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
86 Yet leave those eyes to weep?
"How could you say my face was fair.
And yet that face forsake f
How could you win my virgin heart,
«• Yet leave that heart to break f
"Why did you say my lip was sweet.
And make the scarlet paleT
And why did I, young, witless maid I
44 Behove the flattering talef
"That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red :
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,
48 And every charm is fled.
"The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,
62 Till that last morn appear.
"But hark!
hence;
the cock has warned me
A lone and last adieu !
Come see, false man, how low she lies,
66 Who died for love of you."
The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled
With beams of rosy red :
Pale William quaked in every limb,
60 And raving left his bed.
He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay;
And stretched him on the green-grass
turf
64 That wrapt her breathless clay
And thrice he called on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
68 And word spake never more1
THE BIRKSi OF ENDERMAT
The smiling morn, the breathing spnng,
Invite the tuneful birds to sing:
And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the universal lay.
5 Let us, Amanda, timely wise,
Like them improve the hour that flies;
And, in soft raptures, waste the day,
Among the shades of Bndermay.
For soon tire winter of the year.
10 And age, fife's winter, will appear:
At this, thy living bloom must fade:
As that will strip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er;
The feather 'd songsters love no more:
15 And when thev droop, and we decay,
Adieu the shades of Endermay'
'bfrcbei
16
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBS
JOHN DYER (1700-1758)
OBONOAB HILL
1720
Silent nymph1 with canons eye,
Who, the purple ev'ning, lie
On the mountain 's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
6 Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale,
Come, with all thy various hues,
1° Come, and aid thy sister Muse;
Now while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustie to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landskip bright and strong;
16 Grongar, in whose mossy cells,
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade, A
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the ev'mng still,
20 At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flow'ry bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strav'd mv eyes o'er Towy's flood.
Over mead and over wood,
25 From house to house, from lull to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.
About Ins chequer M sides I wind, ^
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottoes where I lay,
80 And \istoes2 shooting beams of day
Wide fend wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal '
The mountains round, unhappy fate1
Sooner or later, of all height,
86 Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads ;
Still it widens, widens still,
40 And sinks the newly-risen lull
Now I gam the mountain 's brow,
What a landskip lies below*
No clouds, no vapors intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
46 Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven 'R bow.
And, swelling to embrace the light.
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old' castles on the cliffs arise,
50 Proudly tow 'ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
'The name of paint-
ing
On the yellow mountain-heads,
K Gilds the fleecesr-of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes;
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
60 The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The stui dy oak with broad-spi cad boughs,
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Philhs, queen of love I
65 Gaudy as the op'ning dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,1
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wand 'ring eye
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,
70 His sides are cloth 'd with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below,
Whose lagged walls the ivy creeps,
And mith her arms from falling keeps,
75 So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.
'Tis now the raven 's bleak abode ;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the iox securely feeds,
80 And there the pois'nous adder breeds.
Conceal 'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, e\ er and anon, there falls
Huge lieaps of hoarv moulder 'd walls.
Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,
85 And le\el lavs the lofty brow,
Has seen this bioken pile com pleat,2
Big vuth the \anity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
90 A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty 'have
Between the cradle and the gra\e.
And see the mcis how they rim
Thro9 \voods and meads, in shade and
sun1
93 Sometimes ant if t and sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A vanous journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep*
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
100 To instruct our wand 'i ing thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landskip tire the view I
105 The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r,
prospect*
1 grassy field
•Complcat rimes with
ttate.
JOHNDTEB
17
HO The naked rock, the shady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm.
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm
See on the mountain's southern side,
116 Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the ev'mng gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges he '
What streaks of meadows cross the eye1
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
120 So little distant dangers seem ,
So we mistake the Future's face,
Ey'd thro' Hope's deluding glass ,
As yon summits soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
126 Which, to those who journey near,
Ban en, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way;
The present's still a cloudy day
0 may I with myself agree,
180 And never covet what I see,
Content me with an humble shade,
M\ passions tam'd, mv wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul ,
136 'Tis thus the bns\ beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care
Now, ev'n no*t mv joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I he ,
While the wanton Zephyr smgK
140 And in the >ale |x»rf nines hib wings,
While the wateis iniumur deep.
While the shepherd charms1 his sheep ,
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
145 Now, ev'n now, my io\s run high
Be full, \e court**1 be great who will;
Search for Peace with all your skill
Open wide the lofty door.
Seek her on the marble floor
150 Tn \am >e search, she is not there,
In vain >e search the domes of Care*
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure close ally'd,
IK Ever bv each other's side.
And often, by the murm'nng rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still.
Within the groves of Gromrar Hill
THE FLEECE
1757
From BOOK I
Ah, gentle shepherd, thine the lot to
tend
400 of all, that feel distress, the most as-
sail'd,
1 control* or calms by playing upon bin pipe
Feeble, defenceless: lenient be thy care:
But spread around thy tenderest dili-
gence
In flow'ry spring-time, when the new-
dropt lamb,
Tottering with weakness by his mother's
side,
406 Feels the fresh world about him, and
each thorn,
Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet
Oh, guard his meek sweet innocence from
all
Th' innumerous ills, that rush around
his life,
Mark the quick kite, with beak and
talons prone,
410 Circling the skies to snatch him from
the plain ;
Observe the lurking crows, beware the
brake,
There the sly fox the careless minute
waits,
Nor trust thy neighbor's dog, nor earth,
nor sky .
Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide
415 Eunis oft sings his hail, the tardy fields
Pay not their promised food; and oft
the dam
O'er her weak twins with empty udder
mourns,
Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of
prey
Alightb, and hops in many turns around,
420 And tires her also turning: to her aid
Be nimble, and the weakest in thine arms
Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft,
Between the lark 's note and the nightin-
gale's.
His hungry bleating still with tepid milk :
425 In this soft office may thy children join,
And charitable habits learn in sport •
Nor yield him to himself, ere vernal airs
Sprinkle thy little croft with daisy
flowers .
Nor vet forget him* life has rising ills:
430 Various as ether1 is the pastoral care-
Through slow experience, by a patient
breast,
The whole Ion? lesson gradual is at-
tained.
By precept after precept, oft received
With deep attention: such as Nuceus
sings
486 To the full vale near Soare's enamor'd
brook,
While all is silence: sweet Hincklean
swain!
1 Tbp HuliMtance «mppo*ed to fill the upper regions
of apace
18 EIGHTEENTH GEKTUBY FOBEBUNNEB8
Whom rude obscurity severely clasps: 80 Tlie day's fair face. The wanderers of
The muse, bowe'er, will deck thy simple heaven,
cell Each to his home, retire; save those
With purple violets and primrose flowers, that love
440 Well-pleased thy faithful lessons to re- To take their pastime in tlie troubled air,
pav. Or skimming; flutter round the dimply
pool.
.*.-«,. M*M.M*»M ,«.~ ...-> Thc cattle from the ""tasted fields return
JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) 85 And ask, with meaning low, their wonted
THE SEASONS ^ Btalto,
_ __ Or ruminate in the contiguous shade
mjm i™ Thither the household feathery people
crowd*
See, Winter comes to rule the varied The msM cock Wlt|| all hlb female
y***> train,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising tram- Pensive and dripping , while the cottage-
Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Be these hjD(j
my theme, % Hangs o'er the enlivening blaze, and
These, that exalt the soul to solemn taleful there
e A thought Recounts his simple frolic much he
5 And heavenly musing. Welcome, km- talks,
dred glooms! ,,._,__. A And much he laughs, noi recks the storm
Cogenial1 horrors, hail! \\ith frequent that blows
*°?*: _ , , - Without, and rattles on his humble roof
Pleased ha\e I, in my cheerful morn of Wide o'er the brim, with many a tor-
^ llfc' , . , , , T , , rent Dwelled,
When nursed by carelesh solitude I h veil w And the mixed nun oi its bank* o'ei-
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy, spread,
10 Pleased ha\e I wandered through your At Jast the rouwd-up river pours along
rough domain, Resistless, roaring, dreadful, doun it
Trod the pure virgin-snou**, myself as comes,
PnreJ From the rude mountain and the mossy
Heard the winds roar, and the big tor- W]]<]y
rent burst; Tumbling through rocks abrupt, anil
Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest sounding far,
brewed loo Then o'er the sanded valle\ floating
In the grim evening-skv Thus passed spreads,
i- m.« tS6 timv' ., i j , u « *t Calm» duggish, silent; till again, con-
^ Till through the lucid ' chambers of the strained
80uth . „ . . _ , Between two meeting lulls, it bursts a
Tx>oked out the joyous Spring— looked wav
out and smiled. Where rocks and *oods o'erhang the
• ••••• turbid stream \
Then comes the father of the tempest There, gathering triple force, rapid and
forth, deep,
Wrapt in black glooms First, joyless 105 It bofl8, and wheels, and foams, and
rains obscure thunders through
Drive through the mingling skies wjtn
™p°*foul, Ah! little think the gay licentious
75 Dash on the mountain's brow, and shake proud/
the woods Whom pleasure, power, and affluence
That grumbling wave below The un- surround—
sightly plain They, who their thoughtless hours in
Lies a brown deluge; as the low-bent g^y mirthf
clouds 825 And wanton, often cruel, riot waste—
Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still Ah! little think they, while they dance
Combine, and, deepening into night, shut along,
UP How many feel, this very moment, death
And all the sad variety of pain ;
JAMES THOMSON
19
How many unk in the devouring flood,
380 Or more devouring flame; how manv
bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man anil
man;
How nfeny pine in want, and dungeon-
glooms,
Shut from the common air and common
use
Of their own limbs, how many dnnk the
cup
3*5 Of baleful gi ief , or eat the bitter bread
Of misery, sore pierced by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless povert\ . licw many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind.
340 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, re-
morse—
Whence, tumbled headlong from the
height of life.
They furnish matter for the tragic muse ,
Even in the \a\e. where wisdom lote* to
dwell,
With friendship, peace, and eon tern pla-
, tion joined,
845 How many, racked uith honest passions.
droop <
In deep letired distiess, lion manv stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest
friends,
And point the pai tin? nnmiish' Thought
fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless
ills
8M) That one incessant struggle rendei lile.
One scene of toil, of suffeiinsr. and of
fate,
Vice in hi* hiffh caieer would stand
appalled,
And heedless rambling Impulse leain to
think;
The conscious heart of Chant> would
warm,
865 And her wide wish Benevolence dilate ,
The social tear would rise, the social
sisrh ;
And* into cleai perfection, stiadual
bins.
Refining still the social passions work
And here can I forpet the generous
band
360 Who, touched with human woe, ledressive
searched
Into the horrors of the gloomy jnilf1
Unpitied and unheard where misery
moans,
Where sickness pines, where thirst and
hunger burn,
Antl poor misfortune feels the lash of
vice;
36r> While in the land of liberty— the land
Whose e\ery street and public meeting
glow
With open freedom— little tyrants raged,
Snatched the lean morsel from the starv-
ing mouth,
Tore from cold wintry limbs the tattered
weed,
37° Even robbed them of the last of com-
forts, sleep,
The free-born Briton to the dungeon
chained
Or, as the lust of cuielty prevailed,
At pleasure maiked him with inglorious
stripes,
And crushed out lives by secret bar-
barous \\a\s.
"75 That for their country would have toiled
or bled.
0 prreat design! li executed well,
With patient eaie and wisdom-tempered
zeal
Ye sons of rnercx f > et resume the search ;
Drag forth the legal monsters into light,
3*° Wrench from their hands Oppression's
iron rod,
And bid the cruel feel the pains they
ifive
Much still untouched remains, in this
rank age,
Much is the patnot's weeding hand re-
quired.
The toils of law— what dark insidious
men
«83 Have cumbrous added to perplex the
truth
And lengthen simple justice into trade—
How glorious were the day that saw
these broke,
And everv man within the reach of right S
8u1111*"
'
that the wirdemhln* of prNonK were
^'
M»ver* puDio
gt,]] |et me pieice into the midnight
depth
Of >onder grove, of wildest largest
growth.
Thafc ?ormin* high in air a woodtand
quire,
Nod. o'er the fflomt beneath At every
Step,
20 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBS
620 Solemn and slow the shadows blacker And, falling fast from gradual slope to
fall, slope,
And all is awful listening gloom around. With wild infracted course and lessened
These are the haunts of meditation, roar
these * 606 It gains a safer bed, and bteaJb at last
The scenes where ancient hards the in- Along the mazes of the quiet vale.
spinng breath Invited from the cliff, to whose dark
Ecstatic felt, and, from this world re- brow
tned, He clings, the steep-ascending eagle
625 Conversed with angels and immortal soars
forms, With upward pinions through the flood
On gracious enands bent — to sa\e the of day,
fall 61° And, giving full his bosom to the blaze,
Of virtue struggling on the brink of vice; Gains on the Sun; while all the tuneful
In waking whispers and repeated dreams race,
To hint pure thought, and \varn the fa- Smit by afflictive noon, disordered droop
vored soul, Deep in the thicket, or, from bower to
630 For future tnals fated, to piepaie, bower
To prompt the poet, who demoted gnes Kesponsive, force an interrupted strain.
His muse to better themes, to soothe the cl5 The stock-do\e only through the forest
pangb coos,
Of dying \vorth, and from the patriot's Mournfully hoarse, oft ceasing from his
breast plaint,
(Backward to mingle in detested war, Short mtenal of weary woe! again
MB But foremost when engaged) to turn the The sad idea of his murdered mate,
death; Struck from his side by savage fowler's
And numberless such offices of love, guile,
Daily and nightly, zealous to perform. 62° Across his fancv comes, and then re-
sounds
686 Thus up the mount, in airy A ision rapt, A louder song of sorrow through the
I stray, regardless whither, till the gro\e
sound Beside the dewy border let me sit,
Of a near fall of water every sense All in the freshness of the humid air,
Wakes from the charm of thought There on that hollowed lock, giotesque
swift-shrinking back, and wild,
I check my steps and Mew the broken 625 An ample chair moss-lined and over
scene. head
590 Smooth to the sheh ing brink a copious By flowenng umbrage shaded , where the
flood bee
Rolls fair and placid, wheie, collected Strays diligent, and with the extracted
all balm
Tn one impetuous toi rent, down the steep Of fragrant woodbine loadb his little
It thundering shoots, and shakes the thigh
country round ... . .
At first, an azure sheet, it rushes broad,13™ The Sun has lost his rage, his down-
696 Then, whitening bv degrees as prone it ward orb
falls, Shoots nothing now but animating
And from the loud-resounding rocks warmth
below And vital lustre; that with -various ray,
Dashed in a cloud oi foam, il sends Lights up the clouds, those beauteous
aloft robes of heaven,
A hoary mist and forms a ceaseless1875 Incessant rolled into romantic shapes,
shower The dream of waking fancy! Broad
Nor can the tortured wave here And below,
repose ; Covered with ripening fruits, and swell-
600 But, raging still amid the shaggy rocks, ing fast
Now flashes o'er the scattered frag- Into the perfect year, the pregnant earth
ments, now And all her tribes rejoice. Now the soft
Aslant the hollow channel rapid darts; hour
JAMES THOMSON 21
iSftO of walking comes for linn who lonely loves And soar above this little scene of
To seek the distant lulls, and there con- things-
verse To tread low-thoughted \ice beneath
With nature, there to harmonize his heart, their feet,
And in pathetic song to breathe around To soothe the throbbing passions into
The harmony to others. Social friends, peace,
1386 Attuned to happy unison of soul— And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.
To whose exulting eve a fairer world, 97° Thus sohtaiy, and in pensive guise,
Of which the vulgar never had a glimpse, Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead,
Displays its charms, whose minds are And through the saddened grove, where
richly fraught scarce is heard
With philosophic stores, superior light, One dying strain to cheer the woodman's
1390 And in whose breast enthusiastic burns toil
Virtue, the sons of interest deem ro- Haply some widowed songster pours his
mance — m plaint
Now called abroad, enjov the falling day 97B Far in faint warblmgs through the
• Now to the verdant portico of woods, tawny1 copse;
To nature 's vast lyceum, forth they walk ; While congregated thrushes, linnets,
1395 By that kind school where no proud mas- larks,
ter reigns. And each wild throat whose artless
The full free converse of the fnendb strains so late
heart, Swelled all the music of the swarming
Improving and improxed Now from the shades,
world, Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shiv-
Sacred to sweet retirement, lo\eis steal, enng sit
And pour then souls in transport, which 98° On the dead tree, a dull despondent
the sire flock,
1400 Of lo\c approving hoars, and calls it With not a brightness \ta\ing o'er their
good plumes,
And naught save chat tenner discord in
Fiom Aim MS their note.
17 J0 Oh, let not, aimed from some inhuman
960 But see the fading man\ -colored woods, eye,
Shade deepen mu oxer shade, the counts The gun the music of the coming year
round MX5 Destroy, and harmless, unsuspecting
Imbrown; a crowded umbiage, dusk and harm,
dun, Lay the weak tubes, n miserable prey,
Of everv hue from \van declining screen In mingled murder fluttering on the
To soot> dark. These now the lonesome ground '
muse, The pale descending ^ea^, yet pleasing
955 Low -whisper ing, lead into their leaf still,
strown walks, A gentler mood inspires, for now the
And give the season in its latest MOH leaf
Meantime, light shadowmsr nil, a sober wo Incessant rustles from the mournful
calm grove,
Fleeces1 unbounded ethei , whose lenst Oft staithng Fiich as studious walk be-
wave low,
Stands tremulous, uncertain wheie to turn And slowlv circles lliroimh the waving
960 The gentle current ; while, illumined wide, air.
The dewy-skiited clouds mihil>e the sun. Rut, should a quicker biee/e amid the
And through their lucid veil his softened boughs
force Sob, o'er the skj the leafy deluge
Shed o'er the peaceful \\orld Then is streams.
the time "5 Till, choked and matted uith the dreary
For those whom wisdom and whom na- shower,
ture charm The forest-walks, at e\erv rising gale,
*• To steal themselves from the degenerate Roll wide the wither 'd waste, and whistle
crowd, bleak.
1 fpreads over like t fleece ' vcllowWi brown
22 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEBUNNEBS
Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; ..'....
And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery Meanwhile the moon,
race Full-orbed and breaking through the
1000 Their sunny robes resign. Even what scattered clouds,
lemamed 109° Shows her broad visage in the crimsoned
Of bolder fruits falls from the naked east.
tree; Turned to the mm diiect, her spotter!
And— woods, fields, gardens, orchaids, disk
all around— (Where mountains rise, umbrageous
The desolated prospect thrills the soul dales descend,
He comes1 he comes f in e\ery breeze And caverns deep, as optic tubedescnes)
the Power * A smaller eaith, gnes all his bla/r
1005 Qf Philosophic Melancholy comes! again,
His near approach the sudden-starting 1095 Void of its flame, and sheds a softer
tear, cla\
The glowing cheek, the mild dejected air. Now through the passing cloud she seems
The softened feature, and the beating to stoop. •
heart, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime
Pierced deep with manv a virtuous pan?. Wide the pale deluge floats, and stream-
declare ing mild
1010 O'er all the soul his sacred influence O'er the skied mountain to the shad-
breathes; o\i v \ale,
faflames imagination , through the breast 110° While rocks and floods leflect the qim-
Infuses every tenderness , and far ei in? gleam,
Beyond dim earth exalts the swelling The uhole air whitens with a boundless
thought. tide
Ten thousand thousand fleet ideas, such Of siher radiance trembling round the
1015 AS never mingled with the vulgar dream. world.
Crowd fast into the mind's creatne e\e * '
As fast the corres|x>ndent passions rise, O Nature' all-sufficient' oxer all
As varied, and as high— devotion raised Enrich me with the knowledge of thv
• To rapt me, and divine astonishment; works,
1020 The love of nature unconflned, and, chief, Snatch me to hea\en th\ rolling won-
Of human race; the large ambitious wish ders there,
To make them blest, the sigh for suffer- 185B Woild beyond woild, m infinite extent
ing worth Proiuselv scattered o'er the blue im-
Lost m obscurity , the noble scorn men so,
Of tvrant pride, the fearless great re- Show me, then motions, ]>eriods, and
solve, their laws
1025 The Bonder which the dying patriot (live me to scan , through the disclosm»
diaws, deep
Inspiring glorv through remotest time. Light my blind ma\ the mineral stiatu
The awakened throb for \irtue and for there,
fame; 136° Thrust blooming thence the vegetnble
The sympathies of love and inendship woild.
dear, O'er that the rising svstem, more com-
With all the social offspring of the heait ?!**>
1030 ohf bear me then to vast em bo wen nu Of animals; and, higher still, the mind,
shades. The varied scene of quick-compounded
To twilight groves, and visionary \ales, thought,
To weeping grottoes, and prophetic And where the mixing passions endless
glooms ; shift ;
Where angel forms athwart the solemn 1365 These ever open to my ravished eye-
dusk, A search, the flight of time can ne'er
Tremendous, suecp, or seem to sweep exhaust1
along; But, if to that unequal—if the blood
1035 And voices more than human, through In sluggish streams about my heart forbid
the void That best ambition— -under closing shades
Deep-sounding, seize the enthusiastic ear wo Inglorious lay me by the lowly brook,
JAMK6 THOMSON
And whuper to my di earns. From thee
begin,
Dwell all on thee, with thee conclude
my song;
And let me ne\ or, novel stray from t hep r
A HYMN ON THE SEASONS
1730
Thew,, as they change, Almighty Father!
That, as they still succeed, they ravish
still.
But, wandering oft with brute uncon-
seious gaze,
Man marks not thee, marks not the
mighty hand
That, c\ei biihy, wheels the silent spheres,
Work** in the becret deep, shoots steam-
The
that oWsp.rndK the
Tin 8b3y walks, thy tenderness and
• WidiTush the fields, the softening air
VIA 1m
Kcho the mountamH round, the forest
smiles,
Creatu1*' hurto the tempest
months,
ght and heat refulgent ' Then thy
sun
10 Shoots full perfection through the swell-
ing year
And oft thy \oice in dreadful thunder
at dawn, deep noon, or falhng
Thj 'bounty shmes ,n autumn unoon-
An,! sptads a common feast for all
In «mater'atftil thon! w,th clouds and
AroundTee thrown, tempest o'er tern-
thou bidst the
adore,
And humblest nature »,th thv northern
Dlan>
* And! ••• .«• e«rth *h»
re»ojveS|
W,th transport touches all the «PrmgS
ot llle
-s
Jn
Bon(|1 To hnn' y* VOCal
Brea'h« «?ft' jf°" 8Pint in
ness Dreatnes*
F,INThePh,oWn hh«de ,rth a religion
Aua?e% hose bolder note ,« heard afar,
- and "^ from whom
Th«
Hw P™. .?* brookfc- attnn*. J* trera-
oiing mis,
Mysterious round' what skill, what
DeepSmthese appear' a s,mple train. " Or
Yet so^dehghtful mixed, with nuch kind
un%^^^^
shade
And all 'so forming an harmonious
whole
Ak|| vije.
A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Som£eftht£ v^****™*
von ««r OT b'd8
to him, whose snn
y°U' and
'brilliant: radlnnt
Ye forests, bend; ye harvests, wave to
him—
24 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBERUNNEB8
60 Breathe jour biill bong into the leapi'i V» The prompting seraph, and the poet's
heart l>re
As home he goeb beneath the joyous Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll.
, % moon. For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Ye that keep watch in hea\en, as earth 9B Whether the blossom blows, the summer-
asleep ray
Unconscious lies, effuse1 your mildest Russets the plain, inspiring autumn
beams, gleams,
Ye constellations* while your angels Or winter rises in the blackening east,
strike Be my tongue mute, ray fancy paint no
66 Amid the spangled sky the silver lyre more,
Qreat source of day' best image here And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide 10° «™W fate Command me to the far-
From world to world the vital ocenn *hest vei^e
round | Of the green earth, to distant barbarous
On nature write with every beam his climes,
praige Rivers unknown to son«, where first the
70 The thunder rolls- be hushed the pros- _ flsun _
trate world Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn __ beam ...... , fj. , .
hymn. Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought
Bleat out afresh, ve hills, je mossy 1ft. 0 to me,
rogkg 105 Since God is ever present, e\er felt,
Retain the sound, the broad responsive ^ *he *°ld waste as in the city full,
jow And where he vital spreads there must
Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shep- ta J0^
herd reigns When e\en at last the solemn hour shall
75 And his unsuffenng kingdom yet will come,
come And wing my mystic flight to future
Ye woodlands all, awake a boundless 110 _ JOT^ „ .
B0ng 110 I cheerful w ill obev , there, with new
Burst from the groves; and, when the __T Powers,
restless day " "* nsin£ wonders sing: I cannot go
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, TOiere universal loie not smiles around,
Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela' Sustaining all yon orbs and all their
charm Rons'
so The listening shades, and teach the night tl. ^Tu^6™^ eul stl11 edll«nP K™*.
his praise! An<J better tlienfe again, and better still,
Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation Jn ^J11*0 pmpiwion But I lose
smiles, Mvself m him, in light ineffable'
At once the head, the heart, the toncue Come then» e^prossive Silence, mu«e his
of all,
THE rAOTLE OF INDOLENCE
A , A A. , /7SC-48 1748
Assembled men, to the deep orean Prom CANTO I
« The3long-resounding voice, oft breaking n\M\l
clear Whorp for a little
At solemn pauses through the Rwellincr Wc Ilved rl«ht
bass; O mortal man, who livest here by toil,
And, as each minulmg flame increases Do not complain of this thy hard
each, estate,
In one united ardor rise to heaven That like an emmet2 thou must e\er
Or, if you rather choose the rural shade, moil
90 And find a fane in every sacred grove, Is a sad sentence of an ancient date.8
There let the shepherd's flute, the vir- i called; named
^Lh ay' 9^n *& tytMt of th
forth hi part.*'— Gmr«M, *5 1
JAM38
25
6 And, certes, there is for it reason
great;
For, though sometimes it makes thee
weep and wail,
And curse thy stars, and early drudge
and late,
Withouten that would come an heavier
bale,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases
pale.
10 In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed
round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is no-
where found
It was, I ween,1 a lovely spot of
giound;
15 And there a season atween June and
May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer
half imbrowned,
A listless climate made, where, sooth
to say,
No living wight could work, ne car&d
even for play.
Was nought around but images of rest
20 ' Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns
between ;
And flowery beds that slumbrous in-
fluence kest,2
From poppies breathed, and beds of
pleasant gieen,
Where never yet was creeping creature
seen.
Meantime unnumbered glittering sti eain-
lets played,
2B And hurled everywhere their \\ateis
sheen ;
That, as they bickeied thiough the
sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling
murmur made
Joined to the pi at tie of the purling
rills,
Were heard the lowing heids alone;
the vale,
80 And flocks loud-bleating fioin the dis-
tant hills,
And vacant8 shepheids piping in the
dale*
And now and then sweet Philomel
would wml.
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest
deep,
1 think ' cant * cure f POO
That drowsy rustled to the sighing
gale;
86 And still a coil the grasshopper did
keep;
Yet all these sounds > blent1 inclined all
to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood,
Where nought but shadowy forms weie
seen to move,
40 As Idless fancied in her dreaming
mood.
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, ay waving to and
fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the
blood ;
And where this valley winded out,
below,
46 The murmuring mam was heard, and
scarcely heard, to flow
A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was-
Of dreams that wave before the half-
shut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that
pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky
60 There eke the soft delights, that witch-
mgly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the
breast.
And the calm pleasures always hov-
ered nigh;
Hut whate'er smacked of nojance, or
unrest,
Was far far off expelled from this deli-
cious nest «
65 The landskip such, inspiring perfect
ease,
Wheie Indolence (for so the vvizaid
bight)'
Close-hid his castle mid embowering
trees,
That half shut out the beams of Phoe-
bus bright,
And made a kind of checkered day
and night
60 Meanwhile, unceasing at the massv
gate,
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked
wight
Was placed , and, to his lute, of cruel
fate
\iul labor haisli complained, lamenting
man's estate
'blendod « was oil led
26
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FQBEBUNNEB8
Thither continual pilgrims crowded
still
*& From all the roads of earth that pass
there by:
For, as they chaunced to breathe on
neighboring hill,
The freshness of this valley smote
their eye,
And drew them ever and anon more
nigh.
Till clustering round the enchanter
false they hung,
70 Ymolten1 with his syren melody ;
While o'er th' enfeebling lute his
hand he flung,
And to the trembling chord these tempt-
ing verses sung:
"Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth,
behold*
See all but man with unearned pleas-
ure gay.
76 See her bright robes the butterfly un-
fold.
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime
of Mav.
' ' Outcast of Nature, man ! the wretched
thrall
Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry
pain,
Of cares that eat away th} heart with
gall
And of the vices, an inhuman train,
95 That all proceed from sa\age thirst
of gain :
For when hard-hearted Interest first
began
To poison earth, Astraea left the plain ,
Guile, Violence, and Murder seized on
man,
And, for soft milk} streams, *ith blood
the rivers ran.
100 "Come, ye, who still the cumbrous
load of life
Push hard up hill; but, as the farthebt
steep
You trust to gain, and put an end to
strife,
Down thunders back the stone with
mighty sweep,
And hurls >our labors to the \alley
deep,
What youthful bride can equal her 103 Forever vain come, and withouten fee
array? I m oblivion will your borrows steep,
Who can with her for eas> pleasure yolir caies, vour toils, will steep you
vie* in a sea
From mead to mead with gentle uing Of full delight 0 come, ye weary
to strav,
80 From flower to flower on balmy gales
to fly,
Ts all she has to do beneath the radiant
sky
"Behold the mem minstrels of the
morn,
The swarming songsters of the care-
less grove,
Ten thousand throats that, from the
flowering thorn,
86 Hymn their good God, and carol sweet
of love,
Such grateful kindly raptures them
emove!*
They neither plough nor row; nc,*1 fit
for flail.
E'er to the barn tbe nodding sheaves
they drove;
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in
the gale,
90 Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles
along the vale.
* melted
•move (cp emotion)
•nor
wights, to me1
"With me, you need not rise at early
dawn,
110 To pass the joyless <la\ in \anous
stounds,1
Or, louting low, on upstart iortune
fawn,
And sell fair honor for bome paltry
pounds,
Or through the city take >our dirty
rounds
To cheat, and dun, and he, and visit
pay,
115 Now flattering base, now giung secret
wounds;
Or prow] in courts of law for human
prey,
In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad
highway.
"No cocks, with me, to rustic labor
call.
From village on to village sounding
clear;
JAMES THOMSON
27
ito TO tardy swain DO shrill-voiced ma-
trons squall;
No dogs, no babes, no wives to stun
your ear;
Imbittered more from peevish day to
day.
Even those whom fame has lent her
fairest ray,
No hammers thump; no horrid black- J3° The most renowned of worthy wights
smith sear,
Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slum-
bers start
With sounds that are a misery to hear .
125 But all is calm as would delight the
heart
Of Sybarite1 of old, all nature, and all
art
155
"Here nought but candor reigns, in-
dulgent ease,
Good-natured lounging, sauntering up
and down
They who are pleased themsehes must
always please,
130 On others' ways they ne\er squint 4
frown,
Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in
town 'r'°
Thus, from the souice of tender Indo-
lence,
With milkv blood the heart is o\er-
flown,
Is soothed and sweetened bv the social
sense.
135 For interest, envv, pnde, and strife are
banished hence
of yore,
From a base world at last ha\e stolen
away:
So Scipio, to the soft Cumaean shore
Retiring, tasted joy he never knew be-
fore.
"But if a little exercise you chuse,
Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden
here.
Amid the groves you may indulge the
muse,
Or tend the blooms, and deck the ver-
nal year;
Or softly stealing, with >our watery
gear,
Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted
fry
You may delude the whilst, amused,
you hear
Now the hoarse stream, and no* the
zephjr's sigh,
Attuned to the birds, and \\oodland
melody
11 0 grievous foil} ' to heap up estate,
Ixtsmg the davs you see beneath the
sun;
"What, 11 hat is \irtue but repose of 16R When, sudden, comes blind unrelent-
mmdf
A pure etheieal calm tliat knows no
storm,
Above the reach of wild ambition's
wind,
Abo\e those passions that this world
deform,
140 And torture man. a proud malignant
worm!
But here, instead, soft prulos of passion 17° But sure it is of >anities most vain.
To toil for what you hore unfailing may
ing fate,
And gives the untasted portion you
ha\e won
With ruthless toil, and manv a wretch
undone.
To those who mock >ou gone to Pluto's
reign, .
There with sad ghosts to pine, and
shadows dun
And gentlv stir the heart, thereby to
form
A quicker sense of jov. as breezes
strav
Across the enli \ened skies, and make
them still more gay.
44 The best of men have ever lo\ed re-
pose:
They hate to mingle in the fllthv fra\ .
Where the soul sours, and Gradual
rancor grows,
» An inhabitant of SybnrK Ttalv, n ritr noted
for luxurious living
17R
obtain
Tie ceased Rut still their trembling
ears retained
The deep vibrations of Ins witching
song,
That, by a kind of magic power, con-
strained
To enter in, pell-mell, the listening
throng.
Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they
slipt along
In silent ease- as when, beneath the
beam
28
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNERS
Of summer moons, the distant woods
among,
Or by some flood all silvered with the
gleam,
18° The soft-embodied fays through airy
portal stream.
By the smooth demon so it ordered was,
And here his baneful bounty first
began:
Though some there were who would
not further pass.
And his alluring baits suspected ban.1
*** The wise distrust the too i air-spoken
man.
Yet through the gate they cast a \v ish-
ful eye
Not to nune on, perdie,2 is all they
can;
For, do their \ery best, they cannot
fly,
But often each nay look, and often
soiely sigh
lw When this the watchful wicked n i/ard
saw,
With sudden spring he leaped upon
them strait,
And, soon as touched In his unhal-
lowed paw.
They found themselves within the
cursed gate,
Full hard to be re passed, like that of
Fate
1*5 Not stronger were of old the giant-
crew,
Who sought to pull high Jove from
regal state,8
Though feeble wretch he seemed, of
sallow hue*
Ccitcs, nlio bides his grasp, will that
encountei rue.
Waked bv the crowd, slow from his
bench arose
A comely full-spread porter, swoln
with sleep*
210 ITis calm, broad, thoughtless aspect
breathed repose,
And in sweet torpor he was plunged
deep,
Ne could himself from ceaseless > awn-
ing keep;
While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor
ran,
"Thp Titan*, who iv-
1 An o a t b from the helled agtinnt Ju-
French, par Dicu, by piter
God
Through which his half-waked soul
would faintly peep.
Then, taking his black staff, he called
his man,
And loused himself as much as rouse
himself he can.
The lad leaped lightly at his master's
call.
He was, to weet,1 a little roguish page,
Sa\e sleep and play who minded
nought at all,
220 Like most the untaught striplings of
his age
This boy be kept each band to disen-
gage.
Garters and buckles, task for him
unfit,
But ill-becoming his grave personage,
And which his portlv paunch would
, not permit.
225 So this same limber page to all per-
formed it.
Meantime the master-porter wide dis-
played
Hi eat store of caps, of slippers, and oi
gouns.
Wherewith he those who entered in
anaved,
Loose as the breeze that plavs alonj;
the downs,
230 And waves the summer woods when
evening frowns
0 fair undress, best dress1 it checks
no vein,
But everv flowing limb in pleasure
drowns,
And heightens ease with grace This
done, right fain
Sir Porter sat him down, and turned to
sleep again
235 Thus eas\ rol>ed, they to the fountain
sped,
That in the middle of the court up
threw
A stream, high-spout ing from its liquid
bed,
And falling back again in dn/zl.v dew
There each deep draughts, as deep he
thirsted, drew,
240 jf Was a fountain of Nepenthe2 rare
Whence, as Dan* Homer sings,4 huge
pleasannee grew,
1 m far a«i ono could and ROITOW
tell ' Lord , master
* A drug mblch cause* * Odytttfji, 4, 220 It.
forget fulness of pain
JAMES THOMSON
And sweet oblivion of vile earthly
care,
Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and
joyous dreams more fair.
This nte performed, all inly pleased
and still,
24fi Withouten trump1 was proclamation
made —
"Ye sons of Indolence, do what you
- will;
And wander where you list, through
hall or glade
Re no man's pleasure for another's
staid-
Let each as likes him best his hours
employ,
250 And curst be he who minds his neigh-
bor's trade 1
Here dwells kind ease, and unieprox-
mgjoy
He little merits bliss who others can
annoy. "
Strait of these endless numbers,
swarming round
As thick as idle motes in sunny
ray,
255 Not one eftsoons2 in \ie\v was to be
found,
Rut exery man sti oiled off his oun
glad way
Wide o'er this ample court's blank
area,
With all the lodges that thereto per-
tained,
No living creature could be seen to
stra\ ;
260 While solitude and perfect silence
reigned
So that to think vou dreamt \ou almost
was constrained
As when a shepherd of the Hebrid
Isles,
Placed far amid the melancholy mam,
(Whether it be lone fanc> him be-
guiles,
265 Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his
wain,8
A vast assembly moving to and fro;
270 Then all at once in air dissolves the
wondrous show.
1 trumpet
* immediately
• while the nun god dips hla wagon, — i e , while
the Rim I* Hotting
Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep pro-
found,
Whose soft dominion o'er this castle
sways,
And all the widely-silent places round,
Forgive me, if m> trembling pen dis-
plays
-7B What never yet was sung in mortal
lays.
Rut how shall I attempt such arduous
string?
I who have spent my nights and
nightly days
In this soul-deadening place, loose-
loitering —
Ahf how shall I for this uprear my
moulted wingf
280 Come on, m> muse, nor stoop to low
despair,
Thou imp of Jo\e, touched by celestial
fire'
Thou >et shalt sing of Mar, and actions
fair,
Which the bol«l sons of Britain will
inspire,
Of ancient bards thou \et shalt sweep
the lyre,
2S5 Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the
stage,
Paint loxe's enchanting woes, the
heio's ire.
The sage's calm, the patriot's noble
rage,
Dashing corruption down through e\ery
worthless age.
The doors, that knew no shrill alarm-
ing bell,
2q° Ne cursdd knocker plied by villain's
hand,
Self -opened into halls, where, who can
tell
What elegance and grandeur wide ex-
pand
The pnde of Turkey and of Persia
land!
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets car-
pets spread,
295 And couches stretched around in seemly
band ;
And endless pillows rise to prop the
head;
So that each spacious room was one full-
swelling bed
And everywhere huge covered tables
stood.
With wines high-flavored and rich
viands crowned;
30
EIGHTEENTH CENTU11Y FOHERUNNEB6
300 Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful 3JO Toil was not then. Of nothing took
food
On the green bosom of this Earth are
found,
And all old Ocean genders in his
round —
Some hand unseen these silenth dis-
played,
Even undemanded by a sign or sound,
806 You need but wish, and, instanth ,
obeyed,
Fair-ranged the dishes rose, and thick
the glasses played.
Here freedom reigned without the
least alloy,
Nor gossip 's tale, nor ancient maid-
en's gall,
Nor saintly spleen durst imumur at
our joy,
J1° And with envenomed tongue our
pleasures pall
For wh>T there was but one eient
rule for all,
To wit, that each should work his own
desire,
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it mav
fall,
Or melt the time in lo\e, 01 wake the
hie,
315 And carol what, unbid, the Muses nnsrht
inspiie
•MO
they heed,
But with wild beasts the silvan war to
wage,
And o'er vast plains their herds and
flocks to feed*
Blest sons of nature the\ f true golden
age indeed f
Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls
Bade the gay bloom of vernal land-
skips use,
Or Autumn's varied shades imbrown
the walls
Now the black tempest strikes the
astonished eyes,
Now down the steep the flashing tor-
rent flies,
The trembling sun now pla.vs o'er
ocean blue,
And now rude mountains frown amid
the skies,
Whatever Lorrain light -touched with
softening- hue,
Or sa\age Rosa dashed, 01 learned
drew
Each sound too heie to languishment
inclined,
Lulli'd the weak IMISOIII, and induced
ease
Aerial music in the warbling wind,
At distance rising oft, h\ small de-
grees,
Vearer and nearer came, till o'er the
trees
It hung, and breathed such soul-dis-
solving airs
As did, alas* with soit perdition
The looms with costl> tapestrt \\eie
hung,
Where was inwoven many a gentle
tale,
Such as of old the rural poets sung
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale*
1 5MllTfI0uei?'iinthfulonel\fal!f 85° EntanglTd deep in its enchanting
Poured forth at large the sweetl> tor- * F *
tured heart;
Or, looking tender passion, swelled the
gale,
And taught charmed echo to resound
their smart,
While flocks, woods, streams around, re-
pose and peace impart
snares,
The listening heart forgot all duties and
all cares
A certain music, ne\er known before,
Here soothed the pensive melancholy
mind,
Full easil} obtained Behoves no more.
825 Those pleased the most, where, by a
cunning hand,
Depeinten1 was the patriarchal age;
What tune Dan Abraham left the Chal-
dee land,
And pastured on from verdant stage
to stage,
Where fields and fountains fresh
could best engage.8
i depicted ; printed »0Mtf*fo,l1 31.
366 But sidelong to the gently-waving wind
To lay the well-tuned instrument re-
clined ;
From which, with airy flying Angers
light,
Beyond each mortal touch the most
refined,
The god of winds drew sounds of deep
delight
360 Whence, with just cause, the Harp of
it hight
JAMES THOMSON
31
Ah me! what hand can touch the
strings so fine*
Who up the lofty diapasan1 roll
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs
, divine,
Then let them down again into the
soul!
385 Now rising love they fanned; now
pleasing dole
They breathed, in tender musings,
through the heart;
And now a graver sacred strain they
stole,
As when seraphic hands an hymn im-
part'
Wild warbling Nature all, above the
reach of Art1
370 Such the gav splendor, the (luxurious
state.
Of Caliphs2 old, who on the Typm'
shore.
In nugliU Bagdat. populous and
great,
Held their blight court, \\here WHS of
ladies store:
And \erse, lo\e, music* still the sjai-
land woic
376 When sleep \ins co>, the banl in wait-
ing theie
Cheered the lone midnmht with the
muse'h lore.
And hither Morpheus sent his kindest
dreams,
Raising a world of gayer tract and
grace,
390 O'er which uere shadowy east Elysiau
gleams,
That played in *a\mg lights from
place to place,
And shed a roseate smile on nature's
face
Not Titian's pencil e'er could so
array,
So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal
space;
806 Ne could it e'er such melting forms
display,
As loose on flowery beds all languishingly
lay.
One great amusement of our house-
hold was—
In a huge crystal magic globe to spy,
Still as you turned it, all things that
do pass
Upon this ant-hill earth, where con-
stantly
Of idl>-busy men the lestlebb frv
Run bustling to and fro mtli foolish
haste
In search of pleasures vain, that from
them fly.
Composing miiHic bade Ins drenms be 44° Or which, obtained, the caitiffs dare
not taste:
When nothing is enjoyed, fan there be
greater waste T
fair.
And music lent ne\\ eladness in the
morning air
Near the pavilions where ue slept,
still ran
880 Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing
waters fell,
And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft
began
(So worked the wizard) *mtrv storms
to swell,
As heaven and earth the) would to-
gether raell:8
At doors and windows threatening,
seemed to call
3*6 The
fell,
Vet the least entrance found they none
at all;
Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure
in massy hall
Of Vanity the Mirror this was called
Here you a muckworm of the town
might see
At his dull desk, amid his ledgers
stalled,
Eat up with earkmg care and penurie,
Most like to carcase paiched on gal-
low-tree
"A penny saved is a penny got" —
Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth
he,
Ne of its rigor will he bate a jot,
the tempest, ffnmlm* 43i Tl11 *Bh« quenched his fire, and ban-
ishdd his pot
Strait from the filth of this low grub,
behold!
Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spend-
thrift heir,
All glossy gay, enamelled all with gold,
32
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
Pimps, lawyers, stewards-harlots, flat-
terers vile.
And thieving tradesmen him among
them share
His father's ghost from Limbo-lake '
the while
Sees this, which more damnation doth
upon him pile
This globe portrayed the race of
learned men,
Still at their books, and turning o'er
the page,
Backwards and forwards oft the>
snatch the pen
As if inspired, and in a Thespian1
rage;
Then write, and blot, as would your
ruth engage.
1 Why, authors, all this scrawl and
scribbling soret
To lose the present, gam the future
&g*>
Praised to be when you can hear no
more,
And much enriched with fame when use-
less worldly store '
A bard here dwelt, more fat than baid
beseems
605 Who, void of en\y, guile, and lust of
gam,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing
themes,
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain,
The uorld forsaking with a calm dis-
dain-
Here laughed he caieless in his eas\
seat,
610 Here quaffed, encircled with the ]ov-
ous train,
Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet
He loathed much to write, ne cared to
repeat8
Full oft by holy feet our ground was
trod;
Of clerks8 good plenty here you mote
espy.
616 A little, round, fat, oily man of God
Was one I chiefly marked among the
fry-
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye,
* tragic (The<p!n wan the reputed fonndor of
•Lines 604-12 contain a portrait of Thomson
himself, wltb the exception of 1 604, the
•tansa ia ascribed to Lord Lyttleton, an Eng-
lish author and politician
• clergyman , prlesta
And shone all glittering with ungodly
dew,
If a tight1 damsel chanced to tnppen
by,
Which when obser\ed, he shrunk into
his mew,1
And straight would recollect his piety
anew*
TELL ME, THOU SOUL OF HEB I LOVE
Tell me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah ' tell me, whither art thou fled f
To what delightful world above,
Appointed tor the happy dead?
5 Or dost thou fiee at pleasure roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe
Where, \oid of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?
Oh r if thou hoverest round my walk,
10 While, under e\ery well-knoun tree,
I to thy fancied shadow talk,
And e\ery tear is full of thee—
Should then the wean eje
Beside some sympathetic stream
15 In slumber find u short relief,
Oh, \isit thou m\ soothing dieamf
TO AMANDA
Come, dear Amanda, quit the town,
And to the rural hamlets fly,
Behold1 the wintry storms are gone,
A gentle radiance glads the sky
6 The birds awake, the flowers appear,
Earth spreads a \ ei dant couch for thee ,
'Tis joy and music all we heai,
'Tis love and beaut> all we see
Come, let us mark the gradual spring,
10 How peeps the bud, the blossom blow s ,
Till Philomel begins to sing,
And perfect May to swell the rose
Even so thy rising charms improve,
As life's warm season grows more
bright;
15 And, opening to the sighs of love,
Thy beauties glow with full delight.
1 comely ; neat
•Line!! 618-21 contain a portrait of tbe Rev
Itotrick Murdock, Thomson'n friend and biog-
rapher
EDWABD YOUNG
88
EDWARD YOUNG (1 681. 1765)
NIGHT THOUGHTS
1742
From NIGHT I. ON Lire, DEATH, AND
IMMORTALITY
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy
Sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he
forsakes,
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
5 And lights on lids unsullied with a
tear.
From short (as usual) and disturbed
repose,
I wake: how happy they who wake no
more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the
grave.
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams
10 Tumultuous, where my wrecked, despond-
ing thought
From wave to wave of fancied misery
At random drove, her helm of reason
lost;
Though now restored, 'tis only change
of pain,
A bitter change ! severer for severe.
16 The day too short for my distress, and
Night,
Even in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sunshine to the color of my fate.
Night, sable goddess! from her ebon
throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
20 Her leaden scepter o'er a slumbering
world.
Silence how dead! and darkness how
profound !
Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds:
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a
pause,
*B An awful pause, prophetic of her end
And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled!
Fate, drop the curtain! I can lose no
more.
Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters,
twins
From ancient Night, who nurse the ten-
der thought
SO To reason, and on reason build resolve
(That column of true majesty in man),
Assist me ! I will thank you in the grave,
The grave your kingdom ; there this frame
shall fall
A victim sacred to your dreary shrine.
The bell strikes one: we take no note
of time,
M But from its loss. To give it, then, a
tongue,
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours:
Where are theyf With the years beyond
the flood.
60 It is the signal that demands despatch;
How much is to be done! my hopes and
fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow
verge
Look down— on whatf a fathomless
abyss;
A dread eternity; how surely mine!
66 And can eternity belong to me.
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an
honrf
How poor, how rich, how abject, how
august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is
man!
How passing wonder He who made him
such!
70 Who centred in our make such strange
extremes,
From different natures marvellously
mixed,
Connection exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguished link in being's endless
chain ?
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
™ A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonored, still
divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust I
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite !
80 A worm! a god!— I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost' At home a
stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, sur-
prised, aghast,
And wondenng at her own How reason
reels!
0, what a miracle to man is man !
86 Triumphantly distressed! What joy!
what dread!
Alternately transported and alarmed!
What can preserve my life? or what
destroy f
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the
grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.
• ••••••
The spritely lark's shrill matin wakes the
morn.
84 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEB6
f -
Grief's sljarpest thorn bard pressing on Oar day of dissolution!— name it right;
- • ' my breast, 'Tis our great pay-day; 'tib our harvebt,
440 I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer nch
Tbfe'stwen gloom, sweet Philomel! like And npe: What tho1 the sickle, some-
tbee, times keen,
A^dtelTthe stars to listen: every star Just sears us as we reap the golden
' ft delff to mine, enamor'd of thy lay. gram!
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine co* More than thy balm, () Oilead" heals
' ' * excel, the wound
445 And charm thro' distant ages wrapt in Birth's feeble cry, and death's deep dis-
shade, ' mal groan,
^Pris'faer of darkness! to the silent hours, Are slender tributes low-taxt nature pa\s
t How of^en I repeat their rage divine For mighty gain the gam of each, a
' ¥o' lull 'my griefs, and steal my heart life '
ijroija woe ! Rut 0 ! the last the former bo transcends.
I roll their raptures, but not catch their 51° Life dies, compar'd life Ines be\ond
fire. thegra\e
460 Dark, tho1 ndt blind, like thee, Maeomdes' And feel 1, death T no jo\ from thought
Or, Milton! thee; ah could I reach jour of thee,
strain Death, the great counsellor, ulio man
Or his, who made Maomdes our own.1 inspires
Man too he sung: immortal man I sing; With ev'ry nobler thought and faiier
Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds deed'
of life Death, the deli \erei, who rescues man T
455 What, now, but immortality can please9 615 Death, the rewardei, \dio the icscuM
0 had he press 'd his theme, pursu'd the crowns'
track, Death, that absohes m\ birth, a cuise
Which opens out of darkness into day f without it T
0 had he, mounted on his wing of fire, Rich death, that realizes all in\ cares.
Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal Toils, virtues, hopes, without it a cln-
man f mera '
460 How had it blest mankind, and rescu'd Death, of all pain the )>eiiod, not ot joy,
me! 62° Joy's source, and subject, still subsist
unhurt ;
Prom NIGHT III NARCISSA One> m "? R0u1' an'] on<i» in lw'r iircat
sire;
Then welcome, death' thy dread bar- Tho' the four \\mds TV ere uamnsr for
bingers, mv dust
Age and disease, disease, tho' long my Yes, and from winds and ua\cs, and
guest; central night.
That plucks my nerves, those tender ThV prison 'd there, m> dust too I u»-
stnngfe of hfe| claim,
490 Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the 626 (To dust when diop pioud nature V»
bell, proudest spheres,)
That calls my few friends to my funeral ; And live entiie Death is the cnron of
Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a life.
tear, Were death denied, poor man would li\c
While reason and religion, better taught. m vain ,
Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb Were death denied, to li\o uould not ho
4*& With wreath triumphant. Death is vie- life;
tory; Were death denied, e\ *n fools would wish
It binds in chains the raging ills of life to die.
Lust and ambitioh, wrath and avarice, 53° Death wounds to cuio we fall, \\e rise,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his we reign '
power. Spring from our fetters, fasten in the
That ills corrosive, cares importunate, skies;
600 Are not immortal too, 0 death! is thine Where bloommer Eden withers in our
1 P°PSi who tnuMlfttrd the Otfiww and the /ftirf Slg ''
of Homer. > Opfii-Mi«..tT 2.'if Vmnbriff^2 1-30
EDWABD TOTING 85
Death gives us more than was in Eden lost Speaks wisdom ; is his oracle supreme ;
This king of terror*, is the prince of 695 And he who most consults her, is most
peace. wise.
C35 When shall I the to vanity, pain, death? Lorenzo, to tliib heavenly Delphos haste;
When shall I diet— When shall I live for And come back all-immortal; all divine:
everf Look nature through, 'tis revolution all;
All change; no death. Day follows
From NIGHT V. THE RELAPSE night; and night
126 Let Indians and the gay, like Indians, 7°° The «W dav * Btara ™* and **' and
•PfivtA nsc,
Of feler'd fopper.es, the sun adore- ^J^8*11' ^^^ *+ *' —
chaplet' and ambroMal
Dark3±%he curta.n drops o'er l.fe's 7°6 Blow/w»yu*umn' and h" *°lden frait'
Tn ttekdbnd of Providence streteht Th-B *** **""*
and vanity, 'tis reason's * fr°m Wam chamber8 °f lhe
.„
nmii • Knjriuiu nun * « 10 Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.
cnrong •••••••
Night is the good man's friend, and
It JSfSl£ v.rt«e. than .nsp.n* Pro» N'«» IX' «• CONSOLE
....... As when a traveller, a long day past,
Our senses, as our reason, are divine. next cot,
Hut for the magic organ's powerful There ruminates awhile, his labor lost ;
charm, s Then cheers his heart with what his fate
430 Earth were a rude, uncolor'd chaos still. affords,
Objects are but th' occasion; ours th' And chants his sonnet to deceive the
exploit ; time,
Ours is the cloth, the pencil, and the Till the due seasdn calls him to repose:
paint, Thus I, long-travell fd in the ways of
Which nature 's admirable picture draws ; men,
And beautifies creation 'b ample dome And dancing, with the rest, the giddy
«B Like Milton's Eve, when gawng on the ma?e,
lake,1 10 Where disappointment smiles at hope's
Man makes the matchless image, man career;
admires* Warn'd by the languor of life's evening
Say then, shall man, his thoughts all sent ray,
abroad, At length have hous'd me in an humble
Superior wonders in himself forgot, shed ;
His admiration waste on objects round, Where, future wand 'ring banish 'd from
<<° When heaven makes him the soul of all my thought,
he sees And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of
Absurd; not rare* so great, so mean, is rest,
man 16 I chase the moments with a serious song.
....... Song soothes our pains; and age has
Nature, thy daughter, ever changing birth pains to soothe.
Of thee the Great Immutable, to man .......
i Paradltf lo*1 , 4, 4.pift ff. ' ffentlt, Ilk* Pavonine, the west wind
86
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOREBUNNEB8
Fr«n CONJECTURES ON ORIGINAL
COMPOSITION
2759 1759
• •••••
But there are who write with vigor and *
success, to the world's delight and their
own renown. These are the glorious f nuts
where genius prevails. The mind of a man
of genius is a fertile and pleasant field,
pleasant as Elysium, and fertile as Tempe ; 10
it enjoys a perpetual spring. Of that
spring, originals are the fairest flowers;
imitations are of quicker growth bnf
fainter bloom Imitations are of two
kinds • one of nature, one of authors. The 15
first we call on&inals, and confine the term
imitation to the second. I shall not enter
into the curious enquiry of what is or is
not, strictly speaking, original, content
with what all must allow, that some com- 90
positions are more so than others; and
the more they are so, I say, the better.
Originals are and ought to be great favor-
ites, for they are great benefactors; they
extend th«-repubhc of letters, and add a 25
new. province to its dominion. Imitators
only give us a sort of duplicates of uhat
we had, possibly much better, before, in-
creasing the mere drug of books, while all
that makes them \aluable, knowledge and 80
genius, are at a stand The pen of an
original writer, like Armula's wand, out
of a barren waste calls a blooming spring.
Out of that blooming spring, an imitator
is a transplanter of laurels, which some- as
times die on removal, always languish in
a foreign soil . .
We read imitation witii somewhat of his
languor who listens to, a twice-told tale.
Our spirits rouse at an original that is a 40
perfect stranger, and all throng to learn
what news from a foreign land. And
though it comes like an Indian prince,
adorned with feathers onl>, having little
of weight, yet of our attention it will rob 46
the more solid, if not equally new. Thus
every telescope is lifted at a new-discov-
ered star, it makes a hundred astronomers
in a moment, and denies equal notice to
the sun But if an original, by being as 00
excellent as new, adds admiration to sur-
prise, then are we at the writer's mercy;
on the strong wind of his imagination, we
are snatched from Britain to Italy, from
climate to climate, from pleasure to pleas- 51
lire; we have no home, no thought, of our
own till the magician drops his pen. And
then falling down into ourselves, we awake
to flat realities, lamenting the change,
like the beggar who dreampt himself a
prince. . . .
But why are originals so fewf Not
because the writer's harvest is over, the
great reapers of antiquity having left
nothing to be gleaned after them, nor
because the human mind's teeming time
is past, or because it is incapable of put-
ting forth unprecedented births; but be-
cause illustrious examples engross, preju-
dice, and intimidate. Thej engross our
attention, and BO prevent a due inspection
of ourselves, they prejudice our judg-
ment m favor of their abilities, and so
lessen the sense of our own, and they
intimidate us with the splendor of their
renown, and thus under diffidence bury
our strength. Nature 's impossibilities and
those of diffidence lie wide asunder. . . .
Had Milton never wrote, Pope had been
less to blame. But uhen in Milton's
genius, Homer, as it were, personally rose
to forbid Britons doing him that ignoble
wrong,1 it is less pardonable, by that
effeminate decoration, to put Achilles in
petticoats a second time. How much nobler
had it been, if his numbers had rolled on
in full flow, through the \arious modula-
tions of masculine melody, into those gran-
deurs of solemn sound which are indis-
pensably demanded by the natixe dignit>
of heroic song! How much nobler, if he
had resisted the temptation of that Gothic
demon,8 which modern poesy tasting, be-
came mortal ' 0 how unlike the deathless,
divine harmony of three great names (how
justly joined') of Milton, Greece, and
Rome ! His verse, but for this little speck
of mortality in its extreme parts, as his
hero had in his heel, like him, had been
invulnerable and immortal8 But unfor-
tunately, that was undipt in Helicon, as
this in Styx. Harmony as well as eloquence
is essential to poesy ; and a murder of his
music is putting half Homer to death
Blank is a term of diminution , what we
mean by blank \erse 18 verse unf alien,
uncurst; verse reclaimed, reenthroned in
the true language of the gods, who ne\er
thundered, nor suffered their Homer to
thunder, in rhyme. . . .
When such an ample area for renowned
adventure in original attempts lies before
1 Pope'i offence In translating Homer wan doubled
by the use of riming couplets
•rime
* According to popular leflend, Achilles, tbe hem of
waters o* 8ty*t and jds whole body made inynl-
nerable, except the heel by wnlai in* wu held
BOBEBT BLAIB
87
us, shall we be M mere leaden pipes, con-
veying to the present age small streams of
excellence from its grand reservoir of
antiquity, and those too, perhaps, mudded
5 in the passf Originals shine like comets;
have no peer in their path; are rivaled
by none, and the gaze of all. All other
compositions (if they shine at all) shine
in clusters, like the stars in the galaxy,
10 where, like had neighbors, all suffer from
all, each particular being diminished and
almost lost in the throng.
If thoughts of this nature prevailed, if
ancients and moderns were no longer con-
is sidered as masters and pupils, but as hard-
matched rivals for renown, then moderns,
b> the longevity of their labors, might one
day become ancients themselves. And old
time, that best weigher of merits, to keep
so his balance even, might have the golden
weight of an Augustan age1 in both his
scales; or rather our scale might descend,
and that of antiquity (as a modern match
for it strongly speaks) might kick the
beam
ROBERT BLAIR (1699-1746)
Prom THE GRAVR
1743
While some affect2 the sun, and some the
shade,
Some flee the cit>, some the hermitage.
Their aims as various as the roads they
take
In journeying through life ; the task be
mine
6 To paint the gloomy liorrois of the tomb ,
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where
These travellers meet. Thy succors I
implore,
Eternal King! whose potent arm sus-
tains
The keys of hell and death.— The Grave,
dread thing!
10 Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd • nature,
appall'd,
Shakes off her wonted firmness —Ah,
how dark
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful
wastes!
*A period when literatim U at
purity and refinement M call
rtlfffl i of Aojiitiu Omar fan _'
was thu foKa a*
btifht Of
•cboow:
: prefer
Where nought but silence reign*, and
night, dark night,
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun
« Was roll'd together, or had tried his
beams
Athwart the gloom profound.— The sickly
taper
By glimmering through thy low-brow 'd
misty vaults,
(Furr'd round with mouldy damps and
ropy slime)
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
20 And only serves to make thy night more
irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty
yew,1
Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to
dwell
Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and
worms.
Where light-heel 'd ghosts and visionary
shades,
25 Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame
reports)
Kmbodied, thick, perform their mystic
rounds
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.
See yonder hallow M fane;— the pious
work
Of names once iam'd, now dubious or
forgot,
50 And buried midst the wreck of things
which were;
There he interr'd the more illustrious
dead.
The wind is up: hark1 how it howls!
Methinks
Till now I never heard a sound so
dreary:
Doors creak, and windows clap, and
night's foul bird,
35 Rook'd in the spire, screams loud, the
gloomy aisles.
Black-plaster 'd, and hung round with
shreds of 'scutcheons
And tatter 'd coats of arms, send back
the sound
Laden with heavier airs, from the low
vaults,
The mansions of the dead.— Rous'd from
their slumbers,
40 In grim array the gnslv spectres rise,
Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen.
Pass and repast, bnsh'd as the foot of
night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungra-
cious sound!
iTbejrvwtta
88 EIGHTEENTH CBNTUBY FOBEBUNNEKB
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood Listless, she crawls along in doleful
ran chill. black,
46 Quite round the pile, a row of rever- 75 Whilst bunts of sorrow gush from citber
end elms, eye,
(Coeval near with that) all ragged Fast falling down her now untested
show, cheek :
Long lash'd by the rude umds. Some Prone on the lowly gra\e of the dear
nft half, down man
Their branchless trunks, others so thin She drops; whilst busy, meddling mem-
a-top, ory,
That scarce two crows could lodge in the In barbarous buccebbion musters up
same tree. 80 The past endearments of their softer
50 Strange things, the neighbors sa>, ha\c hours,
happen M here: Tenacious of its theme Still, still she
Wild shrieks ha\e issued from the hollow thinks
tombs • She sees him, and, indulging the fond
Dead men have come again, and walk'd thought,
about; Clings yet more closely to the senseless
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, turf,
untoucb'd. Nor heeds the passenger who looks that
(Such tales their cheer, at wake or way.
gossiping,1 *5 Invidious tfra\ef— how dost thou rend
55 When it draws near the witching time in sunder
of night) Whom love has knit, and sympathy
Oft in the lone church yard at night made one f
I've seen, A tie more stubborn far than nature's
By glimpse of moonshine chequering band.
through the trees, Friendship* m>stenous cement of the
The school-boy, with his satchel in his soul,
hand, Sweetener of hie, and solder of societx '
Whistling aloud to bear his courage 90 I owe thee much thou bast deserved
up, from me,
w And lightly tripping o'er the long flat Far, far beyond \ihat I can e\er pay
stones, Oft have I proved the labors of thy \o\ c.
(With nettles skirted, and with moss And the warm efforts of the 'gentle
o'ergrown,) heart,
That tell in homely phrase who lie be- Anxious to please —Oh ! when my friend
low. and I
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks 95 In some thick wood ha\e wander 'd heed-
he hears, less on,
The sound of something purring at his Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us
heels; down
w Full fast he flies, and dares not look Upon the sloping cowslip-cover M bank,
behind him, Where the pure limpid stream has slid
Till out of breath he overtakes his along
fellows; In grateful eirors1 through the under-
Who gather round, and wonder at the wood,
tale 10° Sweet murmuring,— methought the sbrill-
Of horrid appantion, tall and ghastly. tongued thrush
That walks at dead of night, or takes his Mended his song of lo\e, the sooty
stand blackbird
70 O'er some new-open 'd grave; and Mellow 'd his pipe, and soften'd every
(strange to tell!) note;
Evanishes at crowing of the cock. The eglantine smelt sweeter, and the
The new-made widow, too, I've some- rose
times 'spied, Assumed a dve more deep; wlnfet e\erv
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the pros- flower
Irate dead- 105 Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury
* christening i wanderings
BOBEBT BLAIB *gg
Of dress.— Oh! then the longest sum- A kfe well spent, whose early car* it was
mer's day His riper years should not upbraid his
Seem'd too, too much in haste- still the green
full heart By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away;
Had not imparted half! 'twas happiness 72° Yet like the sun seems larger at his
Too exquisite to last Of joys departed, setting!
110 Not to return, how painful the remem- High in his faith and hopes, look I how
brance f he reaches
After the pnze in view! and, like a bird
Poor man1— how happy once in thy That's hamper 'd, struggles hard to get
fhst bttitef away'
When vet but \taim from thy great Whilst the glad gateb of sight are wide
Maker's hand, expanded
He stamp M thee with his image, and, 72B To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
well pleased, Of the fast-coming harvest! Then! O
Smiled on his last fair work — Then all then!
was \\ell Each earth-born joy grows \il$, or dis-
">15 Sound \\as the bod\, and the soul serene; appears,
Like tao sucet mstinments, ne'er out of Shrunk to a thing of nought 0 how he
tune, longs
That play their se\eiul parts —Nor head, To have Ins passport sign'd, and be dis-
nor heart, ^ miss'd1
Oflei M to ache nor uas there cause TSO 'Tis done, and now he's happy! The
the\ should , glad soul
For all was pure within no 1'ell re- Has not a wish uncrown 'd. Even the lag
morse. flesh
5:>o NOX. anxious casting-up of what might be, Rests too in hope of meeting once again
Alarm M his peaceful bosom —Summer Its better half, never to sunder more.
seas Nor shall it hope in vain: the time
Show not more smooth, when kissed by draws on
southern Minds 7'6 When not a single spot of burial-earth,
Just ieud\ to expire —Scarce impor- Whether on land, or m the spacious sea,
tuned. Rut must give back its long-committed
Tho uenerous soil, Mith a luxuriant hand, dust
"•" Offei'd the >auous piodure of the >ear, Inviolate and faithfully shall these
And exeiv thing most perfect in its kind Make up the full account, not the least
BlessiMl' thrice-blessed days'— But ah, atom
\\o\\ short f 74° Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale.1
Blest as the pleasing dreams of holy Each soul shall haAe a body ready-
men , furnished ;
Rut fugitive like those, and quickly gone And each shall have his own. Hence, ye
5I|0 O shpppr\ slate of things'— What sud- profane.
den turns' Ask not how this can be Sure the same
What strange \icissitudes in the first power
leaf That reared the piece at first, and took it
Of man's sad Instorv ' — Today most down,
happ\, 745 Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts,
And ere tomoi low's sun has set, most And put them as they were: Almighty
abiect1 Qod
How scant the space between these vast Has done much more: Nor is his arm
extremes9 impair 'd
Through length of days; and what he
Sure the last end can he will •
Of the good man is peace Hou calm His faithfulness stands bound to see it
his exit ! done.
Night-dews fall not more eentlv to the 7BO When the dread trumpet sounds, the
ground, slumbering: dust,
7)5 Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft Not unattentive to the mil, Khali wake;
Behold him1 in the evening: tide of life, ' number , count
40
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOREBUNNEBS
A
And every joint possess its proper place,
With a new elegance of form, unknown
To its first state. Nor shall the con-
scious soul
Mistake its partner; but amidst the
crowd,
Singling its other half, into its arms
Shall rush, with all the impatience of a
5 Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous em-
Lend me thy clarion, goddess I let me
try
To sound the praise of merit, ere it
dies;
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost IB the dreary shades of dull ob-
scurity.
10 In ev'ry village mark'd with little
spire,
Embow'r'd in trees, and hardly known
to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean
attire,
25
That's new come home, who having long
been absent,
With haste runs over every different
room,
760 in pain to see the whole. Thnce happy 20
meeting!
Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them
more.
Tis but a night, a long and moonless
night;
We make the grave our bed, and then
are gone.
Thus, at the shut of even, the weary
bird
765 Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely
brake
Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of
day,
Then claps his well fledg'd nftngs and
bears away.
WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-1763)
From THE SCHOOLMISTRESS
IN IMITATION OF SPENSER
1756 1787
Ah me! full sorely is my heart for-
lorn,
To think how modest worth neglected
lies,
While partial fame doth with her
blasts adorn
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp
disguise;
30
40
matron old, whom we school-
mistress name;
Who boasts unruly brats with birch
to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance
Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless
dame;
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or talk unconn'd, are
sorely shent *
And all in sight doth nse a birchen tree,
Which learning near her bttle dome
did stowe,
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Tho' now so wide its saving branches
flow.
And work the simple vassafs mickle*
woe,
For not a wind might curl the leaves
that blew,
But their limbs shudder 'd, and their
pulse beat low ;
And as they look'd they found then
borrow grew.
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at
the view
So have I seen (ulio has not, may
conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden
placed,
So doth it wanton birds oi peace be-
reave
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of re-
past;
They start, thev stare, tlie> wheel,
they look aghast,
Sad servitude f such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er
taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss
destroy.
Near to this dome is found a patch so
green,
On which the tribe their gambols do
display.
And at the door imprisoning board is
seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller si/e
should stray;
Eager, perdie,* to bask in sunny day?
The noises intermixed, which then'w
resound.
'punUbed
•much
'certainly (originally,
&n oath)
WILLIAM 8HEN8TONE
Do learning's little tenement betray;
Where sits the dame, disguised in look
profound,
46 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns
her wheel around.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven
snow,
Emblem nght meet of decency does
yield:
Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I
trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the
field;
Albeit ne1 flat fry did corrupt her
truth,
Ne1 pompous title did debauch her
ear;
75 Goody, good-woman, gossip,1 n'aunt,
iorsooth,
Or dame, the sole additions* she did
hear;
Yet these she challeng'd, these she
held nght dear:
Ne would esteem him act as mought
behove,
Who should not honor 'd eld with these
revere:
50 And in her hand, for scepter, she does *° For never title yet so mean could
wield
Tway birchen sprays, with anxious
fear entwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repent-
ance filled;
And steadfast hate, and sharp afflic-
tion joined,
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement
unkind
prove,
But there was eke a mind which did that
title love.
One ancient hen she took delight to
feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy
dame;
Which, ever and anon, impelled by
» Few have but kenn'd, in semblance 86 Into^r' school, begirt with chickens,
meet portray 'd, 6
The childish faces, of old Aeol's tram.
Libs, Notus Auster these in frowns
array 'd,
How then would fare on earth, or sky,
or main,
Were the stern god to give his slaves
the remf
And were not she rebellious breasts to
quell,
And were not she her statutes to main-
tain,
The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd TT , . , , „ _
Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each
could speak,
That in her garden sipped the silvery
dew;
Where no vain flower disclosed a
gaudy streak,
But herbs for use and physic, not a
60
came;
Such favor did her past deportment
claim ;
And, if neglect had lavished on the
ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect
the same,
For well she knew, and quaintly could
expound,
90 What sin it were to waste the smallest
crumb she found.
the cell
Where eomelv peace of mind, and decent
order dwell
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders
thrown ;
65 A russet krlle fenced the moping air;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her
own,
'Twas her own country bred the flock
so fair!
'Twas her own labor did the fleece pre-
pare;
And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged
a round.
70 Through rions awe, dH term it pass-
in <r n»r°t
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think. PO doubt, she been the great-
est wight on ground.
few,
Of gray renown, within those borders
grew:
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme.
Fresh balm, and mangold of cheerful
hue:
The lowly gill, that never dares to
climb;
And more I fain would sing, disdaining
here to rhyme.
1 ndtfttr — nor
•sponsor at a baptism
•titles: dcftcrlptive
terms added
42
EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOBEBUNNEBS
120
126
130
140
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's de-
cent eve, *
Hymned such psalms as Steinhold
forth did mete;
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did
cleave, 14C
But in her garden found a summer-
seat:
Sweet melody' to heai her then ic-
peat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign
king,
While taunting foemen did a sonar en-
treat,1
All, for the nonce,* untuning every
string, lco
Uphnng their useless Ivres— small heart
had they to sing.
For she was just, and friend to vir-
tuous lore,
And passed much time in trul> \ir-
tuous deed ;
And in those elfins' ears would oft
deplore
The times, when truth bv popish rage
did bleed, r'B
And tortuous death was true elec-
tion's meed:
And simple faith in iron chains did
mourn.
That nonld8 on wooden image place
her creed ;
And lawny saints4 in smouldering
flames did burn
Ah! dearest Lord! forfend5 thilk" days ™*
should e'er return
In elbow chair, like that of Scottish
stem7
By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld
defac'd,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Oar sov 'reign prince and liefest8 liege
is plac'd, 16P>
The matron sate; and some with rank
she grac'd,
(The source of children 's and of cour-
tier's pnde!)
Redress M affronts, for vile affronts
there pass'd;
And warn'd them not the fretful to
dende,
But love each other deal, wliate\er them
betide
Right well she knew each temi>er to
To thwart the proud, and the submiss
to raise,
Some with xile copper pi use, exalt on
high,
And some entice >\ith pittance small
of pi a iso,
And other some \\it\\ baleful spn» she
'fraya.1
Kv'n absent, she the reins of pow'r
doth hold,
While with quaint2 ails the eiddy
crowd she M\a\s,
Forewarned, if little hml then pianks
behold,
'Twill whisper in hei CMI .iml all the
scene unfold
Lo, now with state she ntteis the com-
mand '
EftsoonO the urchins to then t.i^ks
rejwir
Their books of statuie small tli<»\ t.ikc
in hand,4
Which with pelhuid hoin -ecmcd .ue,
To sa\e fioin iiimei \u»t the letteis
fair,
The work so »a\, that on then hack is
seen,
St George's hmh atchie\ements iloos
declare.
On which Hulk* wi»ht that has \-«a/-
ing been
Kens the forth-coming lod — impleasmi:
sight, I ween !
Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the
beam
Of evil star1 it nks me whilst T write*,
As eist the bard* by Mulln's sil\ci
stieam,
Oft, as he told of dendlv dolorous
plight,
Sighed as he sung, and did in tears
indite :
» occasion
• would not
• saints clad in lawn
"fcfMd
• those same
'The Scottish corona-
tion chair at Scone
retted upon a large
atone of supposed
mlraculouft power
Edward tho Confe«-
nor took It to Eng-
land In 1297, and
wince that time it
has been a part of
the chair in which
English sovereign*
are crowned.
• mort loved
1 frightens
1 clever
1 at once
4The book was a
piece of board on
which were printed
the alphabet, the
nine digits and
sometime* the
Lord's Prayer The
sometime* tbe
Lord't :_ . _:.
front side was pro-
tected with n thin
tmniparent piece of
horn the hnck *HS
(lei orated with a
sketch of St (innifp
and the dragon
9 that same
* Spenser, whoso homo
at KHcolman Castle,
in Ireland, was near
the river Mulln
WILLIAM BHEN8TONE
48
For, brandishing the lod, she doth
begin
To loose the brogues;1 the stup*
ling's late delight,
170 And down they drop; appears his
dainty skin,
Fair as the furry coat of whitest
ermelin.2
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to
gain,
Or when from high she levels well her
And through the thatch his cries each
falling stroke proclaim f
The other tribe, aghast, with sore dis-
may
0 ruthful scene! when from a nook 2u° Attend, and conn their tasks with
obscure
His little sister doth his peril see,
All playful as she sate she grows de-
mure ,
176 She finds full soon her wonted spirits
flee,
She meditates a pray'r to set him
free-
mickle1 care;
By turns, astonied, ev'ry twig survey.
And from then fellow's hateful
wounds beware,
Knowing, I wist,2 how each the same
may share,
Till fear has taught them a perform-
ance meet,
Nor gentle iwirdon could tins dame 20& 'And to the well-known chest the dame
deny
(If gentle pardon could with dames
agree)
To her sad grief that swells in either
eye,
180 And wrings her so that all for pity she
could die.
repair,
Whence oft with sugared cates8 she
doth 'em greet,
And ginger-bread y-rare— now, certes,
doubly sweet '
No longer can slip now her shrieks
command ,
And haidly she foi bears, through
aweful fear,
To ruslien forth and \\ith presump- 26B And now the grassy cirque6 ban6
But now Dan4 Phoebus gains the
middle sky,
And liberty unbars her prison door;
And like a rushing torrent out thev
tuous hand
To sta> harsh justice in its mid career
185 On thee she calls, on thee, her parent
dear*
(Ah, too remote to ward the shameful
blow!)
She sees no kind domestic usage
near,
And soon a flood of tears begins to
ft >7(
co\ered o'er
With boisterous revel rout and wild
uproar,
A. thousand ways in wanton rings they
run
Hea\en shield their short-lived pas-
times I implore;
For \\ell may freedom erst so dearly
won
flow,
And gives a loose at last to unavailing
woe.
190 But ah, uhat pen his piteous plight
may trace.
Or what de\ice his loud laments ex-
plain—
The form uncouth8 of his disguised
face.
The palhd hue that ches his looks
amain,4
The plenteous sho\\ fr tlmt does Ins
cheek distain,—
195 When he, in abieet wise, implores the
dame,
i tnMmerfl ' nDtmuftl
B ermine « completely
J7° Appear to British elf more gladsome
than the sun
Knjoy, poor imps f • enjoy your sportive
trade,
And chase gay flies, and cull the fair-
est flowers;
For when my bones in grass-green sods
are laid,
0 never may ye taste more careless
hours
Tn knightlv castles or in ladies'
bowers
O vain to Reek delight in earthly
thin?!
• dtlnt
ntle*
4 Txtrd , matter
• circle
•ha\e
44 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEBUNNEBS
But most in courts, where proud urn- The active powerb of man, with wisest
bition towers, care
Deluded wigfat ! who weens fair peace 1J5 Hath Nature on the multitude of minds
can spring Impress 'd a various bias; and to each
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar1 or Decreed its province in the common toil,
of km?. To some she taught the fabric of the
sphere,
The changeful moon, the circuit of the
MARK AKENSIDE (1721-1770) 1W| mL stars,
i30 The golden zones of heaven : to some she
THE PLEASURES OP THE |ave
«M1?JAOINATI2SLTn To "a™11 the 8tory o£ eternal thought,
ma-43 1744.70 Qf gpace and time> of fate,g unbrokcn
From PART I chain,
1707 And will's quick movement: others by
From Heaven my strains begin; from ^ the hand
Heaven descends Sne ™ ° er Na'es an(* mountains, to
100 The flame of genius to the chosen breast, ,myL explore
And beauty with poetic wonder jom'd, "B What healing \ ntue dwells in e\erj vein
And inspiration Kre tlie rising sun Of herb& or trees But s°n>e to nobler
Shone o'er the deep, or 'mid the vault of w hoP«9 , , L
night \\ore destin'd bomc within a finer
The moon her silver lamp suspended; mould
ere She wrought, and temper d with a purer
106 The vales with springs were water M, A?am® 0 ^ A A
or with groves ™° these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds
Of oak or pine the ancient hills were M0 In fuller aspects and with fairei lights,
cicwn'd ™"1S Picture of the world Through
Then the Great Spirit *hom his works rpl cvcry I»rt
a(joref They trace the loft> sketches of Ins
Within his own deep essence view'd the , hand
fortngf In earth or air, the meadow's flo\\ery
The forms eternal of created things • mi store*
The radiant sun; the moon's nocturnal rhe "<*>« 8 m'^l radiance, or the \ir-
lamp, gin's mien
"OThe mountains and the streams; the 141 l^ss'd in attractixe smiles, thev see por-
ample stores tray d .
Of earth, of hea\en, of nature. From (As far as mortal eyes the portrait scan)
the first, Those lineaments of beauty which de-
On that full scene his love divine he rnL ^jfnt
£2'^ The Mind Supreme They also feel their
His admiration; till, in time complete, force,
What he admir'd and lov'd, his vital 1Kft Enamor'd: they partake the eternal jo>
power 16° For as old Memnon's image long re-
115 Unfolded into being. Hence the breath nown'd
Of life informing each organic frame; Through fabling Egvpt, at the genial
Hence the green earth, and wild-resound- ,_ town ...
ing waves *•" morning, from its inmost frame sent
Hence light and shade, alternate, forth
warmth and cold; Spontaneous music; so doth Nature's
And bnght autumnal skies, and vernal m hand,
showers, ™o certain attributes which matter
120 And all the fair variety of things. tK. . _ *lamw-
But not alike to every mortal e>e 1B5 Adapt the finer organs of the mind:
Is this great scene unveil'd. For while So thc ^Ud impulse of those kindred
the claims /^?Pwer8 ^ , f ,. ,,
Of social life to different labors urge (°f form» of color's cheerful pomp, of
sound
; emperor Melodioiifl, or of motion aptly sped)
MABK AKENBIDE 45
Detains the enliven 'd sense; till soon Which murmnreth at his feet! Where
the soul does the soul
Feels the deep concord, and assents Consent her soaring fancy to restrain,
through all 24° Which bears her up, as on an eagle's
160 Her functions. Then the charm by fate wings,
prepared Destin'd for highest heaven, or which
Diffuseth its enchantment. Fancy dreams. of fate 's
Rapt into high discourse with prophets Tremendous barriers shall confine her
old, flight
And wandering through Elysium, Fancy To any humbler quarry!1 The rich
dreams earth
Of sacred fountains, of overshadowing Cannot detain her, nor the ambient*
groves, air
i«B Whose walks with godlike harmony re- 24B With all its changes. For a while with
sounds joy
Fountains, which Homer visits, happy She hovers o'er the sun, and views the
groves, small
Where Milton dwells* the intellectual Attendant orbs, beneath his sacred beam,
power, Emerging from the deep, like cluster 'd
On the mind'b throne, suspends his isles
graver cares, Whose rocky shore** to the glad sailor's
And smiles the passions, to dnine re- eye
pose, 25° Reflect the gleams of morning: for a
170 Persuaded >ield: and love and joy alone while
Are waking, love and joy, such as await With pnde she sees his firm, paternal
An angel's meditation. 0! attend, sway
Whoe'er thou art whom these delights Bend the reluctant planets to move each
can touch ; Round its perpetual year. But soon she
Whom Nature's aspect, Nature's simple quits
gaili, That prospect: meditating loftier views,
176 Can thus command; 01 listen to my -35 she darts adventurous up the long career
song, Of comets; through the constellations
And I will guide tliee to her bhssfuf holds
walks, Her course, and now looks back on all
And teach thy solitude her \oice to hear, the stars
"8 And point her gracious features to thy Whose blended flames as with a milky
\ iew stream
Part the blue region. Empyrean tracts,*
-b° Where happy souls beyond this concave
For, amid heaven
The various forms, which this full *orld Abide, she then explores, whence purer
presents light
Like rivals to his1 choice, what human For countless ages traxels through the
breast abyss,
2JO E'er doubts, before the transient and Xor hath in sight of mortals yet arriv 'd.
minute, Tpon the wide creation's utmost shore
To prize the vast, the stable, the sub- -<K At length she stands, and the dread
Iimef space be3oml
Who, that from heists aerial sends hi^ Contemplates, half-recoiling : nathless*
eye • down
Around a vuld horizon, and survejs The gloomy void, astonish 'd, jet un-
Indus or Ganges rolling his broad wa\o quelPd,
235 Through mountains, plains, thro' spa- She plungeth; down the unfathomable
cious cities old, gulf,
And regions dark with woods, will turn Where Ood alone hath being. There her
away m . . hopes
To mark the path of some penurious- i object portocd or « T h e hifbett heaven,
11 bunted far above the sky.
n11 - «urronnding on a 1 1 ' nevertheless
* scanty Rides
46 EIGHTEENTH GBNTUBY FORERUNNERS
2™ Rest at the fated goal for, from the Which glitters through the tendrils, like
birth a gem
Of human kind, the Sovereign Maker When first it meets the sun! Or what
said are all
That not in bumble, nor in brief delight, The various charms to life and sense
Not m the fleeting echoes of renown, adjoin 'df
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasuie's Are the> not pledges of a state entire,
flowery lap, 48° Where native order reigns, with ever>
2"6 The soul should find contentment, but, part
from these In health, and every function well per-
Turning disdainful to an equal good, form'd*
Through Nature's opening walks enlarge Thus then at first was Beauty sent
her aim, from Heaven,
Till every bound at length should dis- The lovely mimstress of Truth and Good
appear, ~ In this dark \\orld, for Truth and Qood
And infinite perfection fill the scene. are one ,
436 And Beaut} d \\ells in them, and they in
her,
Then tell me (for ye know) With like participation
Doth Beaut} c\er deign to d*ell uhere
use
And aptitude ate strangers? is her All hei works
praise Well-pleas 'd thuu didst behold the
405 Confess 'd in aught whose most peculiar gloomv fires
ends Of storm or earthquake, and the purest
Are lame and fruitless? or did Nature light
mean Of summer, soit Campania's new -horn
This pleasing call the heiald of a lie, rose,
To hide the shame ol discord and dis- 68° And the slow need which pines on Rus-
ease, 8ian hills,
And win each fond admirer into snares, Comely alike to tli\ full \ihion stand.
410 Foii'd, baffled? No; with better prou- To thv Mirroundinj: \ision, uluHi unites
dence All essences and jxwers of the great
The general mother, conscious how infirm uorld
Her offspring tread the paths of good In one sole order, fair alike they stand.
and ill, G8B As features *ell consenting, and alike
Thus, to the choice of credulous desire, RequirM by Nature cie she could attain
Doth objects the completest of their tribe Her just resemblance to the perfect
416 Distinguish and commend. Yon flowery shape
bank, Of universal Beautv, uliieh vutli thec
Cloth 'd in the soft magnificence of Dwelt from the first
Spring, ... .
Will not the flocks appro\e it I will they
ask FOR A GROTTO
The reedy fen for pasture! That clear "58
rill ' To me, *hom m their lays the shepherds
Which trickleth murmuring from the call
mossy rock, Actaea, daughter of the neighboring
420 Yields it less wholesome beverage to the stream,
worn This cave belongs. The fi»-trce and the
And thirsty traveller, than the standing vine,
pool Which o'er the rocky entiaiuo down-
With muddy weeds o'ergrownf Yon ward shoot,
ragged vine, * Were placed by Glycon. He, with cow-
Whose lean and sullen clusters mourn slips pale,
the rage Primrose, and purple lychnis, decked the
Of EnruB, will the wine-press or the green
bowl Before my threshold, and my shelving
426 Report of her, as of the swelling grape walls
MABK AKEN8IDE
47
With honeysuckle co\ered. Here, at
noon,
Lulled by the murmur of my rising
fount,
10 I slumber, here ra> clustering fruits I
tend ;
Or fiom the humid flowers, at break of
day,
Fresh qprlands wea\e, and chase from
all my bounds
Kach tiling impure or noxious. Enter in,
O sti anger, undismaved. Nor bat noi
toad
15 Here lurks and if thv breast of blame-
less thoughts
Approve1 thee, not unwelcome shalt thou
trend
My quiet mansion ; chiefly, if thy name
AVibe Pallab and the immortal Muses
own
ODE
TO THE EVENING bT\K
Tonight retired, the queen of heaven2
With young Endymion btajs;
And now to llesper it ib gnen
Awhile to iiile the %acant skv,
6 Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stieam of brighter ra>s
0 Hespei. \\lule the Many thioug
With «i\\c tliv pdth MM founds,
Oh. listen tn \\\\ suppliant sonu,
10 If haplj nmi the \<K*al spheie
Can Miffei thv delighted car
To btoop to inoital bounds.
So nun the bin leg mom's genial Mi am
Thee Mill imoke to shine,
*5 So nin> the bnde's uuinaiiied tiani
To Hx'inen Hiaunt their flattennsr \ow.
Still that his lueky toich nm> altnv
With lustre pine «s thine
Fa i othci VOMS must T ]>iefei
20 To thv indulgent powei
Alas' but now I paid my tear
On fair Olympiad virgin tomb,
And lo, from thenee, in quest I roam
Of Philomela's bower.
25 Piopitious send thy golden lay,
Thou purest light above f
l*t no false flame seduce to strav
Where gulf or steep he hid for harm ;
But lead where music's healinsr charm
so May soothe afflicted lo\e.
1 nroro confirm • Olympla is the port's
•Diana, the moon boloved
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns,1 Olympiads haunts, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or flx'd,8 while Philomela talk'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechcn boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came, * bile her enchanting Muse
40 The radiant moon above us held :
Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I heai her liquid tone!
Now Hesper guide my feet f
*5 Down the red marl8 with moss o'ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space • on either hand
50 Enlarged it spreads around:
See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o'er half the level mead.
Enclosed in woods profound.
5"' Haik! how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her la\s:
How s*ectlv down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends;
The stais shine out, the forest bends;
<'° The wakeful heifers graze.
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bung
To this sequester 'd spot,
If then the plaintive Siren sing,
Oh softly tread beneath her bower
65 And think of Heaven's disposing power,
Of man's uncertain lot.
Oh think; o'er all this mortal stage
What mournful scenes aiise:
What rum waits on kingly rage ;
70 How often virtue dwells with woe;
How many griefs from knowledge flow ;
How swiftly pleasure flies'
Oh sacred bird! let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone.
76 Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity Nature's common cares,
Till I forget my own.
' green fields
'nttentho; mot Ion-
ics*
• A kind of soft eartbj
deport t.
46
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FQBEBUNNEBS
WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759)
A BONO FROM SHAEEBPEAB'S
CTMBELYNE
SUNG BT GUIDEBUS AND AR7IRAGUS
NDILI, SUPPOS'D TO BI HEAD*
1744
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds3 shall
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
5 No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove.
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither 'd witch shall here be seen,
10 No goblins lead their nightly crew :
The female fays shall haunt the green.
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft at ev'nmg hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
15 With hoary moss, and gather 'd flow'ra,
To deck the ground where thou art
laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chace on ev'ry plain,
20 The tender thought on thee shall
dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed :
Belov'd, till life could charm no more;
And mourn 'd, till Pity's self be dead.
ODE TO SIMPLICITY
1746
0 thou by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought,
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly
strong:
Who first, on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thy babe or Pleasure's, nurb'd the
pow'rs of son*'
Thou who with hermit heart
Disdain 'st the wealth of art,
*C»mb<ll*c, IV. 2. 215-229, fornlibed the in-
•ptration for this §png. The brothers there
mourn for their slater Imogen, who li dis-
guised as Fldcle, and mho they think Is dend.
1 rustics ; peasant*
And gauds,1 and pageant weeds, and
trailing pall,
10 But com 'fit a decent3 maid
In Attic robe array 'd,
0 chaste, unboastful nymph, to tbee I
call!
By all the honey 'd store
On Hybla's tbymy* shore,
15 By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs
dear.
By her4 whose lovelorn woe
In ev'ning musings slow
Sooth 'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's*
ear:
20
By old Ceplusus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep
In warbled wand 'rings round thy green
retreat,6
On whose enamell'd side
When holy Freedom died,7
No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet-
25
0 sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth
Thy sober aid and native charms inf uue f
The flow'rs that sweetest breathe,
Tho' Beauty cull'd the wreath,
80 Still ask thy band to range their order M
hues.
While Rome could none esteem
But virtue's8 patnot theme,
You lov'd her hills, and led her laureate
band:
But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish 'd throne,9
And turned thy face, and fled her alter 'd
land.
85
40
No more, in hall or bow'r,
The passions own thy pow'r;
Love, only love, her forceless numbers
mean :10
For thou hast left her shrine;
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile
scene.
1 ornaments of drew*
• decorous i proper
•overgrown with
thyme
"'The nightingale,
for whom Sophocles
seems to have enter-
tained a peculiar
fondness."-— -Collins.
•Hophoclos. the au-
thor of the Greek
tragedy Electro
•Athens
'When Greece was
conquered by Alex-
ander, in 336 B C.
of
and Horace.
10 An allusion
to the
artificial love poetry
of medieval Italy.
WILLIAM COLLINS
The' taste, tho' genius bless
To some divine excess,
45 Faints the eold work till thou inspire the
whole.
What each, what all supply,
May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting
soul!
so
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty task;
I only seek to find my temp 'rate vale
Where oft my reed1 might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, 0 Nature, learn my
tale.
ODE ON THE POETICAL CHABACTER
1746
STROPHE
As once, if not with light regard2
I read anght that gifted bard8
(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest),
5 One, only one, nnnvall'd fair4
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At solemn turney hung on high,
The wish of each love-darting eye ,
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
10 As if, in air unseen, some hov'ring
hand,
Some chaste and angel friend to virgin
fame,
With whispei'd spell had burst the
starting band,
It left unblest her loath M, dishonor 'd
side .
Happier hopeless fair, if never
15 Her baffled hand with vain endeavoi
Had touch M that fatal zone to her de-
nied'
Young Fancy5 thus, to me divmest
name,
To whom, prepared and bathM in
heav'n,
The cest8 of amplest pow'r is giv'n,
80 To few the godlike gift assigns,
To gird their blest, prophetic loins,
And gaze her visions wild, and feel un-
mix'd her flame*
EPODE
The band, as fairy legends say,
Was wove on that creating day
»Tbe svmbol of pan-
ton! poetry.
•attention
26 When He who call'd with thought to
birth
Ton tented sky, this laughing earth,
And drest with springs and forests tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd,
80 Himself in some diviner mood,
Retiring, sate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his sapphire throne,1
The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to sound,
3r> Now sublimest triumph swelling,
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And she, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath M her magic notes aloud:
And thou, thou rich-hair 'd Youth of
Morn,'
40 And all thy subject life, was born !
The dang'roub Passions kept aloof,
Far from the sainted growing woof*
But near it sate ecstatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder;
45 And Truth, in sunny vest array 'd,
By whose8 the tarsel's4 eyes were made;
All the shad'wy tribes of mind
In braided0 dance their murmurs join 'd,
And all the bright uncounted Pow'rs
50 Who feed on heav'n 's ambrosial flow'rs
Where is the bard whose soul can now
Its high presuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, •
This hallow M work for him design 'dt
ANTISTROPHK
56 High on some cliff, to heav'n up-pil'd,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous9 steep,
Strange shades o'er-brow the valleys
deep,
And hol> genii guard the rock,
60 Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its iich ambitious head
An Eden, like his own, lies spread,
I view that oak, the fancied glades
among,
By which as Milton lay, his ev'ning ear,
65 From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal
dew,
Nigh sphei 'd7 in hea\ 'n its native strains
could hear,
On which that ancient trump he reach 'd
was hung
Thither oft, his glory greeting.
not Floil
mri, M Collins rag
muted Be* The
rawit Queen?. IV.
."», Ht 16-19
R Imagination
, girdle
1 The bine or upper
heavens. Above t b e
sky
- Tbe sun
1 That is, by w h o i p
eves
4 male falcon's
• intricate
• difficult of approach
T in one of tbe spheres
in which tbe heav-
enly bodies were
supposed to be fixed
80
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FORERUNNERS
From Waller's myrtle shades retreat-
ing,1
70 With many a vow from Hope's aspiring
tongue,
Mv trembling feet Ins guiding steps
pursue;
In vain— such bliss to one alone
Of all the sons of soul was known,1
And Heav'n and Fancv, kindred
pow'rs,
?5 Have now overturn M tli' inspiring
bow'rs,
Or curtain 'd close such scene fiom ev'r>
future view.
ODE WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING
OF THE YEAR 1746
17 W 1740
How sleep the braxe who sink to rest
By all then country's wishes blest'
When Spring, with dewy flngei s cold,
Returns to deck then hallou 'd mold,
5 She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's leet have ever trod
By fairv hands their knell is rung,
Bv form* unseen their dirsje is sung.
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
10 To bless the turf that wraps their clay ,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there f
ODE TO EVENING
If ought of oaten stup,3 01 pastoial song.
May hope, chaste K\<*, to sooth thv
modest car.
Like thy oun solemn springs.
Thy springs and d\ing gales,
5 0 nymph resen M, while no\\ the bright-
hair 'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy
skirts,
With brede4 ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed
Now air is hush'd, sa\e where the wcak-
e> 'd bat.
10 With short shrill shriek, flits b\ on
leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
*An ftllndon to the * Milton
lore poems of Ed- 'anything p] a \ed upon
round Waller. The the shepherd^ oaten
myrtle wti Mcred pipe
to Venus * braid . embroider*
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless
bum*
16 Now teach me, maid compos 'd,
To breathe some soften 'd strain,
Whose mimbeis, stealing thro' thy
dark'ning >ale,
Ma\ not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
20 Tin Denial Jo\ 'd ietinnf
Foi when t\i\ folding-stai anting slices
His paly1 circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in flou 'ih the dav,
25 Anil many a n^iuph who wreaths her
brows with sedge.
And sheds the fresh 'nnii* de\\, and,
lo\eher still,
The pensi\e Pleusmes sueet,
Prepaie thv sliadu*\ c*ai
Then lead, calm \ot'iess. ^lieic sonic
sheet v lake
30 Cheers the lone heath, or some tune-
halloa M pile
Or upland i allow* t>iny
Ke fleet its la«»t cool u lea in
Hut when olnll blu^t 'mi" Kinds, or din-
ing rain.
Forbid mv willing 1oet. be mine tlio hut
3~> That from tlie mountain's side
Views Diildh, and suellin^ floods
And hamlets brown, and dim-disrox 01 M
spires
And hears then simple bell, and maiks
o'ci all
Thv dew\ iin^-is draw
40 The gradual duskv A oil
While Spring shall pour Ins slio\\ 'rs, «s
oft he wont,2
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meek-
est Eve;
AVlnle Summer lo\ es to sport
Beneath thv hng'rmg light;
45 While sallow Autumn fills tliv lap uith
leaves;
Or Winter, yelhnir thro' the troublous
air,
Affrights thv shrinking train,
And rudely rends thv robes,
' pale
* 1«
WILLIAM COLLINS
51
So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan
shed,
60 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-
hpp'd Health,
Thy gentlebt influence omn.
And lijmn thy fav'nte name'
THE PASSIONS
AN ODL FOR MUSIC
1740
When Music, heav'nly maid, was voung,
While vet in early Greece she sung,
Tlje Passions oi't, to hear her shell,1
Throng M around her magic cell,
6 Exulting, tiembhng, laging, fainting,
Possest bevund the Muse's painting,
Bv turns thc\ ielt the glowing mind
Disturb 'd, delighted, lais'd, ri'fin'd
Till once, 'tis said, when all meie fir'd,
N> Fill'd mith furv, lapt, mspu 'd,
From the supporting mvitles round
The\ snatch 'd her instruments oi sound;
. And as they oft had heard apart
Smeet lessons of her forceful ait,
15 Each, foi madness nil'd the hour,
Would prove his o\vn e\i>ressi\c po\v V
First Fear his hand, its skill to ti\.
Amid the < liords hcwildci M laid,
And Iwick ictoil'd, he knew not why,
-° FA 'n at the sound himself had niaile
Xe\t Anjjei rushM, his e\es, on Ihe,
In lightnings on n M his set'iet stings,
In oni* uidc clash he struck the lyie,
And swept v\ith huiiied hand the
strings.
25 With uol'ul nieasuiOb v\an Despan
Loi\ sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled an ,
9Twas sad by tits, b> starts 'twas wild
But thou, 0 Ho]>e, with e\es so fair,
80 What was thv delightful measure?
Still it whisper M promis'd pleasure.
And bad the lovel> scenes at distance
hail!
Still mould her touch the strum prolong
And from the rocks, the woods, the
vale,
3* She call'd on Echo still tluo' all the
song;
And where her sweetest theme she
chose,
*lyre (The flrat lyre Is said to ha\e been made
from a tortolw shell )
A soft responsive voice was heard at
ev'ry close,
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd
her golden hair
And longer had she sung,— but with a
fioun
40 Re\engc impatient rose;
lie threw his blood-stain 'd sword m
thunder down
And with a with 'ring look
The war-denouncing1 trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
45 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of
woe.
And e\ ei and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious
heat;
And tho9 sometimes, each dreary pause
between,
Dejected Pit>, at hib side,
60 Her soul-subduing voice apply 'd,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd
mien,
While each strain 'd ball of sight seem'd
bursting from his head.
Thv numbers. Jealousv, to nought were
' fix'd,
Sad proof of thv distressful state;
55 Of diff 'ring themes the veering song was
mix'd,
Vnd now it courted Lo\e, now raving
call'd on Hate
With eves uprais'd, as one inspirM,
Pule Melancholy sate retu 'd,
And from her mild sequester M scat,
<>0 In notes b\ distance made more sweet,
Pour'd thiro* the mellow horn her pen-
sive soul :
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join 'd the sound ;
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled
measure stole,
65 Or o'er some haunted stream with
fond delay
Round an hol> calm diffusing,
lx)ve of peace and lonel.v musing,
Tn hollow murmurs died awa>.
Rut 0 how alter 'd was its sprighther
tone,
70 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of health-
iest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemra'd with morning dew,
' announcing
52
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOBEBUNNEB8
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and
thicket rung,
The hunter's call to faun and dryad
known !
75 The oak-crown M sisters,1 and their
chaste-ey'd queen,8
Satyis, and syhan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green ,
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear.
And Sport leapt up, *and se'z'd his
beeehen spear.
80 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the h\ely pipe hib hand ad-
drest;
But soon he baw the brisk awak'mng
\iol.
Whose sweet entrancing \oice lie lo\ M
the best
85 They would have thought, who heard
the strain,
They saw m Tempe's vale her natne
maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the
strings,
W Love fram'd with Mirth a ga\ fan-
tastic round ;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone3
unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
Ab if he uould the charming air repav,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy
wings.
93 0 Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why, to us deny'd,
tay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside f
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r
100 Yoa learn M an all-commanding pow'r,
Thy mimic soul, 0 nymph endear 'd,
Can well recall what then it heard
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art!
105 Arise as in that elder time.
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime f
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page—
'Tig said, and I believe the tale,
110 Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev*n all at once together found,
Cmilia's mingled world of sound.
115 o bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Oreeee,
Return in all thy simple state,
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON
1748 1749
In jonder gra\e a druid heb,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave.
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave
5 In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reedb
His airy harp1 shall now be laid,
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds
May love thro' life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall hngei here ,
10 And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear
To hear the Woodland Pilgrim 'b knell
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in bummer wreaths is
tlrest,
15 And oit suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest
And oit ab Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The fnend shall view jon whit'ning
spire,
-° And mid the varied landbcape
1 wood njmpbi * Diana
•girdle
But thou who own'bt that earthy bed,
Ah, what will ev'ry dirge a\ail,
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
25 Yet lives there one uhose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'nng
near?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year!
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
80 No sedge-crown 'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green lull's side
Whose cold turf hides the buned
fnend.
And see, the fairy valleys fade;
Dun night has veil 'd the solemn view
1 The Harp of JEolm Bee Thornton's Tke Cattle
of Indolence, 1. 360; alto MB Ode to rtolus'*
Jforp
WILLI AM COLLINS
58
•* Tat Onee again, dear parted shade,
Me*k Nature's child, again adieu I
The genial meads, assign 'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
40 With simple hands thy rural tomb.
tang, long, thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Bn ton's eyes;
O vales and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your druid lies !
AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPER-
STITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS
OF SCOTLAND
CONSIDERED AR THR SUBJECT OF POFTRY
1788
,l ihou return's! from Thames,
whose naiads long
Have seen thee ling 'ring, uith a fond
delay,
'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts,
some future day,
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thv tracpc
5 Go, not unmindful of that cordial
youth2
Whom, long-endear M, thou lea \ 'at b\
Latant'b side;
Together let us wish him lasting tiuth,
And joy untainted, with his destined
bride
Go! not revardlesR, while these numbers
boast
10 My short-In M bliss, forget m\ social
name,
But think fai off how, on the Southern
coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal
flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, inhose
ev'ry vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his Boner
demand .
J* To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall
fail;
Thou need'st but take the pencil to
thy hand,
And paint what all believe who own thy
genial land.1
'John Horn* (1782-
1808), a Rcotttflb
? 1 e r g r m a n and
' iatl*t. whoie
jdi of Aai§ was Una and Home
jed by Onrriek, • acknowledge ft a*
the n o t e d English their country
actor, when it waa
t to him in
in 1749
* John Barrow, who
had introduced Col-
There must thou wake perforce thy Doric1
quill;
Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'ht
thy feet,
20 Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people
meet
Beneath each birken shade on mead or
hill.
There each trim lass that skims the
milky store
To the swart tribes1 their creamy bowl
allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage
door,
25 While airy minfltrels warble jocund
notes.
There ev'ry herd, by gad experience,
knows
How, wmg'd with fate, their elf-shot
arrows fly;
When the sick ewe her summer food
foregoes,
Or, stretch 'd on earth, the heart-smit
heifers he
10 Such airy beings awe th' untntor'd
swam :
Nor thou, thou learn M. his homelier
thoughts neglect ;
Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sus-
tain :
These are the themes of simple, sure
effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless
reign,
3B And fill, with double force, her heart-
commanding strain
Kv'n yet preserv'd, how often may'st
thou hear,
Where to the pole the boreal9 moun-
tains run,
Taught by the father to his list'ning
son,
Strange lays, whose pow'r had charm vd
a Spenser's ear
40 At ev'ry pause, before thy mind possest,
Old Runic bards4 shall seem to nae
around.
With uncouth1 lyres, in many-color 'd
vest,6
Their matted hair with boughs fantas-
tic crown 'd'
1 Hlmple ; natural « poet* of the northern
(Doric waa tho old- countrfea who wrote
eat and *imple*t poem* in rune*,
•tyle of architecture their early alpha-
• Brownie*, • atrange; of unoanal
1 northern ahape
•garment
54 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOKEBUNNEBS
Whether tbou bid'st the well-taught When headless Charles1 warm on the
bind repeat scaffold lay!
*G The choral dirge that uiouriib bomc As Boreas threw his joung Aurora
chieftain brave, forth,
When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom 7D In the first >ear of the first George's
beat, reign,
And strew 'd with choicest herbs his And battles rag'd in welkin2 of the
scented grave; North,
Or, whether, sitting; in the shepheid's They mourn M in air, fell, fell Rebel-
shiel,1 lion slain1
Thou hear'st some sounding tale of And as, of late, they jo>'d in Pieston'*
war's alarms, fight,
60 When, at the bugle's call, with fti e and Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes
steel, near orounM,
The sturdy elans ponr'd forth their 80 Thev ra\ 'd, dninmu, thro' their second
bony swarms, sight,
And hostile brothers met to pio\e each Tale, led Oulloden, inhere these ho]>es
of her 's arms were cli ou n M f
Illustrious William11 liiitaiu's guardian
'Tis thine to sins, hm\t framing hideous name1
spells, One William sa\ M us from a lyi ant's
In Sky's lone isle the gifted ui/anl stroke,
&eei. Ho, for a sceptre, gam'd heioie fame,
B& Lod« 'dm the iuntr\ caie with f Fate's S5 Hut thou, moio i»lorious. Slavery's
fell spear] chain hast broke.
Or in the depth of Uist'fe dark foiests To reign a prnate man. and bou to
dwells. Freedom's \okef
How they uhose sight such dre.u\
dreams engross. These, too, thou 'It sing' for well thv
With their own \isions oft astonish 'd magic Muse
dioop. Can to the topmost hoa\ 'n of "landeur
When o'ei the *ut'iy shath2 01 <juasgv soai f
moss Or stoop to wail the sunin that is no
60 Tlie\ -see the trliduiu ii hosts iinboilied more'
tioop; q° Ah, homely swains1 \our homeward
Or if in sports, 01 on the festne areen, steps ne'er lose.
Their [destined] glance some fated Let not dank Will4 mislead you lo the
louth descry, heath
Who. now perhaps in lusty \igor seen Dancing in mnk\ niuht, o'er fen and
And losy health, shall soon lamented lake,
die He glows, to draw \ou downward to
•5 For them the viewless forms of air obev, \otir death.
Their bidding heed, and at their beck In his bewitch 'd, low, marshy willow
repair biake1]
They know what spirit brews the storm- **"> What tho* far off, fiom some dark dell
ful dav, espied,
And, heartless,8 oft like moody mad- His ghmm'ring mazes cheer th' ex-
ness stare cursn e sight,
To see the phantom tram their secret Vet turn, >e wand'rers, turn ^o\^r steps
work prepare aside.
Nor trust the guidance of that fnith-
70 [To monarchs dear, some liundi-ed miles less light;
astrav, For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unius-
Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal tling reeil.
blow ! 10° At those mirk"1 hours the wily monster
The seer, in Sky, shriek M as the blood lies,
did flow,
' Charta I. < Wlll-o'-the wfeft
1 rammer hut ' dismayed ' the sky • murky , dark
•valley cut by a river • William of Orange
WILLIAM OOLLINB
55
And listens oft to Lear the passing steed,
And frequent ruund him lolls his
sullen eyes,
If chance his sa\age \\ruth ma> some
weak wretch sin prise
Ah, luckless swam, o'er all unblest in-
deed f
105 Whom, late bewilder 'd in the dank,
dark fen,
Shall fondly seem to press her shud-
d'ring cheek,
And \\ith hib blue-swoln lace before her
stand,
And, shiv'riug cold, these piteous ac-
cents speak '
"Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils
pursue
At dawn or dusk, industrious as be-
fore,
Far from his flocks and smoking ham- 135 Nor e'er of me one hapless thought
let then,
To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy
\\eed]
On him, emag'd, the fiend, in angry
mood,
Shall ne\er look with Pity's kind ron-
lenew,
While I lie welt 'ring on the ozier'd1
shore,
Drown 'd by the kelpie's2 wrath, nor e'er
shall aid thee more ' ' '
"• But .n. fhnou. ra.se the .helming
a j
O'St dro*n<d banK, fo.b.dd.n* „„
0,. ,f ™e mend,tate Ins vushM escape 14°
To some di. lull tlmt seem, «pr,,,n«
T° IU
'" thv
Wlth V0ned
T" appetr
Meantime, the wat'n M,,ae shall ro,,n,l
Inm rise,
What
Roundhe
To
In
mnrge of each cold
winch st.ll .ts rum
vaults a p^y-folk ,8
WIlose the deher Wlth hl, bpade
'
And
120
reman,, but t«,s and ho,,,-
ifflis*
lost th<"r
" ^^
o,
West
wond'nn,, from the
the show'rv
For Inm. m Na.n. Ins nnx.ous w,fe shall
0, «Wa*!de, finth to meei l.,m on Ins 15° Y
For'nnn! in tain, at to-fnlP of the
H,s babes' shall l.nae, at th' um-losma
Xo
Aether
tll<>m'
thev
solemn
The rrfta^inonmK their ..wmwr e.lh
All<1 ™™r*" ***
Ah, neer shall he ,etum« Alone, ,f
Hei tra! ell M l.n.bs ,„ broken slumbers
steep,
With dropping willows drest, hi^ mourn
fill sprite
Shall MBit sad. perchance, her silent
sleep •
in..**. KA nA*.unnc. « ui, ,viA:Df o»i^ «mfVx
Then he, perhnps, \\ith moist and wnt r\
hand.
Tn
WPe"thM Wlth
Alld 0noi!h,^,tWll*ht tOmbs aenal
w!th wlllow,
**atcr spirit's
r>e»cnptto* <>i t /i r
Wcatetn /KMtt/f« o/
• Th7"iS;1«i of ion.
^ld to contain was Mid to contain
many sm nil bonps the toman of the
thought by the in klnn of Scotland,
habitant* to be the Ireland, and No*
bones of pigmies. way. See Martin'a
See M M n i t i n s /)r*r)fpfion
56 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY JTOBEBUNNKBB
*** But 0, o'er all, forget not Hilda's race, Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply
On whose bleak rocks, which brave the told,
wasting tides, ] 85 Could once so well my answ 'ring bosom
Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet pierce;
abides. Proceed! in forceful sounds and colors
Go, just as they, their blameless manner* bold,
trace! The native legends of thy land re-
Then to my ear transmit some gentle hearse,
song To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy
160 Of those whose Ines are \et sincere pow'rful verse.
and plain,
Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs In scenes like these, which, daring to
along, depart
And all their prospect but the wintry 1M From sober truth, are still to nature
main. true,
With sparing temp 'ranee, at the needful And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's
time, view,
They drain the sainted spring, or. Th' heroic muse employ 'd her Tasso's
hunger-prest, art f
165 Along th ' Atlantic i ock undreadm? How have I trembled, when, at Tancred 's
climb, stroke,
And of its eggs despoil the solan's1 Its gushing blood the gaping cypress
nest. pour'd;1
Thus blest in primal innocence they 195 When each live plant with mortal ac-
tive, cents spoke, .
Suffic'd and happy with that frugal And the wild blast upheav'd the
fare vanish 'd sword !
Which tasteful toil1 and hourly danger How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive
give. wind,
170 Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak To hear his harph by British Fairfax
and bare; strung,—
Nor ever vernal bee was heard to mur- Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
mur there! 20° Behev'd the magic wonders which he
sung!
Nor need's! thou blush, that such false Hence at each sound imagination glows;
themes engage [The MS. lacks a line here.]
Thy gentle8 mind, of fairer stores Hence his warm lay with softest sweet-
posses t, ness flows,
Foi not alone they touch the village Melting it flows, pure, numerous,
breast, strong, and clear,
176 But flll'd m elder time th' historic page. 205 And fills th' impassion 'd heart, and wins
There Shakespeare 's self, with ev 'ry gar- th ' harmonious ear
land crown 'd,—
[Flew to those fairy climes his fancy All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul
sheen']- prevail.
In musing hour, his wayward Sisters4 Ye [splendid] friths2 and lakes which,
f oiitad, far awav,
And with their terrors drest the magic Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or past'ral
scene. Tay,
180 From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold Or Don's romantic springs, at distance,
design, hail T
Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, 210 The time shall come when I, perhaps, may
The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line tread
Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant Tour lowly glens, o'erhung with spread-
past, ing broom,
'pnnett . (a kind of « ifacbeth.lV, 1. The Or °>C*™ur *tretchm* heftths bv *"*
i arc led i
.
food appetising i c, the Bisters of »Tasso, Jerwlem Pe-
•well-born; cultivated Desllnjr. Mveretf, 18. 41-48
THOMAS OBAY
57
[The MS. looks a line here.]
Then will I dress once more the faded
bow'r,
215 Where Jonaon sat in DrummondV
[classic] shade,
Or crop from Tiviot's dale each [lyric
flower]
And mourn on Yarrow rs banks [where
Willy V laid!]
Meantime, ye Pow'rs that on the plains
which bore
The cordial youth,8 on Lothian's plains,
attend,
220 Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly mmr,
To him I lose your kind protection
lend.
And, touch 'd with love like mine, pre-
serve my absent friend '
THOMAS GRAY (1716.1771)
ODE ON THE SPRING
17 ±t 1748
Lo! where the rosy-bosom M Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose4 the long-expecting8 flower*,
And wake the purple6 year*
6 The Attic warbler1 pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring
Wiiile, whisp'nng pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
10 Their gather 'd fragrance fling
Where'er the oak's thick branches
stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
0 'er-canopies the glade,
15 Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit. and think
(At ease rechn'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardor of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
20 How indigent the great!
Still is the tolling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose ;
Yet hark, how thro9 the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
25 The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
•Purple ft here used
In IM claulcal lente
ofbrtofct
»The nlghtlniriile,
common In Attica,
and often referred
to in Greek litera-
ture.
»Ben
the
vMM
noet William
Drnmmond. at Haw-
And float amid the liquid noon;
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
•Some show their gayly-gilded trim
30 Quick-glancing to the sun
To Contemplation 's sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And the> that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
85 Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little da>,
In Fortune's varying colors drest:
Brush 'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill 'd by Age, their airy dance
*0 They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist' and what art thouf
A solitary flv f
46 Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
60 We frolic while 'tis May.
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OP
ETON COLLEGE
174*. 1747
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;1
6 And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers
among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way
10
thnmdfn
hnnth.in1619
•William Prummond.
• Drnmmond
4 open- expand
• awaiting
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careless childhood
stray 'd,
A stranger yet to pain !
" I feel the gales that from \e blow
A momentary bliss bestow.
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
-° To breathe a second spring.
Sav, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
»Kton CAllejce wan founded by Henry VT
58
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOREBUNNEBS
1 on thy margent green,
_ tie paths of pleasure trace ;
26 Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm. thy glassy wave?
The eaptne linnet which enthra^f
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
80 Or urge the flj ing hall T
While some, on eainest business bent,
Then muriu'img labors ph
'Gainst grader hours that bung con-
straint
To sweeten liberty,
35 Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign.
And unknown regions dare dcscrv,
Still as they run the\ look behind,
They hear a \ oice in even \\ md,
40 And snatch a fearful joy
Gav hope is theirs by ianct led,
Less pleasing when possest .
The tear forgot a« soon as shed ,
The sunshine of the breast ,
45 Theirs buxom health, of ros> hue,
Wild wit, imention e\er-neu,
And hveh cheer, of vwsor born :
The thoughtless day. the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
60 That fly th ' approach of moi n
Alas! regardless oi their doom
The little victims play;
No sense ha\ e they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond today •
56 Yet see, how all around 'em wait
The ministers of human Fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train'
Ah. show them where in ambush stand.
To seize their prev, the murth 'rous band '
60 Ah, tell them the> are menr
These shall the furv Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind
Disdainful Angci, pallid Fear,
And Shame that sculks behind ;
66 Or pining Lo\e shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, \vitli rankling tooth,
That inly gna*s the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Onm-visag'd comfortless Denpair,
70 And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice.
And grinning Infamy
76 The stings of Falsehood those shall trv,
And hard Unkindness' alter 'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness laughing wild
80 Amid seveiest
Lof in the vale of >eais beneath
A giiesly troop are seen,
The painful iamil> of Death,
Moie hideous than their queen
85 This lacks the joints, this Jires the
veins ;
Tliat e\cr\ Jahoung sinew shams,
Those in the deeper Mtals rage,
Lo' Pcncih to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
00 And slo>\ -consuming Age.
To eudi his suiT'imgs all aie men,
Condemn 'd alike to groan,
The tender tor another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own
05 Yet, ah! wli> should thc\ knon then
fatef
Since sorrow iieu'i comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies,
Thought would destroy their paradise
No moie,— -where i»noiance is bliss,
100 "Tis foll\ to be wise
HYMN TO ADVERSITY
174S
Daughter ot Jo\e. lelentless
Thou tamer of the human breast.
Whose iron scourge and toit'nn» hour
The bad affright, afflict the best '
6 Hound in thv adamantine chain.
The proud are taught to taste oi pain,
And purple tyrants vainlj groan
With pangs unfelt l>efore, unpitied and
alone.
When first tin sire to send on eaith
10 Virtue, his darling child, design M,
To thee he ga^ e the hea\ 'nly birth,
And bade to form her infant mind
Stern, rugged mnsef thv rigid lore
With patience inan> a year she bore;
15 What sorrow was! thou bad'st her
know,
And from her own she learn M to melt
at others ' woe
RearM at thv frown 1 em fie, fl\
Self-plea *m£ Foil v 's idle brood.
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless
Jov,
20 And leave UR leisure to be good.
THOMAS GBAT $$
Light they disperse, and with them go Save where the beetle wheels his droning
The summer friend, the flattering foe , flight,
By vain Prosperity receiv'd, And drowsy tinkhngs lull the distant
To her they vow their truth, and are folds;
again belie vM
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow fr,
« Wisdom in «*ble garb array M, 10 The ™opmg owl does to the moon
Immers'd in rapt'rous thought pro- __ _ complain
found, Of such as, wand 'ring near her secret
And Melancholy, silent maul, _, _ how'r,
With leaden eye that loves the Molest her ancient solitary reign
Still^Tlw solemn steps attend, Beneat]' "«« ™^ed elms» that yew-
30 Warm Charity, the gen'ral friend, .V1 tree b shade' 4 .
With Justice, to herself severe, Wllcre ^eavei the turf in many a
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly- „ _ . m?uld linS ^P;
nWsiinr tear Each m hls narr°w c®H forever laid,
pleasmn tear Tfae radel forefathcrg of thc hamlet
Oh! gentl> on thv, suppliant's head, P"
Dread goddess, lav th> chast'nmg The breezv call of incense-breathing
hand ' Mora,
35 Notinthy Gorgon' teiioisclad. The swallow twitt 'ring from the straw-
Not circled with the vengeful band- DU1it siiec^
(As by the imi>ious thou art seen), The cock»s shrilf clanon, or the echoing
With thund ring \ oice, and threat nmp horn,
mien« ,. ,.,i 20 No more shall rouse them from their
With screaming Horroi s fun 'ral crv, iowjy ^e^
40 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly
Po\ert> For them no more the blazing hearth
shall burn,
Thv foim benign, O goddess, \\ear, Or busy housewife ply her e\enmg
Thy milder influence impart, care;
TI^ philosophic train be there No children run to lisp their sire's ro-
To soften, not to \\ound. m\ heart turn,
45 The &pn 'rous spark extinct rev i\ e , Or climb his knees the env led kiss to
Teach me to lo\e, and to forgive, share.
Kxact mv own defects to scan, ,
What others are to feel, and know my- 2i> Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
self a man. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe2
has broke-
ELEGY WRITTEN TN A COUNTRY H°W ffl1, d- thCy dm" their tcam
,7 f;H,YRCH YARR5i How bow'd the woods beneath their
"*"*' 1701 sturdy sUoke!
The cm few tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er thc Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
lea, 30 Their homely joys, and destiny ob-
The ploughman homcuurd plods his scure,
weary wav. Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful
And leaves the woild to darkness and smile
to me The short and simple annals of the
poor.
B Now fades the glimmei in? landscape on
the sighC Tlie boast of l|eiajdrv' *he pomp of
And all the 'air a aolemn stillness • .I30* 'ft . , A „ xl . 1A,
t iiq And all that licaut.v, nil that wealth
e'er gave.
* death dealing (See Glossarr )
» Tlic Furies • s almpIe-Hvf ng "sod • high descent
00 EIGHTEENTH CENTTJBY FOBEBUNNEB8
86 Awaits alike tli' inevitable hour: TV applause of listening senates to
The paths of glory lead but to the command,
grave. The threats of pain and ruin to de-
spise,
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
fault, And read their history in a nation's
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies «yes,
raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and 65 Their lot forbad: nor circuiiisci ib 'd alone
fretted vault Their growing virtues, but their mines
40 The pealing anthem swells the note of confined
praise Forbad to wade thro ' slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on man-
Can storied1 urn, or animated2 bubt,
The 8trug*ling pangs of conscious truth
Can Honor's voice provoke' the silent 70 To J£ftthe blufllle8 of ingonuous
Or Flatly soothe the dull cold ea, of Qr ^^ of Luxury Rnd Pnde
ileatnT With incense kindled at the Muse's
46 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celeb- Far from the maddmg crowd>8 lgnoblc
tial fire; strife
Hands that the lod of empire m«>ht Their ^ Wlghe8 new ,earn,(1 to
have sway 'd, 8tra^
Or wak'd to extasy the hung lyre 76 Along the ^ol ^uester'd ^alc of life
w , , Thev kept the noiselesM tenor of then
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample
50 R,ch with the spoils of time, did ne'ei Yct ex ,„ lhese boncs trom in&ult to
unroll ; tect
Chill Penury repressed their noble Some ^ memonal M\i erected
*ag«> nigh
And froze the genial8 current of the Wlth unc<;uth3 rhymc8 and ^apeless
so"1- sculpture deck'd,
w Implores the passing tnbute of a sigrli.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean Their name> tneir yearg> 8pe|t bv th> un.
.. w „ ^"5 * • u . u, i l€tter'd Muse>
WFull many a flower is born to blubh The place of fame and elegy supply ,
unseen, An(j many a holy text around she strews,
And waste its sweetness on the desert That teach the mlAie moralist to die
air.
„ . . , . 85 For who, to dumb Forgetfnlness a pre>,
Some village Hampden that with daunt- This pleasing anxious being e'er re-
less breast, sign'd,
The little tyrant of his fields with- j^ft the warm precincts of the cheerful
,
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may j^or east one longing, ling 'ring look
veetj behind f
60 Some Cromwell guiltless of his coun-
try's blood6 On acme fond breast the parting soul
^ * "tOPy S^&rdSTS^e1 *° Som^us drops the closing eye re-
forth
giving Ufe ambition, flee 1 07
eighte
teenth i alwayn ; habitually • ntrange ; odd
THOMAS GRAY 61
E'en from the tomb the voiee of Nature Fair Science frown M not on his humble
cries, birth,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted uo And Melancholy mark'd him for her
fires. own.
For thee, who, mindful of thf nnhonor'd Larg^ was his bounty, and his soul sin-
dead, cere;
Dost in these lines their artless tale Heaven did a recompense as largely
relate, send :
95 If chance,1 by lonely Contemplation led, He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy He gam'd from Heav'n ('twas all he
fate,- wish'd) a friend.
Haply some hoary-headed swam may say, 126 No farther Mek hlg mentg ^ dlgcloge
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of ^ drftw hig frailtieg £rom their dread
dawn abode
Brushing with hasty steps the de*« (There tfaev ahke m trembhnj? hope
100 TO meet the sun upon the upland lawn The ^^ 'of hlg Father and hig
"There, at the foot of yonder noddm?
beech, THE PBOGRESS OF POESY
That wreathes its old fantastic rooN m* l l "57
so high, _, . ,
His listless length at noontide would he Awake, ^Eolian lyre,1 awake,
stretch And s?\e to rapture all thy trembling
And pore upon the brook that babble* ^tr1inff8f, .
£v ¥ rom Helicon 7s harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress
ins "Hard b\ ^n wood, now mmhner as in take;
scorn. * The laughm* flowers that round them
Mutt'rinp his uavuaid fancies, h<> blow,
would ro\ e , Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now drooping, \soful-uan, like one foi- Now the rich stream of music winds
lorn, along,
Or craz'd with care. 01 cross M in Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
hopeless lo\e Thro9 verdant vales, and Ceres' golden
reign:
"One morn I misfi'd him on the cus- 10 NOW rolling down the steep amain,
tom'd hill. Headlong, impetuous, see it pour,
110 Alons the heath, and near his fa\ 'rite The rocks and nodding srroves rebellow
tree, to the roar.
Another came, nor yet beside the nil,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood Mas 12
he. Oh! sov 'reign of the willing soul,
,_. . ,, , ... j Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing
"The next, with dirges due, in sad array airg
Slow through the church-way path we 15 Enchanting shell!8 the sullen Cares
"*7 hmi b01™J 7* *u » * And frantlc Passions hear thy soft
i'5 Approach and read (for thon ean'st control
read) the lay On Thracia's hills the Lord of War*
Orav'd on^the stone beneath yon a*ed Hag curb»d the fury of nig ^^
tnorn- * And dropt his thirsty lance at thv com-
THE EPITAPH mand.
Here rests his head upon the lap of UnY^*d hew a» the eq^Til«t of ppetnr In the
i?a^ii lighter and nofter moods, like that of Pindar,
fcartn the famous Greek lyric poet, of ^olla, Af»la
A vouth, to Fortune and to Fame tin- . Jf^jf' 4 , , ,„ A .
\.~JL~ . Tne flrtlt *JW lh **'d to have been made from
known • R tortolae ahelL
_ ^ ^Hl1*' whcwe fa\orite haunt wa« uald to be
* perchance • hawthorn tree Thrace
EIGHTEENTH CENTUEY FOBEBUNNEB8
30 Perching on the scept'red hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather VI
king1
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing ,
Quench 'd in dark clouds of slumber he
The terror of his beak, and lightning of
his eye
I. 3
25 Thee, the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper 'd to th\ warbled la\
O'er Tdalia's \elvet-green
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
On Cytherea 's da> ,
*° With antic Sports, and hlue-e\ed Pleas-
ures,
Frisking light in frolic measures.
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet ,
To brisk notes in cadence beating,
36 Glance their manvtwmkhng feet
Slow melting strains their Queen '* ap-
proach declare
Where'er she turns, the Graces hom-
age pay
With arms sublime,2 that float upon the
air,
In gliding state she wnm her easy
way,
40 O'er liei uarui cheek and rising bosom,
move
The bloom of \oung Desire and purple
light of Love
H. 1
Man's feeble race what ills await*
Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
45 And Death, pad refuge from the storms
of Fate'
The fond8 complaint, my song, dispro\e,
And justify the laus of Jo\e
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly
Muse?
Night and all her sickly dews,
60 Her spectres wan, and birds of boding
cry,
He gives to4 range the dreary sky,
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion 's march they spy, and ghtt 'ring
shafts of war.
II. 2
In climes beyond the solar road,
56 Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built moun-
tains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom
To cheer the Bhiv'nug native's dull
abode.
And oit, beneath the od'roub bhade
Of Chili's bouudlesb forests laid,
60 She deigns to bear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cmctur'd chiefs, and dusky
loves
Her track, where'er the goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and gen'rous Shame,
66 Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's
holy flame
II 3
Woods, that wave o'ei Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown th ' ^gean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Marauder's amber wa\es
70 In lingeung lab'imths cieep,
How do your tunelul echoes languish,
Mute, but to the >oice of Anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breath M around,
?p> E\ 'ry shade and hallow 'd fountain
Mm nun 'd deep a solemn sound;
Till the sad Nine, in Gieece's evil hour,1
l^eft their Parnassus for the Latian
plains
Alike the\ scoin the pomp oi tyrant
Power,
80 And coward Vice, that re\els in her
chains.
When Latium had her lofty spint lost,
They sought, O Albion, next, thy sea-
encircled coast.
HI 1
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's darling2
laid,
*"» What time, wheie lucid A\on Rtray'd,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face* the dauntless child
Stretch 'd forth his little arms and smil'd,
"This pencil take," she said, "whose
colors clear
*° Richly paint the vernal yeai
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy '
This can unlock the gates of Joy ,
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic
tears "
III 2
K NOT second he,8 that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
1Jore*B etglo.
•uplifted
* fooliih
'Allow* to
sWh*n Grecian rfrfl-
iratlon declined be-
fore the rising pow-
er of Rome, during
the fteoood century
B C
* Rhftkapere.
' Milton
THOMAS GBAY
68
The secrets of th' Abyss to sp>
He pass'd the flaming bounds of
Place and Time.
The In ing throne, the sapphne blaze,
100 Where angels tremble while they ga/c,
He saw , but, blasted with excess of light,
Clos'd his eyes m endless night.
Behold,, where Dryden's less presump-
tuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
105 TWO coursers of ethereal race,1
With necks in thunder cloth 'd, and lon»-
resoundmg pace!
ill 3
Hark! his hands the lyie explore
Bright-eyed Fanc>, hov'ung o'er,
Scatteis from her pictur'd inn
110 Thoughts that breathe, and \\ords that
burn
But ah f 'tis heard no more '
Oh ? lyie di\ me, what dating- spirit2
Wakes thee now? Tho' he inhent
Nor the pnde, nor ample pinion,
113 That the Theban Eagle8 beai,
Sailing with supieme dominion
Thro' the a zinc deep of an
Vet oft before his infant e\es would inn
Such foims as glitter in the Muse's
rav,
120 With Orient1 hues unbonou M of the
sun
Yet shall he mount, and keep his dis-
tant wav
Beyond the limits of a \ ulgar fate.
Beneath the good how fai— but far abo\e
the 71 eat
THE BAUD
/7TJ.--J7 1757
"Ruin «*eize thee, mthless King!6
Confusion8 on thy banners wait;
Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson
\ving,
They mock the air with idle state
r> Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy \irtues, tvrant, shall a\ail
To save thv seciet soul fiom nighth
fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambi in 's
tears'"
Such were the sounds that o'er the
crested pride
» "Meant te expn»M • P I n d a r, Wjio com-
the stately march paron himself to an
and Bounding en- eagle In Olympian
ergj of nrydra'H O/e», 2. 1«0
rhvmiHi •*— TOrav « bright, llko thl» Past
«OrnT hlm4»lf "Edward T
» deMtrHrtlon
10 * Of the first Edward scattei 'd wild
dismay,
As down the sleep ol Snowdon's shaggy
side
He wound with .toilsome inaich his
long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speech-
less trance,
' ' To arms ! ' ' cried Mortimer, and couch 'd
his quiv'rmg lance
1.2
15 On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er cold Con way's foaming
flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood
(Loose his beaid, and hoary hair
20 Stream 'd, like a meteor, to the troubled
air)
And with a master's hand, and proph-
et's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:
"Hark, how each pant-oak and desert
ca\e
Sighs to the torrent's awful \oice be-
neath '
25 O'er thee, oh Kui£ f then hundied aims
they *a\c,
lie\en«e on thee in hoarser murrains
hi eat he,
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal
day,
To high -born Hoel's haip, or soft Llew-
ellyn 's lay.
I. 3
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
10 That hush'd the stormy mam;
Brave Unen sleeps upon his craggy bed ;
Mountains, >e mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Phnlimmon bow his cloud-topt
head.
r> On dreary Arvon's shore they he,
Smear 'd with gore, and ghastly pale;
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
The famish 'd easrle screams, and passes
by
Dear lost companions of mv tuneful art,
40 Dear as the light that \isits these sad
Dear as the rudd\ drops that .warm mv
heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's
cries-
No more I weep They do not sleep!
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
T see them sit; they linger yet,
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEB8
Avengers of their native land :
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue
of thy line.
i
n. i
"Weave the warp,1 and weave the
woof,
*° The winding-sheet of Edward's race,
Give ample room, and verge* enough
The characters of hell to trace
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
6* The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's
roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing kmgf>
She-wolf of France,4 with unrelenting
fanes,
That tear 'st the bowels of thy mangled
mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy coun-
try hangs
60 The scourge of Heav'n.5 What Terrors
round him wait1
Amazement6 in his \an, with Flight
combin'd,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude
behind.
II 2
"Mighty victor, mighty lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
66 No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the Sable Warrior* fledf
Thy son is gone; he rests among the
dead.
The swarm, that in thy noontide beam
were born!
70 Gone to salute the rising morn.*
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephvr
blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure
realm,
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at
the helm;
75 Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind 's
sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his
ev'ning prey
85
II. 8
"Fill high the sparkling bowl;
The rich repast prepare;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share
the feast:
80 Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon th-ir baffled
guest
Heard ye the din of battle bray,1
Lance to lance, and horse to horse f
Long years of havoc urge their des-
tined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow
their way
Ye towers of Julius,* London's lasting
shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther
fed,
Revere his consort's* faith, his father's4
fame,
90 And spare the meek usurper's5 holy head '
Above, below,6 the rose of sno*,
Twm'd with her blushing foe, ut>
spread T
The bristled Boar8 in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade
96 Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed
loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify
his doom!
ni i
"Edviard, lof to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof: the thread is
spun )
Half of thy heart we conseciate °
100 (The web is wo\e The work is done )
Stay, oh staj f nor thus forlorn
Lea\e me unbless'd, unpitied, here to
mourn!
In yon bnght track, that fires the west-
ern skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eves
106 Rut oh! what solemn scenes on Snow-
don's height,
*The warp !• the
threads extended
lengthwise in the
loom in wearing;
the woof is the
threads that cross
§ the warp.
'ildward II, who was
murdered in Berk-
ley Castle
•Isabel of France,
the adulterous
queen of Edward 1 1
• Edward III, mho
scourged France
• confusion
'The Black Prince,
who did not live to
succeed his father
•Richard II.
iThe Wars of the
•The Tower of Lon-
don, part of which
was said to have
been built by JnUu*
Caesar
'Margaret of Anjou
4 Henry V.
•Henry VI. who was
deposed in 1401
• That is, in the loom
7 The white and the
red roses, emblems
of the Houses of
York and Lancaster,
wore united by the
marriage of Henry
VII and Elisabeth
•Richard III, whose
badge was a silver
boar, and who mur-
dered the two young
sons of Edward IV,
who stood between
him and the throne
•Eleanor, queen of
Edward I, lost her
life in. saving her
husband's by suck-
ing the poison from
a dagger-wound
THOMAB GRAY
65
Descending plow, their ghttetmg skirts
unroll?
Visions of glory, spare iny aching sight*
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul '
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail *
110 All hail, ye genuine kings,9 Britannia's
issue, hail!
in 2
"dirt Hitli many a baron bold
Sublime3 their starry fronU they rear;
And goigeous dames, and statesmen
old
Fn bearded majest>, appear
115 In the midst a foim divine14
Her eve proclaims hei oi the Bnton line,
I lei lion-port, hei awe-commanding face,
Attempei M sweet io virgin-grace
What strings symphonious tremble in the
an.
120 What strains ot \oca1 tiansport round
her plax !
llenr tiom the s»ra\e, pTCHt Tahessin,
hear,
The\ bieathe n soul to animate thv
flat
Biii»lit Rapture calls, and soaring as she
140
W.nes in the e\e of IIen\ Jn her many-
color M \\mtrs
111. 3
125 "The \eibe adoin again
tierce A\ai, and fait 111 ul Lo\e,
Vnd Tiuth se\eie, b\ lain Fiction
diest "•
In buskin M° measuies mo\e
Pale duet, and pleasing Pain,
110 \\itli HOIIOT, tMant ot the throbbing
hi east7
A \oice, as oi the cherub-choir,
(tales fiom blooming Eden beai ,8
And distant warbhngs lessen on mv eai.
That, lost in loim fiitunt\, expire
i™ Fond9 impious man, think M them yon
sanguine cloud,
Itaib'd b\ thv breath, has quench M
the orb of dayf
Tomoirow he repairs the golden flood,
1 It WEB predict*^
and common I v be-
lieved that Kin*
\rthur would re
turn from fain
land to reign o\ei
Britain
» The Hoi*e of Tudor,
which was of Wefeh
blood
•lifted up
« Queen Rllrabeth
11 \* allusion to The
Faerie Quecnc of
gpenuer
•tragic (The buskin
w a s a high heeled
shoe woin nv no tors
in Greek tiagedi )
T \n a 1 1 u H 1 o n to
fthakHpere
• \n allnMttn to Mil-
ton
• foolish
And warms the nations with redoubled
ray.
Enough for me, with joy I see
The different doom our Fates assign.
Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,
To triumph, and to die, are mine."
lie spoke, and headlong1 from the moun-
tain 's height
Deep in the roaring Jide lie plunged to
endless night
ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING
PROM VICISSITUDE
J7J4 1773
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing ,
With veimeil cheek and whispei soft
She \\ooes the tardy Spring,
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the giourid,
And light Iv o'er the hvim? scene
Scatteis his freshest, tenderest
Xem-horn flocks, m rustic dance.
10 ^ Fribking plv their feeble teet.
Foiavtful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet
Rut chief, the sk \-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ect>tas\,
15 And, lehsenmcr from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light
Rise, mv soul1 on wings of fire,
Rise the rapt'rous choii among1
ILirkf 'tis Nature strikes the lyre,
-'" Vnd leads the tren'ral song
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowv whirlwind flv;
Mute was the music of the an,
The herd stood drooping b\
25 Then laptuies now that mildly flow,
No yesterday nor morrow know ,
7Tis man alone that jo\ descries
With forward and i everted eyep
\
Smiles on past Misfortune's brow
™ Soft Reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lowei2
tfi And blacken round our weaiv wa>,
Oilds with a gleam of distant da\
1 regular change from
one condition to TO
frther
zlonr appear gloomy
EIGHTEENTH GENTUB7 FOBEEUNNKES
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads,
40 Approaching Comfort view
The hues of Bliss more brightly glow,
Chastis'd1 by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life
e
45 See the wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigor lost,
And breathe and walk again
The meanest floweret of the vale,
50 The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
Humble Quiet builds her cell.
Near the source whence pleasure flows;
56 She eyes the clear crystalline well,
And tastes it as it goes
SONG
1761
Thyrsis, when we parted, swore
Ere the spring he would return—
Ah' what means yon violet flower?
And the buds that deck the thorn ?
6 Twas the lark that upward sprung!
'Twas the nightingale that sung!
Idle notes! untimely green f
Why this unavailing haste f
Westein gales and skies serene
10 Speak not always winter past
Cease, my doubts, my fears to move,
Spare the honor of my love
THE FATAL SISTEB8
1761 1768 '
Now the storm begins to lower
(Haste,* the loom of hell prepare1)
Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken 'd air
6 Ghtt'ring lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane
See the griesly texture grow f
10 TIB of human entrails made;
And the weights, that play below,
Each a gasping warrior's head.
Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore
Shoot the trembling cords along.
16 Sword, that onee a monarch bore,
Keep the tissue close and strong.
Mista, black, terrific maid,
Sangrida, and Hilda, see,
Join the wayward work to aid:
80 'Tis the woof of victory
Ere the ruddy sun be set,
Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring
26 (Weave the crimson web of war!)
Let us go, and let us fly
Where our friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of fate we tread,
'*° Wading through th' ensanginn'd field,
Gondula, and Geira, spread
O'er the youthful king1 youi shield
We the reins to slaughtei gi\e,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare
36 Spite of danger he shall live
(Weave the crimson web of war')
They, whom once the desert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample suay shall stretch
40 O'er the plenty of the plain
Ix>w the dauntless earl is laid,
GorM with nian\ a gaping wound
Fate demands a nobler head,
Soon a king2 shall bite the ground.
46 Long his loss shall Emn weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see,
Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of immortality!
Horror covers all the heath,
50 Clouds of carnage blot the sun
Sisters, weave the web of death '
Sisters, cease , the work is done
Hail the task, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph sing!
66 Jov to the victorious bands,
Triumph to the younger king
Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,
Learn the tenor of our song.
i chastened
'Blgtnrgg (Stctryg)
•Brian
THOMAS GRAY
67
Scotland, thro' each winding vale
«0 Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence with spurs of speed'
Each her thundering falchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field!
THE DESCENT OP ODIN
1761 1768
Uprose the King of Men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal-black steed ,
Down the >awnmg steep lie rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
5 Him the Dog of Darkness spied;
His shaggv throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage flll'd,
Foam and human gore distill 'd,
Hoarse he bays with hideous dm,
10 Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin,
And long pursues with fruitless yell,
The Father of the powerful spell
On waul still Ins wav lie takes
(The pioarung earth beneath him shakes),
15 Till full before his tearless eyes
The poitals nine of hell arise
Kight against the eastern gate,1
By the mohb-giown pile he sate,
Where long of >ore to sleep *ns laul
20 The dust of the piophetic maid 2
Facing to tlie northern clime,
Thrice he trac'd the Runic8 rhyme;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead ,
*B Till from out the hollow ground
Slowl> breath M a sullen bound
What call unknown, what
charms, presume
To break the quiet of the tomb?
Who thus afflicts mv troubled sprite,
And <lrae;s me from the realms of night T
Ixmg on these mould 'rms bones have
beat
The winter's snow, the summer's heat,
The drenching dews, and driving rain'
l*t me, let me sleep aaam f
Who is he, with voice noblest,
That calls me from the bed of restf
Odin A traveller, to thee unknown,
Is he that culls, a warrior's son
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
40 Tell me what is done below;
For whom yon ghtt'ring board is spread,
Dress 'd for whom yon golden bed?
Prophetess. Mantling1 in the goblet see
The pure bev'rage of the bee,2
46 O'er it hangs the shield of gold,
'Tis the dnnk of Balder bold.
Balder 's head to death is giv'n,
Pain can reach the sons of Heav'n!
Unwilling I m> lips unclose:
50 Leave me, lea\e me to repose*
Odin Once again my call obey
Prophetess, arise, and say
What dangers Odin's child await;
Who the author of his fate?
55 Prophetess. In Hoder's hand the hero's
doom;
His brother sends him to the tomb
Now my weary lips I close.
l^eave me, leave me to repose'
rtaj- Angerbode the "mother of
the tfant-hroooY1 Penrls, Hela. and the Mld-
the characters uaed In
wAttai bT& MrtT oJrmaSlc peoples . they
S"re Jnpposed to poamm magic power )
l Prophetess, ni> spell obey
60 Once again arise, and say
Who th' avenger of his guilt;
K> whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt f
Prophetess In tlie caverns of the west,
By Odin 's fierce embrace comprest,
65 A wond'roua boy shall Rmda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor bee the sun's departing beam,
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
70 Flaming on the fun'ral pile,
Now mv weary lips I dose
l*a\ e me, leave me to repose '
Odin. Yet a *hile my call obev
Prophetess, awake, and say
75 What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy \eils that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rone,
80 Then T leave thee to repose.
Piophetea* Ha1 no traveller art thou!
King of Men, T know thee now ,
Mightiest of a mighty line—
Odin. No boding maid of skill divine
85 Art thou, nor prophetess of good;
But mother of the giant-brood!
1 taking on a froth
1 mead, a fermented drink made of honey
68
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
Prophetess. Hie tbee hence, and boast
at home,
That never shall enquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again,
Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain;
Never, till substantial Night
Has reassum'd her ancient right;
Till wrapt in flames, in ruin liurl'd,
Sinks the i'ahnc of the world
THE TRIUMPHS OP OWEN
A FRAGMENT
' 17GS
Owen's praise demands my son?,
Owen swift, and Owen strong,
Fairest flower of Roderie's stem,
G^yneth's shield, and Britain's gem.
6 He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor on all profusely pours;
Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.
Rig with hosts ot mighty name,
10 Squadrons three against him came;
This the force of Emn hiding.
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochhn plows the wat'ry way;
15 There the Norman sails afar
Catch the winds and join the war:
Black and huge along they sweep,
Burthens of the angry deep.
Dauntless on his native sands
20 The dragon-son1 of Mona stands,
In ghtt'ring arms and glory drest,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thund'ring strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din ;
26 Talyinalfra 's rock} shore
Echoing to the battle's roar.
. Check 'd by the torrent-tide of blood,
Backward Meinai rolls his flood;
While, heap'd his master's feet around,
30 Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground
Where his glowing eye-balls turn,
Thousand banners round him burn :
Where he points his purple spear,
Hasty, hasty rout is there,
35 Marking with indignant eye
Fear to stop, and shame to fly.
There confusion, terror's child,
iAfl a descendant of Cnd* alladfr, a fa mom
British king, Owen wore the device of a red
dragon
Conflict fierce, and ruin wild,
Agony, that pants for breath,
40 Despair and honorable death.
******
THE DEATH OF HOEL
AN ODE, SELECTED FROM THE GODODTN
1773
Had I but the torrent's might,
\Vith headlong rage and wild affright
('poll Deira's squadron's hurl'd
To rush, and sweep them from the uorld '
5 Too, too secure in youthful pride.
By them, my friend, my Hoel, died,
Great Cian's son: of Madoc old
He ask 'd no heap? of hoarded gold ,
Alone in nature 'b wealth array 'd
10 He ask'd and had the lovely maid
To Cattraeth's vale in glitt'rinn; row
Thrice two hundred wainois go
K\ery warrior's manly neck
("hams of regal honor deck,
15 Wreath 'd in man> a golden link
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,1
Or the grape's ecstatic juice
Flush 'd with mirth and hope the> burn
20 But none from Cattraeth's \ale return.
Save Aeion biaxe, and Conan sttony.
(Bursting through the bloody throng)
And I, the meanest of them all,
That Ine to weep and sing their fall
CARADOC
1775
Have ye seen the tusky boar,
Or the bull, with sullen roar,
On surrounding foes advance9
So Caradoc bore his lance.
CONAN
i76J 1773
Conan 's name, my lav, rehearse,
Build to him the lofty verse,
Sacred tribute of the bard,
Verse, the hero's sole reward
5 As the flamed devouring force,
As the whirlwind in its course ;
As the thunder's fiery stroke,
Glancing on the shiver M oak;
Did the sword of Couan mow
10 The crimson harvest of the foe.
lmead. a fermented drink made of hooey
THOMAS GBAY
From JOURNAL IN FRANCE
17S'J 1884
SEPT. 17
Journey to Geneva. The road runs over
a mountain, which gives you the first taste 6
of the Alps, in its magnificent rudeness,
and steep precipices. Set out from
Echelles on horseback to bee the Grande
Chartreuse, the way to it up a \afot moun-
tain, in many places the road not two 10
>ards broad, on one side the rock hanging
o\er you, and on the other side a mon-
strous precipice. In the bottom runs a
torrent, called Les Outers morts, that
wcjrks its way among the rocks with a IB
mighty noise, and Irequent falls You
here meet with all the beauties so sa\age
and horrid a place can piesent you with;
locks of >ariou& and uncouth figures, cas-
cades pouring down from an immense 20
height out of hanging groves ot pine trees,
and the solemn sound of the stream that
roars below, all concur to form one of
the most poetical scenes imaginable.
26
From GRAY'S LETTERS
1715 71 181484
To MRS. DOROTHY GRAY
LIONS, Oct. 1.J, N s J7J9. M
It is now almost fi\e weeks since 1 leit
Dijon, one of the gayest and most agree-
able little cities of France, for Lyons, its
ie\erse in all these particulars It is the
second in the kingdom in bigness and 85
rank, the streets excessively narrow and
nasty; the houses immensely high and
large (that, for instance where we arc
lodged, has twenty-five rooms on a floor,
and that for fixe stories) ; it swarms with 40
inhabitants like Paris itself, but chiefly
a mercantile people, too much given up to
commerce, to think of their own, much
less of a stranger's diversions. We have
no acquaintance in the town, but such 46
English as happen to be passing through
here, in their way to Italy and the south,
which at present happen to be near thirty
in number. It is a fortnight since we set
out from hence upon a little excursion to 00
Geneva. We took the longest road, which
lies through Savoy, on purpose to see a
famous monastery, called the grand Char-
treuse, and had no reason to think our
time lost. After bavin? travelled seven 66
days very slow (for we did not change
horses, it beme impossible for a chaise
to go post1 in these roads) we arrived at a
i rapidly, like (foe relaying letter*, memagM, etc
little village, among the mountains of
Savoy, called Benefits; from thence we
proceeded on horses, who are used to the
way, to the mountain of the Chartreuse.
It is six miles to the top, the road runs
winding up it, commonly not six feet
broad , on one hand is the rock, with woods
of pine-trees hanging over head, on the
other, a monstrous precipice, almost per-
pendicular, at the bottom of which rolls a
torrent, that sometimes tumbling among
the fragments of stone that have tallen
from on high, and sometimes precipitating
itself down vast descents with a noise like
thunder, which is still made greater by the
echo from the mountains on each side,
concurs to form one of the most solemn,
the most romantic, and the most astonish-
ing scenes I e\er beheld Add to this the
stiange views made by the crags and
cliffs on the other hand , the cascades that
in many places throw themseh es from the*
\ery summit down into the vale, and the
n\er below; and many other particulars
impossible to describe; you will conclude
we had no occasion to repent our pains.
This place St. Bruno chose to retire to,
and upon its very top founded the afore-
said eoment, winch is the superior of the
whole order When we came there, the
two fathers, who are commissioned to
entertain strangers (for the rest must
neither speak one to another, nor to any
one else), received us very kindly; and
set before us a repast of dned fish, eggs,
butter, and fruits, all excellent in their
kind, and extremely neat. They pressed
us to spend the night there, and to stay
some days with them; but this we could
not do, so they led us about their house,
which is, you must think, like a little city ;
for there are 100 fathers, besides 300 serv-
ants, that make their clothes, grind their
corn, press their wine, and do everything
among themseh es The whole is quiet,
ordeilj, and simple, nothing of finery,
but the wonderful decency, and the strange
situation, more than supply the place of
it. In the evening; we descended by the
same way, passing through many clouds
that were then forming themselves on the
mountain 's side Next day we. continued
our journey by Chamberry, which, though
the chief city of the Dutchy, and residence
of the King of Sardinia, when he comes
into this part of his dominions, makes but
a very mean and insignificant appearance;
we lay at Aix, once famous for its hot
baths, and the next night at Annecy;
70
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBB
day after, by noon, we got to Geneva*
I have not tune to say anything about it,
nor of our solitary journey back again.
• • •
To BICHARD WIST
TURIN, A'ow 16, N. S. 1739.
After eight days' journey through
Greenland, we arrived at Tunn. You ap-
proach it by a handsome avenue of nine
mileb long, and quite strait. The entrance
is guarded by certain vigilant dragons,
called Douamers,1 who mumbled us for
some time. The city is not large, as
being a place of strength, and conse-
quently confined within its fortifications;
it has many beauties and some faults,
among the first are streets all laid out by
the line, regular uniform buildings, fine
walks that surround the whole, and in
general a good lively clean appearance.
But the bouses are of bnck plasteied,
which is apt to want repairing, the win-
dows of oiled paper, which ib apt to he
torn, and everything \ery blight, which
is apt to tumble down There ib an excel-
lent opera, but it is only in the canmal,
balls even mght, but only in the carni-
val, masquerades too, but only in the
carnival This carnival lasts only from
Christmas to Lent, one half of the remain-
ing part of the vear is passed m remem-
bering the last, the other in expecting the
future carnixal We cannot well subsist
upon such slender diet, no more than upon
an execrable Italian comedy, and a pup-
pet-show, called Eappresentazwne d'un
anima dannata* which, I think, are all
the present diversions of the place; except
the Marquise de Cavaillac's Con versa-
zione, where one goes to see people play at
ombre and taroc, a game with seventy-
two cards all painted with suns and moons
and devils and monks. Mr. Walpole has
been at court, the family are at present
at a country palace, called La Venene.
The palace here m town is the very
quintessence of gilding and looking-glass;
inlaid floors, carved panels, and painting,
wherever they could stick a brush I own
I have not, as yet, anywhere met with
those grand and simple works of art that
are to amaze one, and whose sight one is
to be the better for; but those of Nature
have astonished me beyond expression.
In our little journey up to the Grande
Chartreuse, I do not remember to have
icnatom-honae officers
• Representation of a
gone ten paces without an exclamation,
that there was no restraining: not a prec-
ipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is
pregnant with religion and poetry. There
• are certain scenes that would awe an
atheist into belief, without the help of
other argument One need not have a
very fantastic imagination to see spirits
there at noon-day You have Death per-
10 petually before your eyes, only so far
removed as to compose the mind without
frighting it. I am well persuaded St
Bruno was a man of no common genius
to choose such a situation for his retire-
u ment, and perhaps should have been a
disciple of his, had I been born m feis
time. You may believe Abelard and
Heloise were not forgot upon this occa-
sion If I do not mistake, 1 haw you too
20 every now and then at a distance along
the trees, il me bcmblc, que j'ai vu te
chien de visage lei quelque part.1 You
seemed to call to me from the other side
of the precipice, but the noise ol the
86 river below was so great, that I realh
could not distinguish what \ou said, it
seemed to ha\e n cadence like \erse In
vour next jou will be so jrood to let me
know what it was The week we ha\e
ao since passed among the Alps has not
equalled the single dav UJKMI that moun-
tain, because the winter was rather too
far advanced, and the weather a little
foggy However, it did not uant its beau-
86 ties, the savage rudeness of the view is
inconceivable without seeing it I reck-
oned m one day thirteen cascades, the
least of which uas, 1 dare sa>, one hun-
dred feet in height I had Livy in the
40 chaise with me, and beheld his "Nives
calo prop* immi8t<c, tecta wformia im-
poaita rupibus, pecora jumentaque tornda
fngore, "homines intonsi and intuit i, ani-
maka inanimaque omnia ngentia gdu,
16 omnia confragosa, prceruptaque "3 The.
creatures that inhabit them are, in all
respects, below human it> , and most of
them, especially women, have the tu-
midum guttur* which they call goscia
so Mont Cenis, I confess, carnes the permis-
sion mountains have of being frightful
rather too far, and its horrors were ac-
1 It aeeraa to me that I have aeen that dog-face
somewhere
* Snows almost mingling with the nay, the ihape-
56 leaa hnta rituatexf on the cliffs, the cattle and
bearta of burden withered by the cold, the men
nnihorn and wlldlr dreaaed, all thlnga— animate
and Inanimate— stiffened with frort, everything
broken and Jagged— Uvy, Utttory of ~
21 82
• awollen throat
THOMAS GBAY
71
coffipamed with too much danger to give
one time to reflect upon their beauties.
There is a family of the Alpine monsters I
have mentioned, upon its very top, that
in the middle of winter calmly lay in their •
stock of provisions and firing, and so are
buried in their hut for a month or two
under the snow When we were down it,
and got a little way into Piedmont, we
began to find "Apncoa quosdam colles, 10
rtvosque prope sylvas, and jam humano
cultu dignwra loca."1 I read Silms Itah-
cus too, for the first time; and wished
for you, according to custom. We set
out for Genoa in two days' time 15
To HORACE WALPOLE
[1160 1
I am BO charmed with the two speci-
mens of Erse poetry,8 that I cannot help
gi\mg you the trouble to enquire a little 80
farther about them, and. should wish to
see a few lines of the original, that I ma>
form boine slight idea of the language,
the measures, and the rhythm
Is there anything known of the authoi 25
or authors, and of what antiquity are
they supposed to bet Is there any more
to be had of equal beauty, or at all ap-
proaching to it* I have been often told
that the poem called Hardtcanule (which 80
T always admired and still admire) was the
woik of somebody that Ined a few years
ago This I do not at all believe, though it
has exidently been letouched in places by
some modem hand but howevei, 1 am 86
authorized by this lepoit to ask whether the
two poems in question aie ceitainly antique
and genuine I make this enquiry in quality
of an antiquary, and am not otherwise con-
cerned about it for, it I were sure that 40
anv one now living in Scotland had writ-
ten them to divert himself, and laugh at
the credulity of the world, I would under-
take a journey into the Highlands only
for the pleasure of seeing him. 46
To RICHARD BTONEHEWER
LONDON, June £Q, 1760
I have received another Scotch packet
with a third specimen, inferior in kind
» Borne snnnv hills and rivulet* flowin
woods, and scenes more worth; the abode of
man — Livy, Hwtorv of Rome. 21 37
•Specimens of the Omlanlc poem*, which Mac-
*^ ion declared he had collected in the Scot-
Highlands. and had translated from the
r Bnc I
(because it is merely description), but
yet full of nature and noble wild imagi-
nation. Five bards pass the night at the
castle of a chief (himself a principal
bard) ; each goes out in his turn to observe
the face of things, and returns with an
extempore picture of the changes he has
seen; it is an October night (the harvest-
month of the Highlands). This is the
whole plan; yet there is a contrivance,
and a preparation of ideas, that you
would not expect The oddest thing is.
that every one of them sees ghosts (more
or less). The idea that struck and sur-
prised me most, is the following One
of them (describing a storm of wind and
ram) says—
ChoRts ride on the t impost tonight
Sweet is their voice between the gusts of wind ,
Their songs are of other « orldt '
Did you never observe (while rocking
winds are piping loud1) that pause, as the
trust is recollecting itself, and rising upon
the ear in a shrill and plaintive note, like
the swell of an ^Eohan harp? I do as-
sure you there is nothing in the world so
like the voice of a spmt. Thomson had
an ear sometimes he was not deaf to this,
and has described it gloriously, but given
it another different turn, and of more
horror I cannot repeat the lines- it is
in his "Winter."2 There is another very
fine picture in one of them Tt describes
the breaking of the clouds after the storm
before it is settled into a calm, and when
the moon is seen by short intervals.
Iho *n\cR are tumbling on tlie lake,
And lash the rocky Rides
The boat Is brim-full In the cove,
The oars on the rocking tide
Had sits a maid beneath a cliff.
And r>os the rolling stream ,
Her Lover promised to come,
She now his boat (when It *HR evening) on the
lake:
ire thesf his (jrnan* in the <raltf
la thw his broken onat OH the *horrt*
To THOMAS WHARTON
. neo i
If you have seen Stonehewer, he has
probably told you of my old Scotch (or
rather Irish) poetry. I am gone mad
about them. They are said to be transla-
tions (literal and in prose) from the Erse
tongue, done by one Macpherson, a young
1 77 P0M*eroftO, 120
* See 11 07-71 , 149-52 . 175-201.
•These lines were published In a note to Macpber-
son's Oroma
72
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBERUNNEBB
clergvman in the Highlands lie means
to publish a collection he has of these
specimens of antiquity, but what plagues
me IK, J cannot come at anv certainty on
that head. I was so struck, so cxtatne1 5
with their infinite beautv, that 1 wnt into
Scotland to make a thousand enquiries.
The letters I have m return nre ill wrote
ill reasoned, unsatisfactory, calculated
(one would imagine) to deceive one, and 10
>et not cunning enough to do it cleverly
In short, the whole external evidence
would make one believe these fragments
(for so he culls them, though nothing can
be more entire) counterfeit , but the inter- is
nal is so strong on the other side, that 1
am lesolved to believe them genuine, spite
of the devil and the kirk It is impossible
to coimnce me that they were invented
b\ the same man that writes me these 20
letters On the other hand, it is almost
as hard to suppose, if they are original,
that he should be able to translate them
so admirably What can one do? Since
Stonehewer went. J have received another »
of a very different and inferior kind
(being merely descriptive), much moie
modern than the former (he savs), "set
very old too This too in its way is ex-
treme! v fine In short, this roan is the so
very dromon of poetry, or he has lifflited
on a treasure hid for acres The Welch
poets are also coming to light I have
seen a discourse in MS about them (hv
one Mr Evans, a clersrvman) with ppeei- as
mens of their writings Tins' is in I^atin.
and thousrh it don't approach the othei
there are fine scraps among it
40
To THE RLVJLREND WILLIAM MASON
PEMBROKE HALL. August 7, 1760
The Kise fragments hate been published
the weeks ago in Scotland, though I had
them not (by a mistake) till the other dav 45
As you tell me new things do not reach
TOU soon at Aston, I inclose w hat 1 can ,
the rest shall follow, when \ou tell me
whether YOU have not got the pamphlet
already I send the two which I had befoie, SO
for Mr. Wood, because he has not the affec-
tation of not admiring I continue to think
them genuine, though my reasons foi
believing the contrarv are rather strongci
than ever* but I will have them antique. SB
for T never knew a Scotchman of my own
time that could read, much less write,
poetry; and such poetry too* I have one
1 enraptured
(trom Mr Macpherson) which he has
not printed- it is mere description, but
excellent, too, in its kind. If you are good,
and will learn to admire, I will tran-
scribe it
As to their authenticity, 1 have made
many enquiries, and have lateh procured
a letter from Mr Oavid Hume (the his-
tonan), which is more satisfactorv than
anything 1 ha\e yet met with on that
subject. He says—
"Certain it is that these ]>oenis are in
evervhod.v 's mouth in the Highlands, have
been handed dov\ n from father to son, and
me of an age bevond all memory and
tradition Adam Smith, the eelebiated
professor m Glasgow, told me that the
pi]>er of the \iirv Icslme Militia icpcated
to him all of those which Mr Macpherson
hud translated, and nianv more oi equal
beautv Major Muckav (Loid Rac's
brother) told m* that he remembers them
perfectly well, as likewise did the l^urd
oi Macfarlane (the gieatest anti<|imiinn
we have m this countrv), and who insists
strongly on the historical truth as well as
the poetical beautv ol these productions.
T could add the Laird and Ladv Macleod.
with many more, that Inc m different
pnrts of the Highlands, verv remote from
each othei, nnd could onlv he acquainted
with what had become (in a manner)
nntionol works Thcie is a countrv sui-
ireon in Lochahcr who has bv heart the
•entire epic poem1 mentioned by Mr Mac-
pheison in Ins pretnce, and. as he is old,
is perhaps the onlv pel son lmn«r that
knows it all, and has never committed it
to writing, we are in the more haste to
recover a monument which will certainly
be regarded as a curiositv in the republic
of letters we have, therefore, set about
a subscription of a ermnea or two guineas
apiece, in order to enable Mr Macpherson
to undertake a mission into the High-
lands to recover this poem, and other frag-
ments of antiquity "
He adds, too, that the names oi Pingal
Ossian, Oscar, etc . are still given m the
Highlands to large mastiffs, as we give
to ours the names of Ctrsar, Porape\.
Hector, etc
To THE RFVFRFND WILLIAM MABON
1705
Re9 *st sacra mmr* (says the poet),
but 1 sav it is the happy man that is the
sacred thing, and therefore let the profane
• A wretched person IB a sacred object
THOMAS GBAY
73
keep their distance He is one of Lucre-
tius' gods, supremely blessed in the con-
templation of hib own felicity, and what
has he to do with worshippers? This,
mind, is the first reason why I did not
come to \ ork the second IB, that 1 do not
love confinement, and probably by next
summer may be permitted to touch whom,
and where, and with what I think tit,
without giving you any offence* the third
and last, and not the least perhaps, is,
tiiat the finances were at so low an ebb
that I could not exactly do what 1 wished,
hut was obliged to come the shortest road
to town and recruit them I do not justly
knou what >our taste in reasons may be,
since you altered your condition, but theie
is the ingenious, the petulant, and the
dull, for you any one* Tvould have done,
for in my conscience I do not behe\e you
care a hali'pennv for any reasons at pres-
ent , so (.Sod bless ye both, and gi\e ye all
\e wish, when ve are restored to the use
i»t \oiii wishes
I am returned from Scotland charmed
with in\ expedition, it is of the High-
lands 1 speak, the Lowlands are worth
seems* once, but the mountains are ec-
static, and oimhl to he usited in pilirnm-
nsre once a \eai None but those mon-
strous creatiues of (iod know how to join
so much lieautv \\ith so much horroi A
I'm for \our poets, painters, gardeners,
arid elerg\men, that ha\e not been among
them their imagination can be made of
nothing hut howling-greens, flowering
sluuhs, hoise-jwiids. Fleet ditches, shell
grottoes, and Chinese rails l Then I had so
so beautiful an autumn, Italy could haidlv
produce a nohlei s<ene, anil this so&*eetlv
contrasted with that perfection of nasti-
ness, and total •Rant of accommodation,
that Scotland only can mipplv Oh. von
would ha\e blessed vourself I shall cer-
tamlv go again, \\liat a pit\ it is I can-
not draw, nor describe, nor ride on hoise-
back
Stonehewer IR the busiest creature upon
earth except Mr "Fraser, the\ stand pretty
tight, for all his l^al Highness. Have
vou read (oh no, I had forgot) I)r Lowth's
pamphlet against \our uncle the Bishop?
Oh, how he works him I hear he will
soon be on the same bench Today Mr.
Kurd came to see me, but we had not a
word of that matter, he is grown pure
* Terms almilar to those lined by Mason In Ills
pot'trv, and Indicating popular Brrhltwtnnl
ornament* of the 18th craturv
and plump, just of the proper breadth
ior a celebrated town-preacher. There
was Dr Balgu> too, he bays Mrs. Mason
ib very handsome, so you are his friend
6 forever Ix>rd Newnham, I hear, has ill
health of late, it is a nervous case, so
have a care How do your eyes do?
Adieu, my respects to the bride. I
\vould kiss her, but you stand by and
10 pretend it is not the fashion, though I
know they do HO at Hull —I am evei yours,
% T G.
From JOURNAL IN THE LAKES
u J78U 1775
Sept. 30, 17ft) . On the astent of
the hill abo\e Appleby the thick hang-
ing wood and the long reaches oi the
Eden (rapid, clear, and full as ever) wmd-
20 mg below with \iews ot the castle ami
town, gave much employment to the mii-
lor, but the sun was wanting and the sky
overcast . In the afternoon w a Iked
up the Beacon-hill a mile to the top, saw
25 Whmfteld and Ixwther Parks, and through
an opening in the bosom of that cluster
oi mountains, which the Doctor well le-
uiembers, the lake of Viz -water, with the
tops of a hundied nameless lulls
October .1 Wind at S K , a h*a\enl\
day Hose at 7, and walked out under the
conduct of my landlord to Bonodalc The
!?rass was covered with a hoar frost,
which soon melted, and exhaled in a thin
hlueish smoke Crossed the meadows
obliquely, catching a dixersity ef \iews
among the hills over the lake and islands,
and changing prospect at e\ei\ ten puces,
left Cockshut and Castlehill (which we
formerly mounted) behind me, and drew
near the foot of Walla-craer. whose bare
and rockv brow, cut pcipvmhfulaily down
abo\e 400 feet, as I ajuess, awfulh o\ei-
looks the way, our path here tends to the
left, and the ground gentl> rising, and
covered with a glade of scattering trees
and bushes on the very margin of the
water, opens both ways the most delicious
MOW, that my eyes e\er beheld Behind
vou are the magnificent heights of Walla-
crag, opposite he the thick hanging woods
of Lord Eprremont, and Newland valle\,
with green and smiling fields embosomed
in the dark cliffs; to the left the jaws of
Itorrodale, with that turbulent chaos of
mountain behind mountain, rolled in con-
fusion; beneath you, and stretching far
away to the right, the shining purity ot
74
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOREBUNNEB8
the Lake, just ruffled by the breeze, enough
to shew it IB alive, reflecting rocks, woods,
fields, and inverted tops of mountains,
with the white buildings of Keswick,
Crosthwait church, and Skiddaw for a 6
background at a distance. Oh! Doctor!
I never wished more for you; and pray
think, how the glass played its part m
such a spot, which is called Carf-close-
reeds; I choose to set down these bar- 10
barous names, that any body may enquire
on the place, and easily find the particu-
lar station, that I mean. This scene con-
tinues to Borrow-gate, and a little far-
ther, passing a brook called Barrow-beck, 16
we entered Borrodale. The crags, named
Lodoor-banks, now begin to impend ter-
ribly over your way; and more terribly,
when you hear, that three years since an
immense mass of rock tumbled at once 20
from the brow, and barred all access to
the dale (for this is the only road) till
they could work their way through it
Luckily no one was passing at the time
of this fall; but down the side of the 25
mountain, and far into the lake he dis-
persed the huge fragments of this ruin
in all shapes and in all directions Some-
thing farther we turned aside into a cop-
pice, ascending a little m front of Lodoor ao
waterfall, the height appears to be about
200 feet, the quantity of water not great,
though (these days excepted) it had rained
daily in the hills for nearly two months
before* but then the stream was nobly 86
broken, leaping from rock to rock, and
foaming, with fury. On one side a tower-
ing crag, that spired up to equal, if not
overtop, the neighboring cliffs (this lay
all in shade and darkness) on the other 40
hand a rounder broader projecting- hill
shagged with wood and illumined by the
sun, which glanced sideways on the upper
part of the cataract The force of the
water wearing a deep channel in the 46
ground humes away to join the lake We
descended again, and passed the stream
over a rude bndge. Soon after we came
under Oowder crag, a hill more formid-
able to the eye and to the apprehension 60
than that of Lodoor; the rocks a-top,
deep-cloven perpendicularly by the rains,
hanging loose and nodding forwards,
seem just starting from their base in
shivers; the whole way down, and the 66
road on both sides is strewed with piles
of the fragments strangely thrown across
each other, and of a dreadful bulk. The
place reminds one of those passes in the
Alps, where the guides tell you to move on
with speed, and say nothing, lest the
agitation of the air should loosen the
snows above, and bring down a mass, that
would overwhelm a caravan. I took their
counsel here and hastened on m silence.
. . . Walked leisurely home the way
we came, but saw a new landscape: the
features indeed were the same in part,
but many new ones were disclosed by the
midday sun, and the tints were entirely
changed. Take notice this was the best or
perhaps the only day for going up Skid-
daw, but I thought it better employed:
it was perfectly serene, and hot as mid-
summer.
In the evening walked alone down to the
Lake by the side of Crow-Park after sun-set
and saw the solemn colonnp ot night diaw
on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away
on the hill-tops, the deep serene of the
waters, and the long shadows of the moun-
tains thrown across them, till tliev nearly
touched the hitliermost shoie At distance
heard the murmur of many waterfalls
not audible in the da\-time. Wished for
the moon, but she was dark to me and silent,
hid in her vacant \nterlunar cave.
October 8 Past by the little chapel
of Wiborn, out of winch the Sunday
congregation were then issuing. Past
a beck near Dunmailraiae and entered
Westmoreland a second time, now begm
to see Helm-crag distinguished from its
rugged neighbors not so much bv its
height, as bv the strange broken outline
of its top, like some gigantic building de-
molished, and the stones that composed it
flung across each other in u il<l confusion.
Just beyond it opens one of the sweetest
landscapes that art ever attempted to
imitate. The bosom of the mountains
spreading here into a broad basin discov-
ers in the midst Grasmere- water, its mar-
gin is hollowed into small bays with bold
eminences* some of them rocks, some of
soft turf that half conceal and vary the
figure of the little lake they command.
From the shore a low promontory pushes
itself far into the water, and on it stands
a white village with the parish-church
rising in the midst of it, hanging enclo-
sures, corn-fields, and meadows green as
an emerald, with their trees and hedges,
and cattle fill up the whole space from
the edge of the water Just opposite to
you is a large farm-house at the bottom
of a steep smooth lawn embosomed in old
THOMAS WABTON
75
woods, which climb half way up the moun-
tain 's side, and discover above them a
broken line of crags, that crown the scene.
Not a single red tile, no flaming gentle-
man's house, or garden walls break m
upon the repose of this little unsuspected
paradise, but all is peace, rusticity, and
happy poverty in its neatest, most becom-
ing attire
THOMAS WARTON (1728-1790)
From THE PLEASURED OF MELAN-
CHOLY
J7+5 1747
Mother of musings, Contemplation
sage,
Whose grotto stands upon the topmost
rock
Of Tenenff, 'mid the tempestuous night,
On which, in calmest mediation held,
c Thou hear'st with howling winds the
heating ram
And drifting hail descend , or if the
skies
Unclouded shine, and thro' the blue
serene
Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car.
Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled
vault
10 RnptnrM thou sitt'st, while murmurs
indistinct
Of distant billows sooth thy pensive
ear
With hoarse and hollow sounds, seeme,
self-blest,
There ott thou listen 'st to the wild up-
roar
Of fleets encountering that in whispers
low
15 Ascends the rocky summit, where thou
dwell'st
Remote from man, con \ersing with the
spheres '
0 lead me* queen sublime, to solemn
glooms
Congenial *ith my soul, to cheerless
shades.
To rum'd seats, to twilight cells and
bow'rs,
20 Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to
muse.
Her fav'rite midnight haunts The laugh-
ing scenes
Of purple Spring, where all the wanton
train
Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the
dance
In sportive round, while from their hand
they show'r
™ Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer
charm,
Tempe, no more I court thy balmy
breeze,
Adieu green vales1 ye broider'd meads,
adieu !
Beneath yon ruined abbey's moss-grown
piles
Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve,
1° Where through some western window
the pale moon
Pours her long-levelled rule of stream-
While sullen, sacred silence reigns around
Save the lone screech-owl's note, who
builds his bow'r
Amid the mould 'ring caverns dark and
damp,
*B Or the calm bree/e that rustles m the
leaves
Of flaunting IVA, that with mantle greer
Invests some uasted tow'r Or let me
tread
Its neighb'nng walk of pines, where
mused of old
The cloistered brothers* through the
gloomy void
40 That fai extends beneath their ample
arch
As on I pace, religious horror wraps
My soul in dread repose. But when the
world
Is clad in midnight's ra\en-eolom
lobe,
'Mid hollow ohamel let me watch th<
flame
4r> Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare
O'er the wan heaps, while airy voice-
talk
Along the ghmm'ring walls, or ghostl;
shape,
At distance seen, invites with beck'ninj
hand
My lonesome steps through the far
winding vaults.
50 Nor undehghtful is the solemn noon
Of night, when, haplv wakeful, from m1
couch
I start : lo, all is motionless around !
Roars not the rushing wind, the son
of men
And every beast in mute oblivion lie;
w All Nature's hushed in silence and 11
sleep
O then how fearful is it to reflect
That through the still globe's awfu
solitude
76
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
No being wakes but me! till stealing:
sleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate
dews
60 Nor then let dreanib, of wanton folly
born,
My senses lead through flow'ry paths of
joy
But let the sacred genius of the night
Such mystic visions send as Spenser saw1
When through bewild'iing Fancy 'b magic
maze,
66 To the fell house of Bnsyrane, he led
Thf unshaken Bntomart; or Milton
knew,
When m abstracted though he fiist con-
ceived
All heav 'n in tumult, and the seraphim
Come tow 'ring, arra'd in adamant and
gold2
Thro' Pope's soft bong tho' all the
Graces breathe,
And happiest art adorn his Attic8 page;
1K5 \et does my mind with sweeter tians-
port glow,
As at the root of mossv trunk reclm'd,
In magic Spenbei 's wildly- warbled song4
I see (lebeited Tna wander wide
Tlno' wasteful solitudes, and lurid
heaths,
1BO Weary, forlorn, than when the fated
fair
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames
Launches m all the lustre of brocade,
Amid the splendors of the laughing Sun *
Tlie gav debciiptmn palls upon the sense,
lfir' And coldly strikes the
mind with feeble
bliss
Prom ODE ON THE APPROACH OP
RUMMER
1753
Hence, iron-scepter M Winter, haste
To bleak Siberian waste !
Haste to thv polar solitude,
Mid cataracts of ice,
5 Whose torrents dumb are stretch 'd in
fragments rude
From many an airy precipice,
Where, e\er beat bv sleety show Vs.
Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'r*,
Amid whose howling iles6 and halls,
10 Where no gay sunbeam paints the walls,
1 T h f Paerlf Q*frne. * Tltc Fa+rlt Quffnf, I.
Ill 11 12 land 6
•PoradVif Lotf, fl. 110 • Pop*, The Jtapr of
•marked by cla««l« thr Lotl, - - -
qualitlei ~ " "
On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud
Thy brows in many a murky cloud
Haste thee, uj mph f and hand in hand,
With thee lead a buxom band;
Bring fantastic-footed Joy,
«° With Sport, that yellow-tressed boy:
Leisure, that through the balmy sky
Chases a crimson butterfl>
Bring Health, that lo\e*> in early dawn
To meet the milk-maid on the lawn,
b5 Bung Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace,
Meek, cottage-Jo\ ing shepherdess*
And that sweet stripling, Zephvr, bring,
Light, and forexei on the umg,
lining the dear Muse, that loxes to lean
70 On river-margins, moss\ green
But who is she, that bears thy train,
Pacing light the \el\et plain?
The pale pink binds her auburn hair,
Her tresses flow \uth pastoial air;
75 'Tis Ma>, the (hace— contest she stands
By branch of hawthorn in her hands
Lov near her trip the lightsome Dews.
Their wings all ting'd in ins-hues,1
With whom the pow'rs of Floia play,
80 And jiaint uith pansies all the \\a\
Oft when th\ season, sweetest queen,
Has dress M the groxes in li\ *rv green;
When in each fair and fertile held
Beauty begins tiei bow'r to build!
88 While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,
Puts her matron-mantle on,
And mists in spreading streams convey
More fresh the fumes of new-shorn ha\
Then, goddess, guide ui\ pilgrim feet
Contemplation hoar to meet.
q° As slow he winds in muset'ul mood,
Near the rush'd marge of Cherwell's
flood,
Or o'er old Avon's magic edge.
Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky
sedge.
All playful yet. in years unripe,
96 To frame a shrill and simple pipe
There thro' the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet ev 'rung-objects intervene:
His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants,
100 The woodman, speeding home, awhile
Rests him at a shady stile
Nor wants there fragrance to dispense
Refreshment o'er m> soothed sense;
Nor tangled woodbine's balmy bloom,
105 Nor grass besprent2 to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-th vine's spicv sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet
1 colon of the rainbow • iprtnkled over
THOMAS WABTON
77
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell :
110 Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom 'd cot:
Rustle the breezes lightly borne
O'er deep embattled ears of corn:
Knnnd ancient elm, with humming noise,
*15 Full loud the ehaffer-swarmb1 rejoice.
THE CRUSADE
1777
Bound for holy Palestine,
Nimbly «c brush 'd the level brine,
All in azure bteel array 'd;
O'er the wave our weapons play'd,
5 And made the dancing billows glow ,
High upon the trophied prow,
Man> a * amor-minstrel nwuiig
His sounding harp, and boldly bung
44 Syrian Mrgmb, wail and weep,
10 Knglish Richard plowb the deep1
Tremble, watchmen, as vc spy
From distant towers, \vith anxioiib eye,
The radiant lange of shield and lance
Down Damascus' lulls advance
15 From Sion's turrets as afar
Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
Saladin, thou pajnim king,
From Albion's isle re\enge we bring*
On Aeon's spirv citadel,
20 Though to the gale thy banners bnvcll,
Pietui'd \utli the siher moon,
England shall end th> glory boon f
Tn \am, to break our him aira\.
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bra>
23 Those sounds our rising fury fan
Knglish Richard in the van,
On to victor\ ue go,
A vaunting infidel the foe "
Hlondel led the tuneful band,
30 And swept the wire uith glowing hand
Opius, fiom her rocky mound.
And Crete, with piny \eidure crown 'd,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.
35 Soon we kiss 'd the sacred earth
That pave a murder 'd Saviour birth;
Then, \\ith ardor fresh endu'd,
Thus the solemn song renew 'd:—
"Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
40 Heaven's favor 'd hills appear at last1
Object of our holy vow,
We tread the Tynan valleys now
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
46 O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
i§warm§ of beetles
Waves the date-empurpled palm;
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
50 Wet with our Redeemer's gore'
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your raMsh'd honors to restore.
Fearless we climb this hostile shore!
55 And thou, the sepulchre of God!
By mocking pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,
And quench 'd thy lamps that beam'd
so bright;
For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
60 Lo, Richard leads Ins faithful host!
Aloft in his heroic hand,
Blazing, like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-aff righted fields,
Resistless Kahburn he wields
65 Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by mart\rs built of yore
From each wild mountain's trackless
crown
In \ain th> gloomy castles frown
Thy battering engines, huge and high,
70 In \am our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in temfic state,
On giant-wheels harsh thunders gr.itc
When eve has hush'd the buzzing
camp,
Amid the moonlight vapors damp,
7"» Thy neciomantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain:
We bid those spectre-shapes a\aunt,
Ashtaroth, and Tennagaunt'
With many a demon, pale of hue,
R0 Doora'd to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
'Mid the dread grove of ebony
Nor magic charms, nor fiends" of hell,
The Christian 's holy courage quell.
86 Salem, in ancient ma jest v
Arise, and lift thee to the sk\ f
Soon on thy battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantino
Ye Barons, to the sun unfold
90 Our Cross uith crimson wove and gold!'1
SONNETS
1777
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OP DUGDALE'S
MONASTICON
Deem not devoid of elegance the sage,
By Fancy's genuine feelings unbegmled,
Of painful pedantry the poring child,
Who turns, of these proud domes, th'
historic page,
78
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOEEEDNNEB8
5 Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer 'Mid intermingling elms her flowery
rage.1 meads,
Think 'st thou the warbling Muses never And Hascombe's hill, in towering groves
smiled ' array 'd,
On his lone hours f Ingenuous views 6 Rear'd its romantic steep, with mind
engage serene,
I journey 'd blithe. Full pensive I re-
turn'd,
For now my breast with hopeless passion
burn 'd,
Wet with hoar mists appear M the gaudy
scene,
Winch late in careless indolence I
paKg'd;
10 And Autumn nil around those hues had
His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely
styled,
Intent. While cloistered Piety displays
10 Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye
explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder
davs,
Whence culls the pensive bard hib pic-
tured stores
Nor rough nor barren are the lundnii*
ways
Of hoar Antiquity, but strown with
flowers.
WRITTEN AT STONKHENGE
Thou noblest monument of Albion's isleT
Whether by Merlin's aid from Rcytlna's
shore,
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon boic.
Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty
pile,
5 T' entomb bib Britons slain by Hen-
gist's guile
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human
gore,
Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mys-
tic lore.
Or Danish chiefs, enrich 'd with su\age
spoil,
cast
Where past delight my recent grief
might trace.
Sad change, that Nature a congenial
gloom
Should wear, when most, mv cheerlesb
mood to chase;
1 wish'd her green attne, and wonted
bloom f
ON KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE vr
WINCHESTER
Where Yenta's Norman castle still up-
rears
Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the giass\
foss,
And scatter M flinty fragments clad in
moss,
On yonder steep in naked state ap-
pears,
To Victory's idol \ast, an unhewn * n L L ' *• i r
s|inne 5 Hugh-hung remains, the pride ol \var-
10 Rear 'd the rude heap 01 , in thy hallow 'd - - - llkc years'
round,
Kepose the kings of Brutus' genuine
line,
Or here those kings in solemn state
were crown 'd.
Studious to trace thy wondrous ongine,
Old Arthur's hoaid on the capacious
round
Some British pen lias sketch M the names
renown M,
In marks obscure, ot his immortal
peers
Though join'd b> magic skill, with
many a rh\me,
10 The Druid ftame, unhonnr'd, falls a
We muse on man> an ancient tale
renown M.
WHILE SUMMFR SUNS O'U,R THE GAY __ , - f , ,
PROSPECT PLAY'D To the slow vengeance of I he wi/aid
While summer suns o'er the gay pros- And fg(je ^]}e Bntlgh C|ianw,ter8 awa>;
pect play d, Yet Spenger»s ^^ that chants in verse
sublime
Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of
decay.
Through Surry's verdant scenes, where
Epsom spreads
1 Henry Vlll's disruption of the monmiteriet
THOMAS WABTON
79
From OBSERVATIONS ON THE FAIRY
QUEEN OF 8PENSEB
1754
It IB absurd to think of judging either 5
Anosto or Spenser by precepts which they
did not attend to. We who live in the
days of writing by rule are apt to try
every composition by those laws which
we have been taught to think the sole 10
cntenon of excellence Critical taste is
universally diffused, and we require the
same order and design which every mod-
ern performance is expected to have, in
poems where they never were regarded or 15
intended. Spenser, and the same may be
said of Anosto, did not live in an age of
planning His poetry is the careless ex-
uberance of a warm imagination and a
strong sensibility. It was his business ao
to engage the fancy, and to interest the
attention bv bold and striking images, in
the formation and the disposition of
which, little labor or ait was applied.
The various and the marvellous were the 25
chief sources of delight Hence we find
our author ransacking alike the regions
of reality and romance, of truth and fic-
tion, to find the proper decoration and*
furniture for his fairy structure Born 80
in such nn age, Spenser wrote rapidly
from his own feelings, which at the same
time were naturally noble Exactness1 in
his poem would have been like the cornice
ifthich a painter introduced in the grotto 85
of Calypso Spenser's beauties are like
the flowers in Paradise,
Which not niee Art
In IxHlH and cuiioim knot*, hut Nature boon
Tout cl forth profuse, on hill, and dale, and plain , 40
lioth v how the morning mm nr*t warmly emote
The open field, or where the unplerc'd fhado
Imhrown d the noon-tide bowers
— Paradise Lost, 4, 241
If The Fmri; Queen be destitute of that
arrangement and economv which epic 45
seventy requires, >et we scarcely regret
the loss of these while their place is so
amply supplied by something which more
powerfully attracts us, something which
engages the affections, the feelings of the so
heart, rather than the cold approbation
of the head. If there be any poem whose *
graces please because they are situated
beyond the reach of art, and where the
force and faculties of creative imagina- is
tion delight because they are unassisted
1 conformity to net rule* (The eighteenth century
WRR devoted to "exactness" In form and style
of writing )
and unrestrained by those of deliberate,
judgment, it is this. In reading Spenser,
if the cntic is not satisfied, yet the reader
is transported. (1,16-16.)
1 cannot dismiss this section without
a wish that this neglected author
[Chaucer], whom Spenser proposed as the
pattern of his style, and to whom he is
indebted for many noble inventions,
should be more universally studied. This
is at least what one might expect in an
age of research and curiosity. Chaucer
is regarded rather as an old, than as a
good, poet We look upon his poems as
venerable relics, not as beautiful compo-
sitions, as pieces better calculated to
gratify the antiquarian than the critic.
He abounds not only in strokes of humor,
which is commonly supposed to be his sole
talent, but of pathos and sublimity not
unworthy a more refined age. His old
manners, his romantic arguments, his
wildness of painting,1 his simplicity and
antiquitv of expression, transport us into
some iairy region, and are all highly
pleasing to the imagination It is true
that his uncouth2 and unfamiliar language
disgusts and deters many readers, but
the principal reason of his being so little
known and so seldom taken into hand, is
the comement opportunity of reading him
with pleasure and facility in modern imi-
tations. For when translation, and such,
imitations from Chaucer may be justly
called, at length becomes substituted as
the means of attaining a knowledge of
any difficult and ancient author, the orig-
inal not only begins to be neglected and
excluded as less easy, but also despised
as less ornamental and elegant Thus the
public taste becomes imperceptibly viti-
ated, while the genuine model is super-
seded, and gradually gives way to the
establishment of a more specious but false
resemblance. Thus, too many readers,
happy to find the readiest accommodation
for their indolence and their illiteracy,
think themselves sufficient masters of
Homer from Pope's translation; and thus,
by an indiscreet comparison, Pope's trans-
lation is commonly preferred to the Gre-
cian text, in proportion as the former is
1 Chance r'a descriptions are noted for their natu-
ralness and truth rather than for their wild-
ness ; and although he wan fond of the medieral
romances, his material la largely realistic
•Thin judgment is due to Ignorance of Middle
English. Chaucer's language Is In no sense un-
couth
80
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEB8
furnished with more frequent and shin-
ing metaphors, more lively descriptions,
and in general appears to be more full
and florid, more elaborate and various
s (1, 196-198 )
• •••••
Mechanical critics will perhapb be dib-
gubted at the liberties I have taken in
introducing so many anecdotes of ancient
10 chivalry. But my subject required fre-
quent proofs of this bort Nor could I
be persuaded that such enquiries were, in
other respects, either useless or ridicu-
lous; as they tended, at least, to illus-
16 trate an institution of no frivolous or
indifferent nature. Chivalry is commonlv
looked upon as a barbarous sport or ex-
travagant amusement of the dark ages
It had, howexer, no small influence on the
90 manners, policies, and constitutions of
ancient times, and ser\ed many public
and important purposes. It was the
school of fortitude, honor, and affability
Its exercises, like the Grecian games,
26 habituated the youth to fatigue and enter-
prise, and inspired the noblest sentiments
of heroism It taught gallantry and
civility to a savage and ignorant people,
and humanized the natue ferocity of the
80 Northern nations It conduced to rehne
the manners of the combatants by excit-
ing an emulation in the devices and ac-
coutrements, the splendor and parade, oi
their tilts and tournaments; while its mag-
85 mficent festivals, thronged with noble
dames and courteous knights, produced
the first efforts of wit and fancv
I am still further to hope that, together
with other specimens of obsolete litera-
40 ture in general hinted at before, the manv
references I have made in particular to
romances, the necessary appendage of
ancient chivalry, will also plead their par-
don For however monstrous and unnat-
4B ural these compositions may appear to
this age of reason and refinement, the\
merit more attention than the world is
willing to bestow They prenerve man\
curious historical facts, and throw consid-
» erable light on the nature of the feudal
system They are the pictures of ancient
usages and customs; and represent the*
manners, genius, and character of our an-
cestors. Above all, such are their terrible
• Graces of magic and enchantment, so
magnificently marvellous are their fictions
and fablings, that they contribute, m a
wonderful degree, to rouse and invigo-
rate all the powers of imagination ; to
store the fancy with those sublime and
alarming images which poetry best de-
lights to display. ( II, 266-268 )
JOSEPH WARTON (1722-1800)
THE ENTHUSIAST- OR THE LOVER
OF NATURE
1744
Ye green-rob 'd Diyads, oft at dusky
c\c
By wondenng shepheids seen, to ioiests
broun,
To unfrequented meads, and pathless
wilds,
Jjend me from guidons deck'd uith art's
vain pomps
5 Can gilt alcoves, can inaible-niimic
gods,
Paiteires enibioidei M, obelisks, arid
urns,
Of high relief, can the long, spieading
lake,
Or \istn lessening to the siijlit , can
Sto\\,
With all her Attic lanes, such laptmes
raise,
10 As the thiush-haiintcd copse, \\here
lightlv leaps
The fearful fa\\n the inMliiu* leaxcs
alon?,
And the busk squine! sports Jiom hough
to hough,
While tiom an hollow oak, \\liose naked
roots
O'erhanp a pensne nil. the bus\ bees
15 Hum drowsy lullabies'9 The hards of
old,
Fair Natuie's friends, sonulit Mich re-
tieats, to chaini
Sweet Kcho with their songs , oft too they
met,
In sumrnei excninus, neai sequester M
bowers,
Or mountain-nvmph, or Muse, and eacrer
learnt
-° The moral strains she taught 1<> mend
mankind
As in a secret giot, JHgena stole
With pntient Numa, and in silent
night
Whisper *d him sacred laws, he list 'nine:
sat,
Kapt with her virtuous voice, old Tiber
lean'd
25 Attentive on his um, and hush M his
waves
Rich in her weeping country's spoils,
Versailles
JOSEPH WABTON 81
May boast a thousand fountains, that And golden crocus f— Yet with these the
can cast maid,
The tortur'd waters to the distant co Philhs or Phoebe, at a feast or wake
Heav'ns; Her jett> locks enamels, fairer she,
Yet let me choose borne pme-topt preci- In innocence and homespun vestments
pice drebs'd,
30 Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy Than if cerulean bapphireb at her ears
stream, Shone pendant, or a precious diamond-
Like Amo, tumbling roars, or some bleak cross
heath, b5 Heav'd gently on her Anting bosom
Where strangling standb the muuinful white.
jumper, Yon shepherd idly stretch M on the
Oi yew-tree scath'd, while in clear pros- rude rock,
pcct round, ' List'nin? to dashing waves, and sea-
From the grove 'b bosom spirea eincigc. mew's clang
and smoke iliyh-hovenng o'er his head, who views
;~' in bluisli wreaths aacendb, nj>e hanests beneath
uave, The dolphin dancing o'er the level brine,
Low lonely cottages, and riun'd tops 7() Feels more true bliss than the proud
Ot (iotluc battlements appear, and admiral,
streanjs Amid his vessels bright with burnish 'd
Beneath the sun-boa ins twinkle —The gold
shrill lark, And silken streamers, though Ins lordly
Tlmt wakes the woodman to his early nod
task. Ten thousand war-woin manners re-
40 Oi lo\e-sick Philomel, whose luscious \eie
lays And gieat Aeneas ga/M with more de-
Soot ho lone niglit-wandereis, the moan- light
ing do\e "5 On the rough mountain bhagg'd with
Pitied h> hst'niiisr milk-maid, lai excel horrid shades,
The deep-mouth M \iol, the soul-lullini; (Where cloud-compelling Jove, ab fancy
lute, dream M,
And battle-breathing trumpet. Artful Descending, shook his direful tegis black)
sounds* Than it he enter M the high Capitol
4r> That please not like the chousteis of On golden columns rear'd, a conquer 'd
an, \iorld
When lirst thc\ hail thf nppioach of so Exhausted, to enrich its stately head
laughing Mav More pleas 'd he slept in poor Evandei 's
(.'an Kent design like Nature? Maik cot
* here- Thames On shaggy skins, lull'd by sweet mght-
Plentv and pleasure poms through Lin- mgales,
coin's meads, Than if a Nero, in an age rehn'd,
Tan the great artist, though with taste Beneath a gorgeous canopy had plac'd
supreme S5 His royal guest, and bade his minstrels
~'° Endu'd, one beauty to this Eden addf sound
Tlioimh he, h> rules unfetter 'd, boldl} Soft slumb'rous airs, to sootli his rest
scqrns Happy the first of men, ere yet con-
Foruialitv and method, round and fln'd
square To smoky cities, who in sheltering
Disdaining, plans niegularly great groves,
Oeati\e Titian, can thy \ivid strokes Warm eaves, and deep-sunk vallies liv'd
">r' Or thine, 0 graceful Raphael, dare to and lov'd, '
vie M By cares unwounded, what the sun and
With the rich tints that paint the breath- showers,
in? meadf And genial earth untillag'd, could pro-
The thousand-color fd tulip, violet's ducc,
bell They gather 'd grateful, or the acorn
Snow-clad and meek, the verinil-tinctur'd brown
row, Or blushing berry ; by the liquid lapse
n V/AJNJLUAI
Of murm'nng waters oall'd to slake Herbs of malignant juice, to realms
their thirst, remote
95 Or with fair nymphs their sun-brown While we for powerful poisons madly
limbs to bathe, roam,
With nymphs who fondly clasp 'd their 13° From every noxious herb collecting
fav'nte jouths, death.
Unaw'd by shame, beneath the beechen What though unknown to those primeval
shade, sires
Nor wiles, nor artificial coyness knew The well-arch 'd dome, peopled with
Then doors and walls were not , the melt- breathing forms
ing maid By fair Italia fs skilful hand, unknown
100 Nor frown of parents fear'd, nor hub- The shapely column, and the crumbling
band's threats, busts
Nor had curs'd gold their tender hearth lt{5 Of awful an rest orb in long descent?
allur'd Yet why should man, mistaken, deem it
Then beauty was not venal. Injui'd nobler
Ixnc, To dwell in palaces, and high-roof 'd
O! whither, god of raptures, art them / halls,
fledf Than in God's forests, architect su-
\Vhile Avarice waves his golden wand premel
around, Sav, is the Persian sarpet, than the
105 Ahhorr'd magician, and his costly cup field's
Prepares with baneful drugs, t' enchant 110 Or meadou 's mantle pay, more richly
the souls uo\'n,
Ot each low-though ted iair to wed ioi Or softer to the votaries ot ease
gain Than bladed grass, perfum'd with dew-
In Earth's first infancy (as sung the dropt flow'rs?
bard O taste corrupt! that luxury and pomp,
Who strongly painted what he boldlv In specious names of polish M manners
thought), veiPd,
110 Though the fierce north oft smote with "6 should proudlv banish Nature's simple
iron *hip charms f
Their shiv'nn^ limbs, though oft the AH beauteous Nature* b\ thy boundless
bristly boar charms
Or hungry lion, 'woke them with their Oppress 'd, 0 wlieie shall I beinn thy
howls, praise,
And scar'd them from their moss-grnun Where turn th' ecstatic eye, how ease
caves, to rove m\ bieast
115 Houseless and cold in dark tempestuous That pants with wild astonishment and
nights, lo\e!
Yet were not imnads in erabattl'd fields wo D^ forests, and the op'mnjr lawn, re-
S*ept off at once, nor had the raging fresh 'd
seas With ever-gushing brooks, hill, meadow,
Overwhelm M the found 'ring bark and dale,
shrieking crew, The haltn\ bean-field, the gay-clover 'd
In vain the srlassy ocean smil'd to tempt close,
1*° The joll\ sailor, unsuspecting harm, So sweetly interchanged, the lowing ox,
For Commerce ne'er had spread her The playful lamb, the distant waterfall
swelling sails, 155 NOW faintly heard, now swelling with
Nor had the wond'nncr Nereids ever the breeze,
heard , The sound of pastoral reed from hazel-
The dashing oar then famine, want, and bower,
pain, The choral birds, the neighing steed,
Sunk to the grave their fainting limbs: that snuffs
but us, His dappled mate, stung with intense
125 Diseaseful dainties, riot, and excess, desire,
And feverish luxury destroy In brakes The ripen M orchard when the ruddy orbs
Or marshes wild unknowingly thev 16° Betwixt the preen leaves blush, the
eropp'd azure skies,
JOSEPH WABTON 88
The cheerful San that through Earth's Demons and goblins through the dark
vitals pours air shriek,
Delight and health, and heat; all, all While Hecat, with her black-brow 'd sis-
conspire ters nine,
To raise, to sooth, to harmonize the 195 Rides o'er the Earth, and scatters woes
mind, and death.
To lift on wings of praise, to the great Then too, they say, in drear Egyptian wilds
Sire The lion and the tiger prowl for prey
166 Of being and of beauty, at whose nod With roarings loud! the hst'nmg trav-
Creation started from the gloomy vault eller
Of dreary Chaos, while the gnesly Starts fear struck, while the hollow echo-
king ing vaults
Murmur 'd to feel Ins boisterous power 20° Of pyramids increase the deathful
eonfin 'd sounds.
What are the lays of artful Addison, But let me never fail m cloudless
170 Coldly correct, to Shakespear's war- nights, »
bhngs wild? When silent Cynthia in her silver car
Whom on the winding Avon's willow M Through the blue conclave slides, when
banks shine the hills,
Fair Fancy found, and bore the smiling Twinkle the streams, and woods look
babe tipp'd with gold,
To a close cavern (still the shepherds 205 To seek some level mead, and there
show in\ oke
The sacred place, whence with religious Old Midnight's sister, Contemplation
awe sage,
175 They hear, returning from the field at (Queen of the nigged biow and stern-
eve, fi\t e>e)
Strange whisp 'rings of sweet music To lift my soul aboie this little Earth,
through the air) This folly-fetter 'd world to purge my
Here, as with honey gather 'd from the ears,
rock, " J1° That I ma> hear the rolling planets'
She fed the little prattler, and with song,
songs And tuneful turning spheres if this be
Oft sooth 'd his wand 'ring ears, with deep burr'd,
delight The little Fays that dance in neighboring
l*° On her soft lap he sat, and caught the dales,
sounds Sipping the in slit-dew, uhile they laugh
Oft near some crowded «t> would I and lo\e,
ualk. Shall charm me with aerial notes.— -As
Listening the far-off noises, rattling thus
cars, 215 I wander musing, lo, what awful forms
Ixnul shouts of jov, sad shrieks of sor- Yonder appear* sharp-ey'd Philosophy
row, knells Clad in dun robes, an eagle on his
Full slowly tolling, instruments of trade, wrist,
186 Striking mine ears with one deep-swell- First meets mv eye, ne^, virgin Solitude
ing hum. Serene, who blushes at each gazer's
Or wand 'ring near the sea, attend the sight,
sounds 2-° Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch
Of hollow winds, and ever-beating waves in hand,
Ev 'n when wild tempests swallow up the Trembling, and bent with age , last Vir-
plains, tue's self
And Boreas' blasts, big hail, and rains Smiling, in white array M, who with her
combine leads
wo TO shake the groves and mountains, Sweet Innocence, that prattles by her
would T sit, side.
Pensively musing on the outrageous A naked boy'— Harass M with fear I
crimes stop,
That wake Heaven's vengeance: at such 225 I gaze, when Virtue thus— "Who Vr
solemn hours. thou art,
84
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBB
Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld
In these my midnight- walks; depart,
and say,
That henceforth I and my immortal
train
Forsake Britannia's ible, uho fondly
stoops
230 TO Vice, her favorite paramour.'7— She
spoke,
And as she turn'd, her lound and rosy
neck
Her flowing train, and long ambrosial
hair,
Breathing rich odors, I enamor'cl \ lew
0 who will bear me then to western
climes,
-3B (Since Virtue leaves our wretched land)
to fields
Yet unpolluted with Iberian swords
The isles of Innocence, from mortal
view
Deeply retir'd, beneath a plantane's
shade,
Where Happiness and Quest sit en-
thron'd,
240 With simple Indian swains, that I inav
hunt
The boar and tiger thiough savannahs1
.wild,
Through fragrant deserts, and through
citron groves T
There, fed on dates and herbs. *ould I
despise
The far-fetch 'd cates of luxuiy, and
hoards
246 Of narrow-hearted avarice; nor heed
The distant din of the tumultuous world
So when rude whirlwinds rouse the roar-
ing main,
Beneath fair Thetis sits, in coral ca\es,
Serenely gay, nor sinking sailor's ones
250 Disturb her sportive nymphs, who round
her form
The light fantastic dance, or for her
hair
Weave rosy crowns, or with according
lutes*
Grace the soft warbles of her honied
voice
ODE TO FANCY
1746
0 parent of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
6 To offer at thy turf -built shrine,
» tropical graislandg containing Mattered treet
In golden cups no costly wine.
No murder 'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and, honey from the rock.
0 nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
10 With buskin 'd1 leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brews with Indian feathers crown 'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
15 Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow,
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
While the vast various landscape lies
20 Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
() lover of the desert, hail f
Say, in what deep and pathless \alc.
Or on what lioaiv mountain's side,
'Mid tall of waters, you reside,
-r> TMul broken rocks, a rugged scene.
With gieen and grassy dales between.
Mid forests dark of aged oak.
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear 'd,
30 Nor ev'n one straw-roof 'd cot was icaied,
Where Nature seems to sit alone.
Majestic on a craggy throne ,
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell.
To thy unknown Bequest 'red cell,
35 Wheie woodbines clustei lound the
door,
Where shells and moss o'erlav the floor,
And on whose top an hau thorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-* o\ en boughs
Some nightingale still builds hei nest,
40 Each e\enmg warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methmk<* I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
« Till, suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper 'd music in in> ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is droun'd
By the sweetlv-soothing sound*
Me, goddess, by thy right hand lead
50 Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob 'd Peace resort.
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening
meet,
And lightly tnp with nimble feet,
66 Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter, rose-bpp'd Hebe, leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List'nmg to the shepherd's song*
Yet not these flowery fields of joy
60 Can long my pensive mind employ,
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly,
1 clad in a bnrtln, or half-boot
JOSEPH WABTON
85
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms, and sigh ;
«5 Let us with silent footsteps go
To eharnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes.
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
7° Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek,
Or to some abbey's mould 'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show 'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies.
While whistling tempests lound her
rise,
™ And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyie,
For my heart glows with martial fire,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat ,
80 The trumpet \ clangois pieice my
ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear,
(hve me another horse, I crv,
Lof the base Gallic squadron* fly,
W> Whence i* this ia«e1— what spirit,
sny
To battle hitmen me awav*
'Tis Fancv, m her tien car,
Transports me to the thickest war,
Theie whirls me o'ei the hills of slain,
»o Where Tumult and Destiuction reign;
Where mad with pain, the ucmmled
steed
Tramples the dying and the dead ,
Where giant Terror stalks around.
With sullen ]ov survevs the giouml,
95 And, pointing to th' ensanguiu'd field,
. Shakes his dreadful Rorgon shield !
O guide me from this horrid scene,
To high-arch M walks and alle\s green,
Which lovely Uura seeks to shun
iw The fenors of the mid-day sun;
The pangs of absence, O remove'
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in v isionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss,
105 While her rubv lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence!
When young-eyed Spring profusely
throws
From her green lap the pink and rose,
When the soft turtle of the dale
"0 To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn coohm? caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his ]oily cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes Ins silver beard with cold;
U* At every season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
0 warm, enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powertul, vital aid,
That breathes an energj divine,
120 That gives a soul to every line,
Ne'er may I stnve with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd strain,
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou birl'st me
sing.
i-5 0 hear our prayer, 0 hither come
From thy lamented Shakespeai fs tomb,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave;
0 queen of numbers, once again
110 Animate some chosen swam,
\Mio, HUM with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre,
Who with' some new unequalled song,
Mav rise above the rhyming throng,
n5 O'er all our h&t'nmg passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain,
With terror shake, and pity move,
House with revenge, 01 welt with love,
O deign t' attend his evening: walk,
140 With him in groves and grottos talk,
Teach him to scorn with frigid art
Feebh to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
Like lightning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
145 With native beauties win applause *
Ke\ond cold critics' studied laws;
O let each Muse's fame increase,
O hid Britannia rival Greece.
Prom ESSAY ON THE GENIUS AND
WHITINGS OF POPE
1756-82
Thus have I endeavored to give a crit-
ical account, with freedom, but it is hoped
with impartiality, of each of Pope's
works; b> which review it will appear,
5 that the largest portion of them is of the
didactic, moral, and satyric kind, and
consequently, not of the most poetic spe-
cies of poetry ; whence it is manifest, that
good sense and judgment were his char-
10 actenstical excellencies, rather than fancy
and invention: not that the author of
The Rape of ihe Loci, and Elotsa, can be
thought to want imagination; but because
his imagination was not his predominant
11 talent, because he indulged it not, and be-
cause he gave not so many proofs of this
talent as of the other This turn of mind
led him to admire French models; he
studied Boilea.ii attentively; formed him-
86
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
self upon him, as Milton formed himself
upon the Grecian and Italian sons of
Fancy. He stuck to describing: modern
manners, but those manners, because they
are familiar, uniform, and polished, are, 5
in their very nature, unfit for any lofty
effort of the Muse He gradually became
one of the most correct, even, and exact
poets that ever wrote, ]>ohshing his pieces
with a care and assiduity, that no business 10
or avocation ever interrupted; so that if
he does not frequently ravish and transport
his reader, >et he does not disgust him
with unexpected inequalities, and absard
improprieties. Whatever poetical enthu- IB
Piasm he actually possessed, he withheld
and stifled. The perusal of him affects not
our minds with such strong emotion* as
we feel from Homer and Milton , BO that
no man of a true poetical spirit, is master 20
of himself while he reads them Hence,
lie is a writer fit for universal perusal,
adapted to all ages and stations; foi the
old and for the voting , the man of business
and the scholar He who would think The 25
Furry Queen, Palamon and Arcite, The
Tempest or Comus, childish and romantic,
might relish Pope Suiely. it is no narrow
and niggardly encomium, to say he is the
great Poet of Reason, the first of ethical 80
authors m verse And this species of
wnting is, after all, the surest load to
an extensive reputation It lies more
level to the general capacities of men,
than the higher flights ot more genuine 86
poetry We all remember when e\en a
Churchill was more in \ogue than a (Jrav
He that treats of fashionable follies and
the topics of the day, that describes pres-
ent persons and recent events, finds man\ 40
readers, whose understandings and whose
passions he gratifies. The name of Ches-
terfield on one hand, and of Walpole on
the other, failed not to make a poem
bought up and talked of. And it cannot 46
be doubted that the Odes of Horace
which celebrated, and the Satires which
ridiculed, well-known and real characters
at Rome, were more frequently cited, than
the /Eneid and the Georgic of Virgil 60
Where then, according to the question
proposed at the beginning of this Essay,
shall we with .lustice be authorized to
place our admired Popef Not, assuredly,
in the same rank with Spenser, Shake- 66
speare, and Milton; however justly we
may applaud the Elo\sa and Rape of the
Lock; but, considering the correctness,
elegance, and utility of his works, the
weight of sentiment, and the knowledge
of man they contain, we may venture to
assign him a place, next to Milton, and
just above Dryden. Yet, to bring our
minds steadily to make this decision, *e
must forget, for a moment, the divine
Music Ode of Dryden ; and may, perhaps,
then be compelled to confess, that though
Dryden be the greater genius, yet Pope
is the better artist
The preference here given to Pope above
other modern English poets, it must be
remembered, is founded on the excel-
lencies of his works in general, and taken
all together, for there are parts and pass-
ages in other modern authors, in Young
and in Thomson, for instance, equal to any
of Pope; and he has wntten nothing in a
strain so truly sublime, as The Bard of
Gray
JAMES MACPHERSON (1738-1796)
CARTHON- A POEM
1700
A tale of the times of old f The deeds
of days of other > ears'
The murmur of thy streams, O Loraf
brings back the memory of the past The
sound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lo\ely
in mine ear Dost thou not behold. Mal-
vma,a rock with its head of heath? Three
as»ed pines bend from its face, green is
the nairow plain at its feet, there the
flower of the mountain grows, and shakes
its white head in the bieexe The thistle
11 there alone, shedding its aged beard
Two stones, half sunk in the ground, shew
their heads of moss The deer of the
mountain avoids the place, for lie beholds
a dim ghost standing: there The mighty
he, 0 Mai vma f in the narrow plain of
the rock.
A tale of the times of oldf the deeds
of days of other years'
Who comes from the land of strangers,
with his thousands around him! the sun-
beam pours its bnght stream before him .
his hair meets the wind of his lulls. His
face is settled from war. He is calm as
the evening beam that looks from the
cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale
Who is it but Comhal's son, the king of
mighty deeds1 He beholds his hills with
joy, he bids a thousand voices nse. "Ye
have fled over your fields, ye sons of the
distant land ! The king of the world sits
in his hall, and hears of his people's
flight. He lift* his red eye of pride; he
JAMES MACPHEESON
87
takes his father's sword. Ye have fled
over your fields, sons of the distant land!"
Such were the words of the bards, when
they came to Selma's halls A thousand
lights from the stranger's land rose in 5
the midst of the people The feast IB
spread around; the night passed away in
joy. "Where is the noble Cless&mmorl "
said the fair-haired Fingal "Where is the
brother of Morna, in the hour of my joyf 10
Sullen* and dark he passes his days in the
vale of echoing; Lor a but, behold, he
comes from the hill, like a steed in his
strength, who finds his companions in the
breeze, and tosses his bright mane in the 15
wind. Blest be the soul of Clessdmmor,
why so long from Selma t"
"Returns the chief," Raid Clessfimmor,
"in the midst of his fameT Such was the re-
nown of Comhal in the battles of his youth, to
Often did we pass over Carun to the land
of the strangers our swords returner!,
not unstained with blood nor did the
kings of the world rejoice Whv do I
remember the times of our mart My hair 25
is mixed with «in> Mv hand forgets to
bend the bow J lift a lighter spear.
O that my joy vtould return, as when I
first beheld the maid, the white-bosomed
daughter of the strangers, Moina, with 80
the dark-blue eyes'"
"Tell, " said the mighty Fuural, "the tale
of thy youthful days Sonow, like a cloud
on the sun, shades the soul of ClessAm-
raor Mournful arc tliv thoughts, alone, 85
on the banks of the roarins: Lora l*t
us hear the sorrow of tliv vouth, and the
darkness of thy days'"
"It was in the da>s of peace," replied
the great Clessamraor, "I came in mv 40
bounding ship, to Balclutha's walls of
towers The winds had roared behind
my sails, and Clutha ?s streams received
my dark-bosomed ship. Three days I
remained in Reuth6mir's halls, and saw 45
his daughter, that beam of hsrht The jov
of the shell1 went round, and the aged hero
gave the fair Her breasts were like foam
on the wave, and her eves like stars of
hcrht: her hair was dark as the raven's 60
wing- her soul was generous and mild
My love for Moina was great my heart
poured forth in joy 1
"The son of a stranger came; a chief
who loved the white-bosomed Moina His 56
words were mighty in the hall, he often
half -unsheathed his sword. 'Where,' said
» "To •rejoice In the shell' In a Phrase, for Jeaiting
•nmptnouily and drinking freely "—Mtopher-
he, 'is the mighty Comhal, the restless wan-
derer of the heath f Come& he, with his
host, to Balclntha, since Clessammor is
so bold t ' 'My soul, ' I replied, ' 0 warrior f
burns in a light of its own. 1 stand with-
out fear in the midst of thousands, though
the valiant are distant far Stranger*
thy words are mighty, for Clessammor is
alone But my sword trembles by my side,
and longs to glitter in my hand Speak no
more of Comhal, son of the winding
Clutha!'
"The strength of his. pride arose We
fought, he fell beneath my sword. The
banks of Clutha heard his fall , a thousand
spears glittered around 1 fought, the
strangers prevailed I plunged into the
stream of Clutha Mv white sails rose
over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-
blue sea Moina came to the shore, and
rolled the red eye of her tears, her
loose hair flew on the wind, and I heard
her mournful, distant cries Often did 1
turn mv ship, but the winds of the East
prevailed Nor Clutha ever since have I
seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown hair.
She fell in Balclutha, foi I have seen her
ghost I knew her as she came through
the dusky night, alone: the murmur of
Lora* she was like the new moon, seen
through the gathered mist when the sky
pours down its flaky sno\\, and the world
is silent and dark ' '
"Raise, ye bards," said the mighty Fin-
firal, "the praise of unhappy Moina" Call
her ghost, with your songs, to our hills, that
she may rest with the fair of Morven,
the sunbeams of other days, the delight
of heroes of old I have seen the walls of
Balclutha, but they were desolate The
fire had resounded in the halls and the
voice of the people is heard no more The
stream of Clutha was removed from its
place, by the fall of the walls The thistle
shook there its lonely head- the moss
whistled to the wind The fox looked out
from the windows, the rank grass of the
wall waved round its head Desolate is
the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the
house of her fathers. Raise the song of
mourning, O bards! over the laud of
strangers They have but fallen before
us: for one day we must fall Why
dost thou build the hall, son of the winged
days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-
day; yet a few years, and the'blast of the
desert comes; it howls in thy empty court,
and whistles round thy half-worn shield.
And let the blast of the depert come ! we
88
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FORERUNNERS
shall be renowned in our day I The mark
of my arm shall be in battle ; my name in
the aong of bards Raise the song, semi
round the shell* let joy be heard in my
hall When thou, sun of heaven, shalt c
fail! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light'
if thy brightness IB for a season, like
Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams!"
Such was the song of Fingal, in the day
of his joy. His thousand bards leaned 10
forward from their seats, to hear the voice
of the king It was like the music of
harps on the gale of the spring. Lovely
were thy thoughts, O Fingal1 why had
not Ossian the strength of thy soul ? But 1ft
thou standest alone, my father! who can
equal the king of Selma f
The night passed awav in song , morning
returned in joy The mountains shewed
their gray heads; the blue face of ocean »
smiled The white wave is seen tumbling
round the distant rock, a mist rose,
slowly, from the lake. It came in the
figure of an aged man along the silent
plain. Its large limbs did not mo\e in 26
steps ; for a ghost supported it in mid-air.
It came towards Selma 's hall, and dis-
solved in a shower of blood.
The king alone beheld the sight; he
foresaw the death of the people He tt
came in silence to his hall; and took his
father's spear The mail rattled on his
breast The heroes rose around Thev
looked in silence on each other, marking
the e>es of Fingal. They saw battle in 85
hift face • the death of armies on his spear
A thousand shields at once are placed
on their arms, they drew a thousand
swords The hall of Selma brightened
around The clan? of arms ascends The 40
gray dogs howl in their place. No word
is among the mighty chiefs Each marked
the eyes of the king, and half-awromed his
apear
< ' Sons of Morven, ' ' begun the king, ' ' this 46
is no time to fill the shell. The battle
darkens near us; death hovers over the
land. Some ghost, the fnend of Fingal.
has forewarned us of the foe. The sons
of the stranger come from the darkly- so
rolling sea. For, from the water, came
the sign of Morven 's gloomy danger Let
each assume his heavy spear, each gird on
his father's sword. Let the dark helmet
rifle on every head, the mail pour its 66
lightning from every side The battle
gathers like a storm; soon shall ye hear
the roar of death91
The hero moved on before his boat, like
a cloud before a ridge of green fire, when
it pours on the sky oi night, and marines
foresee a fctorm On CODE'S rising heath
they stood the white-bosomed maids be-
held them above like a grove, they fore-
saw the death of the youth, and looked
towards the sea with fear The whit*1
wave deceived them for distant sails, the
tear is on their cheek! The sun rose on
the sea, and ue beheld a distant fleet
Like the mist of ocean they came, and
poured their youth upon the coast The
chief was among them, like the stag in
the midst of the herd. His shield is
studded with gold, stately stiode the king
of spears. He moved towaid Selmu , his
thousands rao\od hehuid
"Go, with a s*mg of peace," said Fingal ,
"go, Ulhn, to the king of swoids Tell
him that we are might} in war, that the
ghosts of our foes are many Hut le-
nowned are they \\lio ha\e i ousted in m\
halls; they show the arm* of my i'atheis
in a foreign land the sons ot the stran»ois
Bonder, and bless the friends ot Monen's
race: for our names June been heard afai
the kings of the uoild shook in the midst
of their host "
Ulhn wont vulh his song Fmual rested
on his spear he sau the mmhU foe in
his armor* he blest the stiangei's son
"How stately ait thou, son oi the sea'"
said the king oi uood.v Morsen "Th\
sword is a beam oi file b\ th\ side tin
spear is a pine that defies the storm
The varied face of the moon is not hioadei
than thy shield Kudd\ is tin fare ot
youth! soft the ringlets of tin him * Hut
tins tree ma\ fall, and his menioi\ be
forgot1 The daughtei of the stiangei
will be sad, looking to the i oiling sea
the children will sa\, 'We see 21 ship,
perhaps it is the kuu* oi Bali hit ha ' The
tear starts from then mothei \ e\e Hei
thoughts are of him \*ho sleeps in Mor-
ven"'
Such uere the words of the king, when
Ulhn came to the mighty Caithon, he
threw down the spear before him, he
raised the song of j>eace "Come to the
feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling
sea! partake of the feast of the km?, or
lift the spear of war1 The ghosts of our
foes are many hut renowned are the
friends of Morven' Behold that field, 0
Carthon f many a green hill rises there,
with mossy stones and rustling grass9
these are the tombs of Fmgal's foes, the
sons of the rolling sea!"
JAMES MACPHBE8ON
89
"Dost thou speak to the weak in arms!"
said Carthon, "bard of the woody Mor-
venf Is my face pale for fear, son of the
peaceful song? Whv, then, dost thou
think to darken my soul with the tales of
those who fell? My arm has fought in
battle, mv renown is known afar Go
to the feeble in arms, bid them yield to
Fingal Have not I seen the fallen Bal-
clutha? And shall I least with Coronal's
son? Comhal, who threw his fire in the
midst of my father's hall? 1 was young,
and knew not the cause, why the virgins
wept The columns of smoke pleased mine
eve, when they rose above mv walls' I
often looked baek with gladness when
mv friends fled along the hill But when
the years of mv vouth came on, T beheld
the moss of my fallen walls. My sigh
arose with the mornmir, and my tears
descended with night 'Shall I not fight/
I said to mv soul, 'against the children of
my foes?' And I will fight, 0 bard* I
ie'el the strength of my soul "
His people gathered round the hero, and
diow at once their shining swords He
stands in the midst, like a pillar of fire,
the tear half-starting from his eye; for
he thought of the fallen Balclutha The
crowded pride of his soul arose. Sidelong
lie looked up to the lull, where our heroes
shone in arms, the spear trembled in his
hand Bending forward, he seemed to
threaten the kins
"Shall V'said Fingal to his soul, "meet,
at once, the youth* Shall I stop him, m
the midst of Ins course, before his fame
sliall arise? But the bard, hereafter, may
say, when he sees the tomb of Carthon,
Fingal took his thousands to battle, be-
fore the noble Carthon fell No bard of
the times to comcf thou shalt not lessen
Kintal's fame Mv heroes will fight the
vouth, and Fingal behold the war If he
overcomes, 1 rush, in my strength, like
the roaring stream of Cona .Who, of mv
chiefs will meet the son of the rolling seat
Many are his warriors on the coast, and
stiong is his ashen sj>earf>'
Cathul rose, in his strength, the son of
the mighty Lorraar: three hundred youths
attend the chief, the race of his native
streams Feeble was his arm against
Carthon- he fell, and his heroes fled.
Connal resumed the battle, but he broke
his heavy spear: he lay bound on the
field: Carthon pursued his people
"Clessfimraor'" said the king of Morven,
"where is the spear of thy strength? Wilt
thou behold Connal bound; thy friend, at
the stream of Loraf Rise, in the light of
thy steel, companion of valiant Comhal!
Let the youth of Balclutha feel the
strength of Morven's race " He rose in
the strength of his steel, shaking his grizzly
locks. He fitted the steel to his side; he
rushed, in the pride of valor
Carthon stood on a rock; he saw the
hero rushing on. He loved the dreadful
joy of his face: his strength, in the locks
of age! "Shall I lift that spear," he said,
"that never strikes, but once, a foe? Or
shall I, with the words of peace, preserve
the warrior's life? Stately are his steps
of age! lovely the remnant of his years!
Perhaps it is the husband of Moina; the
father of car-borne Carthon. Often have
I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream
of Lora."
Such were his words, when Clessam-
mor came, and lifted high his spear. The
vouth received it on his shield, and spoke
the words of peace. "Warrior of the
aged locks! Is there no youth to lift
the spear? Hast thou no son to raise the
shield before his father to meet the arm
of youth? Is the spouse of thy love no
more? or weeps she over the tombs of
thv sons? Art thou of the kings of men9
What will be the fame of my sword
should 'st thou fall?"
"It will be great, thou son of pride '"
begun the tall Cless&mmor. "I have been
renowned in battle; but I never told my
name to a foe.1 Yield to me, son of the
wave, then shalt thou know, that the
mark of my sword is in many a field "
' ' I never yielded, king of spears f ' ' replied
the noble pnde of Carthon: "I have also
fought m war, I behold my future fame.
Despise me not, thou chief of men! my
arm, my spear is strong. Retire among
thy friends; let younger heroes fight"
"Why dost thou wound my soul?" re-
plied Cless&mmor, with a tear. "Age does
not tremble on my hand; I still can lift
the sword. Shall "l fly in Fingal's sight:
in the sight of him I love? Son of the
sea! I never fled- exalt thy pointed
spear "
They fought like two contending winds,
' "To tell one'g name to an enemy wan reckoned.
In theme rtnys of heroiHm, a manifest eraaion of
tor* of the combatants, the battle immediately
ceased, and the ancient amity of their fore-
fstbers was renewed 'A man whd tells his
name to his enemy.* was of old an ignominious
term tor a coward/1 — Macpherson
90
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOREBUNNEBS
that strive to roll the wave. Garthon
bade his spear to err; he still thought
that the foe was the spouse of Moina.
He broke Clessammor's beamy spear in
twain* he seized his shining sword But 5
as Carthon was binding the chief, the
chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He
saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened
there a wound.
Fingal saw Clessammor low he moved 10
in the sound of his steel. The host stood
silent in his presence, they turned their
ejes to the king He came like the sul-
len noise of a storm before the winds
arise • the hunter hears it in the vale, and 16
retires to the cave of the rock. Carthon
stood in his place* the blood is rushing
down his side he saw the coming down
of the king, his hopes of fame arose; but
pale was his cheek his hair flew loose, 20
hib helmet shook on high: the force of
Carthon failed; but his soul was
strong
Fingal beheld the hero'w blood; he at opt
the uplifted spear. "Yield, king of 15
bwords'" said Comhal's son, "I behold"
thy blood. Thou hast been mighty m
battle, and thy fame shall never fade "
"Art thou the king so iar renowned t"
replied tlfe oar-borne Carthon "Art 80
thou that light oi death, that frightens
the kings of the world T But why should
Carthon askf for he is like the stream
of his hills, strong as a nver in his
course, swift as the eagle of heaven O 86
that I had fought with the king, that
my fame might be great in song I that the
hunter, beholding my tomb, might say he
fought with the mighty Fingal. But Car-
thon dies unknown; he has poured out 40
his force on the weak ' '
"But thou shalt not die unknown,"
replied the king of woody Morven: "my
bards are many, O Carthon f Their sonerb
descend to future time*. The children 45
of years to come shall hear the fame of
Carthon, when they sit round the burning
oak, and the night is spent in songs of
old The hunter, sitting in the heath,
shall hear the rustling blast, and, raising 60
his eyes, behold the rock where Carthon
fell. He shall turn to his son, and shew
the place where the mighty fought; 'There
the king of Balclutha fought, like the
strength of a thousand streams.' " 65
Joy rose in Carthon 's face: he lifted
his heavy eyes. He gave his sword to
Fingal, lo he within his hall, that the
memory of Balclutha 's king might remain
in Morven. The battle ceased along the
field, the bard had sung the song of peace.
The chiefs gathered round the falling
Carthon ; they heard his words with sighs.
Silent they leaned on their spears, while
Balclutha £ hero spoke. His hair sighed
in the wind, and his voice was sad and
low.
"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I
fall in the midst of my course. A foreign
tomb receives, in youth, the last of
Reuthamir's race. Darkness dwells in
Balclutha: the shadows of grief in Crath-
mo. But raise my remembrance on the
banks of Lora, where my fathers dwelt.
Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn
over his fallen Carthon " His words
reached the heart of Clessammor he fell
in silence on his son The host stood
darkened around no voice is on the plain.
Night came the moon, from the east,
looked on the mournful field, but still
they stood, like a silent pro\e that lifts
its head on Gonna 1, when the loud winds
are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain
Three days they mourned above Car-
thon; on the fourth his father died. In
the narrow plain of the rock they he; a
dim ghost defends their tomb There
lovely Moina is often seen, when the sun-
beam darts on the rock, and all around
is dark There she is seen. Mahina' but
not like the daughters of the hill Her
robes are from the stranger's land, and
she is still alone !
Fingal was sad for Carthon; he com-
manded his bards to mark the day when
shadowy autumn letunied And often did
they mark the day, and sing the hero's
praise "Who comes so dark from ocean's
roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud f Death
is trembling in his hand1 hut eyes are
flames of fire! Who roars along dark
Lora'b heath f Who but Carthon, kme
of swords! The people fall* see how he
strides, like .the sullen ghost of Morven '
But there he lies, a goodly oak which
Kiidden blasts overturned! When shalt
thou rise, Balclutha 'b jovf When, Cai-
thon, shalt thou arise? Who comes so
dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's
shadowy cloud f" Such were the words
of the bards, in the day of their mourn-
ing: Ossian often joined their voice, and
added to their song My soul has been
mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days
of his youth: and thou, 0 Clessammor 1
uhere is thy dwelling in the windt Has
the youth forgot his wound f Flies he,
JAMES MACPHEBBON
91
on clouds, with theef I feel the sun, 0
Mai vina I leave me. to my rest. Perhaps
they may come to my dreams; I think I
hear a feeble voice* The beam of heaven
delights to shine on the grave of Carthon 5
I feel it warm around !
0 thou that rollest above, round as the
shield of my father*! Whence are thv
beams, 0 sun ' thy everlasting: light f Thou
comest forth, in thy awful beauty, the 10
starb hide them selves in the sk> ; the
moon, cold and pale, sinks m the western
wave; but thou thyself movest alone
Who can be a companion of thy course 1
The oaks of the mountains fall the moun- 15
tains themselves decay with years; the
ocean shrinks and prows again the moon
herself is lost in heaven , but thou art for
ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness
of thv course When the world is dark M
with tempests, when thundei rolls and
lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty
from the Howls, and laughest at the stoiiu
Hut to Ossian, thou lookest in \am, lor
he beholds thv beams no more, \vlietliei 26
thy vellow hair flows on the eastern
clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of
the uest Rut thou art, peihaps, like me,
inr a season, thv veais uill have an end
Tliou Khalt bleep in tin clouds, ciueles** 80
of the \oice of the mornmir Exult then,
() sun. in the stioniitli ot thv vouth ' Ape is
daik «nid nnlo\elv. it is like the glimmering
hirht ot the moon, when it shines through
hioken clouds, and the mist is on the hills, 86
the blast oj thp uoith is on the plain, the
tinxeller hlii inks in the midst of his jouinej
OINA MORUL
1760
A POEM
As flies the uneonstant sun, over Lar-
imm'b si assy hill, so pass the tales of
old along my soul by night' When bards
are lemmeil to their place, when harps
are hung in Selma's hall, then conies a 45
\oice to Ossian, and awakes his soul! It
is the voice of years that are gone! they
roll before me with all their deeds • I
seize the tales as they pass, and pour them
forth in song Nor a troubled stream is so
the song of the king, it is like the rising
of music from Lutha of the strings.
Lutlia of many strings, not silent are thy
streamv rocks, when the white hands of
Malvina move upon the harp' Light of the 65
shadowy thought* that fly across my soul,
daughter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not
hear the song? We call back, maid of
Lntha, the jears that have rolled away!
It was in the days of the king, while
yet my locks were young, that I marked
Con-cathlin on high, from ocean's nightly
wave. My course was towards the isle of
Fuarf ed, woody dweller of seas f Fingal had
sent me to the aid of Mal-orchol, lung of
Fuarfed wild : for war was around him, and
our fathers had met at the feast.
In Col-coiled, 1 bound my sails, I sent
my sword to Mal-orchol of shells.1 He
knew the signal of Albion, and his joy
arose. He came from his own high hall,
and seized my hand in grief. "Wh>
comes the race of heroes to a falling
king? Ton-thormod of many spears is
the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo He saw,
and loved my daughter, white-bosomed
Oina-morul He sought, I denied the
maid, for our fathers had been foes. He
cathe with battle to Fuaifed, my people
are rolled away. Why comes the race of
heroes to a falling king? M
"I come not,1' I said, "to look, like a
boy, on the stnte Fmgal remembers Mal-
orchol, and his hall %f or strangers From
his waves, the warrior descended on thy
\ioody isle Thou wert no cloud befoie
him ' Thy feast was spread with songs
For this my swoid shall nse, and thy
foes perhaps mny fail Our friends are
not forgot in their danger, though distant
is our land." '
"Descendant of the daiing Trenmor,
thv words aio like the \oice of Cruth-
loda, when he speaks from his parting
cloud, strong dweller of the skv! Many
ha\e rejoiced at m\ feast, but they all
lia\e forgot Mal-orchol. I ha\e looked
towards all the winds; but no white sails
were seen. But steel resounds in my hall;
and not the joyful shells Come to my
dwelling, race of heroes1 dark-skirted
night is near Hear the voice of songs,
from the maid of Fuarfed wild."
We uent. On the harp arose the white
hands of Oinn-morul. She waked her own
sad tale, from everv trembling string. I
stood m silence; for bright in her locks
was the daughter of many isles! Her
eyes were two stars, looking forward
through a rushing shower The manner
marks them on high, and blesses the lovely
beams. With morning we rushed to battle,
to Tormul's resounding stream- the foe
moved to the sound of Ton-thormod 'a
bossy shield From wing to wing the strife
1 "The andent Scots, a* well as the present High-
landers, drunk in nbell* , hence it In that we ao
often meet In the old poetry with 'chief of
•belli* and 'the ball of •Mb* "— Macpberaon.
EIGHTEENTH CENTOTY FOBEBUNNEBS
was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in tight.
Wide flew his broken steel I seized
the king- in war. I gave his hand, bound
fast with thongs, to MaJ-orchol, the giver
of shells Joy rose at the feast of Fuar- '
fed, for the foe had faded. Ton-thormod
turned his face awav, from Oma-morul of
isles!
"Bun ot ItagaV" \*g\ra ItaVoiAiiA,
''not forgot shalt thou pat* fium me A. 10
light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina-morul of
blow-rolling eyeb. She shall kindle glad-
ness along thy mighty soul Nor unheeded
shall the maid mo\e in Selma, through the
dwellings of kings'" 18
In the hall I lay in night Mine eyes
were half-closed in sleep Soft music
came to mine ear it was like the rising
bree/e, that whirlb, at first, the thistle's
beard, then flies, daik-shadowy, over the 10
grasb It was the maid of Fuarfed wild!
she raised the nightly song, she knew that
my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleas-
ant sounds "Who looks," she said,
"from his rock on ocean's closing mistf 85
His long locks, like the raven's wing, are
wandering on the blast Stately are his
steps in grief f The tears are in his eyes1
His manly bieast is heaving over his
bursting soul' Retire, I am distant far, ao
a wanderer in lands unknown Though
the race of km»s are around me. yet my
soul is dark Why ha\e our fathers been
foes, Ton-thormod, love of maids1"
"Soft voice of the streamy isle." I said, K
"why dost thou mourn by night f The
race of daring Trenmor are not the dark
in soul Thou shalt not wander by
streams unknown, blue-e\ed Oina-morul1
Within this bosom is a voice, it comes not «
to other ears, it bids Ossian hear the
hapless, in their hour of woe Retire, soft
singer by night* Ton-thormod shall not
mourn on his rock!"
With morning I loosed the king. 1 41
gave the long-haired maid Mal-orchol
heard my words in the midst of his echo-
ing halls. "King of Fuarfed wild, why
should Ton-thormod mourn f He is of
the race of heroes, and a flame in war. »
Tour fathers have been foes, but now
their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They
stretch their hands of mist to the same
shell in Loda Forget their rage, ye
warriors! It was the cloud of other 56
years."
Such were the deeds of Ossian, while
yet his locks were young, though loveli-
ness, with a robe of beams, clothed the
daughter of many isles. We call back,
maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled
away I
From FINGAL: AN ANCIENT EPIC
POEM
1762
Cuthulhn bat by Tina's wall, by the ttee
of the rustling bound Ilib spear leaned
against the rock Ilib shield lay on the
grass by his bide. Amid his thoughts ol
mighty Cairbar, a heio slam by the chief
in wai, the scout of ocean comets, Moran
the son ot Fithil '
"Arise," sa>b the youth, "i'utliulhn,
arise. I see the bhiph of the north!
Mam, clnei ot men, are the loe Manv
the heroes oi the sea-borne 8u aran ' ' '
"Moian!" replied the blue-eyed clnei,
"thou ever tremblest, son ot FithiP Thy
fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal,
king of deserts, with aid to green Knn oi
streams" "I beheld their chief," says
Moran, "tall as a glittering rock His
bpear is a blasted pine His shield the
rising moon! He sat on the shore, like
a cloud of mist on the silent hill! Many,
chief of heroes1 I said, many are our
hands of war. Well art thou named, tin-
mighty man, but many mighty men are
seen from Tura 's windy walls ' '
"He spoke, like a wave on a rock. 'Who
in this land appears like me? Heroes
stand not in my presence: they fall to
earth from mv hand. Who can meet
Swaran in fight* Who but Fingal, king
of Selma of storms? Once we wrestled on
Malmor, our heels o\erturned the \voods
Rocks fell from their place; rivulets,
changing their course, fled murmuring
from our side Three days we renewed
the strife; heroes stood at a distance and
trembled. On the fourth, Fingal says that
the king of the ocean fell* but Swaran
says he stood1 Let dark Cuthulhn yield
to him, that is strong as the storms of his
land!"9
"No!" replied the blue-eyed chief, "I
never yield to mortal man* Dark Cuth-
ullin shall be great or dead! Go, son of
Fithil, take my spear. Strike the sounding
shield of Semo It hangs at Tura's rus-
tling gate. The sound of peace is not its
voice f My heroes shall hear and obey "
He went He struck the bossy shield. The
hills, the rocks reply. The sound spreads
along the wood : deer start by the lake of
JAMES MACPHEBSON
roes. Curach leaps from the sounding
rock; and Connal of the bloody spear1
Crugal's breast of snow beats high. The
son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hmcl.
It is the shield of war, said Ronnar! the 5
spear of Cnthullin, said Lugar! Son of
the sea, put on thy arms ! Calmar, lift thy
sounding steel ! Puno1 dreadful hero,
an«c\ Cautoav, from tViy Ted tree o£
Cromla! Bend thy knee, 0 Etli' descend 10
from the streams of Lena, Ca-olt, stretch
thy side as thou movest along the whis-
tling heath of Mora* thy side that is
white as the foam of the troubled sea,
when the dark winds pour it on rocky 16
Cnthon
Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of
their former deeds1 Then souls are kin-
dled at the battles of old , at the actions
of other times. Their eyes are flames of 20
fire They roll in search of the foes of the
land Their mighty hands are on their
swords Lightning pours from their sides
of steel. They come like streams from the
mountains; each rushes roanng from the 2S
hill Bright aie the chiefs oi battle, in
the armor of their fathers Gloomy and
dark their heroes folio*, like the gather-
ing of the rainy clouds behind the red
meteors of heaven The sounds of crash- ao
ing arms ascend The gray dogs howl be-
tween. Unequal bursts the song of battle.
Rocking Cromla echoes round On Lena's
dusky heath they stand, like mist that
shades the hills of autumn • when broken 86
and dark it settles high, and lifts its head
to heaven1
"Hail," saul Cuthullm, "sons of the
narrow vales' hail, hunters of the deer!
Another sport is drawing near. It is like 40
the dark rolling oi that wave on the
coast1 Or shall we tight, >e sons of war!
oi yield green Enn to Lochlmf 0 Connal!
s|>eak, thou first of men ' thou breaker of
the shields' thou hast often fought with 41
Lockhn- wilt thou lift thy father's
spear 1"
"Cuthullm1" calm the chief replied,
"the spear of Connal is keen. It de-
lights to shine in battle, to mis with the 80
blood of thousands But though my hand
is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace
of Erin Behold, thou first in Comae's
war, the sable fleet of Swaran. His masts
are many on our coast, like reeds in the W
lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed
with mists, when the trees yield by turns
to the squally wind. Many are his chiefs
in battle. Connal is for peace! Fingal
would shun his arm, the first of mortal
men! Fingal, who scatters the mighty, as
stormy winds the heath, when streams
roar through echoing Cona and night
settles with all her clouds on the hill!"
"Fly, thou man of peace," said Cal-
uiar, "fly," said the son of Matha, "go,
Connal, to thy silent hills, where the spear
never VmgUteuB in war I Pursue the dark-
brown deer of Cromla: stop with thine
arrows the bounding roes of Lena. But,
blue-eyed son of Semo, Cuthullm, ruler of
the field, scatter thou the sons of Loch-
1m ! roar through the ranks of their pride
Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow
bound on the dark-rolling waves of Inis-
toie. Rise, ye dark winds of Enn, nse!
toar, whirlwinds of Lara of hinds' Amid
the tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud,
by angry ghosts of men, amid the tem-
pest let Calmai die, if ever chase was
sport to him, so much as the battle of
shields!"
"Calmar'" Connal slow replied, "I
never fled, young son of Matha r I was
swift with my friends in fight, but small
is the fame of Connal' The battle was
won in rav presence, the \ahant over-
came1 Hut, son of Semo, hear my voice,
regard the ancient throne of Cormac.
Give wealth and half the land for peace,
till Fingal shall arrive on our coast Or,
if war be thy choice, I lift the sword and
spear My joy shall be in the midst of
thousands, my soul shall lighten through
the gloom of the fight »"
"To me," Cuthulhn replies, "pleasant
is the noise of arms' pleasant as the
thunder of hea\en, before the shower of
spring* But gather all the shining tribes,
that I may view the sons of war1 tat
them pass along the heath, bright as the
sunshine before a storm, when the west
Hind collects the clouds, and Morxen
echoes o\er all her oaks' But where nre
my f i lends in bat tie f the supporters of
my arm in danger Y Where art thou, wJiite-
bosomed CathbaT Where is that cloud in
war, Duchomar? Hast thou left me, 0
Fergus9 in the dav of the storm? Fergus,
first in our joy at the feast f son of Rossat
arm of death ! comest thou like a roe from
Malmorf like a hart from thy echoing
lulls f Hail, thou son of Ros'sa' what
shades the soul of wart"
"Four stones," replied the chief, "nse
on the grave of Cftthba. These hands have
laid in earth Duchdmar, that cloud in war I
Cathba, son of Torman ! thou wert a sun-
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEEUNNEBS
beam in Erin And them, O valiant Duch-
oinar! a mist of the marshy Lano, when
it moves on the plains of autumn, bearing
the death of thousands along Moma!
fairest of maids! calm is thy sleep in the 5
cave of the rock! Thou hast fallen in
darkness, like a star that shoots across the
desert, when the traveller is alone, and
mourns the transient beam!"
"Say," said Semo's blue-eyed son, 10
"say how fell the chiefs of Enn Fell
they by the sons of Loclihn, striving in
the battle of heroes? Or what confines
the strong in arms to the dark and narrow
house*" *
"Cathba," icplied the hero, "fell by
the sword of Duchomar at the oak of the
noisy streams Duchomar came to Tura's
cave, lie spoke to the lovely Morna
'Morna, fairest among women, lovely »
daughter of strong-armed Cormac' Why
in the circle of stones'* in the cave of
the rock alone* The stream murmurs
along Tlie old tree groans in the wind
The lake is troubled before thee, dark »
are the clouds of the sky* But thou art
snow .on the heath, thy hair is the mist
of fromla, when it curls on the hill,
when it shines to the beam of the west!
Thy breasts are two smooth rocks seen 80
from Branno of streams Thy arms, like
two white pillars in the halls of the great
Fmgal.'
"'From whence,' the fair-haired maid
replied, 'from whence, Duchomar, most «
gloomy of men ? Dark are th\ brows and
temble' Red are thy rolling eyes' Does
Swaraii appear on the sea? What of the
foe, Duchomail'— 'From the hill T return,
O Moma*, from the hill of the dark- 40
brown hinds Three ha\e T slam with my
bended yew Three with mv long-bound-
ing dogs of the chase Tx>vely daughter of
Cormac, I love thee as mv soul' I have
slam one stately deer for thee High was 46
his branchy head, and fleet his feet of
wind '—'Duchomar" calm the maid re-
plied, 'I love thee not, thou gloomy man!
hard is thy heart of rock; dark is thy
terrible brow But Cathba, young son of 80
Torman, thou art the love of Morna Thou
art a sunbeam, in the day of the gloomy
storm Sawest thou the son of Torman,
lovely on the hill of his hinds f Here the
daughter of format* waits the coming of SB
Cithba"
" 'Ldng shall Morna wait,9 Duchdmar
said, 'Ion* shall Morna wait for Cathba!
Behold thin sword unsheathed! Here
wanders the blood of Cathba. Long shall
Morna wait He fell by the stream of
Branno! On Croma I will raise his tomb,
daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Turn
on Duchomar thine e>es, his arm is
strong as a storm ' — ' Is the son of
Torman f alien f said the wildly-bursting
voice of the maid. 'Is he fallen on Ins
echoing hills, the youth with the bieast ot
snowf the first in the chase of hinds T
the foe of the sti angers of ocean T Thou
art dark1 to me, Duchomar, cruel is thine
arm to Morna r (Jive me that sword, my
foe! I love the wandering blood of
Cathba!'
"He gave the sword to her tears. She
pierced Ins manly breast f He fell, like
the bank of a mountain-stream, and
stretching forth his hand, he spoke
'Daughtei of blue-shielded Cormac' Thou
hast slam me in >outh' The sword is
cold in my breast' Morna, I feel it cold
(live me to Moma the maid Duchomar
was the dream of her night' She will
raise mv tomb, the lumtei shall raise in\
fame But draw the sword from m\
breast Moma, the steel is mid1' She
came, in all her tears, she came , she dri'it
the s\\ord from his bieast He pieiced
her ulute side* He spread liei fair locks
on the ground ! Her bursting blood sounds
from her side her white arm is stained
with red Rolling in death she lay The
ca\e re-echoed to her sighs "
"Peace," said Cuthnllin, "to the souls
of the heroes! tlieir deeds were great in
fight Let them ride around me on clouds
l^et them shew their features of war M\
sniil shall then be fiini in dansui . mm**
nun like the thundei of henxcn' But lx»
thou on a moonbeam, 0 Morna f near the
window of mv rest, when ra\ thoughts
are of peace; when the dm of arms is
past Gather the strength of the tribes'
Move to the wars of Enn' Attend the
car of my battles ' Rejoice in the noise of
my course' Place three spears by mv
side, follow the bounding of my steeds'
that my soul may be strong in my ft lends,
\then battle dm kens round the IXMIIIS ol
in V steel'"
As rushes a stream of foam from the
dark shady deep of Cromla, when the
thunder is travelling above, and dark-brown
night sits on half the bill, through the
breaches of the tempest look forth the dim
faces of ghosts So fierce, BO vast, so ter-
to bls
tbe <d*rk
JAMES MACPHEB80N
95
rible. rushed on the sons of Erin. The
chief, like a wtale of ocean, whom all his
billows pursue, poured valor forth as a
stream, rolling his might along the shore
The sons of Loehlin heard the noise, as
the sound of a winter-storm Swaran
struck his bossy shield- he called the son
of Arno, ''What murmur rolls along the
hill, like the gathenng flies of the evef The
sons of Erin descend, or rustling winds
roar in the distant wood ! Such is the noise
of Gormai, before the white tops of my
waves arise. O son of Arno' ascend the
hill; view the dark face of the heath «"
He went. He, trembling, swift returned
His eyes rolled wildly round His heart
beat high against his side. His words were
faltering, broken, slow. "Arise, son o*
ocean, arise, chief of the dark-brown
shields ' I see the dark, the mountain-
stream of battle! the deep-moving strength
of the sons of Enn ' The car of war comes
on, like the flame of death f the rapid car of
Cuthulhn, the noble son of Semo ' It bends
behind like a wave near a rock , like the sun-
streaked mist of the heath Its sides are em-
bossed with stones, and sparkle like the sea
icmiifl the boat of night Of polished \ew
is itb beam , its seat of the smoothest bone
The sides are replenished with speais, the
bottom ib the footstool of heroes' Before
the right side of the car is seen the
snorting horse! the high-maned, broad
breasted, proud, wide-leaping, strong steed
of the hill. Loud and resounding is Ins
hoof, the spreading of his mane above is
hke a stream of smoke on a ridge of rocks
Bright are the sides oi the steed' his
name is Sulm-Sifadda
"Before the left side of the car is seen
the snorting horse1 The thm-maned, hiflfh-
headed, strong-hoofed, fleet, bounding son
of the hill his name ib Dusronnal, amoncr
the stormy sons of the sword ' A thousand
thongs bind the car on high Hard pol-
ished bits shine in a wreath of foam
Thin thongs, bright studded with gems,
bend on the statelv necks of the steeds
The steeds that, like wreaths of mist, fly
over the streamy % ales' The wildness of
deer is in their course, the strength of
eagles descending on the prey Their nowe
is hke the blast of winter, on the sides of
the snow-headed Gormtl
"Within the car is seen the chief; the
strong-armed son of the sword The
hero's name is Cuthulhn, son of Semo,
king of shells.1 Hi* red cheek is like my
* Bee p flt, n 1
polished yew. The look of his blue-rolling
eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of his
brow His hair flies from his head like a
flame, as bending forward he wields
6 the spear. Fly, tang of ocean, fly! He
comes like a storm along the streamy vale ! ' '
"When did I fly!" replied the king
"When fled Swaran from the battle of
spears f When did I shrink from danger,
10 chief of the little soul? I met the storm
of Gormai, when the foam of my waves
beat high I met the storm of the elouds ,
shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were
Finepl himself before me, my soul should
16 not darken with fear Arise to battle, my
thousands' pour round me hke the echo-
ing main Gather round the bright steel
of your king; strong as the rocks of my
land, that meet the storm with joy, and
20 stretch their dark pines to the wind!"
Like autumn's dark storms pouring
fiom two echoing hills, towards each
other approached the heroes Like two
deep streams from high rocks meeting,
26 mixing, roaring on the plain ; loud, rough,
and dark in batjle meet Lochlin and Inis*
fail. Chief mixes his strokes with chief,
and man with man ; steel, clanem?, sounds
on steel Helmets are cleft on high Blood
so bnists and smokes around Stungs mur-
mur on the polished jews Darts rush
along the skv Spears fall like the circles
of light, which gild the face of night. As
the noise of the troubled ocean, when roll
S6 the waves on high, as the last peal of
thunder in heaven, such is the dm of war'
Though rormar's hundred bards ^ere
there to give the fight to sons:; feeble was
the voice of a hundred bards to send the
40 deaths to future times' For many were
the deaths of heioes; wide poured the
blood of the bra\ e '
Mourn, ve Rons of song, mourn the
death of the noble Sithdlhn. Let the siehs
46 of Fiona rise, on the lone plains of her
lo\ely Ardan. They fell, like two hinds
of the desert, bv the hands of the might}
Swaran; when, in the midst of thousands,
he roared, like the shrill spirit of a storm
60 He sits dim on the clouds of the north,
and enjovs the death of the mariner Nor
slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the
isle of mist!1 many were the deaths of
thine arm, Cuthulhn, thou son of Semo!
66 His sword was like the beam of heaven
when it pierces the sons of the vale; when
the people are blasted and fall, and all
• The IMP of Sky, off the comt of Scotland
96
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY POREBUNNERS
the hills are burning around. Dusronnal
snorted over the bodies of heroes. Sifadda
bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay
behind them, as groves overturned on the
desert of Cromla; when the blast has s
passed the heath, laden with the spirits
of night 1
Weep on the rocks of roaring winds,
O maid of Inistore! Bend thy fair head
over the waves, thou lovelier than the 10
ghost of the hills, when it moves in a
sunbeam, at noon, over the silence, of
Morven! He is fallen1 thy youth is low!
pale beneath the sword of Cuthulhn ' No
more shall valor raise thy love to match 1C
the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful
Trenar died, 0 maid of Inistore! His
gray dogs aie howling at home' they see
his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall
unstrung No sound is in the hall of hut ao
hinds f
Ah roll a thousand waves to the rocks,
so Swaran's host came on As meets a
rock a thousand waves, so Erin met
Swaran of spears. Death raises all his »
\oices around, and mixes with the sounds
of shields. Each hero is a pillar of dark-
ness: the sword a beam of fire in his hand
The field echoes from wing to wing, as a
hundred hammers that rise, by turns, on *>
the red son of the furnace. Who are
these on Lena's heath, these so gloomy
and darkf Who are these like two clouds,
and their swords like lightning aboxe
them! The little hills are troubled around, 86
the locks tremble with all their moss. Who
is it but Ocean's son and the car-borne
chief of Erin f Many are the anxious eyes
of their friends, as they see them dim on
the heath But night conceals the chiefs 40
in clouds, and ends the dreadful fight f
It was on Cromla 's shaggy side that
Dorglas had placed the deer; the earlv
fortune of the chase, before the heroes
left the hill A hundred youths collect «
the heath; ten warriors wake the fire,
three hundred choose the polished stones
The feast is smoking wide! Cnthullin,
chief of Erin's war, resumed his mighty
soul. He stood upon his beamy spear, and CO
spoke to the son of songs, to Garni of
other times, the gray-haired son of Km-
fena "Is this feast spread for me alone
and the king of Lochhn on Erin's shore,
far from the deer of his hills, and sound- GS
ing halls of his feasts? Rise, Carril of
other times; carry my words to Swaran
Tell him from the roaring of waters, that
Cnthullin gives his feast. Here let him
listen to the sound of my groves, amidst
the clouds of night, for told and bleak
the blustering winds rush over the foam
of his seas Here let him praise the trem-
bling harp, and hear the songs of heroes ! ' '
Old Carril went, with softest voice He
called the king of dark-brown shields'
"Rue from the skins of thy chase, rise,
Swaran, king b of gio\esf Cuthulhn gnes
the joy of shells Partake the feast of
Erin's blue-eyed chief f" He answered
like the sullen sound ol Cromla before a
storm. "Though nil thy daughters, Ims-
fail! should stretch then amis of snow;
should raise the hea\mgs of their bi easts,
and boftl} roll their e>es ot lo\e, vet.
fixed as Lochhn 's thousand rocks, lieie
Swaran should lemain, till morn, with the
young beams of the east, shall light me to
the death of Cut hull in Pleasant to m\
ear is Lochhn 's wind1 Tt rushes o\er m\
seas! It speaks aloft in all my shrouds,
and brings mv j»reen forests to niv mind
the green forests of Goimal, which often
echoed to my winds, when m\ spear \tiis
red in the chase of the boar Let dark
Cuthulhn jield to me the ancient throne
of Cormac, or Enn's t orients shall show
from their hills the KM! foam of the blood
oi his pride f"
"Sad is the sound of Swaian's voice,"
said Can il of other tunes ! ' ' Sad to him-
self alone/' suid the hlue-e>ed son of
Semo \"But, Carril, raise the \oice on
high, tell the deeds ot other times S*nd
thou the night auav in son*;, and gi\e
the joy of grief For manv heroes and
maids of love, hate nin\ed on Ims-fail,
and lovely aie the songs of woe that are
heaid in Albion's lurks, when the now
of the chase is past, and the streams
of Coma answei to the \oioo of
Ossian "
"In other days," Carnl replies, "earao
the sons of Ocean to Kim, a thousand
vessels bounded on \vaves to Dim's lo\ol\
plains. The sons of Inis-fail arose to
meet the race of dark-brown shields
Cairbar, first of men, was there, and
Grudar, stately youth* Long had the\
strove for the spotted bull, that lowed
on Oolbun 's echoing heath Each claimed
him as his own Death was often at the
point of their steel' Side by side the
heroes fought; the strangers of Ocean
fled Whose name was fairer on the hill,
than the name of Cairhar and Orudar1
But ah ! why ever lowed the bull, on Ool-
bun *B echoing Ipatli Thev Raw him leap-
BIGHABD HUBD
97
ing like snow. The wrath of the chiefs
returned !
* 'On Lubar's grassy banks they fought;
Grudar fell in Ins blood Fierce Cairbar
came to the vale, where Brassolis, fairest I
of his sisters, all alone, raised the song
of grief She sung of the actions of
Grudar, the youth of her secret soulf
She mourned him in the field of blood,
but still she hoped for his return Her 10
white bosom is seen from her robe, as
the moon from the clouds of night, when
its edge heaves white on the view, from the
darkness which covers its orb Her voice
was softer than the harp to raise the song 16
of grief Her soul was fixed on Grudar
The secret look of her eye was his 'When
shalt thou come in thine arms, thou mighty
in the war? '
"'Take, Brassolis,1 Cairbar came and »
said, Hake, Brassolis, this shield of blood
Fix it on high within my hall, the armor
of my foe'' Her soft heart beat against
her side Distracted, pale, she flew She
found liei youth in all Ins blood , she died 26
on (Vonila's heath Here rests their dust,
Cutlnillin1 these lonely \ews sprung from
their tombs, and shade them from the
storm Fair was Brassohs on the plain'
Statelv \vas Grudar on the hilM The W
bard shall preserve their names, and send
them down to future times'"
11 Pleasant is thy voice. O Carril," said
the blue-e\ed chief of Eiin "Pleasant
are the words of other times' They are as
like the calm shower of spring, when the
bim looks on the field, and the light cloud
flies over the hills O strike the harp
in praise of my lo\e, the lonely sun-
beam of Dunscaith ' Strike the harp 40
in the praise of Biagola, she that I left
in the isle ot mist, the spouse of Semo's
son' Dost thou raise thy iair face from
the rock to find the sails of Cuthulhn*
The sea is rolling distant far, its white 45
foam deceives thee for my sails Retire,
for it is night, my love, the dark winds
sing in thy hair Retire to the halls of my
feasts, think of the times that are past I
will not retut n till the storm of war IB ceased 80
0 Connal ' speak of war and arms, and send
her from my mind Lovely with her flow-
ing hair is the white-bosomed daughter of
Sorglan "
Connal, slow to speak, replied, "Guard H
against the race of Ocean. Send thy
troop of night abroad, and watch the
strength of Swaran Cuthullm' I am
for peace till the race of Selma come.
till Fingal come, the first of men, and
beam, like the sun, on our fields!" The
hero struck the shield of alarms, the war-
riors of the night moved on! The rest
lay in the heath of the deer, and slept
beneath the dusky wind The ghosts of
the lately dead were near,1 and swam on
the gloomy clouds. And far distant, in the
dark silence of Lena, the feeble voices of
death weie faintly heard
RICHARD KURD (1720-1808)
From LETTERS ON CHIVALRY AND
ROMANCE
1762 1702
LETTER I
The ages we call barbarous present ua
with many a subject of curious specula-
tion What, for instance, is more re-
markable than the Gothic chivalry t or
than the spirit of romance, which took
its rise from that singular institution f
Nothing in human nature, my dear
friend, is without its reasons. The modes
and fashions of different times may ap-
pear, at first sight, fantastic and unac-
countable But they who look nearly into
them discover some latent cause of their
production.
Nature once known, no prodigies remain,1
as sings our philosophical bard; but to
come at this knowledge is the difficulty
Sometimes a close attention to the work-
ings of the human mind is sufficient to
lead us to it Sometimes more than that,
the diligent observation of what passed
without us, is necessary.
This last I take to be the case here
The prodigies2 we are now contemplating
had their origin in the barbarous ages
Why, then, says the fastidious modern,
look any farther for the reason? Whv
not resolve them at once into the usual
caprice and absurdity of barbarians?
This, you see, is a short and commodious
philosophy Yet barbarians have their
own, such as it is, if the\ are not en-
lightened by our reason. Shall we then
condemn them unheard, or will it not be
fair to let them have the telling of then
own story f
Would we know from what causes the
1 "It was lone the opinion of the ancient Scot*
that a ghost was heard shrieking near the place
where a death* was to happen soon after *-
Macpherson
• Pope, Moral Essay*, Epistle 1, 808
8 Mode* and faohlons of medieval chivalry
98
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBS
institution of chivalry was derived f The
time of its birth, the situation of the
barbarians, amongst whom it arose, must
be considered Their wants, designs, and
policies must be explored. We must in-
quire when and where and how it came
to pass that the western world became
familiarized to this prodigy, which we
now start at.
Another thing is full as remarkable,
and concerns us more nearly The spirit
of chivalry was a fire which soon spent
itself; but that of romance, which uas
kindled at it, burnt long, and continued
its light and heat even to the politer ages.
The greatest geniuses of our own and
foreign countries, such as Ariosto and
Tasso in Italy, and Spenser and Milton
in England, were seduced by these bar-
barities of their forefathers, were even
charmed by the Gothic romances.1 Was
this caprice and absurdity in them? Or,
may there not be something in the Gothie
romance peculiarly suited to the views of
a genius, and to the ends of poetrv9
And may not the philosophic moderns
have gone too far, in their perpetual ridi-
cule and contempt of it?
To form a judgment m the case, the
rise, progress, and genius of Gothic chu-
nky must be explained
The circumstances in the Gothie fictions
and manners, which aie proper to the
ends of poetry (if any such theie be)
must be pointed out.
Reasons for the decline and rejection
of the Gothic taste in later times must be
given.
You have in these particulars both the
subject and the plan of the following
Letters.
LETTER VI
Let it be no surprise to yon that, in
the close of my last Letter, I presumed to
bring; the Gurusalemme Liberate into com-
petition with the Ihad
So far as the heroic and Gothic man-
ners are the same, the pictures of each,
if well taken, must be equally entertain-
ing But I go further, and maintain that
the circumstances m which they differ
are clearly to the advantage of the Gothic
designers.
Tou see, my purpose is to lead yon from
this forgotten chivalry to a more amusing
snbiect, I mean the poetry we still read,
and which was founded upon it.
'Medieval romances of chivalry
Much has been said, and with great
truth, of the felicity of Homer's age,
for poetical manners But as Homer was
a citizen of the world, when he had seen
5 in Greece, on the one hand, the manners
he has described, could he, on the other
hand, have seen in the west the manners
of the feudal ages, I make no doubt but
he would certainly have preferred the lat-
10 ter And the grounds of this preference
would, I suppose, have been the improved
gallantry of the feudal times and the
superior solemnity of their superstitions.
If any great poet, like Homer, had lived
u amongst, and sung of, the Gothic knights
(for after all, Spenser and Tasso came
too late, and it was impossible for them
to paint truly and perfectly what was no
longer seen or believed) this preference,
20 I persuade myself, had been very sensible
But their fortune was not so happy
— -omneq lllacrymahlles
T'recntur, iRiiotiqup longA
Nocte, carent quia vate aacro *
25 As it is, we may take a guess of \\hat
the subject was capable oi affording to
real genius from the rude sketches we
ha\e of it in the old romancers And it
is but lookmsr into anv of them to be con-
80 \iiiecd that the galhintn uhich inspirited
the feudal times uas of a nature to fur-
nish the poet with finer scenes and sub-
jects of description m every view, than
the simple and uncontrolled* barbarity of
85 the Grecian.
The principal entertainment ansing
from the delineation of these consists in
the exercise of the boisteious passions,
which are provoked and kept alive from
40 one end of the Iliad to the othei, by every
imaginable scene oi rage, revenge, ami
slaughter. In the other, together with
these, the gentler and more humane affec-
tions are awakened in us by the most
46 interesting displays of lo\e and friend-
ship; of love, elevated to its noblest
heights; and of friendship, operating on
the purest motives. The mere variety of
these paintings is a relief to the reader,
fio as well as writer. But their beauty, nov-
elty, and pathos give them a vast advan-
tage on the comparison
Consider, withal, the surprises, acci-
dents, adventures which probablv and
56 naturally attend on the life of wandering
knights; the occasion there must be for
'All are overwhelmed with the long night of
death, unwept and unknown becaimc the* lack
a nacrod hard —Horace, Ode*, IV, 0, 26 ff
BICHABD HUJEKD
99
describing the wonders of different coun-
tries, and of presenting to view the man-
ners and policies of distant states: all
which make so conspicuous a part of the
materials of the greater poetry.
So that, on the whole, though the spirit,
passions, rapine, and violence of the two
sets of raannerb were equal, yet there was
a dignity, a magnificence, a variety in the
feudal, which the other wanted
As to religious machinery, perhaps the
popular system of each was equally remote
from reason, yet the latter had something
in it more amusing, as well as more
awakening to the imagination
The current popular tales of elves and
fames were even fitter to take the ciedu-
lous mind, and charm it into a willing
admiration of the specious miracles, which
wayward fancy delights in, than those of
the old traditionary rabble of pagan divin-
ities And then, for the more solemn
fancies of witchcraft and incantation, the
horrors of the Gothic viere above measure
striking nnil terrible The mummeries of
the pagan priests were childish, but the
(iuthic enchant PIS shook and alarmed all
nature
We feel this difference verv sensibly in
readmit the ancient and modern poets
^ on would not compaie the Canulm of
Hoi nee uith the Witches in Macbeth And
what aie Viuril's mvrtles dropping blood,1
lo Tasso'x enchanted forest I2
O\ id indeed, who had a fancv turned to
romance, makes Medea, in a rant, talk
But A\as this the common lan-
of their other wntersf The en-
chant i ess in Ynt*il savs coolK of the veiv
<'lne1est prodigies of her charms and
]M>isons.
Ill** ego sippe liiniim fieri. & se condere s\l\is
Mu'rin sippe iiiumim (nils e\< ire sepulchris
\tqur sntns nho vldi traducere messes"
The admirable poet has ariven an air of 45
the marvellous to his subject, by the magic
of his expression ENe, \\hat do we find
here, but the onlmar\ effects of melan-
choly, the Mileai superstition of evoking
spirits, and the supposed influence of 50
fascination on the hopes of rural in-
dustry.
1 finHd, 3, 21 ff seen him call forth
• Jewttatem DrHrmvf, souls from the
11, st 41 ff depths of the tomb,
•Often I have (teen and I ha\e seen him
Moeris become a remove PI ops from
wolf, and hide him- one place to an-
self In the foreflt, o t h e r — Eclogue*,
and often T h a v e 8, 97 ff
Non latbic obliquo oculo mini commoda quisquam
Llmat1 . . .
says the poet of his country-seat, as if
this security from a fascinating eye were
6 a bingular privilege, and the mark of a
more than common good fortune
Shakespear, on the other hand, with a
'terrible sublime (which not so much the
energy of his genius, as the nature of his
10 subject drew from him) gives us another
idea of the rough magic, as he calls it, of
fairy enchantment.
I have bedlmm'd
The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
«_ \nd *twlxt the Kieon s<u and the n/uie vault
1* Set roarintr *ar to the dreud tattling thunder
Have I giv'n fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt The strong-bag'd promontory
Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar Gra\e«, at my command,
Have opend, and lot forth their sleepers*
20 The last circumstance, you will say, is
but the animas imis excire sepulchris* of
the Latin poet. But a very significant word
marks the difference The pagan necro-
mancers had a hundred little tricks bv
25 which they pretended to call up the ghosts,
or shadows of the dead, but these, in the
ideas of paganism, were quite another
thins? from Shakespear 's sleepers
This may serve for a cast of Shake-
ao spear's magic And I can't but think
that, when Milton \\anted to paint the
horrors of that night (one of the noblest
parts in his Paiadt^e Regained) which the
Devil himself is feisjned to conjure up in
85 the wilderness, the Gothic language and
ideas helped him to work up his tempest
with such terror You will iiulere from
these lines
Nor staid the terror there
4! Infernal ghosts and hi Dish furies round
w Environ d thee , some how Id, swie vell'd, some
shriek'd,
Some hent at thee their flci\ dints'
But above all from the following.
Thus pnssM the nlcht so foul till morning fair
Cam* forth with pi IB rim Bteps in amice1 gray,
Who with her t'ldmnt flntiet still d the roar
Of thunder, (havd the clouds, and laid the vtlndft
Vnd 0» irsly *;m /< r« •
Where the radiant fmoer points at the
potent wand of the Gothic magicians,
winch could reduce the calm of nature,
upon occasion, as well as disturb it; and
the gnetly specter laid by the approach
1 No one here lessens, ' Virgil, quoted above
with an envlou* • Paraditc Regained, 4,
look, in\ ad\an- 421 ff
tagck — Horace, • A kind of hooded
Kptoftai, 1. 14, 27 cloak lined with for
8 The Tempe*t, V, 1, • Paradtte Regained, 4,
41 ff 426 ff
100
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
of morn, were apparently of their raising,
as a sagacious critic perceived when he
took notice "how very injudicious it was
to retail the popular superstition in this
place." 6
After all, the conclusion is not to be
drawn so much from particular passages,
as from the general impression left on our
minds in reading the ancient and modern
poets And this is so much in favor of 10
the latter that Mr Addison scruples not
to say, "The ancients have not much of
this poetry among them, for, indeed,
almost the whole substance of it ones its
original to the darkness and superstition 16
of later ages— Our forefathers looked upon
nature with more reverence and horroi,
before the world was enlightened by learn-
ing and philosophy, and loved to astonish
themselves with the apprehensions of so
Witchcraft, Prodigies, Charms, and In-
chantments. There was not a village in
England, that had not a Ghost in it; the
churchyards were all haunted , e\ery large
common had a circle of fairies belonging 86
to it, and theie was scarce a Shepheid
to be met with who had not been a spirit "
We are upon enchanted ground, my
friend; and vou are to think yourself
well used that I detain YOU no longer in »
this fearful circle The glimpse you have
had of it will help voui imagination to
conceive the rest And without more
words you will readily apprehend that the
fancies of our modern bards are not only *
more gallant, but, on a change of tlie
scene, more sublime, more terrible, more
alarming, than those of the classic fablers
Tn a word, you will find that the manners
they paint, and the superstitions they 40
adopt, are the more poetical for being
Gothic
HORACE WALPOLE (1717-1797)
From THE CASTLE OP OTBANTO tf
1764
CHAPTER I
Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one
son and one daughter The latter, a most 60
beautiful virgin aged eighteen, was called
Matilda Conrad, the son, was three years
younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no
promising disposition, yet he was the
darling of his father, who never showed 66
any symptoms of affection to Matilda.
Manfred had contracted a marriage for
his son with the Marquis of Vicenza's
daughter, Isabella, and she had already
been delivered by her guardians into the
hands of Manfred that he might celebrate
the wedding as soon as Conrad's mtirin
state of health would permit Manfred's
impatience for tins ceremonial was re-
marked by his family and neighbors The
former indeed, apprehending the severity
of their Prince's disposition, did not dare
to utter their surmises on this precipita-
tion. Hippohta, his wife, an amiable lady,
did sometimes venture to represent the
danger of marrying their only son so early,
considering his great youth and greater
infirmities, but she nevei received any
other answer than reflections on her own
sterility, who had given him but one heir
His tenants and subjects were less cau-
tious in their discourses They attributed
this hasty wedding to the Prince's dread
of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy,
which was said to have pronounced that
the castle and lordship of Otranto should
pass from the present family whene\ er the
real owner should be grown too large to
inhabit it. It was diitioult to make any
seribe of this prophecy , and still less easy
to conceive what it had to do with the
marriage in question Yet these mvstenes
or contradictions did not make the popu-
lace adhere the less to their opinion
Young Conrad's birthda> was fixed foi
his espousals The company was assembled
in the chapel of the castle, and everything
ready for beginning the divine office, when
Conrad himself was missing Manfred,
impatient of the least delay, and who had
not observed his son retire, dispatched one
of his attendants to summon the vouii£
prince. The servant, who had not staid
lone: enough to have crossed the court to
Conrad's apartment, came running back
breathless, in a frantic manner, his eves
staring, and foaming at the mouth He
said nothing, but pointed to the court
The company were struck with terror and
amazement. The Princess Hippohta, with-
out knowing what was the matter, but
anxious for her son, swooned away Man-
fred, less apprehensive than enraged at
the procrastination of the nuptials, and
at the folly of his domestic, asked im-
periously what was the matter The follow
made no answer, but continued pointing
towards the court-yard ; and at last, after
repeated questions put to him, cned out,
"Oh' the helmet' the helmet'" In the
meantime, some of the company had run
into the court, from whence was heard a
confused noise of shrieks, horror, and sur-
HOBAOE WALPOLE
101
prise. Manfred, who began to be alarmed
at not seeing his son, went himself to
get information of what occasioned this
iatrange confusion. Matilda remained en-
deavoring to assist her mother, and Isa- 6
bella staid for the same purpose and to
avoid showing any impatience for the
bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had
conceived little affection
The first thing that struck Manfred *b 10
e>eb was a group of his servants endea\ or-
ing to raise something that appeared to
him a mountain of sable plumes He gazed
without believing his sight "What are
ye doing f" cried Manfred, wrathfully 16
"Where is my sonf" A volley of voices
replied, "Ohf my lord1 the prince1 the
prince * the helmet ' the helmet ' ' ' Shocked
with these lamentable sounds, and dread-
ing he knew not w hat, he advanced hastily, 20
but with a bight for a father's eyes' He
beheld his child dashed to pieces and
almost buried under an enormous helmet,
an hundred times more large than anv
casque ever made for human being, and 25
shaded with a proportionable quantity oi
black feathers.
The horror of the spectacle, the igno-
rance of all around how this misfortune
had happened, and above all, the tremen- ao
dons phenomenon before him, took a wax
the Prince's s|>eech Yet his silence lasted
longer than e\cn grief could occasion He
fixed his eves on what he wished in >am
to behe\e a vision, and seemed less at ton- 86
tne to his loss than buried in meditation
on the stupendous object that had occa-
sioned it He touched, he examined the
fatal casque, nor could even the bleeding
mangled remains of the voung Prince 40
divert the e\es ot Manfred from the por-
tent before him All who had known his
iwrtial fondness for young Conrad were as
much sui prised at their Prince's insensi-
bility, as thunder-struck themsehes at the 46
miracle of the helmet They con vexed the
disfigured corpse into the hall, without
iecei\ing the least direction from Man-
fred As little \tas he attentive to the
ladies *ho remained in the chapel On 60
the contrary, without mentioning the un-
happy princesses, his wife and daughter,
the first sounds that dropped from Man-
fred's lips were, "Take care of the Lady
Isabella" 66
The domestics, without observing the
singularity of this direction, were guided
by their affection to their mistress to con-
sider it as peculiarly addressed to her
situation, and flew to her assistance. They
conveyed her to her chamber more dead
than alive, and indifferent to all the
strange circumstances she heard except
the death of her son. Matilda, who doted
on her mother, smothered her own grief
and amazement, and thought of nothing
but assisting and comforting her afflicted
parents Isabella, who had been treated
by Hippohta like a daughter, and who
returned that tenderness with equal duty
and affection, was scarce less assiduous
about the Pimcess, at the same time en-
deavoring to partake and lessen the weight
of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove
to suppress, for whom she had conceived
the warmest sympathy of friendship Yet
her own situation could not help finding
its place in her thoughts She felt no
concern for the death of young Conrad,
except commiseration, and she was not
sorrv to be delivered from a marriage
ulncli had promised her little felicity
either from her destined bridegroom or
1mm the seveie temper of Manfred, who,
thoupli he had distinguished her by great
indulgence, had imprinted her mind with
terror, from his causeless rigor to such
amiable princesses as Hippohta and
Matilda
While the ladies were conveying the
wretched mother to her bed, Manfred re-
mained in the court, pazmp on the ominous
casque, and regardless of the crowd which
the stranqeness oi the e\ent had now
assembled around him The lew words he
articulated tended solelv to inquiries
whether any man knew from whence it
could luue come Nobody could give him
the least information However, as it
seemed to be the sole object of his cunos-
itv, it soon became so to the rest of the
spectators, whose conjectures were as ab-
surd and improbable as the catastrophe
itself was unprecedented In the midst of
their senseless guesses, a voiincr peasant,
whom rumor had draun thither from a
neighboring Milage, observed that the
miraculous helmet was exacth like that
on the figuie in black marble of Alfonso
the Good, one of their former pnnces m
the church of St Nicholas "Villain*
What sayest thoul" cned Manfred, start-
ing from his trance in a tempest of raee,
and seizing the vonng man by the collar
How darest thou utter such treason?
Thv life shall pav for it " The specta-
tors, who as little comprehended the cause
of the Prince's fury as all the rest they
102
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEBUNNEB8
had seen, were at a loss to unravel this
new circumstance. The young peasant
himself was still more astonished, not con-
ceiving how he had offended the Prince;
yet recollecting himself, with a mixture of 6
grace and humility, he disengaged himself
from Manfred's gripe, and then with an
obeisance which discovered more jealousy
of innocence than dismay, he asked, with
respect, of what he was guilty Manfred, 10
more em aged at the \igor, however de-
cently exerted, with which the young man
had shaken off his hold, than appeased bv
his submission, ordered his attendants to
seize him, and if he had not been with- 16
held by his friends, whom he had invited
to the nuptials, would have poignarded the
peasant in their arms
During this altercation, some oi the
vulgar spectator* had run to the great 20
church, which btood near tlie castle, and
came back open-mouthed, declaring that
the helmet was missinu from Alfonso's
statue Manfred, at tins ne\\s, anew per-
iecth frantic, and, as it he sought a 25
subject on which to \ent the tem|>est
w ithm him, lie rushed again on the young
peasant crvine, "Villain* Monster* Sor-
cerer* 'Tis thou hast done this* 'Tis
thou hast slain m\ son*M The mob, who 80
wanted some object witlnn the sco)>e of
thoir capacities on whom thev might dis-
charge their bewildered reasonings, caught
the noids tiom the mouth ot their lord
and reechoed, "Ay, a\ , 'tis he, 'tis he, 86
he has stolen the helmet from good AH on-
set's tomb and dashed out the brains of our
\oung Prince with it," never reflecting
ho* enormous the disproportion was be-
tween the marble helmet that had been in 40
the church and that of steel before their
eves, nor how impossible it was for a
\outh, seeramglv not twenty, to wield n
piece of armor of so prodigious a weight
The tollv of these ejaculations brought 46
Manfred to lumseli Vet whether pio-
\oked at the peasant having obseived the
lesemblance between the two helmets, and
thereby led to the farther disco\erv of the
absence of that in the church, or wishing 80
to bury any fresh rumors under so imper-
tinent a supposition, he gravely pro-
nounced that the young man was certainlv
a necromancer, and that till the church
could take cognizance of the affair, he 66
would have the magician, whom they had
thus detected, kept prisoner under the
helmet itself, which he ordered his attend-
ants to raise and place the young man
under it, declaring he should be kept there
without food, with which his own infernal
art might furnish him
It was in vain for the youth to represent
against this preposterous sentence In
vain did Manfred's friends endeavoi to
divert him from this savage and ill-
grounded resolution The generality were
charmed with their lord 's decision, 'which,
to their apprehensions, carried great ap-
pearance of justice, as the magician was
to be punished by the very instrument
with which he had offended Nor were
thev struck with the least compunction at
the probability of the youth being starved,
for thev firmly believed that bv his dia-
bolic skill he could easily supply himself
with nutriment
Manfred thus saw his commands even
cheerfullv obeyed, and apjMiintmg a sruanl
with strict orders to pre\ent anv food
being conveved to the pnsoner, lie dis-
missed Ins 1 1 tends and attendants, and
let ned to his own ciiambei atter lockinir
the gates of the castle, in which he
suffered none but his domestics to remain
In the meant i me, the <aic and /eal oL
the vounsr ladies had brought the Princess
Uippolita to heiseli. \\lio amidst the trans-
ports ol her own sorrow tieqiientlv de-
manded news of hei loid. would have dis-
missed her attendants to watch o\ei him,
and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her
and visit and comf'oit hei tathei Matilda,
who wanted no affectionate diitv to Man-
fred though she tiembled at his austentv,
obeved the orders ot Hippolata, whom she
tenderlv recommended to Isabella, and
enquiring of the domestics i'oi her lather,
was informed that he was retired to his
chamber and had commanded that nobody
should have admittance to him Conclud-
ing that he was immersed in sonow ior
the death of her brother, and fearing to
lenew his tears bv the sight ot his sole
lemainmg child, she hesitated whether she
should break in upon his affliction Yet,
solicitude for him, backed bv the com-
mands of her mother, encouraged hei to
ventuie tnsobeving the orders he had
given, a fault she had never been guiltv
of before The gentle timidity of her
nature made her pause for some minutes
at the door She heard him traverse his
chamber backwards and forwards with dis-
ordered steps, a mood which increased her
apprehensions. She was, however, just
gome to beg admittance when Manfred
suddenly opened his door, and as it was
HOBACE WALPOLE
108
now twilight, concurring with the disorder
of his mind, he did not distinguish the
person, but asked angrily who it was
Matilda replied trembling, "My dearest
father, it is I, your daughter " Manfred
stepping back hastily, cried, "Begone' I
do not want a daughter," and flinging
back abruptly, clapped the door against
the terrified Matilda
She was too well acquainted with her
father's impetuosity to venture a second
intrusion When she had a little recovered
the shock of so bitter a reception, sho
wiped away her tears to prevent the addi-
tional stab that the knowledge of it would
give to Hippohta, who questioned her in
the most anxious terms on the health of!
Manfred and how he bore his loss Ma-
tilda assured hei he was well and sup-
ported Ins misfortune with manly forti-
tude "But will he not let me see him?"
said Hippohta mournftillv, "will he not
permit me to blend mv tears with Ins and
shed a mother's sorrows in the bosom of
her lord? Or do von deceive me, Matilda 9
I know how Manfred doted on his son Is
not the stioke too hea\v for him? Has
he not sunk under it * Yon do not answer
me Alas' 1 dread the woist' Kaise mo,
mv maidens, I will, T viill see m\ lord
Bear me to Inm instunth He is deaiei
to me even than mv children " Matilda
made sians to Isabella to prevent Hip-
pohta \ using, and both those loveh
vounc women wore using their gentle vio-
lence to stop and calm the Princess, when
a sen ant. on the part of Manfred, armed
and told Isabella that his lord demanded
to speak with her
"With me'" cued Isabella "Oo'"
said Hippohta, leheved bv a message from
her lord, "Manfied cannot support the
sight of his own familv He thinks von
less d i«oidered than we are, and dreads
the shock of mv grief Console him, deai
Isabella, and tell him 1 will smother mv
own anguish rather than add to his "
As it was no* evening, the servant who
conducted Isabella bore a torch before hei
When they came to Manfred, who was
walking impatientlv about the gallery, he
started and said hastilv "Take awav
that light, and begone'" Then shutting
the door impetuouslv, he flnng himself
upon a bench against the wall, and bade
Isabella sit bv him She obeved trembling
"I sent for vou ladv," said he, and then
stopped under great appearance of con-
fusion. "My lord"' "Yes, I sent for
>ou on a matter of great moment," re-
sumed he. "Dry your tears, young lady.
You have lost your bridegroom Yes, cruel
fate! and I have lost the hopes of my
6 race ' But Conrad was not worthy of your
beauty." "How' my lord," said Isa-
bella "Sure you do not suspect me of
not feeling the concern I ought1 My
duty and affection would have always"—
10 "Think no more of him," interrupted
Manfred; "he was a sickly puny child;
and heaven has perhaps taken him away
that I might not trust the honors of my
house on so frail a foundation The line
is of Manfred calls for numerous supports.
My foolish fondness for that boy blinded
the eyes of my prudence , but it is better
as it is I hope in a few years to have
reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad ' '
20 Words cannot paint the astonishment of
Isabella At first, she apprehended that
grief Lad diROideied Manfred's under-
standing Her next thought suggested
that this strange discourse was designed
25 to ensnare her She feared that Manfred
had perceived her indifference for his son,
and in consequence of that idea she re-
plied "Good nrv lord, do not doubt my
tenderness Mv heart would have accom-
ao panied my hand Conrad would .have
engrossed all mv care , and wherever fate
shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish
his memory, and regard your highness and
the \iituous Hippohta as m\ parents "
85 "Curse on Hippohta'" cried Manfred
"Forget her tiom this moment, as I do
In short, lad\, you have missed a husband
undeserving of vour charms Thev shall
now be better disposed of Instead of a
40 sicklv bov, you shall have a husband in
the prime of his age, who will know how
to value your beauties, and who may ex-
l>ect a numerous offspring " "Alas' mv
lord," said Isabella, "my mind is too
45 sadlv engrossed by the recent catastrophe
in your family to think of another mar-
iiage If ever my father returns, and it
shall be his pleasure, I shall obev, as I did
when I consented to give my hand to your
BO son But until his return,' permit me to
remain under jour hospitable roof, and
employ the melancholv hours in assuaging
vours, Hippohta 's and the fair Matilda's
affliction."
66 "I desired you once before," said Man-
fred, angrilv, "not to name that woman
From this hour she must be a stranger to
you as she must be to me In short.
Isabella, since I cannot give you my son,
104
EIGHTEENTH CBNTUBY FOBEEUNNEBS
I offer you myself " "Heavens!" cried
Isabella, waking from her delusion,
"what do I hear f You1 my lord! you!
my father-in-law! the father of Conrad f
the husband of the virtuous Hippohta1" 6
"I tell you," said Manfred, impexioush,
' ' Hippohta is no longer my wife , I dn oroe
her from this hour. Too long has she
cursed me by her unf ruitf ulness My fate
depends on having sons, and this night 10
I trust will give a new date to my hopes "
At those words he seized the cold hand of
Isabella, who was half dead with fright
and horror She shrieked and started
1'iom him Manfred rose to pursue her. 15
when the moon, which was now up and
gleamed in at the opposite casement, pre-
sented to his sight the plumes of the fatal
helmet, which rose to the height of the
windows, waving backwards and forwards. 20
in a tempestuous manner, and accompa-
nied with a hollow and rustling sound
Isabella, who gathered courage from her
situation, and who dreaded nothing so
much as Manfred's pursuit of Ins declara- 25
tion, cried "Look* my lord See' heaven
itself declares against vour impious m-
tentionb " "Heaven nor hell shall impede
my designs," said Manfred, advancing
again to seize the Princess At that in- »
slant the portrait of his grandfather,
which hung oxer the bench where they
had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh and
heaved its breast. Isabella, whose back
was turned to the picture, saw not the 86
motion, nor knew whence the sound came,
but started, and said "Hark* my lord!
What sound \\as that9" and at the same
time made towards the dooi. Manfred,
distracted between the flight of Isabella, 40
uho had now reached the stairs, and yet
unable to keep his eyes from the picture,
which began to move, had, however, ad-
vanced some steps after her, still looking
backwards on the portrait, when he saw 46
it quit its panel and descend on the floor
with a grave and melancholy air "Do 1
dream9" cried Manfred, returning, "or
are the de\ ils themselves in league against
me* S|)eak, infernal spectre1 Or, if thou so
art my grandsire, why dost thou too con-
spire against thy wretched descendant,
who too dearly pays for— ' ' Ere he could
finish the sentence, the vision sighed again,
and made a sign to Manfred to follow him. 66
"Lead on!" cried Manfred, "I will fol-
low thee to the gulf of perdition " The
spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to
the end of the gallery and turned into a
chamber on the right-hand. Manfred ac-
companied him at a little distance, full of
anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he
would have entered the chamber, the door
was clapped to with violence by an invis-
ible hand. The Prince, collecting courage
irom this delay, would have forcibly burst
open the door with his foot, but found
that it resisted his utmost efforts "Since
hell will not satisfy my curiosity," said
Manfred, "I will use the human means in
my power for preserving my race , Isabella
shall not escape me ' '
That lady, whose resolution had gi\en
way to terror the moment she had quitted
Manfred, continued her flight to the bot-
tom of the principal staiicase There she
stopped, not knowing whither to direct her
steps, nor how to esca]>e from the mipet-
uositv of the Prince The gates of the
castle she kneu were locked, and guaids
placed in the court Should she, as hei
heart prompted her, go and prepare Hip-
pohta for the cruel destiny that audited
her, she did not doubt but Manfred would
seek her there, and that his \ lolence would
incite him to double the mjiii\ he medi-
tated, without lea MUG loom for them to
a\oid the impetuosity of his passions
Delay might gi\e hira tune to reflect on
the horrid measures he had concened, or
produce some circumstance in hoi laxoi if
she could, ior that night at least, a\oid
ins odious purjujse Yet, nhoio conceal
herself? How moid the piiisuit he uould
infallibly make throughout the castle7 As
these thoughts passed rapid! v through her
mind, she recollected a snhtciiuripous pas-
sage which led from the \aults of the
castle to the church oi St Nicholas Could
she reach the altar before she was over-
taken, she knew e\en Manfred's \iolence
would not dare to profane the sacredness
of the place, and she determined, if no
othei means of deliverance offered, to shut
herself up iorcvor among the holy vir-
gins, whose con\ent uas contiguous to the
cathedral In this resolution, she seized
a lamp that burned at the foot of the
staircase, and hurried towards the secret
passage
The lower part of the castle was hol-
lowed into several intricate cloisters, and
it was not easy for one under so much
anxiety to find the door that opened into
the cavern. An awful silence reigned
throughout those subterraneous regions,
except now and then some blasts of wind
that shook the doors she had passed, and
HOBACE WALPOLE
105
which, grating on the rusty hinges, were
reechoed through that long labyrinth of
darkness. Every murmur struck her with
new terror; yet, more she dreaded to hear
the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his
domestics to pursue her. She trod as
softly as impatience would give her leave;
yet frequently stopped and listened to hear
if she was followed. In one of those
moments she thought she heard a sigh.
She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces.
In a moment she thought she heard the
step of some person Her blood cur-
dled* she concluded it was Manfred.
Every suggestion that horror could inspire
rushed into her mind She condemned
her rash flight, which had thus exposed
her to his rage in a place where her cries
were not likely to draw anybody to her
assistance Yet, the sound seemed not to
come from behind,— if Manfred knew
where she was, he must have followed her.
She was still in one of the cloisters, and
the steps she heard were too distinct to
proceed from the way she had come.
Cheered \vith this reflection, and hoping
to find a friend in whoever was not the
Prince, she was going to advance, when a
door that stood ajar at some distance to
the left was opened gently Rut ere her
lamp, which she held up, could discover
who opened it, the person retreated pre-
cipitately on seeing the light
Isabella, whom every incident was suffi-
cient to dismay, hesitated whether she
should proceed Her dread of Manfred
soon outweighed everv other terror The
very circumstance of the person avoiding
her gave her a sort of courage It could
only be, she thought, some domestic be-
longing to the castle Her gentleness had
ne\er raised her an enemy, and conscious
innocence bade her hope that, unless sent
by the Prince's order to seek her, his
servants would rather assist than prevent
her flight Fortifying herself with these
reflections, and believing by what she
could observe that she was near the mouth
of the subterraneous cavern, she ap-
proached the door that had been opened ;
but a sudden gust of wind that met her
at the door extinguished her lamp and left
her in total darkness
Words cannot paint the horror of the
Princess's situation Alone in so dismal
a place, her mind imprinted with all the
terrible events of the day, hopeless of
escaping, expecting every moment the ar-
rival of Manfred, and far from tranquil
on knowing she was within reach of c
body, she knew not whom, who for
some-
some
cause seemed concealed thereabouts,— all
these thoughts crowded on her distracted
mind, and she was ready to sink under her
apprehensions. She addressed herself to
every saint in heaven, and inwardly im-
plored their assistance For a consider-
able time she remained in an agony of
ID despair. At last, as softly as was possible,
she felt for the door, and having found it,
entered trembling into the vault from
whence she had heard the sigh and steps
It gave her a kind of momentary joy to
IB perceive an imperfect ray of clouded moon-
shine gleam from the roof of the vault,
which seemed to be fallen in, and from
whence hung a fragment of earth or build-
ing, she could not distinguish which, that
80 appeared to have been crushed inwards
She advanced eagerly towards this chasm,
when she discerned a human form standing
close against the wall.
She shrieked, believing it the ghost ef
85 her betrothed Conrad The figure advanc-
ing said in a submissive voice: "Be not
alarmed, lady; I will not injure you "
Isabella, a little encouraged by the words
and tone of voice of the stranger, and
ao recollecting that this must be the person
who had opened the door, recovered her
spirits enough to reply: "Sir, whoever
you are, take pity on a wretched princess
standing on the brink of destruction.
85 Assist me to escape from this fatal castle,
or m a few moments I may be made miser-
able forever " ' ' Alas ! " said the stranger,
"what can I do to assist you? I will die
in your defence; but I am unacquainted
40 with the castle, and want-" "Oh*"
said Isabella, hastily interrupting him,
"help me but to find a trap-door that
must be hereabout, and it is the greatest
service you can do me, for I have not a
45 minute to lose " Saying these words, she
felt about on the pavement, and directed
the stranger to search likewise for a
smooth piece of brass inclosed in one of
the stones "That," said she, "is the
60 lock, which opens with a spring, of which
I know the secret If we can find that, I
may escape; if not, alas! courteous
stranger, I fear I shall have involved you
in my misfortunes. Manfred will suspect
B you for the accomplice of my flight, and
you will fall a victim to his resentment "
"I value not my life," said the stranger;
"and it will be some comfort to lose it
in trying to deliver you from his tyranny. "
106
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOREBUNNEB8
"Generous youth," said Isabella, "how
shall I ever requite—" As she uttered
those words, a ray of moonshine stream-
ing through a cranny of the ruin above
shone directly on the lock they sought. 5
"Obi transport!" said Isabella, "here is
the trap-door'" And taking out a key,
she touched the spring, which starting
aside discovered an iron ring "Loft
up the door," said the Princess. The 10
stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared
some stone steps descending into a vault
totally daik "We must go down here,"
said Isabella "Follow me. Dark and
dismal as it is, we cannot miss our way; is
it leads directly to the church of St
Nicholas But perhaps," added the Prin-
cess, modestlv, ">ou have no reason to
leave the castle; nor have I farther occa-
sion for your service In few minutes I 20
shall be safe from Manfred's rage Only
let me know to whom I am so much
obliged " "I will never quit you," said
the stranger eagerly, "until I ha\e placed
you in safety. Nor think me, Princess, 26
more generous than I am. Though you
are my pnncipal care—" The stranger
was interrupted by a sudden noise of
voices that seemed approaching, and they
soon distinguished these words "Talk 80
not to me of necromancers I tell you she
must be in the castle I will find her in
spite of enchantment " "Oh, heavens!"
cried Isabella, "it is the voice of Man-
fred! Make haste or we are ruined! And as
shut the trap-door after you." Saying
this, she descended the steps precipi-
tately, and as the stranger hastened to
follow her he let the door slip out of his
hands. It fell, and the spring closed over 40
it He tried in vain to open it, not having
observed Isabella 's method of touching the
spring; nor had he many moments to
make an essay The noise of the falling
door had been heard by Manfred, who 46
directed by the sound, hastened thither,
attended by his servants with torches
"It must be Isabella," cried Manfred
before he entered the vault; "she is
escaping by the subterraneous passage, but 60
she cannot have* got far." What was the
astonishment of the Prince when, instead
of Isabella, the light of the torches dis-
covered to him the young peasant whom
he thought confined under the fatal hel- 66
met. "Traitor!" said Manfred; "how
earnest thon heref I thought thee in
durance above m the court." "I am no
traitor," replied the young man boldly;
"nor am I answerable for your thoughts."
"Presumptuous villain!" cned Manfred,
"dost thou provoke my wrath f Tell me
How hast thou escaped from above f Thou
hast corrupted thy guards, and their lives
shall answer it " "My poverty," said
the peasant calmly, "will disculpate them.
Though the ministers of a tyrant's wrath,
to thee they are faithful and but too will-
ing to execute the orders which you un-
justly imposed upon them." "Art thou
so liardy as to daie my vengeance?" said
the Prince "But tortures shall force the
truth from thee. Tell me, I will know
thy accomplices. " " There was my accom-
plice," said the youth, smiling, and point-
ing to the roof Manfred ordered the
torches to be held up, and percened that
one of the cheeks of the enchanted casque
had forced its way through tlie pavement
of the court as his servants had let it tall
over the peasant, and had broken through
into the vault, leading a gap through
which the peasant had pressed himself
some minutes before he was found bv
Isabella "Was that the way by which
thou didst descend *" said Manfred "It
was," said the vouth "Hut what noise
was that," said Manfred, "which I heaid
as 1 entered the cloister?" "A door
clapped," said the peasant, "1 heard it
as well as you " "What door*" said
Manfred hastily "I am not acquainted
with \our castle," said the peasant, "this
is the first time I e\er entered it, and this
\ault the onh part of it within which I
e\er was " "Hut I tell thee," said Man-
fred, wishing to find out if the \outh had
discoveied the trap-door, "it was this way
I heard the noise, ray tenants heard it
too—" "M> lord," interiupted one of
them ofllcioufcl>, "to be sure it was the
trap-door, and he was going to make his
escape" " Peace f blockhead," said the
Pnnce angrily; "if he was going to
escape, how should he come on this side0
I will know from his own mouth what
noise it was I heard Tell me truly , tin
life depends on thy veracity." "M\
veracity is dearer to me than my life,"
said the peasant, "nor would I purchase
the one by forfeiting the other." "In-
deed! young philosopher1" said Manfred
contemptuously "Tell me then What
was the noise I heard f" "Ask me what
I can answer," said he; "and put me
to death instantly if I tell you a lie "
Manfred, growing impatient at the steady
valor and indifference of the youth, cried :
HORACE WALPOLE
107
"Well then, thou man of truth! answer
Was it the fall of the trap-door that I
heard ?" ' 'It was, " said the youth. "It
wasf" said the Prince, "and how didst
thou come to know there was a trap-door 5
here?" "I saw the plate of brass by a
gleam of moonshine," replied he "But
what told thee it was a look*" said Man-
fred. "Honv didst thou discover the secret
of opening it*" "Providence, that de- 10
Inered me from the helmet. *as able to
direct me to the spring of a lock," said he
"Proxidence should lime gone a little far-
ther arid have placed thee out of the reach
of mv resentment," said Manfred "When «
Providence had taught thee to open the
lock, it abandoned thee for a fool who did
not know how to make use of its favors
Whv didst thou not pursue the path
pointed out for th> escape* Why didst a>
fhnii shut the tiap-dooi before thou hadst
descended the steps'" "1 might ask \o\\.
mx loid," said the peasant, "how I.
totallx unacquainted uith \oiir castle, uas
to kno\\ thilt those steps led to an\ outlet 26
Hut I scorn to ex ode xour questions
NYhoiexer those steps lead to, perhaps I
should haxe cxploied the xuiv, T could not
be in a xxorse situation than T was Hut
the truth is, I let the tiap-door fall Your 80
immediate arrixal followed I had gnen
the alaim, uhat imported it to me
u nether T x\as sei/ed a minute sooner or
a minute late*" "Thou art a resolute
\ill.un foi th\ xears." said Manfred, 85
4'\et on reflection T suspect thou dost but
trifle *itli me Thou hast not xet told
me ho\\ thou didst open the lock " "That
I will shoxx \ou, mv lord," said the
peasant, and taking up a fragment of 40
stone that bad fallen fiom above, he laid
himself on the tiap-dooi and began to beat
on the piece of brass that covered it.
meaning to gain time for the escape of
the Princess This piesence of mind. 45
joined to the frankness of the vouth,
staggered Manfred He even felt a dis-
position towards pardoning one who had
Keen guiltv of no crime Manfred was not.
one of those sax age tx rants who wanton 50
in cruelty unprovoked The circumstances
of lus fortune had given an asperity to
his temper, which was naturally humane,
and his virtues were always ready to
operate when his passions did not obscure 66
his leaflon
While the Prince was in this suspense,
a confused noise of voices echoed through
the distant xaults As the sound ap-
proached, he distinguished the clamors of
some of his domestics, whom he had dis-
persed through the castle in search of
Isabella, calling out "Where is my lord!
Where is the Prince T" "Here I am,"
said Manfred, as they came nearer.
"Have jou found the Princess!" The
first that arrived replied " Oh f my lord »
1 am glad we have found you " "Found
me1" said Manfred "Have you found
the Princess?" "We thought we had, my
lord," said the fellow, looking terrified';
"but-" "But what*'1 cued the Prince
"Has she escaped*" "Jaquez and T, my
lord-" "Yes, I and Diego," inter-
rupted the second, ulio came up in still
greater consternation "Speak one of you
at a time," said Manfred "I ask you.
Where is the Princess f" "We do not
know," said they both together, "but xxe
are frightened out of our wits " "So I
think, blockheads," said Manfred "What
is it has scared you thus*" "Ohf mv
loidf" said Jaque/, "Diego has seen such
a su»ht' ^ our hiuhness xxould not belic\«*
our eves " "What new absurdity is
this*" cried Manfred "Gixe me a direct
answer, or by heax en— " " \Yh\ , my lord,
if it please >our highness to hear me,"
said the j>oor felloe, "Diego and 1—"
"Yes, I and Jaquez," cried his comrade—
44 Did not I forbid xou to speak both at
a time*" said the Prince "You, Jaque?,
answer, for the other fool seems more
distracted than thou ait " "What is the
matter, my gracious lord?" said Jaquez.
"It it please xour highness to hear me,
Diego and I according to your highness 's
oiders went to seaiclt for the \oung lady,
but being comprehensive that \\e might
meet the ghost ot mv xoung lord, your
highness 's son, ((iod rest his soul') as
he has not received Christian burial—"
"Rot'" cried Manfred, in a rage; "is it
only a ghost then that thou hast seen?"
•4Oh' xvoise' woise' mv lord," cried
Diego " I had rather haxe seen ten whole
ghosts—" "Grant me patience'" said
Manfred, "these blockheads distract me.
Out of mv sight, Diego' And thou,
Jaquez, tell me in one word- Art thou
sober? Art thou raxing? Thou wast wont
to have some sense Hast the other sot
frightened himself and thee too? Speak f
What is it he fancies he has seen?"
"Whv, my lord," replied Jaquez, trem-
bling, "I was going to tell vour highness
that since the calamitous misfortune of
mv vouns lord (fiod rest Ins precious
108
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
soul1), not one of us, your highness 's
faithful servants— indeed we are, my lord,
though poor men— I say, not one of us
has dared to set a foot about the castle
but two together So Diego and I, think- 6
ing that my young lady might be in the
great gallery, went up there to look for
her, and tell her >our highness wanted
something to impart to her—" "0 blun-
dering fools'" cried Manfred "And in 10
the meantime she has made her escape
because you were afraid of goblins! Why.
them knave ' she left me in the gallery , I
came from thence m> self " "For all that,
she mav be there still for ought I know," 16
said Jaquez, "but the devil shall ha\e
me before I seek her there again f Poor
Diego f I do not believe he will ever re-
cover it " "Reco\er \vhat? " said Man-
fred "Am I never to learn what it is 90
has terrified these rascals' But I lose m\
time Follow me, shne, 1 will see if she
is in the gallery " "For heaven's sake,
my deal good lord," ciied Joque?, "<lo
not uo to the pallen f Satan himself [ 25
behe\e is in the great chamber next to the
gallery" Manfred, who hitherto had
treated the terror of his servants as an
idle panic, was struck at this new circum-
stance He recollected the apparition of so
the portrait and the sudden closing of the
door at the end oi the gallery His voice
faltered, and he asked v>it\\ disordei
"What is in the great chamber?" "M\
lord," said Jaquez, "when Dieuo and I 85
came into the gallery, he went first, loi
he said he had more courage than I So
uhen we came into the galler\, we found
nobody We looked under every bench
and stool, and still we found nobody " 40
"Were all the pictures in their places*"
said Manfred "Yes my lord," answered
Jaquez, "but we did not think of looking;
behind them " "Well, well'" said Man-
fred; "proceed " "When we came to the 46
door of the great chamber," continued
Jaquez, "we found it shut-" "And
could not you open it?" said Manfred.
"Ohf yes, mv lord, ^ould to heaven ue
had not'" replied he "Na.\, it was not I 60
neither, it \\as Diego He was grown
fool-hardy, and would go on though 1 ad-
vised him not If ever I open a door that
is shut, again— " " Trifle not, ' ' said Man-
fred, shuddering, "but tell me what you 66
saw in the great chamber on opening the
door." "I« my lord'" said Jaquez; "I
saw nothing; I was behind Diego But
I heard the noise." "Jaquez," said Man-
fred, in a solemn tone of voice, "tell me,
[ adjure thee b> the souls of my ances-
tors What was it thou sawest? What
was it thou heardst?" "It was Diego
saw it, my lord, it was not I," replied
Jaquez; "I only heard the noise Diego
had no sooner opened the door than he
cried out and ran back I ran back too,
and said 'Is it the ghost? the ghost*'
'No, no,' said Diego, and his hair stood
an end, 'it is a giant, I believe He is
nil clad in armor, for 1 sa\\ his foot and
part of his leg, and they are as large as
the helmet below in the court ' As he
said these words, my lord, we heaid a
\iolent motion and the rattling of armor
as if the giant was rising, for Diego has
told me since that he believes the giant
was lying down, for the foot and leg were
stretched at length on the floor Before
we could get to the end of the gallery, we
heard the door oi the great chamber clap
behind us, but \\e did not dare turn back
to see if the giant was following us Yet
now £ think on it, \ve must ha\e heard
him if he had pursued us— Hut for hea\-
en's sake, good mv lonl, send for the
chaplain and ha\e the castle exorcised,
for, for certain, it is enchanted " "A\,
pray do, my lord," cried all the sonants
at once, "or we must leaxe \our high-
ness's service " "Peace, dotards," said
Manfred, "and follo\\ me 1 will kno\\
iv hat all this means " "We1 m\ lord,"
cued they \\ith one \oice, "\ve would not
go up to the gallery for your hi?hn<»s*'s
ie\enue " The younj» peasant, who had
stood silent, nou spoke "Will vour high-
ness," said he, "j>einnt me to try this
adxenture? My life is of consequence to
nobod\ I fear no bad angel, and have
offended no irood one " "Your behavior
is above your seeming," said Manfred.
\iewmg him with surprise and admiration
"Hereafter, I will reward your bravery,
but now," continued he with a sigh, "J
am so circumstanced that I dare trust no
eyes but my own, however, I give you
leave to accompany me "
Manfred, when he first followed Isabella
from the gallery, had gone directly to the
apartment of his wife, concluding the
Princess had retired thither Hippohta,
who knew his step, rose with anxious fond-
ness to meet her lord, whom she had not
seen since the deatli of their son She
would have flown in a transport mixed of
joy and tenet to his bosom, but he pushed
her rudely off, and said, "Where is Isa-
HORACE WALPOLE
109
bellaf" "Isabella! my lord!" said the
astonished Hippohta. "Yes, Isabella!"
cried Manfred imperiously. "I want Isa-
bella. " "My lord, ' ' replied Matilda, who
perceived how much his behavior had £
shocked her mother, "she has not been
with us since your highness summoned
her to your apartment " "Tell me where
she is," said the Prince, "I do not want
to know where she has been." "My good 10
lord," said Hippohta, "your daughter
tellb you the truth: Isabella left us by
>our command, and has not returned since.
But, my good lord, compose yourself, re-
tire to your rest This dismal day has 16
disordered you Isabella shall wait your
orders in the morning" "What then!
you know where she is1" cried Manfred.
"Tell me directly, for I will not lose an
instant And you, woman," speaking to 20
his wife, "order your chaplain to attend
me forthwith." "Isabella," said Hip-
pohta calmh, "is retired, I suppose, to
her chamber She is not accustomed to
natch at this late hour. Gracious my 25
lord," continued she, "let me know what
IIHS disturbed you Has Isabella offended
> on ? " " Trouble me not v, i th questions, ' '
said Manfred ; "but toll me where she is "
"Matilda shall call her," said the Prm- so
cess "Sit down, my lord, and resume
your wonted fortitude. " " What, art thon
jealous of Isabella," replied he, "that >ou
wish to be present at our interview?"
"Good heavens' my lord," said Hippol- 85
ita, "what is it your highness means9"
"Thou \vilt know* ere many minutes are
passed," said the cruel Prince "Send
\our chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure
heic " At these morels lie flung out of the 40
room in senich of Isabella, leaung the
ama/ed ladies thunder-struck with his
words and frantic deportment, and lost in
vain conjectures on what he was medi-
tating 45
Manfred was now returning from the
vault attended by the peasant and a few
of his servants whom he had obliged to
accompany him He ascended the stair-
case without stopping till he arrived at 60
the gallery, at the door of which he met
Hippohta and her chaplain When Diego
had been dismissed by Manfred, he had
crone directly to the Princess's apartment
with the alarm of what he had seen That 65
excellent ladv, who no more tlian Manfred
doubted of the reality of the vision, yet
affected to treat it as a delirium of the
servant. Willing, however, to save her
lord from any additional shock, and pre-
pared by a series of grief not to tremble
at any accession to it, she determined to
make herself the first sacrifice if fate had
marked the present hour for their destruc-
tion. Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to
her rest, who in vain sued for leave to
accompany her mother, and attended only
by her chaplain, Hippohta had visited the
gallery and great chamber, and now with
more serenity of soul than she had felt for
many hours, she met her lord and assured
him that the vision of the gigantic leg and
foot was all a fable, and no doubt an
impression made by fear and the dark and
dismal hour of the night on the minds of
his servants. She and the chaplain had
examined the chamber, and found every
thing in the usual order Manfred, though
persuaded like his wife that the vision
had been no work of fancy, recovered a
little from the tempest of mind into which
so many strange events had thrown him
Ashamed, too, of Ins inhuman treatment
of a princess who returned every injury
with new marks of tenderness and dutj,
he felt returning lo\e forcing itself into
his eyes ; but not less ashamed of feeling
remorse towards one against whom he was
inwardly meditating a vet more bitter out-
rage, he curbed the yearnings of Ins heart
and did not dare to lean even towards
pity The next transition of his soul was
to exquisite \illainy Presuming on the
unshaken submission of Hippohta, he flat-
tered himself that she would not onh
acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but
would obev, if it was his pleasure, in
endeavoring to persuade Isabella to give
him her hand But ere he could indulge
this horrid hope, he reflected that Isa-
bella was not to be found Coming to
himself, he ga\ e orders that every avenue
to the castle should be strictly guarded,
and charged his domestics on pain of
their lives to suffer nobodv to pass out.
The young peasant, to whom lie spoke
favorably, he ordered to remain in a
small chamber on the stairs, in which
there was a pallet-bed, and the key of
mhich he took away himself, telling the
youth he would talk with him in the
morning Then dismissing his attendants,
and bestowing a sullen kind of half-nod
on Hippohta, he retired to his own
chamber
110
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY POBEBUNNER8
THOMAS PERCY (1729-1811)
Fiom BELIOUES OF ANCIENT
ENGLISH POETBY
1705
ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBOBNK
When skaws1 beene sheene,8 and bhraddb3
full fayre,
And leaves both large and lonpe
Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest
To he«ire the small birdes songe
5 The A\ cod \veele4 sang, and wold not ceabc,
Sitting upon the sprave,
Soe hrsvde, he wakened Robin Hood,
In the greenwood uhere he lax
"Now by my faye,"5 sayd jollye Robin
JO "A bweaven6 1 had this night.
I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,7
That fast with me can8 fight
Methought they did mee beate and bmdo,
And tooke my bow mee f roe ,
15 lit I be Robin alive in this lande.
He be wroken9 on them towe M
' ' Sweavens are swift, master, ' ' quoth John,
"As the wind blow?* ore the hill,
For if itt be never so loude this night,
20 Tomorrow it may be btill "
"Buske10 yee, bowne yee, my merrjtmcn
all/
And John shall goe \uth mee,
Foi He goe seeke >ond \\i«»ht vonien.
In greenwood where the11 bee "
25 Then the\ cast on then go\\nes of srienc1.
And tooke tlievr howes each one.
And the\ awav to the greene forrest
A -shooting forth are gone,
Untill they came to the merry gieenwood,
30 Where they had gladdest bee.
There weio the ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree
A swoid and a dajjgci he woie by his side.
Of manve a man the bane,
35 And he was clad in his eapull-hyde,12
Topp and tayll and mayne
"Stand von still, master," quoth Little
John,
"Under this tree so grene,
1 grove* * for ffan. did
-' beautiful • avraged
UopplceB "make read\ (buwAt
4 woodlark and boirne are doub
* faith lota)
• dream " they
T two strong yeomen " horse hide
And I will go to yond wight yeoman
40 To know what he doth meane "
"Ahf John, by me tliou settest noe store,
And that I farley1 flnde:
How offt send I my men beffore
And tarry my selfe behindeT
45 "It ib no cunning a knave to ken,
And a man but heare him speake,
And itt were not for bursting ot my bowc,
John, 1 thy head \vold breuke "
As often uordes they breeden hale,
50 So they paited Robin and John;
And John is gone to Harnesdale,
The gates- he knoweth eche one.
But when he came to Barnesdale,
(ireut hea\inesse there hee hadd,
M Foi he found toi& of Ins owne felloe es
Wcic slame both in a slade •
And Scailette hr \\as fl.ving a-foote
Fast ovei stock? und stone,
Foi the pi olid slu*i life with sexcn scon men
"° Fast after him ib gone.
"One shoot e no\\ I uill shoofe,*1 quoth
John,
"With Christ his might and mavno
He make yond fellow that fives soe fast,
To btopp he shall be fa.Mie "
fi5 Then John bent up his lontr bende-bo\\o,*
And fetteled^ linn to shoote
The bow uas made of tendei Uouuhe,
And fell clown to his foote
"Woe worth, uoe \\oith thee,'1 \\ickod
wood,
70 That ere thou gre\i on a tree ,
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote7 when thou shold bee "
His shoote it was but loosely shott.
Yet fleuc not the arrowe in \unie,
75 For itt mett one of the shenffes men.
Good William a Trent was shnno
It had bene better of William a Ticnt
To ha\e bene abed with borrowe.
Than to be that day in the green wood slade
so To meet with Little Johns arrowe
But as it is said, when men be mett
Fyve can doe more than three,
1 itrange
*uavs. paths
''valid , ravlno
Hicnt, or curved, bow
•made roady
" woj- h<» to tli
7 help
THOMAS PEBCT HI
The sherijffe hath taken Little John, The first time Robin shot at the pncke,
And bound him fast to a tree He mist but an inch it froe :
The yeoman he was an archer good,
85 " Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,1 But he cold never shoote soe.
And hanged hye on a hill."
"But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," 125 The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
i i T* q£°u n? 1 u 11 M He shote Wlthm toe garlande l
"If itt be Christ his will But Robm he ghott fitter than hee,
. , . ... „ T ... T . For he clave the good pncke wande.
Let us leave talking of Little John, 6 r
90 And thinke of Robin Hood. ,, A ., ., . , ,, , ,
How he is gone to the w.ght yeomin, 130 ' f {lessinfir upon thy heart," he sayd,
Where under the leaves he stood. 13° „ (Joo.d, fe lo"e: thy sho°1tinR If *?° V
.For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
"Good morrowe, good fellowe," sa>d Thou wert better then Robm Hoode.
Robin so fayre,
"Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth "fcow tell me thy name, good fellowe,"
he- &ayd he,
95 "Methmkcb bv this bowe thou beaies in "Under the leaxes of lyne "2
thy hande Ul> "Na\ b\ my faith,1' quoth bolde Robin,
A good archere thou sholdst bee " "Till thou have told me thine "
" I am wilt'ullej of my ua>c," <|iio' the "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee,
veraan, ' ' And Robin to take Ime bworne ,
"And oi mv mornmcr t>de " And when I am called bv my right name
"He lead thee through the wood," &a\d HO £ am Guye of good Gisborne "
Robin ,
"(Sood fellow. He be th> guide " «Mv dwelling is in this wood," sayes
Robin,
' « I seeke an out lawe, "the sti aungrr sa> d, < < By thee T ^ nRnt nought
4 ^lenTI°1a11 him R^b]° ?ood ' _ lam Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
Rather lid meet with that proud outla* e Wliom thou so lontr hast sought "
Than ioit\e pound soe good
"First let us sonic master\e' make To &ee ho* these veomen together they
"° Amons: the woods so even, t.n m fought
We ma\ chance to meet \\ith Robin Hond 1 10 Two howres of a summers day
Here att some unsett steven "4 Vott neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
Them fettled to flye nwav
Thev cutt them downe t^o Minimei
shropcrs,11 Robin was reachles* on a roote,
That pre\\ both under a breere. And stumbled at that tyde;4
115 And sett them threescore rood in i" And On v was quick and nimble with-all,
twaine" And hitt him ore the left side
To shoot the pueko v-feie 7
, « „ ,, it, T> u **Ah, deere Lady," savd Robin Hood,
"Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin ,<thou • * '
Hood, That art both niothei and may,15
"T^ade on, 1 doe bidd thee t th fc lt Wfts never mang destmye
"Nay by my fai th. gorf fdlowe, hee sayd, lw To dye brfore h dfty „
120 «<MV leader thou bhalt be.M
1 vtllo\ and hill B wands J the ring within which * linden
« astray • apart the prick or target 'careless
n trial of skill Tthe wnndn (targets) wan net to be *hot «time
«unextio(tcd hour together at 'maiden
112
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEBUNNKR8
Robin thought on oar ladye deere,
And soone leapt up againe,
And strait he came with a backward1
stroke,
And he Sir Guy hath slayne
166 He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,
And stuck itt upon his bowes end
"Thou hast beene a traytor all thy life,
Which thing must have an ende. f '
Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
170 And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
That he was never on woman born,
Cold tell whose head it was
Saies "Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
And with me be not wrothe, >
176 If them have had the worst strokes at
my hand,
Thou shalt have the better clothe "
Robin did off his gowne of greene,
And on Sir Guy did throve,
And hee put on that capull-byde,
180 That cladd him topp to toe
"The bowe, the arrowes, and htle home.
Now with me I will beare ,
For I will away to Barnesdale,
To see how my men doe fare ' '
185 Robin Hood sett Guyes home to his mouth.
And a loud blast m it did blow.
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham.
As he leaned under a lowe.'
190
"Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe,
' ' I heare now tydmgs good,
For yonder I heare Sir Guyes borne blowc,
And he hath slame Robin Hoode.
For this i& all the rewarde 1 aske;
Nor noe other will I have."
20i "Thou art a madman, " said the shenffe,
"Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee
But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
Well granted it shale be "
When Little John heard his mastei speakc,
210 Well knewe he it was his steven -1
' ' Now shall I be looset, ' ' quoth Lit tie J ohn,
"With Christ his might in heaven."
•
Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John,
He thought to loose him belive ,-'
-13 The shenffe and all his companye
Fast after him can drixe
"Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd
Robin ,
"Why draw you mee soe neere?
Itt was never the use in our countr>e,
220 Ones shrift another shold heeie "
Hut Robin pulled forth an Irysh knitr,
And losed John hand and footo.
And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,
And bade it be im boote
225 Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
His boltes and arrowes eche one
When the shenffe saw Little John bend
his bow,
He fettled him to be gone
Towards his house in Nottingham towne
•*o He fled full fast a*ay,
And soe did all his company?
Not one behind wold sta\
//«- * T • «• * i 1.1 But he cold neither runne soe fast,
"Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe, Nor awa 8O6 fagt cold _j
Itt blowes soe well in tyde, 23:, But Little John with an arrowe soe hioad
And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, He ghott him mto the backe-8yde
Cladd in his eapull-hyde
"Come hyther, come hyther, thou good
Sir Guv,
Aske what thou wilt of mee "
"01 will none of thy gold," sayd Robin,
200 « Nor I will none of thy fee «
"But now I have slaine the master," he
sayes,
"Let me goe stnke the knave;
THE ANCIENT BALLAD OF CHEVT-CHASE
THE FIRST FIT>
The Perse owt4 of Northombarlande,
And a vowe to God mayd he,
That he wolde hunte in the mountayns
Off Chyviat within dayes thre,
5 In the mauger of5 doughtfe Dogles,
And all that ever with him be.
» back-band
'hill
•prooertv held on fou-
ourc
•SSVlBlOIl Of
the Bong
4 came out
Mniptteof
THOMAS PERCY
118
The f attiste hartes in all Cheviat
He sayd he wold kill, and cary them
away:
"Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas
agayn,
!• "I wyll let1 that hontyng yf that I
may."
Then the Perse owt of Banborowe cam,
With him a rayghtye meany,*
With fifteen hondnth archares bold ,
The wear8 chosen out of shyars thre
16 This begane on a Monday at morn
In Cheviat the hillys so he,4
The chyld may rue that ys un-born,
It was the mor pitte.
The cliyvars8 thorowe the woodes went
20 For to reas the dear;
Bomen bickarte8 uppone the bent7
With ther browd aras8 cleare
45 Hardyar men both off hart nar hande
Wear not in Chnstiante.
The wear twenty hondnth spear-men good
Withouten any fayle;1
The wear borne a-long be the watter a
Twyde
,W Yths bowndes of Tividale
" Leave off the brytlyng of the dear," he
sayde,
"And to your bowys look ye tayk good
heed,
For never sithe ye wear on your mothars
borne
Had ye never bo mickle3 need "
65 The dougheti Dogglas on a stede
He rode att his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede ,4
A bolder barne* was never born.
Then the wyld° thorowe the woodes went
On every syde shear,10
2«"' Grea-hondes thorowe the ftrexes11 glent12
For to kyll thear dear
The begane in Ch>\iat the hyls above
Yerly18 on a Monnyn day,
Be that14 it drewe to the oware off none1"
30 A hondnth fat hartes ded ther lay
The ble\vo a inoit16 uppone the bent,
The semblyd on sydis shear;
To the qu>iiy1T then the Perse went
To se the biyttlyng18 off the dearc.
35 He sa>d, "It was the Duglas promys
This day to meet me hear,
But I \\vste he wold faylle verament "**
A gret oth the Perse swear
At the laste a squyar of Northombelonde
40 Lokvde at his hand full ny,
He was war ath20 the doughetie Doglas
comynge
With him a mighte meany,
Both with spear, byll, and brande-21
Yt was a m\ghti sight to se.
scar
Uliey were
«hlgh
• stalkers
•Kwlftly courvd
T field
"arrows
•wild deer
"several
u groves
"darted
"early
" when
" hour of noon
" death-note
»T Rlanghtered game
w cutting np
» trnly
»• aware of
and sword
"Tell me what men ye ar," he says,
"Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this
Chyviat chays in the spyt of met"
The first mane that ever him an answear
mayd,
Yt was the good lord Perse.
» " We wyll not tell the what men we ar,"
he says,
"Nor whos men that we be;
But we wvll hount hear in this chays
In the spyte of thyne, and of the
"The f attiste hartes in all Chyviat
70 We have kyld, and east6 to carry them
a-way "
"Be my troth, sayd the doughte Dogglas
agayn,
"Ther- for the ton7 of us shall de this
day."
Then sayd the doughte Doglas
Unto the lord Perse:
75 "To kyll all thes £i It less men,
A-las! it wear great pitte.
"But, Perse, thowe art a lord of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
Let all our men uppone a parti8 stande ,
*° And do the battell off the and of me."
1 without any doubt
Mnthe
•much
4 glowing coal
•Intend
Tone
• to one side
114
EIGHTEENTH CEMTUBY FOBEBUNNERS
"No we Cnstes corse1 on his crovtue," 115
sayd the lord Perse,
"Who-soe\*r ther-to says nay
Be my troth, doughte Doglas," he says,
"Thow shalt ne\er se that day;
85 "Nethar m Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nai 12°
France, »
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But and fortune bo inv chance, J
I dai met linn on1 man foi on M
Then bespayke a squyar off Northombar- 1J5
londe,
90 Rie4 Wytharvnton was his nam,
*'lt shall never be told in Sothe-Yng-
londe, v> he sa\s,
•'To k>nft Herry the fourth for sham
§
130
"1 wat3 youe bynb great loides twaw,
1 am a poor squ\ar of lande,
115 I \\>II net PI so m\ raptajne hf»ht on a
fvlde.
And stande ni\-selffe, and looke on,
But *hyll I may my weppone welde.
1 wvll not ia\l both harte and hande "
That da\, that day, that dredfull day
100 The hist Fit heie I fynde,7
And \ou \(\l\ Jieie any 11101 atlie8 hountvng
athe Chyuat,
Yet vs ther mor behynde
THE SECOND PIT
The Ynsglislio men hade ther bow}b
Thiughe our Yngghshe archery1
Gave many a wounde fall wyde;
Many a doughete the garde2 to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde8
The Tngglyshe men let thear bowys be,
And pulde owt brandes that wer blight ,
It was a hevy syght to se
Bryght swordes on basnites4 lyght.
Thorowe ryche male,' and myueyeple,0
Many stern? the stioke downc'stiecrht T
Many a iie>ke.s that was full tieo,
Ther undar foot dyd lyght
At last the Duglas and the Perse met,
L>k to captayns of myght and mayne,
The swapie9 together tyll the both swat10
"\\ii\i swoides that weie ot lyn myllan "
Thes worth* freck>s foi to t\ght
Ther-to the A\ ear full lavne,
T\ll the hloo<le oute off thear basnetes
spiente,1*
As e\er d\d heal or rayne
»"•
140
"Hnlcl the, Pei so," sa^d the
And T tetli 1 shall the hnnge
Wliei thoweshalte have a veils ^agis11
Ot Jamy our Scottish kynge
"Thoue shalte have thv ransom fre,
I highl the heai14 this thin^e,
tllOWe,
That e> er I conquerj'd in filde fight yng ' '
Thei hartes \veie fjoocl >enoughe,
1(»5 The tiixt nf aims that the shotc off,
Sc\en skoie spear-men the sloughe11
Yel bvdys10 the yeile Doglas uppon the
bent,
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
110 F«»i lie wrought horn11 both wuo and
iicmche 1J
The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre,
L>k a cheffe chef ten off piyde,1"
With suar" speaies off myghttc trelc
The cum in on every syde
"Na\, then," sa\d the lonl Peise,
4tl tolde it the be tome,
145 That I \\ohle ne\ei \eldyde be
To no man of a woman born "
With that ther cam an arrowe hastelv
Forthe off a mightie wane,15
Hit hathe strekene the \erle Duglas
In al the bust bane
Thoroue ly\ai and longs bailie111
The sharp HI roue \s o,ino,
That never after in all his ],\ffe days,
lie spake mo worries but anc,
t curse
aif fortune favors me
• one
4 Richard
& know
• are
T finish
• of the
' they Blew
10abldeh
" them
" barm
" like a proud leading
chieftain
" Hiire , trusty
u btrong wood
l amonR our English
archers
1 they made
•which won them no
pride
4 helmets
5 armor
• gauntlet
7 many hold ones
they strnr k down
straightway
" man
• they smote
" they both nweat
" MJlnn Hteel
! an ea
ng
arl's
wage*
1( promise thee here
""one, man" — Per
cy
" liver and luugb both
THOMAS PEECY
155 That was "Fyghte ye, my merry men, 195 Heawing on yche othar, whyll the myght
whyllys ye may, dre,1
For my lyff days ben gan ' f With many a bal-f ul brande.
The Persfe leanyde on his brande, This battell begane in Chyviat
And sawe the Duglas de , An owar bef or the none,
He tooke the dede man be the hande, And when even-song bell was rang
i«° And bayd, "Wo ys me foi the' 200 The battell was nat half done
"To have bavyde thy lyffe, I wold have The tooke "on"a on ethar hand
pertyd with Be the lyght off the mone;
M\ landes for years thre, Many hade no strength for to stande,
Foi a better man ot hart, nare of hande jn Chyviat the hyllys abone a
Wab not in all the north countre " * *
UK ,n* 11 ,1 t i 01 *. u i 14 205 °* fifteen hondnth aichais of Ynglonde
M Off all tliHl se' a Skottishe knynht, Went away but flfti and thre;
Uab callyd Sir Hem the Mongon-byrry, Of twenty hondnth spear-men of Skot-
He wi\ve the Duglas to the deth wab londe,
„ dys*1*'* 4 4 t _ But even 'five and fifti
He bpendyd a bpeai a tnibti tre s
He rod uppon a eorsiare >10 Bl!* al[ *ear ^fyne Cheviat within
l-o ThumKltt a hondnth aicheiy, -10 ^hS ™f™f^
lie nevei btyntyde, nar nexer blane/ TIlTe. ch>lde may rue that ys un-borne,
T)ll he cam to the good loid Perae. !t was the mor Plttfe'
He set nppone the lord Perse Thear was slayne with the lord Perse
A dynte, that was full boare, Sir John of Agerstone,
'"•' With a suar spear of a myghte tie 215 «» Rope* the hmde11 Haitly,
Clean thorow the body he the Perse bore, Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone
Atlie tothar byde, that a man mvght se, Sir Jorg the worthe. Lovele
A laige cloth raid and niaie "' A knyght of great renowen,
Towe bettar captavns ^ear nat in Chub- Sn Raff0 the ryche Rugbfe
tiante, 22° With dyntes wear beaten dowene.
iso Then that day slain \\eai thaie.
Foi Wetharryngton my harte was wo,
An archer off Northomberlonde That ever he slayne shulde be;
Say6 slean uas the loicl Peise, For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
lie bai a ben(le-ho\\7 in his hanrle. He knyled and iougbt on hy* kne
made off trusti tre .
. . Jj:i Tlier was slayne with the dougheh Douglas
An arow, that a cloth yarde was lanpr, Rir jjewe the Mongon-byrry,
To th ' hard stele halyde« he , Sir Davye Lwdale,T that worthfe was,
A dvnt, that was both sad and soar, Hib sistars son was he:
He sat0 on Sir Hewe the Mongon-byiry.
^t A , ., , , Sir Thai les a Murre, in that place,
The chnt yt was both sad and sar, M That ncxei a tnot A%olde fie,
That he ot Mongon-byrry sete, Sir Hewe Maxwell> a lorde he wa
The bwane-tetharb, that his airo*e l>ai, Wlth the D ,ag d d he d
With hib halt blood the wear wete *
mi - , « . u a So on the morrowe the mayde them
Ther was never a freake wone foot wold fle, byears8
But still in btour" dycl stand, Qff b^rch> ftnd
i «iaw ' >aw
» doomed , promised T bent, or cur\ ed, bow i endure « Roger
'spanned,— 4 f .placed "drew to the bard 'Percy's addition to • courteous
fn rest, a speai of Mteel,— t f.f the the MS The •Ralph
strong wood bead phrase may mean T Pronounced as if
« stopped nor c\er »««et ''thejN continued spelled Lewdale
ceased » stress of battle fighting" • they made them bier*
1 more ' abore
116
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBS
236 Many wedous with wepyng tears
Cam to f ach ther makys1 a-way.
Ther was the dongghte Doglas slean,
The Perse never went away.
Tivydale may carpe off2 care, 275 Ther was never a tym on the March-partes
Northombarlond may mayk grat mone, Sen the Doglas and the Perse met,
For towe such captayns, as olayne wear But yt was marvele, and1 the redde blade
thear, ronne not,
240 On the March-perti8 shall never be none AS the reane doys* in the stret.
Word ys common to Edden-buxrowe,
To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the
Merches,
He lay slean Chyviot with-in.
246 His handdes dyd he weal4 and wryiifr,
He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me'
Such another captayn Skotland within/'
He sayd, "y-feth» shuld never be."
Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone
250 Till the fourth Harry our kyng,
That lord Perse, leyff-tennante of the
MerchiB,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.
"God have merci on his soil," sayd
kyng Harry,
"Good lord, yf thy will it be»
255 i have a hondnth captayns in Yng-
londe," he sayd,
"As good as ever was hee-
But Perse, and I brook6 my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte7 shall be."
As our noble kyng made his a-vowe,
260 Lyke a noble pnnce of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Perse,
He dyd the battel of Hombyll-down :
Wher syz and thritte Skottish knyghtes
On a day were beaten down :
265 Glendale glytteryde on* ther armor
bryght,
Over castill, towar, and town.
This was the hontynge off the Cheviat;
That tear begane this spurn :•
Old men that knowen the grownde well
yenoughe,
27° Call it the Battell of Otterburn.
Jhesue Christ our balys bete,8
-80 And to the4 blys us brynge'
Thus was the hountynge of the Cheviat:
Qod send us all good ending!
SIR PATRICK SPENCE
The king sits in Dumferhng toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine
' ' O quliar6 will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mmef M
6 Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne .
"Sir Patrick Spenco is the best sailor,
That bailb upon the se "
The king has written a braid* letter,
10 And signd it wi ' his hand ,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch7 lauched he:
15 The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
"<) quha8 is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me ,
To send me out this time o' the zcn,"
To sail upon the sef
20
"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne;"
"0 say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadhe storme.
25 "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi' the auld rnqone in lur arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will com to harme."
At Otterburn began this spume
Uppon a Monnyn day:
s fetch their mates
•talk of
• border side
« clench
• in faith
0 our Scots nobles wer richt laith10
80 To weet their cork-heild schoone;
•with
• that there hesan this
fight
»ff
•rain does
• evils remedy
open; clean
•vear
"loth
THOMAS PEBCY
117
Hot lang owre1 a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.2
0 lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
86 Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spenee
Cam sailing to the land
0 lang, lang, may the ladies stand
Wi1 thair gold kerns8 in their hair,
Waiting for thair am deir lords,
40 For they'll se thame na mair
Have owre,4 have owre to Aberdonr,
It's flftie fadom deip
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spenee,
Wi1 the Scots lords at his feit.
EDOM o' GORDON
It fell about the Martinmas,
Qulierf' the wind blew schril and can Id,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
"We maun diuw to a hauld '"'
6 " And quhatT a hauld sail we draw till,
My mirry men and met"
"We wul gae to the house o' the Rode?,
To see that fair ladie."
The ladv stude on her castle wa',
1° Beheld baith dale and down a
There she was ware of a host of men
Cum ryding towards the toun.9
ze10 nat, my mirrv men a'f
0 see ze nat quhat I see f
"> Methmks I see a host of men •
1 marveil quha11 they be "
She weend18 it had been hir luvely lord,
As he came ryding hame ;
It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
20 Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
She had nae sooner buskit18 hirsel,
And putten on hir goun,
But Edom o' Gordon and his men
Were round about the toun
« They had nae sooner supper sett,
Nae sooner said the grace,
But Edom o' Gordon and his men
Were light about the place.
The lady ran up to hir towir head,
*° Sa fast as she could hie,
To see if by hir fair speeches
She could wi' him agree
But quhan he see1 this lady saif ,
And hir yates all locked fast,
86 He fell into a rage of wrath,
And his look was all aghast.
"Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
Cum doun, cum doun to me
This night sail ye lig2 within mine armea,
40 Tomorrow my bride sail be."
"I winnae* cum doun, ze fals Gord6n,
I winnae cum doun to thee;
I winnae forsake my am dear lord,
That is sae far frae me "
45 "Gue owre zour4 house, ze lady fair,
Gi\e owre zour house to me,
Or I sail brenn* yourhel theiein,
But and zour babies three "°
"I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon,
50 To nae sik7 tiaitor as zee;
And if ze brenn my am dear babes,
My loid sail make ze drie 8
"But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man,
And charge ze well my gun .
66 For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes we been undone.'9
She stiule upon hir castle wa9,
And let twa bullets flee
She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
60 And only raz'd his knee.
"Set fire to the house," quo9 fals Gord&n,
All wood wi' dule and ire 9
"Fals lady, ze sail rue this deid,
As ze bren in the fire."
65 "Wae worth, wae worth ze,10 Jock my man,
I paid ze weil zour fee;11
Quhy pow12 ze out the ground-wa stane,
Lets in the reek18 to met
70
i but low before
••warn above,— I. f,
floated on water
• combs
• half wav over
•we m«§t draw to-
Twbat M_m
"valley and hill
• farm (with ity col-
lection of buildings)
And ein14 wae worth ze, Jock my man,
I paid ze weil zour hire;
• ••*•!!
"who
« tbouffht
» dressed
'•aw
•lie
•will not
4 your
•tarn
•both yon and your
bable* three
T no such
•suffer; pay demrlv
•all mad with pain
and wrath
» woe be to thee
« _____
"smoke
"even
118
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNERS
Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa stane,
To me lets in the flref >f
"Ze paid me well my hire, lady;
Ze paid me weil my fee .
Tr> But now Ime Edom o' Gordon's man
Maun either doe or die.1
0 than bespaik hir little son,
Sate on the nounce' knee
Sayes, "Mither deaie, gi owie this house,
*° For the reek it smithers me."
"I wad gie a5 my gowd,2 my childe,
Sac wad 1 a' my lee,1
For ane blast o9 the west 1 in wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee "
*"' O then bespaik hu doditei dear,
She was baith jimp4 and sma
"O row"' me in a pan o' slieits,
And to\\" me owie the wa "
The towd hu in a pan o' sheits,
40 And towd hn owie the wa
But on the point ol (lordons spear
She gat a deadh fa
0 bonnie bonnie was hn mouth,
And cherry were her cheiks,
**"' And clear clear was lin zellow hail,
Whareon the leid blind dreips
Then wi' his spear he tuind hir owre,
O gin hit face was wan ?7
He sa>d, "Ze are the hist that eir
100 j wisht alive again "
He tunul hir owie and owre nirain,
0 gin hir skin was wh\tef
*'I might ha spared that bonnie face.
To line been sum mans delate
106 "Busk and boun,8 my merry men a',
For ill dooms I doe guess,
1 cannae luik in that bonnie face,
As it lyes on the grafes "
"Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,
»° Then freits wil follow thame •
Ijet it nen be said brave Edom o' Ooidon
Was daunted by a dame."
But quhen the ladye see the fire
Cum flaming owre hir head,
115 She wept and kist her clnldien twain,
Sayd, "Bairns, we been but dead."
The Gordon then his bougill bleu,
And said, "Awa', avia',
This house o' the Kodes ib a' in flume,
120 Ibauld it time toga' "
0 then bespyed hir am dear lord,
As hee cam owr the lee,
lie hied his lastli* all in hlu/i1
Sa far as he eon Id see
125 Then sair, 0 sair his mind misgave,
And all his hart was wae,
"Put on, put on, ni> nighty1 men,
So fast as ze can pie
"Put on, put on, m> wighty men,
180 Sa fast as /e can di le ,2
For he that is hindmost of the thiani;
Sail noir get gmd o' me "
Than sum the\ rade. and sum the\ nn.
Foil fast out-nwi the lient ,*
3°iri But «»ir the foiemost fould get up,
Baith ladv and babes were hi out
He wrang his hands, he rent his ban.
And wept in teenefu'4 mind*
'•() traitors, for this eitiel deid
"0 Xe sail Hoep tens o' blind "
\n»]j|[fter the Gordon he is gane,
Sft fast as he murht dne
Ami snnn i' the Ooidon \ foul hart is blind
LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ELLTNOB
1 mudt eltber do or die
•gold
1 p r op e r t y held on
feudal tenuie
• Mender
•roll
• lot down with a rope
'Oh, hut her face
wan wan • (A flcot-
tHh idiom express
Ing Rreat aamlrn
tlon )
• get ready and go
•Them that look after
omen* of 111 luck,
111 luck will follow
10
Lotd Thomas he \\as a bold
And a chaser of the kings deeie,
Faire Kllinor was a fine woman,
And Lord Thomas he loved her deare.
'M'ome riddle my riddle, dear mother/'
he sayd,
"And riddle us both as one,6
Whether T shall marrye with faire Ellinnt.
And let the browne girl alone*"
"The browne girl she has got houses and
lands,
Faire Ellinor she has got none,
•areafie
» field
4 torrowfnl
B avenged
• let w 9 o 1 v e It to-
JAMES BEATTIE
119
And therefore I charge thee on my blessing,
To bring me the browne girl home."
And as it befelle on a high hohdaye,
As many there are beside,
15 Lord Thomas he went to faire Ellm&r,
That should have been his bride.
And when lie came to fair Ellmors boner,
He knocked there at the ring,1
And who was so readye as faire Elhnor,
20 To let I-ord Thomas witlnnn
"What newes, what newes, Lord Thomas t"
shesavl,
"What newes dost thou bring to meet "
"I am come to bid thee to my wedding,
And that is bad newes for thee "
215 "0 God forbid, Lord Thomas," she savd,
"That such a thing should lie done,
T thought to have been the bnde mv selfe,
And thou loha\e been the bn<le«ioome "
"Come riddle mv nddle, dour motlwi,"
she sin (I,
"° "And riddle it all in one,
\\ hetlier I shall goe to Lord Thomas his
Or whether shall tarry at home?"
"There are man\e that ate >onr fnendes,
daughter,
And man\e a one jour foe,
*B Theiefore I charere you on mv blessine.
To ford Thomas his wedding don't
«oe "
"There are man>e that are mv fnendes,
mother,
But nere e\erv one my foe,
Betide me life, betide me death,
*0 To Lord Thomas his wedding I'M
goe"
She cloathed herself in gallant attire,
And her merrve men all in greene;
And as thev rid through everv towne,
They took her to be some ipieene
« But when she came to Tx>rd Thomas his
J?ate,
She knocked there at the ring;
And who wan so read\e as Lord Thomas,
To lett fair Klhnor in
"Is this vour bride* " fair Ellinor savd;
50 < < Methinks she look* wondei ous browne ;
1 Dimmer of the door knocker
Thou mightest have had as faire a woman,
As ever trod on the grounde ",
"Despise her not, fair Ellin," he sayd,
"Despise her not unto mee;
55 For better I love thy little finger,
Than ail her whole bodee."
This browne bnde had a little penknife,
That was both long and sharpe,
And betwixt the short ribs and the long.-
•» She prick 'd faire Ellmor's harte.
"O Christ thee save," Lord Thomas, hee
savd,
"Methinks thou lookst wonderous wan;
Thou usedst to look with as iiesh a coloui.
As e\er the sun shone on "
/
6B "Oh, art thou blind, Lord Thomas?"
she sayd,
"Or canst thou not \ery well see9
Ohf dost thou not see my owno heaits
bloode
Kun trickling down my kneef "
Loid Thomas he had a sword 1>\ his side;
70 As he walked about the ha lie.
He cut off his biuies head fioin her
shoulders,
And threw it against the walle
Tie set the hilte against the grountle,
And the point against his harte
7B There never three loveis toother did meete,
That sooner againe did parte.
JAMES BEATTIE (1735-1803)
RETIREMENT
1758
When in the crimson cloud of even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven
His glittering gem displays;
6 Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Reside a lulling stream,
A pensu e Youth, of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme.
10
"Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale:
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,
15 What time the wan Moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deepl
120 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOEEBUNNEBB
"To you, ye wastes, whose artless For he of joys divine shall tell,
charms 70 That wean from earthly woe,
Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, And triumph o'er the mighty spell
'Scaped1 a tumultuous world's alarms. That chains this heart below
20 To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequester 'd bower "F0r me no more the path invites
Let me at last recline, Ambition lenes to tread;
Where Solitude, mild, modest power, ?n NO more I climb those toilsome heights,
Leans on her ivied shrine. By guileful Hope misled;
** -How shall T woo thee, matchless fairt * "°
Thy heavenly smile how win T
Thy imile that smooths the brow of Care, so
And stills the storm within.
O wilt thou to thy favorite grove
30 Thine ardent votary bring, THE MINSTREL, OK, THE PROGRESS
And bless his hours, and bid them move OF GENIUS
Serene, on silent wingf J76671 mi
"Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind * From BoOK T
With dreams of former days, Ah ' who can tell how hard it is to
15 When, in the lap of Peace reclined, Himb
He framed his infant lays, The steep where Fame's proud temple
When Fancy roved at large, nor Care shines afar?
Nor cold Distrust alarm 'd, Ah! vtho can tell how miun a soul
Nor Envy, with malignant glare, sublime
40 His simple youth had harm 'd Has felt the influence of nwlijjnnnt
star,
" 'Twas then, 0 Solitude, to thee 5 And *aged with Fortune an eternal
His early vows were paid, war—
From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Check M bv the scoff of Pride, liv
Devoted to the shade. Rnv> 's frown,
45 Ah» why did Fate his steps decoy And Poverty's unconquerable bar-
In stormy paths to roam, In life's low \ale remote has pined
Remote from all congenial joy T— alone,
0 take the wanderer home! Then ilroppM into the grave, unpitietl
//n» ,,.,.. , and unknown f
"Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine,
KO Thy charms my only theme , ,n . . , . . „ .
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine 10 And yet the languor of inglorious
Waves o'er the gloomy stream, _ A aa>s,
Whence the scared owl on pinions grav £ot e'lualjy oppressn e is to all ,
Breaks from the rustling boughs, Him *ho ne ei llstt'n d to the xoice of
65 And down the lone vale sails away _. P™18e> ... , .
To more profound repose. £he silence of neglect can ne 'er appal.
r There are, who, deaf to mad Arnbi-
"Oh, while to thee the woodland pours t_ t tipn's call,
Its wildly-warbling song, 1B V\»uld shnnk to hear th' obstiep-
And balmy from the banks of flowers erous trump of Fame,
«o The Zephyr breathes along. Supremely blest, if to their jiortion
Ijet no rude sound invade from far, '*"
No vagrant foot be nigh, Health, competence, and peace Nor
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car „ ^ t ^^ aim
Flash on the startled eye Hft<* lie whofte Rimple tale these artless
lines proclaim
98 "But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallow 'd bowers explore, The rolls of fame I will not now
0 guard from harm his hoary head, explore;
And listen to his lore; 20 Nor need I here describe, in learned
lay,
JAMEB BEATTIE
121
How forth the Minstrel far'd in days
of yore,
Good counteracting ill, and gladness
woe.
array,
His waving locks and beard all hoar>
26
Right glad of heart, though homely in G0 With gold and gems if Chilian moun-
tains glow;
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills
arise;
There plague and poison, lust and
rapine grow;
Here, peaceful are the vales, and pure
the bkies,
And Freedom fires the soul, and spar-
kles in the eyes.
30
While from his bending shoulder, de-
cent hung
His harp, the sole companion of his
way,
Which to the whistling wild responsive
rung:
And ever as he went some merr> lay he
sung.
Fret not thyself, thou glittering child
of pride,
That a poor villager inspires ray
strain ,
With thee let Pageantry and Power
abide
The gentle Muses haunt the syhan
reign,
Where through uild gro\es at e\e the
lonely swain
Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's
charms
Thev hate the sensual and scorn the
35 The parasite their influence ne\er
warms
Nor him whose sordid soul the lo\e of
gold alarms
Though richest hues the peacock's
plumes adoin.
Vet horror screams irom his discoid-
ant throat
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the
morn,
40 While warbling larks on russet pinions "°
float
Or seek at noon the woodland scene
remote.
Where the cnav linnets carol from the
hill
Oh, let them ne'er, with artificial
note,
To please a tvrant. strain the little
bill,
45 But sing what Heaven inspires, and
wander where thev will f
Liberal, not lavish, fa kind Nature's
hand;
Nor was perfection made for man
below;
Yet all her schemes with nicest art
are plann'd;
5"' Then grieve not, thou, to whom th'
indulgent Muse
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial tire;
Nor blame the partial Fates, if they
refuse
Th' imperial banquet and the rich
attire.
Know thine own worth, and reverence
the lyre.
60 Wilt thou debase the heart which God
refined f
No, let tin heaven-taught soul to
Heaven aspire,
To fancy, freedom, harmony resign 'd ;
Ambition's grovelling crew forever left
behind.
Canst thou forego the pure ethereal
soul
In each fine sense so exquisitely keen,
On the dull coueh of Luxury to loll,
Stunp with disease, and stupefied with
spleen ;
Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's
screen,
Kven from thyself thy loathsome heart
to hide
(The mansion then no more of joy
serene).
Where fear, distrust, malevolence
abide,
And impotent desire, and disappointed
pride 7
Oh, how canst thou renounce the
boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary
yields?
The warbling woodland, the resound-
ing shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of
fields;
AH that the genial ray of morning
gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of
even,
7B
122
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBS
All thai the mountain's sheltering
bosom shields,
80 And all the dread magnificence of
heaven,
Oh, how canst thou i enounce, and hope
to he forgiven ?
And he, though oft with dust and
sweat besprent,
Did guide and guard their wanderings,
wheresoe'erthey went
• •••••
And oft he traced the uplands, to
These charms shall *ork thy soul's M When" o™?' the sky advanced the km-
eternal health, J
86
And love, and gentleness, and v jov
impart
But these thou must renounce, it lust
of wealth
E'er win its wav to tin coirupted
heart
For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's
dart;
dhng dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue mam, and
mountain pray,
And lake, dim-gleaming on the sniokv
lawn
far to the west the long:, long1 \ale
withdrawn,
Where twilight lo\es to linger for a
while ,
PromptiiiR th' migeiieioub wish, the 170 And now he faintlv kens the bounding
0J\1 flail UXlllOTYlU . *
95
selfish scheme,
The stern resolve, umnoxed bv pit\'s
smart,
The troublous da\, and loner dMioss-
ful dream
Return, mv roMng Muse, resume thv
purposed theme
Theie lived in Gothic da\V as legends
tell,
A shepherd swain, a mail of low de-
gree,
Whose sires, perchame, in Fan viand
misht dwell,
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady,
But he, 1 ween, was of the north eoun-
tne,-
A nation famed for song, and beaut v's
charms ;
Zealous, yet modest, innocent, though ]SI>
free;
Patient ot toil serene amidst alarms ,
Inflexible in faith : invincible in arms
100 The shepherd swam of whom I men-
tion made,
On Scotia's mountains led his little
flock,
The sickle, sc>the, or plough he never
swav'd;
An honest heart was almost all his 1S~*
stock ;
His drink the living water froin the
rock,
105 The milky dams supplied his board,
and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's
shock ,
' In the Middle Age«,
•The "North Conntri*" wa« the traditional
dwelling place of fairies, demons, giants, etc.
iawn,
And villager abroad «t o.ulv toil
But, lof the sun »p|>oais, and heaven,
eaith, ocean smile1
And oft the craguv cliff he lo\cd tn
climb,
When all in mist the woild below uas
lost
175 What dieadful pleasure! there to
stand sublime,
Like shipwreck M marinei on desert
const.
And MC»\\ the enormous \\*isfo of
vapor. tossM
hi billn\\s, lengthening to th' hon/xm
lound,
Now scoop M in gulls, with inouiitaniR
now emboss M1
And hear the \oice of Mirth and Song
lebound,
Flocks, herds, and watei tails, along the
hoar profound !
In truth he was a strange and way-
ward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dread-
ful scene
In darkness, and m storm, he found
delight ,
Nor less than when on occan-wa\e
serene
The southem sun diffused his daz/lmg
shene,
Even sad vicissitude amused his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes mter-
\ene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
190 A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not
to control
JAMES BEATTIE
123
2*0 When the long-sounding curfew from
afar
Loaded with loud lament the lonelv
&ale,
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers
advance ,
The little warriors doff the targe and
spear,,
,
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening 31° And loud enlivening strains provoke the
star,
Lingenng and listening, wander 'd
down the xale
Theie xxould he dream ui graves, and
corses pale,
JS5 And ghosts that to the charnel-
dungcon throng,
And diag a length of clanking chain.
and wail.
Till silenced bv the owl's terrific
song,
Or blast that shrieks bv fits the shudder-
ing isles aloner
200
Oi, xx heu the tiettms moon, in ciimson
dxed.
Him!* o'ci the daik and melaix hn]\
deep,
'lo haunted stieam. KM note tiom man.
he hied,
\\heie fa\s of xoie their lexels uont
to keep.
And theie let rancx loxe at lai^c, till
sleep
A xisiou hiousht to hiw cnhaiHcd
si»ht
And fust, n xiildl\ inuinnuins wind
'san deep
Shnll to his iingmg em. then tapeis
dance.
They meet, they dait away, they wheel
askance ;
To right, to left, thev thnd the flving
maze,
Now bound aloft uith vigorous spring,
then glance
Rapid along* with manv-colorM lavs
316 Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing
forests blaze
The dream is fled Proud harbingei
of dav,
Who scarM'st the Msion with thy cla-
rion shrill.
Fell chanticleer1 who oft hath reit
J0
300
\\ith instantaneous gleam, illumed the
xault of ninlit
Anon in MCXV a poilal's bla/on'd
a i ch
Arose, the tiumpet bids the xalxes un-
fold.
And t oi tli an host oi little wainors
maich.
MX fancied good, and bioimht substan-
tial ill'
0 to thy cuised scream, discordant
still.
Let Harmon \ axe shut her gentle ear
Thv boastful mirth let jealous rnals
spill.
Insult thv crest, and glossy pinions
tear.
And exei in th\ di earns the ruthless fo\
appear1
Forbear, my Muse Ix»t Loxe attune
thv line.
Kexokc the spell Thine Kdxxin fiet*
not so
For how should he at wicked chance
lepine
Who feels from e\eiy change amuse-
ment flow*
Kxen noxx his eyes with smiles of rap-
ture glow.
the diamond lance and taige •S3° As on he zanders thioiigh the scenes
of gold
Their look xxas uentle, their demeanor
bold.
And aieen then helms and gieen their
silk attire.
And here and there, right venerably
old,
The long-rob 'd nnnstiels wake the
warbling wire.
And some with mellow breath the mar-
tial pipe inspire
With merriment and song and timbrels
clear,
of morn,
Where the fresh floxxeis in lixing lustre
blow.
Where thousand pearls the dexvy lawns
adorn,
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze
are born
But who the melodies of mom can
tell!
The wild brook babbling down the
mountain side.
The lowing herd, the sheep-fold's
simple bell,
124
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FORERUNNERS
The pipe of early shepherd dim de- Fancy a thousand wondrous forms
scned descries,
In the lone valley; echoing far and 47B More wildly great than ever pencil
wide,
The clamorous horn along the cliffs
above;
840 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide:
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of
love.
And the full choir that wakes the uni-
versal grove
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ;
drew,—
Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of
giant size,
And gktt'rmg cliffs on cliffs, and fiery
ramparts rise.
Thence musing onward to the sounding
shore,
The lone enthusiast ott would take hw
way,
Crown 'd with her pail the topping 48° Listening, with pleasing dread, to the
milkmaid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield ;
and hark f
Down the rough slope the ponderous
wagon rings;
Through rustling: corn the hare aston-
ish'd springs,
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy
hour;
deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves In black
array,
When sulphurous clouds rollM on th9
autumnal day,
Even then he habten'd fiom the haunt
of man,
Along the trembling wilderness to
stray,
The partridge bursts away on whir-485 What time the lightning's fierce career
nng wings , began,
850 Deep mourns the turtle1 m sequestei M And o'er HeavVb lending aich the lat-
bower, thng thunder ran
And shrill lark carols clear from her
aerial tower
0 Nature, how in every charm su-
preme !
Responsive to the lively pipe, when all
In sprightly dance the village vouth
were join 'd,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,
Whose votaries feast on raptures evei 4q° From the rude gambol far remote re-
new !
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,
To sing thy glories with devotion due'
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wran-
gling crew,
From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus'
sty;
And held high converse with the god-
like few,
clm'd,
Sooth 'd with the soit notes waibhng
in the wind.
Ah ! then all jollity beem 'd noise and
folly,
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire re-
fin 'd;
Ah I what is mirth but turbulence un-
holy,
Who to th' enraptured heart, and eai, 495 When with the charm compared of hea\-
and eye, only melancholy f
860 Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love,
and melody.
Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or
new,
Oft when the winter btorra had ceasM "6 Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or
to rave, _ sky,
470 He roam'd the snowy waste at even.
to view
The cloud stupendous, from th9 Atlan-
tic wave
High-towering, sail along th' horizon
blue;
Where, midst the changeful scenery,
ever new,
stnrtledore
By chance, or search, was offer 'd to
his view,
He scann'd with curious and romantic
eye.
Whate'er of lore tradition could supply
From Gothic tale, or song, or fable
old,
620 Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to
pry.
THOMAS CHATTEBTON J25
At last, though long by penury eon- "Thou'rt righte," quod1 hee, "for, by the
troll'd Godde
And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan 10 That syttes enthroned on hyghel
unfold. Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surebe die.M
Thus on the chill Lappoman's dreary
land, Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy* ale
For many a long month lost in snow Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;
profound, *5 "Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie
625 When Sol from Cancer sends the sea- Hee leaves thys mortall state."
son bland,
And in their northern caves the storms Sir Canterlone thenne bendedd lone,
are bound , With harte brymm-fulle of woe;
From silent mountains, straight, with Hee journey 'd to the castle-gate
startling sound, 20 And to S>r Charles dydd goe.
Torrents are hurl'd; green hills
emerge, and, lo! But whenne hee came, hys children
The trees are foliage, cliffs with flowers twaine,
are crown 'd , And eke hys lovynge wyf e,
580 Pure nils through vales of verdure Wythe bnnie tears dydd wett the floore,
warbling go , For goode Syr Charleses lyf e
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's
heart o'erflow. 25 "0 goode Syr Charles »" sayd Canter-
lone,
Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little "Badde tvdyngs I doe brynge "
wlnle, "Speke boldhe, marine, sa>d brave Sjr
The leisure hour is all that thou canst ,,wrPiarie8' ,
c|aun "Whatte says tlue tray tor kynget"
Rut on this \erse if Montagu should
smile, I gree\e to telle; before yonnc sonne
M5 Ne* strains ere long shall animate thy 80 1*** 1'ioinnie the welkin flye,
frame. I*6* hathe uppone hys honnour swnme,
And her applause to me is more than Thatt thou shalt surehe die."
fame,
For still with truth accords her taste "Wee all must die," quod brave Syr
letinM Charles;
At lucre or renown let others aim, _R "Of thatte I'm not affearde;
1 only wish to please the gentle 8R Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?
mindf Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd.
r»40 Whom Nature's charms inspire, and lo\e
of humankind "Butt telle thy<? kynpe, for myne hee's
not,
I'de sooner die to-daie
THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770) Thanne lyve h>s slave, as manie are,
BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE, 4° Thou»h l shoulde lvve for aic "
OR, THI DETHK OP SYR CHARLES BAWDIN Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out,
1765 1772 To telle the maior straite
The feathered songster chaunticleer To gett all thyn^es ynne reddyness
Han1 wounde hys bugle horne, For goode Syi Charles's fate.
And tolde the eaihe villager
The commynge of the morne * 4B Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the
kynge,
6 Kynge Edwarde2 rawe the ruddie streakes And felle down onne hys knee;
Of lyghte eclypse the greie; "I'm come," quod hee, "unto your
And herde the raven's crokynge throte grace
Proclayme the fated daie. To move your clemenqye."
• Edward IV » quoth, wild
126 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
Thenne quod the kynge, "Youre tale Respect a brave and nobile mynde
speke out, Altho ' ynne enemies. ' '
50 You have been much cure fnende;
Whatever youre request may bee, "Canynge, awaie » By Godde ynne Heav'n
We wylle to ytte attende " That dydd mee being gyve,
95 i wyiie nott taste a bitt of breade
''My nobile leige! alle my request, Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve
Ys for a nobile knyghte, ttr> -. , „ a . . TT f
* Who, tho' mayhap hel has donne wion^e, "Bie Mane, and a e Semcteynne Heav'n,
Hee thoughte ytte style was ryghte- Thys sunne shall be hys laste,"
e J J Thenne Canynge dropt a brmie tenie,
"Hee has a spouse and ehildien Uame. 10° - And from the Presence Paste-
Alle rewynM' are forme, Wlth hcite bryinm.fulle of ^nawVn^
Yff that you aic tesolv'd to lett f J * fr
60 Charles Biwdin die to-daic " 1Iee to s^ Chfllles dvfM ^
. ,, And salt hvinni downe uponne a stoole,
"Speke nott of such a traytoui vile," Ancl teareb begannp to flowe
The kynge ynn lune sayde ,
"Before the exemng starre doth sheene, 105 "Wee alle must die," quod bra\e Syr
Bawdin shall loose hys hedde* Charles,
"Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenn?,
6B "Justice does loudhe for hym calle, Dethe vs the sure, the certame fate
And hee bhalle have hys meede Of all wee mortall nienne
Speke, Maister Canynge' Whatte lli\n«e
else "Sa\e why, m> fnend, tine honest soul
Att piesent doe von neede'" 1|U Kunns o\eir att th>ne e\e,
Ts vtte for my most welcome doome
"My nobile lei«e»" ffood Canyn^e sayde, Thatt
70
Be thyne the olyve rodde in An(, ,eftve thy ^^ flnd
„— „ .. A . . . . 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne e\e
"Was Godde to serche our hertes and
remes,8 "Thenne dne the tears thatt out tliMie eve
The best were svnners grete, Fioin godhe fountaines spnnge,
7B rhnst's wcarr onlv knowes ne svnne, i^fhe I despise, and alle the powei
Ynne all thys mortall state 120 of Kitanule, tia>!»i k\nge
"Leite mercie tule thvne infante reijjme, "Whan thmui*fa the fyi ant's welcoin means
Twvlle faste tliye crowne fulle sine f 1 shall resigne mv l\fe,
Fioin lace to race thye familie The Godde I serve w\lle socme pio\\ilc
so Alle sov'reigns shall endure For bothe mve sonnes and
"
But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou ™ "^fore J Mwe th? |vghtsome sunne.
Be^inne thy infante reigne, ^ lv« w! *\ «PI«nted mee,
Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes brows J?h» "J°jJ«l manne repyne or gnulge
Wylle never long remayne " What Oodde or<Jevnes to bee*
.._ . ,. .. "Howe oft >nne battaile ha\e I stoo.le.
"Canynge, awaie» thys traytour vile 130 Whan thousands dv'd arounde;
Has scorn 'd my power and mee; Whan smokynge streemes of ciimsnn
Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne bloode
Intreate my clemencye t ' ' Imbrew 'd the fatten 'd grounde
"Mie nobile leige! the truhe brave "Howe dvdd I knowe thatt ev'rv darte,
Wylle val'rous actions prize; That cutte the airie waie,
a rilined • kidneyn 135 Myffhtc nott f ynde passage toe my harte,
1 the rod of peace And close myne e> es for aie f
THOMAS CHATTEBTON 127
"And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, "Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe!
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde* Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere, Whyle Richard's sonnes1 exalt themselves,
140 Bee alle the manne display 'd Thye brookes wythe blonde wylle flowe
"Ah!" goddelyke Henne'1 Godde for- 185 "Saie, were ye tyr'd of godhe peace,
fende,8 And godhe Henne's reigne,
And guarde thee and thye sonne, Thatt you dyd choppe8 you easie daies
Yff 'tis hys wylle , but yff 'tis nott, For those of bloude and peyne !
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne
" Whatte too' I onne a sledde bee drawne,
i« "My honest friende, my faulte has beene iq° And mangled by a hynde,'
To serve Godde and mye prynce, I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,
And thatt I no tyme-server am, Hee can ne harm ">y mynde;
My dethe wylle soone convynce.
" Whatte tho ', uphoisted onne a pole,
" Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, 19, . Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
160 Of parents of grete note , 195 And ne lyche monument of brasse
My fadre dydd a nobile armes Charles Bawdm's name shall bear;
Emblazon onne hys cote „ ^ ynne
"' s
From oute the reech of woe ,, for
And eke hee tau^hte mee howe to knowe M > , lovvnce wvfe'
ieo The wronge cause fromme the lyghte M^e sonnes and 10^n*e w-vte
Al . , . , 205 "Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes.
1 ' 1iee,taiigh1;e "I** Wyth a prudent A" e >er *he raoneth <>f Maie ,
To feede the hungrie poore, Nor wou,de j even wyghe to lvV6(
Ne lette mye sei vants dry\e awaie Wyth my (lere wyfe to staie , ,
The hungrie fromme my doore
, . Quod Canvnse, " Tys a good lie thynge
l«5 "And none ran save butt alle mye Ivfe jio TO bee prepar'd to die,
I have hvb torches kept , And from th\b world of peyne and grefe
Aiid *.ummM the actyonns of the daie To Godde vnne Heav'n to flie "
Kf he nvghte before I slept
And nowe the belle beganne to tolle,
"I ha\e a spouse, goe aske of her And clarMww1* lo ^ouude,
170 yff I defyl'd her beddef 216 gyr C'harlei hee herde the horses' feete
I ha>e a kvnge, and none can laie A-piaunrvnjr onne the giounde
Blaeke treason onne my hedde
And just before the officers
"Ynne Lent, and onne the hohe e\e, His lovMige u\fe came ynne,
Fronmie fleshe I dydd ref rayne ; Weepvnge unfeigned teeres of woe,
"6 w|Ue should I thenne appeare ilmmavM 220 Wvthe londe and dysmalle dynne
To leave thvs worlde of pa^e*
"Sweet Florence' nowe I praie forbere.
"Ne, hapless Henne! I reiovce, Ynne quiet lett mee die,
I shall ne see thve dethe, Praie Godde thatt ev'rv Chn^tian soule
Moste willvnghe ynne thye just cause Maye looke onne dethe as I
180 Doe I resign my brethe.
> Richard. Duke of York, wa* father of Edward
>HeDry VI, noted for MB piety, who had been IV nnif Richard III
d»pOHed and held captive b> fcdward IV "exchange
• defend (The word IB mlmned , It meant forbid ) ' peasant
128 EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOBEBUNNEBB
225 "Sweet Florence! why these bri met eerest The Freers of Seinete Augustyne next
Theye waahe my aonle awaie, 27° Appeared to the syghte,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,1
Wythe thee, sweete dame, to staie, Of godhe monkysh plyghte 2
" 'Tys butt a joarnie I shalle goe Ynne diffraunt partes a grihe psaume
2W Untoethelaideofblysse; 275 ^oste sweethe theye dydd ehaunt,
Nowe, as a proof e of husbanded love, *75 Behynde theyre backes syx mvnstrelles
Receive thys hohe kysse " _ *"*• ... , . 4 _
Who tun M the strunge bataunt *
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, Thenne fyve.and-twentye archers came;
,« ,< Tremblynge these wordyea spoke, Echone4 the bnwe dydd ^nde
2« "Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge » From ^^^ of K Henne's friends
Mye herte ys welle nyghe breke • 280 Syr diaries f m i to defend
"Ah, sweete Syr Charles f why wylt thou Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,
goe, Drawne onne a cloth-layde aledde,
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfef Bye two blacke stedes ynne trapjnnges
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, white,
140 Ttte eke shall ende mye lyfe " Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde
And nowe the ofRcers eame ynne 28>5 Behynde hym five-and-twentye m«e
To biynge Syr Charles awaie, Of archers stronge and stoule,
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, Wyth bended bowe eclione ynne hande,
And thus to her dydd saie Maiched ynne fii>»dlie mute,
«5 "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; ^ Sc'n<:te J^meses f reers marclied next,
Tiuste thou ynne Godde above, *° D ^^ ]lvs Partue d^ tthauilt »
And teache thye sonnes to f eare the Lorde, Beh> nde thc> re backeb M x
And ynne theyre hertes hym lo^e WhoWd the strunge bataunt
Thenne came the maior and
fader runne , Ynne clothe of u&rlett deck 't .
Florence! should dethe thee take-adieu! 295 And theyre attendyng menne
Yee officers leade onne Lyke feastcrne p^, tnokt
Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, And after them a multitude
And dydd her tresses tere , Of citizenns dydd thronpe ;
2B5««oh» stole, ^ mye hufcbande! lorde, and The wyndowes were all fulle of he<Mf s
lyfe! — 300 As liee dydd passe alonge
Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare
And whenne hee came to the hygbe crosse,
'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud, Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,
Shee felien onne the flore ; <(0 Thou, thatt saxest manne iromine
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte, synne,
200 And march 'd fromme oute the dore. Washe mye soule clean thys daie!"
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, 80B Att the grete mynsterr wyndowe sat
Wythe lookes full brave and swete. The kynge ynne rayckle* btate,
Lookes thatt enshone1 ne more concern To see Charles Bawdm goe alonge
Thanne anie ynne the strete. To hys most welcom fate
*« Before hym went the council-menne, flin Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe
Ynne scarlett robes and golde, 81° Th»tt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, i homespun clothes an adjective, mean-
Mnehe glonous to beholde: • in.
i showed (an Invented form) The word Is really • great; much
•truni€nt is known ' decked out
The
THOMAS CHATTEBTON
129
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande
uppe,
And thus hya wordes declare.
' ' Thou seest mee, Edwarde f travtonr vile ?
Expos 'd to infamie;
315 Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne,
I 'm greaterr nowe thanne thee1
"B>e foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
Thou wearest nowe a crowne ,
And hast appovnted mee to dye,
By power nott thyne owne
°'20
"Thou thynkest I shall die to-daie,
I have beone dede 'till nowe,
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
For aie uponne my browe
•o- 1 1 tin i A , * *
•-• "Whylst thou, perhapps, for som fe*
yeares,
Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
*6B For wrvynge loyally mye kyngc,
Mye kynge most ryghtf ulhe
"As longe as Edwarde roles thys land,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe .
Yonre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee
slayne
86° And brookes wythe bloude shalle
flowe
"You lea\c \onre goode and lawfnlle
kynge,
Whenne ynne adversitye,
Lyke mee, untoe the true cause atycke,
And for the true cause dye "
m Thenne hee, wvth preestes, uponne hvs
knees,
A P1^ >r to Godde dydd make,
Bescechynge hym unto hyraselfe
Hys partyncre soule to take
downe, hee lavd ,,vs
' ' Thye pow 'r unjust, thou tray tour
«° Shall falle onno thye owne hedde"
Fiomme out nf hearyng of the kvnee
Departed thenne the sledde
K\ n^re Edn, aide fs soule i u*,h 'd in hvs face ...
Hee turn M livs hedde awaie, u- '
'•« And to h>s biode Gloucester'
Hee thus d\dd speke and sine
4 , .,,,,,,
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe.
. -\"d rounde the scaflfolde twyne ,
And ***** e™™ to ™& * «w"«i
flow fromme ea(>h lnann
1 ' T« hym thai soe-nuich-dreaded dethe
No ghasthe terrors brynjre.
Keholde the niaune' lu>e ^pake the tmihe,
•in Hee's sjrenter tliunne a k\naefi'
• ' Soe let t h vm die f " Duke Richard sayde ,
"And mu\e echone cure foes
Bende do\\ne thevie neckes to bloudie axe
\ml feede the carrvon crowes "
>4r> And no>\e the horses gentlie dre\ie
S\r Charles uppe the hyplie h>lle,
The axe d\dd dvsterr ynne the sunne
His pretious blonde to spvlle
Svr Charles dvdd uppe the scaffold croe
xr|° As uppe a gildeil carre
Of \ictorve, b\e xal'rouB chiefs
ynne the bloudie wnrre
1RO
The bloudie axe hvs bodie favre
Ynn to f oui e parties cutte ,
And ey'rye parte, and eke h\s hedde,
ITponne a pole was putte
One parte d>dd rotte onne K\nwulph-
h vile,
One onne the mynster-to*ei.
And one from off the castle-gate
The ciowen1 dvdd devoure,
And to the people hee d\dd saie,
^Beholde \ou see mee d\e,
n|8" The otlier onne Seyncte Powle's
gate,
A dreery spectacle,
Hvs hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe
crosse,
Vnne hyphe-sfreete most nobile
Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate-
^qo Oodde prosper longe oure kynge,
And grante hee mave. wyth Bawdin's
soule,
Ynne hea\ 'n Godd's mercie synge!
1 The DiAo of OloucvBtor nftor^ard Rlrbftrd III « crows
180
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNER
THE AOOOUNTE OP W.
FEAST
1768 1772
CANYNGE8
Thorowe the halle the belle ban sounde ;l
Byelecoyle doe the grave beseeme;2
The ealdermenne doe sytte aroundc,
Ande snoffelle oppe3 the cheorte4 steeme.
5 Lyche asses wylde ynne desarte waste
Swotelye5 the morneynge ayre doe
taste
Syke keene6 thie ate ; the minstrels plaie.
The dynne of angelles doe theie keepe."
Heie styllc,* the guestes ha ne° to saie,
10 Bntte nodde vci10 thankee ande falle
aslape.
Thus eehone daie bee I to deene,1^
Gyf12 Rowley. Ivamm, or Tvb
be ne *eene
Prom JELLA- A TBAGYCAL
ENTERLUDE
1768 1777
I MVNSTKELLES SONOF
F if rate Mynstrellt
The boddynpe14 flourette* hlo^he^ atte
thelyghte;
The mees15 be sprenged"' i*\th the
yellowe hue ,
Vnh daiseyd mantels ys the mounta> ne
dyghte;
The nesh17 yonge co\vesJej>e bendethe
wyth the dewe,
5 The trees enleffcd,1" >ntoe hea\enne
straughte,"
Whenn gentle ^yndeh dt»e blo\\e, to
uhestlyng dvnne ys broutrht
The e\enynge commes and bn nues the
dewealonge,
The roddie welkynne fiheeneth to the
eyne ,20
Anmnde the alestake21 1
thesonge;
Vonge ivie rounde the doore jKHte ilo
ontwyne :
LO
1 ban Hounded
efair welcoming do
the dignified |x»r
Honagefl appear
1 snuff up
4<*a\orv , plcanant
• iiveetly
• so keenh
7 they plav muHie llki>
that of angeh
• t h e y « til 1,— f c .
when the murtdann
11 thu«i prerj dm HIII
1 to dine
19 |f
11 Imaginary boon com-
paniona of i'amngt
14 budding
l> meadows
w are gprtnklod
onn the grabse; yette, to
mie wylle,
Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe
somethynge stylle
Seconde Mynstrellc
So Adam thoughtenne. whann. ' *in
Paradyse,
All heavenn and eithe d\d hominaue
to hys mynde ;
Vnn womroan alleyne1 man n is ploas-
aunce l}es,
V^ instrumentefe of joie \veie nia<le the
kynde -
^•0, take a \*vfe untoe tine armes. and
see
Wxnter and brounie hvlles \\vll h«\e a
eharme for thee
Thyrdc MynstutU
Wlianne Autumpne blake" and ^onne-
brente doe aj>|>eie,
" With hvs goulde lionde i>inlte\ni»e4 the
ialleyntre leie,
llr \ngev litre opjn* W\nten to folUlle
the yere,
Iteer.vnge ujwnne h\s baeke the uped
shefe ,
Whan al the h\K \\Athe ucxltlie «*ede*
Vb i*hyte;
Whanne le\yiine l>ie^' and leni<^7 dn mete
from far the SA elite-8
1 Whann the fa.M** apple, rudde .1^ e\en
hkie,tt
Do bende the tiee unto the huctxle1"
grounde .
When joicie }K'res, and liernes of
blacke die,
Doe daunee >n a>ie, and eall the
eyne11 arounde;
Thanii, bee the e\en foule 01 e\en fayie,
Meethynckes mie hart>s12 ioic ys steyneed1"1
\\vth ^ommeeare.
• have nothing
"their
SSSf
-ledont
14 Htretched
90 the ruddT nk\
to the ere
" \ Htak
tho slf^n of an air
Seconde
Atmelles bee \\roehte to bee of neidher
kynde;"
Vmrelles alleyne froninie ehafe1' de«.vre
bee free:
1 alone " n* far an the eye can
aee
•ruddy a«e\onlngsk\
(lu "• fruitful
kind
hlea k , bare
Tbatterton'M
nary, it IK defined
)
«g1dlng)
willow wed
"eye*
i» heart's
Attained
14 are made to
neither net
"hot
he of
THOMAS CHATTKBTON
131
Dheere1 yb a soiiiwhatte evere yn the
mynde,
Yatte,2 wythout wommanne, cannot
styllfed bee;
36 Ne seyncte yn celles, botte,8 havynge
blodde and tere,4
Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of
wommanne f ayre ,
Wommen bee made, notte for hem-
selves, botte mannc.
Hone of hys bone, and chyld of hvi
desire .
Fromnie an ymityle inenibere5 fyrsto
began ne,
40 Ywroghte with morhe of water, lyttele
f yre ;
Therefore theie seke the f.\re of love,
to hete
The milkynes** nt k.vnde,6 and make hein-
sH\«»s complete
MbeUte wvthout uonmien mcruie
To sahn^c kMidc." and wulde botte lyxi?
to »-len,
46 Botte \\omineiinc i»ltett the spiyehtt1 of
peace so chores,
Toohelod vii10 Angel jme heie11 An&rele*
bee
Go, take thee s\\ \thyn12 to tine hedde
a wyfe,
Bee bante18 01 blessed hie14 yn proo\ynire
marryage lyfe
2 M\\STKEU.ES SON'GE
O ' synge untoe line roundelaie,15
Of droppe the brjnie tea re wythe mee,
Daunce ne inoe atte halhe daie,16
Lycke a leynjnge17 rvver bee;
"• Mie love ys dedde,
(ion to hys death-bedde,
VI under the wyllowe tree
Blacke hys crjne18 as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte h>s iode10 as tho sommer snowe,
10 Rodde20 hvs face as the mornynpe lyphte,
('nlo21 he lyes ynne the jrraAe helowe,
Mie" love ys detlde,
1 there
•that
• no Mint In cell, but
«tear
5 aneleHM member, — i
r., Adam <* rlh
• nature
'mate*
• savage species,— 40 ,
wild beaita
•often
w dowered with
» they
"qulckh
" cursed
" highly
n accompanv me In mv
qong
i« holidax
" running
»" hair
» •complexion*'—
Thatterton
*' ruddv
"cold
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree
15 Swote1 hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Qaycke ynn dannce as thonghte canne bee,
Def te hys taboure,1 codgelle stote,8
0! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree
Mie love ys dedde,
20 Oonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Alle underre the wyllowe tree
Harke f the ravenne flappes hys wynpe,
In the briered delle belowe ,
Harke ! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
-r> To the nyghte-mares as heie4 goe ,
Mie love ys dedde,
Qonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree
Seef the wh>te moone sheenes onne hie,
50 Whyterre ys mie true loves shronde ,
Whytcire yanne6 the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the cvenynge cloude,
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
r' Al under the wyllowe tree
Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one halhe Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde."
40 Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Alle under the wjllowe tree
Wythe mie hondes I 'lie dente7 the bneres
Kounde his halhe corse to pie,8
15 Ouphante9 fame lyghte youre fyres,
ITeere mie boddie stylle schalle l>ee
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
VI under the wvllowe tree
50 Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scoine,
Daunre bie nete,10 or feaste by daie
Mie love ys dedde,
55 Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
1 sweet
'bkilful (he wan) in
plaving the tabor
(a stringed InRtru-
ment nlmilar to the
guitar)
•his rudgel wag ntout
'they
•than
•there Is not one holy
<*alnt who can save
a maid from the
toldneM that corner
from watching at
her lover's grave ( ')
' fasten
"grow
•elfln
10 by night
132
EIGHTEENTH C'ENTURY PORERUNNEBS
Waterre wytcbes, crownede xx j (he reytes/
Here inee to yer leathalle2 tyde.
I die I I comme f mie true love waytos. .
80 Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.
AN EXCELENTE BALADE OP
CHAEITIE
\s \\ICOTEK BIE THE GODE PKIE8TE THOMAS
KOV\ I XIE, 1464
WO 1777
In Virgyne3 the sweltiie sun can4
sheene,
And hotte upon the meesr> did caste
his raie,
The apple rodded* fiom its pah*
greene,
And the mole7 peiire did bendo the
leafy spraie,
5 The peede chelandri8 sunge the h\e-
long daie,
Twas nowe the pride, the manhode
of the yeare,
And eke the jjiounde xxas dmiito1* in Us
most defte numeie10
The sun xxas qlemein? in the middle
of daie,
Deadde still the aire, and eke the
uelken bine,
10 When f i-oin the sea aiist11 in dieai
annie
A hepe o) cloud PS of sable sullen hue.
The * Inch full fast unto the uood-
lande dre^e,
Hiltnng attenes the sunnis fety\e
face,'-
And the blaekc tempeste swolne1*1 and
sat houl ii]> apace
15 Beneathe an holme,14 by a pathwaie
side
\Vlneli dxde unto Sexneto (5och\me'*»
coxTentlfi lede,
A hapless piicinn moneynge16 dyd
abide,
1 water flags
14 \ kind of onk
J lethal , cleaclh
»-"It would hate IKM-D
Mn the Virgin, tunt
that it able If tho
part of tho xodiac
author had not
which the «inn enters
pointed at personal
In August
character* In thi*
'did
•Ballad of Tharltx
* ineado* s
The ahuot of St
1 leddened
Oodmlnn at tho
Murieeated or pied
time of writing of
thlT vi an Ralph do
goldfinch
Bellomont. a great
• clothed
stickler for tho
1(1 neat mantle
"aroae
Ijancaatrlan famlh
Rowley wa» a York
» hiding at once the
•nn*8 fertile face
tat "—Chatterton
10 moaning
u swelled
Poic in his viewe,1 ungentle2 in his
weede,8
Longe bretful4 of the miseries of
neede .
-° Where from the hailstone eoulde the
aimer6 fliet
He hail no housen theeie. no nnie eovent
me.
Look in his gloimned'1 iaeo, his spnght
there wanne
Howe Moe-be-gone, how uithejed. ioi-
Haste to tine church - glebe - house."
asshiewed" munne.
Haste to thie kisle,10 thie onlu- doi-
touro11 bedrl<>
('ale1-1 as the Hme \\hulie \\ill yie11 on
thie lutldp
Is Choiihe and LO\P
pl\ i?s , ! "
Knicrhtis and B.IIOIIS li\o ioi ploasuie and
thenihehes
Tlic uatheid stoiine i^ I\JH>. thr
(hops ialle,
-° The loi^at1" ineadimc^ sincilie,17 ami
<liencli('1M tin* laiiic,
The coinuiu j»luisinoss' ' do (he cattle
pail.-50
Vinl tho lull flo(kes ;no dii\\ii£>e oir
the plaint',
Dashdc t loin tho cloudos, Iho
flott-1 as>ainet
The uelkin opos, tht1 \elhm
flies,
*~ And the hot fiono sinotho17 in the \\idi*
lowmgv" dies
LiRte! no\s the thuiiilei 's lattlmg cljin-
m>njje24 smmd
('hexes-'"1 sloxxlio (»n, ,uid then onibollon '
clangs.
Shakes the hie sp\ic>t and, losbt, de-
pended, drovin'd.
Still on the jralhnd-'7 eaie of tonoun
hangos ,
40 The ^mdes uio up. the loft\ olnien
1 appi^arancc
J lieggarh , not like i
J- por^onais* N
14 sunburnt
gontlomnn
17 Hteam
••dreiw
1)1 drink
' hrlmful
n terror
"• beggar of alm^
n gloom \ , dejec*to<l
' dry , withered
" the grave
* appal, frlghton
-lflv
» lightning
" flashingf
8 accursed
•* noinv
10 cheat : coffin
•* moves
sanr*
CT fHghted
1 grom
•* olin ^VIHVS
14 among
THOMAS CHATTEBTON
133
Again the levyune and the thunder
poures,
And the full cloudes ate hiaste1 attenes2
in btonen* showers
Spurreynge his palfne oeie the watrie
plaine.
The Abbote oi* Seyiicte Godwynes con-
\ ente came
llih iliapoumette4 w»u> diented with the
leme,
"Varlet/' leplyd the Abbatte, ^
>our dinne!
This is no season almes and prayers to
give
Mie poitei \\e\ei lets a faitoui1 in,
None touch mie i*ynge2 who not in
honom h\e '*
And now the sonne with the blacke
cloudeb did btiyvc.
And bhettynge4 on the grounde his
glanie laie *
And his penctc"' gyidk* met with mickle TO The Abbatte bpurrde nib steede, and eit-
shame,"
He avnewarde tolde his bederoll7 at the
same 8
The storme encieasen, and he dre*
aside
With the mist" almes-ci«\ei neere10 to the
holme to bide
hi*
"|0 His cope11 was all oi' Lyncolnc clothe
so fync,
With a gold butlon fasten 'd
chvnne ,
His auticmcte1- \\as edged with erolden
tttynne,13
And hib shoone14 p.xke1"1 a loxerds10
mis»hto luuc bump
Full well it shemn ho thoiurhten c-ostc
no smne,
Tlie tinmmels17 of the pal h ye pleasdc
his sicrhte.
soones roadde awaie
Once moe the skie was blacks, tiic
thoundei rolde
Paste reyneynge ocr the plaine a pneste
was been,
Xe dighte5 lull pioude, nc buttoned up
m golde;
His cope and ,]ape° \\ere giaie, and ck
were clene;
\ Liinitouie he ^\as of oider j^ent*7
And fiom the pathvaie side then tuinM
hee,
Where the poie almei hue bmethe tlu-
holmen tree.
"An allies sir pnost1" tho diopp>ni»«'
])ilgrim sayde,
"Foi sweete Seyncie .Mam- and
mder bake ff
Foi tin- hoistMmllnnaie1" Ins head with go The Limitoure then loosen 'd his pouchi
roses dightc
"An almes, sir pne«*te?M the drop-
pynjjc1
saide,
•()' let mi1 \\aitc \\itliiu voui
dorc,
Till the sunno sheneth hie abo\e oiu
hcadc.
And the loudo tempeste of the airc is
OtT
Helplebb and ould am I. alas* and 8,
poor ,
No house, nc fnend, ne inoneie in m>
pouchc ,
All \attejo I calle mv uune is this mv silvei
ciouche M!J1
threade,
And did thereout e a gioates of
take,
The mibtei* pilgimi d>d foi halhne1"
shake
Here take this sihei. it maie eat ho n
thie care,
We aie Goddes s1e\\aixls all, nete12 oi
oure o\\ne we bare
But ahf unhaihe18 pilgrim, lerne of
me.
Scathe14 anie i»ne a ventiolle,10 to then
Lorde
take my semecope,10 thou arte
\n\ro I see,
1 hurst
>' tine
mhltr
• \ small round hat
* painted a
-much noil . "P6*!1^
74iHc told bis beads 1-lords
backwards a flRura- " shackles u B c d to
to make a borne amble
- "one who deck, out
atterton
•then: at the 10 me
• pooi '
boraen
£ drooping
1 vagabond
'hammer of the dooi
knocker
1 shooting
4 (shining raj
•dressed; adorned
•A abort surplice
Taa to his order, be
waa seen to be a
llmiter, — t. t , a
friar licensed to beg
within a certain
limited area
•A small coin, worth
four pence
•
»
Account of
rents
1(1 under cloak
184
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOREBUNNEB6
Tib thyne; the Seyneteb will give me
line rewarde."
He left the pilgrim, and his uaie
aborde.1
90 Virgynne and hallie Seyucte, who sitte 5
>n gloure,2
Oi ^ne the raittee8 \iill, or give the gode
man power'
EPITAPH ON ROBERT CANYNGE
1777
10
Thys morn>nge staire of Radcleves
rysynge raie,
A true manne good of mynde and
Canynge hyghte,4
Benethe thys stone lies moltrynpc5 ynto
claie,
Tntylle the dark tombe sheene an*
eterne lyghte. *°
5 Thyrde from hys loynes the present
Canynge came,
Houtou* aie woides foi to telle h>*
doe,8
For aye shall hve hys hea\en-iecorded a
name,
Ne shall yt dye whanne tynie slialle
IKKJ no nioe,"
Whanne Myehael *s trumpe shall souzide
to rise the solle,
10 He'll \>>n«re tn heaven with kjime '" ami
happie bee hys clolle n
WILLIAM BECKFORD (1759-1844) «
From THK HISTORY OF THE CALIPH'- '
VATHEK
J783 176,0
Vathek, ninth Caliph of the race ot the 40
Abaroides, mas the son of Motassem, and
the giandson of Haroun Al Raschid Fioin
an early accession to the throne, and
5 the talent* he possessed to adorn it, his
subjects were induced to expect that his 45
leign \\ould be long and hapjn His
figure was pleasing and majestic, but \\hcn
he was angry one of his eyes became M»
10 terrible, that no person could beai to
behold it, and the wretch upon uhoni it so
was fixed instantlv tell backward, and
w bis kinsmen
"lot
"A title of the me
cessors of Moham- 66
med, now claimed
bjr the Snltan of
Turkey it com
prebends the chai
acter of propln i
l»rlo«t nnd
1 molderlng
••bine in
T empty
suuietmieb expn-ed. For i'ear, liowevei, of
depopulating Ins dominions and making
his palace desolate, he but raiely gave viay
to hife anger.
Being much addicted to luiuien and the
pleasures of the table, he bought by his affa-
bility to piocuie agieeuhle companions, and
lie succeeded the bettei as his geneiosity
\\as unbounded, and Ins indulgences ume-
sti anied, for he was by no means scrupulous,
nor did lie think with the Caliph Omar Ben
Abdalaziz, that it \vus necessary t<i make
n hell of this urn Id to enjoy Paiadise in
the next
He surpassed in magniiic cnce all his pied-
eces^ors The palace of Alkoremini, uhich
his father Moiassem hud elected on the hill
ot Pied Hoises. and which commanded the
\\hole city of Samaiah, >\as m his idea far
too seant> , he lidded, theiet'oir. ti\e \\m»s,
or lather othei palnces, \\hiHi he destined
for the particular gratification ot each of
his senses
Tn the iiist of thc«e \\eie tables «>n-
tmually einered with the most ev|iusite
dainties, \\luvh \\eic supplied both b>
nmht and by da> uccoidin^* to then con-
stant consumption. uhiNt the most deli-
cious wines nnd the choicest coi dials
lloued foith fiom n handled fountains
that \\ere ne\ei exhausted This ]»alace
\\ns called ^The Kicinal <M I iisatiatins;
Rdnquet "
The swond \\as styled "The Temple of
Melody, 01 the Nectai of the Soul " It
\\HS inhabited b\ the most skilful musicians
and ndmiied poets of the time, \\lio not
only displayed then talents \\ithin, but, dis-
persing m bands without, caused c\ei\ sur-
loundinjr scene to ic\eibeiate then songs,
\\hich weie contmiially \aned in the most
delightful succession
The palace named "The Delight of the
Kyes, or the Suppoit of Memory," ^a^«
one entire enchantment Hanties collected
fiom exeiy comer of the earth \\eio thorp
round m sueli piofnsmn as to dazzle and
confound, but foi the oidei m \\lnch they
were arranged One urnlleiy exhibited the
pictuies of the celebiated Main, nnd statue*
that seemed to be nine Here a u ell-man-
aged peispectne attracted the sight, there
the magic of optics agreeably deceived it:
whilst the naturalist on his pail exhibited,
m their several classes the various gifts
that Heaven had bestowed on our globe
Tn a word, Vathek omitted nothing in this
palace that might gratify the curiosity of
those who revolted to it. nlthoiiffh he \\us
WILLIAM BEGKFORD
135
not able to satisfy his own, for he was of
all men the most curious.
14 The Palace of Perfumes," which was
termed likewise "The Incentive to Pleas-
ure," consisted of vaiious halls where the
diffeient perfumes which the earth pioduces
were kept perpetually burning in censer*
of gold. Flambeaus and aromatic lamps
were heie lighted in open day. But the too
powerful effects of this agreeable delirium
might be avoided by descending into an im-
mense garden, where an asbemblage of every
flagrant flo\\er diffused through the air the
purest odois
The fifth palace, denominated "The Re-
heat of Joy, or the Dangerous," was fre-
quented by troops of young females toau-
tiful as the houris1 and not less seducing,
\\ho ue\er failed to iecei\e niith carets
all whom the Caliph allowed to approach
them, for he was by no means disposed
to be jealous, as his own women neie
secluded within the pnlacc lie inhabited
linn-elf
Notwithstanding the sensuality in which
Vathek indulged, he expeiienced no abate-
ment in the lo\e of his people, who thought
that a *»o\eicign Jinniei^d in pleasure wa-
not less toleiable to his subjects than one
that einj»Iou»d himsrlf in ci eating them foes.
But the unquiet and impetuous disposition
of the Caliph would not allow him to lest
there, he had <»tudied so much foi hi*»
amusement in the lifetime of his fathei, as
to acqime a gieat deal of knowledge, though
not n sunicienc\ to satisfy himself, for he
\\islietl to know e\ 013 thing, e\en sciences
that did not exist He was fond of engag-
mtr in disputes with the learned, but liked
them not to push their opposition with
warmth. he stopped the mouths of those
with presents whose mouths could be
stopped, whilst others, whom his liberality
was unable to subdue, he sent to prison to
cool their blood, n remedy that often suc-
ceeded.
Vathek disco>eied also a predilection for
theological controveisy, but it was not with
the orthodox that he usually held. B\ this
means he induced the zealot* to oppose him,
and then peisecuted them in return; for he
resolved at any late to ha\e reason on his
side.
The great prophet Mahomet, whose vicars
the caliphs are, beheld with indignation from
his abode in the seventh heaven the irre-
ligious conduct of such a viccregent "Let
\lrgin« of the Mohammedan
us leave him to himseli," said he to the
Genii,1 who are always ready to recerve hie
commands; 'Met us see to what lengths his
folly and impiety will carry him; if he
6 runs into excess we shall know how to chas-
tise him. Assist him, therefore, to complete
the tower which, in imitation of Nimiod, he
hath begun, not, like that great warrior, to
escape being drowned, but from the mso-
10 lent curiosity of penetrating the secrets of
Heaven; he will not divine the fate that
awaits him "
The Genii obeyed, and when the woikuien
had raised their sti ucture a cubit in the day
is time, two cubits moie mere added in the
night. The expedition with which the fab-
nc arose was not a little flattering to the
vanity .of Yathek. He fancied that even
insensible mattei showed a foiwardness to
» subserve his designs, not considering that
the successes of the foolish and wicked foim
the fust lod of their chastisement.
His pride ai lived at its height when, hav
ing ascended for the first time the eleven
16 thousand stairs of his tower, he east his eyes
below and beheld men not larger than pis-
nines, mountains than shells, and cities than
l>eehives The idea which such an elevation
inspired of his own grandeui complete!}
80 bewildered him; he was almost ready to
adoie himself, till, lifting his eyes upward,
he saw the stars as high abo\e him as they
appeared when he stood on the surface
ol the eat th He consoled himself, how-
88 e\er, for this transient perception of his
littleness, with the thought of being gieat
in the eyes of others, and flattered
himself that the light of his mind would
extend beyond the reach of his sight,
40 and transfer to the stars the dccieea of his
destiny.
With this view the iiiquisithe Prince
passed most of his nights at the summit of
his tower, till he became an adept in the
« mysteries of astrology, and imagined that
the planets had disclosed to him the most
marvellous advent uies, which weie to be
accomplished by an extraordinary personage
from a countr> altogether unknown
60 Prompted by motives of curiosity he had
always been courteous to strangers, but
from this instant be redoubled his attention,
and ordered it to be announced by sound of
«• * IB Oriental mythology, the ienil are of a hither
order than man, hut lower than the angels
They are said to have governed the world be
fore the creation of Adam They were noted
for their architectural skill, the Egyptian pyra-
mids having been ascribed to them The
Pentium cannd thorn pcrN find dirra
136
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
trumpet, through all the sheets of Samarah
that no one of bis subjects, on peril of dis-
pleasure, should either lodge or detain a
traveller, but forthwith bring him to the
palaee. &
Not long after this proclamation there
arrived in his metropolis a man so hideous
that the very guards who arrested him were
forced to shut their eyes as they led him
along The Caliph him&elf appeared startled 10
at so horrible a visage, but joy succeeded
to this emotion of tenor when the strangei
displayed to his view such rarities as he
had nevei before seen, and of which he had
no conception u>
In reality nothing was ever so extraordi-
nary as the merchandize this stranger pro-
duced, most of his curiosities, which were
not less admirable for their workmanship
than splendor, had besides, their several vir- so
tues described on a parchment fastened to
each There were slippers which enabled
the feet to walk; knives that cut without
the motion of a hand; sabres which dealt
the blow at the person they were wished to »
stuke, and the whole ennched with gems
that were hitherto unknown.
The sabres, whose blades emitted a daz-
zling radiance, fixed more than all the
Caliph 's attention, who promised himself to 80
decipher at his lei&uie the uncouth charac-
ters engraven on their sides Without,
there! 01 e, demanding their price, he ordered
all the coined gold to be bi ought from his
treasury, and commanded the mei chant to as
take what he pleased, the sti anger complied
with modesty and silence,
Vathek, imagining that the mei chant's
taciturnity was occasioned by the awe which
his presence inspired, encouraged him to 40
advance, and asked him, with an air of con-
descension, who he was, whence he came,
and where he obtained such beautiful com-
modities The man, or lather monster, in-
stead of making a reply, thrice rubbed his 46
forehead, which, as well as his body, was
blacker than ebony, four times clapped his
paunch, the projection of which was enor-
mous, opened wide his huge eyes, which
glowed like firebrands, began to laugh 60
with a hideous noise, and discovered his
long amber-colored teeth bestreaked with
green*
The Caliph, though a little startled, re-
newed his inquiries, but without being able 66
to procure a reply; at which, beginning to
be ruffled, he exclaimed- "Knowest thou,
varlet, who I amf and at whom thou art
aiming thy gibes? " Then, addressing his
guards, "Have ye heard him speak t is he
dumbl"
' ' He hath spoken, ' ' they replied, ' ' though
but little."
"Let him speak again then," said Vathek,
"and tell me who he is, from whence he
came, and wheie he procured these smgulai
curiosities, or I swcai by the ass oi Balaam1
that I will make him lue his peitmacity "
The menace was accompanied by the
Caliph with one of his angiy and perilous
glances, which the stian^er sustained with-
out the slightest emotion, although his eyes
were fixed on the tcniblc eye ot the Pi nice
No woids can descnhe the amazement oi
the coin he is when they beheld tins iiule
merchant withstand the encounter un-
shocked They all fell piostiatc with then
taces on the ground to a\oid the i isk of then
lives, and continued in the samr «ihj(»rt
posture till the Caliph exclaijnod in a fin urns
tone: "Up, cowaicls1 seize the nnscieant1
see that he be committed to pnson and
guarded by the best of my soldiois' l^t
him, howevei, ictain the mone> I t»n\e him
it is not my intent to take fioin him his
property, I only want linn to speak "
No sooner had he uttcml these
than the sti anger \\as sun minded, pinioned
with stiong fetters, and burned nw<iy to the
piison of the gieat towei, which was en-
compassed by sc\en empaleincnts oi iron
bars, and armed with spikes in e\ci> direc-
tion longer and shaiper than spits
The Caliph, nevertheless, icinaiiiod in the
most violent agitation; he sat down indeed
to eat, but of the three bundled co\ers that
were daily placed before him could taste of
no more than thirty-two. A diet to which he
had been so little accustomed was sufficient
of itself to prevent him from sleeping, what
then must be its effect when joined to the
anxiety that preyed upon his spirits? At the
first glimpse of clawp he hastened to the
prison, again to importune this intractable
stranger; but the rage of Vathek exceeded
all bounds on finding the pi won empty, the
gates burst asunder, and his guards lying
lifeless around him In the paioxysni of his
passion he fell furiously on the pooi car-
casses, and kicked them till evening without
intermission. His courtiers and vizn s exerted
their efforts to soothe his extravagance, but
finding every expedient ineffectual they all
united in one vociferation- "The Caliph is
1 Sec Numbers. 22-24 Mohammedans believed
that all animals would be raited again, and
that many of them, including the am of
Balaam, were admitted into Pnradlne
WILLIAM JUSCKPOKD
187
gone madf the Caliph is out of his
senses!"
This outcry, which soon resounded through
the streets of Samarah, at length reaching
the ears oi Carathis, his mother, she flew in 6
the utmost consternation to try her ascend-
ancy on the mind of her son Her tears and
cai esses called off his attention, and he was
prevailed upon by her entreaties to be
brought back to the palace. 10
Carathis, apprehensive of leaving Vathdk
to himself, caused him to be put to bed, and
seating hei self by him, endeavored by her
conveisation to heal and compose him Nor
could anv one have attempted it with better 15
success, ioi the Caliph not only loved her as
a mother, but lespected hei as a person of
su pei 101 genius, it was she who had induced
linii, being a Gieek herself, to adopt all the
sciences and s> stems of her country, which 90
good Mussulmans hold in such thorough
abhoiience Judicial astrology1 was one of
those systems in which Caiatlus v\as a inf-
lect adept, she began, thereiore, with re-
minding hei son of the piomise which the 26
stars had made him, and intimated an inten-
tion of consulting them again
*' Alas' M sighed the Caliph, as soon as he
<'<»ul(l speak, "what a iool have I been! not
I'oi the kicks bestov\ecl on inv guaids who so 80
tamelv submitted to death, but for never
ronsidei mg that thi< e\tiaoirlmai> man v\as
the same the planets had foietold, v\hom,
instead of ill-ti eating, I should have concil-
iated bv all the ajts of peisuasion " SB
"The past," said Cauitliis, "cannot lie
i ccallcd, but it behoves us to think of the
fut nil1, peibaps vou mav again see the ob-
ject v«u so much icgiet, it is possible the
inscriptions on the sabies \\ill afford mfoi- 40
million Eat. theiefoie, and take thy repose,
m> dear son, we will consider, tomorrow,
in \\hat mannei to act "
Vathek yielded to hei counsel as well as he
could, and'atosc m the morning with a mind 46
more at ease The sabies he commanded to
lie instantly hi ought, and poring upon them
tluough a green glass, that their glitteiing
might not da/zle, he set himself in eamest to
deciphei the inscriptions ; but his reiteiated »
attempts v\eie all of them nugatory, in vain
did he bent his head and bite his nails, not a
letter of the whole was he able to ascertain
So unlucky a disappointment would have
undone him again, had not Carathis by good «
fortune enteied the apartment.
i A pseudo-idence concerned with foretelling the
future of nations and Individual^ from oWr-
vation of the star*
4 * Have patience, son!" said she; "you
certainly are possessed of every important
science, but the knowledge of languages is a
trifle at best, and the accomplishment of none
but a pedant. Issue forth a proclamation
that you will confer such rewards as become
your greatness upon any one that shall inter-
pret what you do not understand, and what
it is beneath you to learn, you will soon find
your curiosity gratified.9'
" That may be," said the Caliph ; "but in
the meantime I shall be horribly disgusted
by a crowd of smatterers, who will come to
the trial as much for the pleasure of retailing
their jargon as from the hope of gaining the
leward To avoid this evil, it will be proptf
to add that I will put every candidate to
death who shall fail to give satisfaction;
for, thank heaven* I have skill enough to
distinguish between one that translates and
one that invents "
"Of that I have no doubt," replied Cara-
this, "but to put the ignorant to death is
somewhat severe, and may be pioductive of
dangerous effects, content yourself with
commanding then beards to be burnt,1—
beards in a state aie not quite so essential as
men "
The Caliph submitted to the reasons of his
mothei, and sending for Morakanabad, hi*
pi line vizir, said "Let the common ciieis
proclaim, not only in Samaiah, but through-
out every city in my empiie, that whosoevei
\\ill icpair lnthei and decipher certain chai-
acters \\lnch appear to be inexplicable, shall
expenence the liberality for which I am re-
nowned, but that all who fail upon trial
shall ha\e their beards bunit off to the last
han Let them add also that I will bestow
fifty beautiful slaves, and as many jars of
apucots from the isle of Kirmith, upon any
man that shall bung me intelligence of the
stranger "
The subjects of the Caliph, like their sov ei -
eign, being great admirers of women and
apricots fiom Kirmith, felt their mouths
water at these promises, but were totally
unable to gratify their hankering, for no
one knew which way the stranger had gone
As to the Caliph's other requisition, the
result was different. The learned, the half-
learned, and those \vho were neither, but
fancied themselves equal to both, came boldly
to hazard theii beards, and all shamefully
lost them
The exaction of these forfeitures, which
1 From the earliest times, among the Mohamme-
dans. the loaa of the heard was regarded mm
highly dlftaraeeful
138
i;iUH TEEN Til I'KNTURy FORKKUNNKK8
foiuid sufficient employment for the eunuchs,
gave them such a smell of singed hair as
greatly to disgust the ladies of the seraglio,
and make it necessary that this new occupa-
tion of their guardians should be transferred
into other hands.
At length, however, an old man presented
himself whose beard was a cubit and a half
longer than any that had appeared before
him The officers of the palace whispered
to each other, as they ushered him in, "What
a pity such a beard should be burnt f ' f Even
the Caliph, when he saw it, concuned with
them in opinion, but his concern was en-
tirely needless. This venerable personage
read the characters with facility, and ex-
plained them verbatim as follows "We
were made where every thing good is made .
we are the least of the wonders of a place
where all is wonderful, and detuning the
sight of the first potentate on earth "
"You translate admirably!" cried Vath-
ek, "I know to what these marvellous chai-
acters allude Let him receive as many lobes
of honor and thousands of sequins1 of gold
as he hath spoken words. I am in some
raeasuie relieved from the perplexity that
embanassed me!"
Vathek invited the old man to dine, ami
even to remain some days in the palace Un-
luckily for him he accepted the offer; ioi
the Caliph, having ordered him next morn-
ing to be called, said- "Read again to me
what vou have read already, I cannot heai
too often the promise that is made me, the
completion of which I languish to obtain ' *
The old man forthwith put on his green
spectacles, but they instantly dropped from
his nose on perceiving the characters he had
read the day preceding had given place to
others of different import.
"What ails you!" asked the Caliph,
"and why these symptoms of wonder f"
"Sovereign of the world," replied the old
man, "these sabres hold another language
today from that they yesterday held."
1 ' How say you f " returned Vathek-' ' but
it matters not ! tell me, if you can, what the>
mean."
"Tt is this, my Lord," rejoined the old
man* "Woe to the rash mortal who seeks
to know that of which he should remain igno-
rant, and to undertake that which surpasseth
his power!"
"And woe to thee!" cried the Caliph, in
a burst of indignation; "today thou art
void of understanding; begone from my
presence! they shall burn but the half of thy
» A gold coin, worth about $2 26.
beaid, because thou wcrt yebteiday fortu-
nate in guessing;— my gifts I never re-
sume."
The old man, wise enough to perceive he
s had luckily escaped, considering the folly of
disclosing so disgusting a truth, immediately
withdrew and appeared not again.
But it was not long before Vathek dis-
covered abundant reason to i egret his pie-
10 cipitation, foi though he could not deciphei
the characters himself, yet by constantly
ponng upon them he plainly peieeived that
they every day changed, and unfortunately
no other candidate offered to explain them.
15 This perplexing occupation inflamed hip
blood, dazzled his sight, and brought on a
giddiness and debility that he could not sup-
poit He failed not, ho\\e\er, though in so
reduced a condition, to be often carried to
80 his tower, as he flattered himself that he
might there read in the stais which he worn
to consult something moie congenial to Ins
wishes ' but in this his hopes were deluded ,
foi his eyes, dimmed b> the \apors of his
26 head, began to subserve his curiosity so ill,
that he beheld nothing but a thick dun cloud,
which he took foi the most dnefiil of omens
Agitated with so much anxiety, Vathek
on tilery lost all firmness, a le\er seized him,
80 and his appetite failed Instead of being
one of the pea test eateis he became as dis-
tinguished for drinking So insatiable was
the thirst uhich toimented him, that his
mouth, like a funnel, uas always open to
86 receive the \auous liquors that might be
poured into it, and esjiecially cold watei,
which calmed him mot o than every other
This unhappy pi nice hc-iup thus incapaci-
tated for the enjoxment of any pleasuie,
40 commanded the palaces of the five senses to
be shut up, forboie to appear in public,
either to display his magnificence or admin-
ister justice, and retned to the inmost apart-
ment of his harem As he had ever been an
46 indulgent husband, his wives, overwhelmed
with grief at his deplotable situation, inces-
santly offered their prayers for his health
and unremittingly supplied him with watet
In the meantime the Pnncess Carathis,
60 whose affliction no words can describe, in-
stead of restraining herself to sobbing and
tears, was closeted daily with the Vizir
Morakanabad, to find nut some cure or miti-
gation of the Caliph's disease. Under the
66 persuasion that it was caused by enchant-
ment, they turned over together, leaf by leaf,
all the books of magic that might point out
a remedy, and caused the horrible stranger,
whom they accused a* the enchanter, to be
\\1LL1AM JIKCKPOJfcD
139
everywhere1 sought i'or with the stnctest
diligence.
At the distance of a few miles from Sama-
rah stood a high mountain, whose sides were
swaided with wild thyme and basil, and its i
summit overspread with so delightful a
plain, that it might be taken for the para-
dise destined for the faithful Upon it nre\\
a hundred thickets of eglantine and otlioi
fragrant shiuhs, a hundred arbors of roses, 10
jessamine, and honeysuckle, as many clumps
of orange trees, cedar, and citron, whoso
branches, interwoven with the palm, tho
pomegianate, and the vine, presented e\ei.\
luxiiM that could regale the eye or the taste 15
The mound was stieued with violets, hate-
belK, and pansies, in the midst of which
sprunsr fotth tufts of jonquils. Inacmths.
and cai nations, with e\ery othei pei f nine
that impiegnatcs the an Four fountains, 20
not less cleai than deep, and so abundant a<>
to slake the thirst of ten ai lines, seemed pro-
t'uselv placed heie to make the scene more
lesenible the gaiden of Eden, uhich was
wntered by the four sacred rivers1 Here 0
the nightingale sane: the birth of the rose,
her well-belo\ed, and at the same time la-
mented its shoit-lrted beauty, whilst the
tin tie3 deploied the loss of moie substan-
tial pleasuies, and the wakeful lark hailed 80
the nsme: light that teammates the whole
Mention Tleie moie than an>«heie the
mingled nieloilies of buds e\piess*d the >ai i-
ous passions they inspired, as if the exquisite
flints m Inch they pecked at pleasure had »
eriteii them a double eneicrv
To this mountain Vathek uas sometime**
biouuflit foi the sake of bieatlnnir a ]>inei
air, and especially to dunk at will of tlie
four t'ou in mils which \\eie icputed in the 40
highest den fee salubiious and sacied to him-
self His attendants ueie his iiiothet. his
wive% and some eunuchs, \\lio assiduoush
employed themsehes in filling1 capacious
bouls'of lock ci \stal. and emnlously pre- 4*
sent ing them to him. but it fici|iientlv hap-
pened that Ins audits exceeded their zeal,
insomuch that he uouM prostrate himself
upon the around to lap up the water, of
uliieh he could nevei ha\c enough. M
One dav when this unhappy pnnce had
been loner Iving in so debasing a posture, a
UUCP hoai^e hut strong, thus addressed him :
"Why assumes! thou the function of a dog,
0 Caliph, so pi oud of thy dignitv and K
power 1M
OHion TTMnVkri and ftnphrttefl — flea*
1014
At this apostiophe he laised bib head and
beheld the stranger that had caused him so
much affliction. Inflamed with anger at the
sight, he exclaimed :
"Accursed Giaour!1 what comest thou
hither to dot is it not enough to have trans-
formed a prince remarkable for his agility
into one of those leather barrels which the
Bedouin Arabs carry on their camels when
they traverse the deserts? Peiceivest thou
not thai I may pensh by drinking to excess
no less than by a total abstinence If"
"Drink then this draught," said the
stranger, as he presented to him a phial of
a led and yellow mixture, "and, to satiate
the thirst of thy soul as well as of thy body,
know that I am an Indian, but from a region
of India which is wholly unknown. "
The Caliph, delighted to see his desires
accomplished in part, and flattering himself
\\ ith the hope of obtaining their entire fulfil-
ment, without a moment's hesitation swal-
lowed the potion, and instantaneously found
his health lestored, his thirst appeased, and
his limbs as agile as evei.
In the transports of his joy Vathek leaped
ui>on the neck of the frightful Indian, and
kissed his horrid mouth and hollow cheeks
as though they had been the coral lips, and
the lilies and roses of his most beautiful
u ives , whilst they, less terrified than jealous
at the sight, dropped their veils to hide the
blush of mortification that suffused their
foreheads
Nor \\ould the scene have closed here, had
not Carathis, with all the art of insinuation,
a little repressed the raptures of her son
Having pievailed upon him to retuin to
Samaiah, she caused a herald to precede him,
whom she commanded to proclaim as loudly
as possible ' ' The wonderful stranger hath
appealed again, he hath healed the Caliph,
lie hath spoken T he hath spoken !"
Forthwith all the inhabitants of this vast
citv quitted their habitations, and ran to-
gether in crowds to see the procession of
Vathek and the Indian, whom they now
blessed as much as they had before execrated,
incessantly shouting ''He hath healed our
sovereign,* he hath spoken ! he hath spoken I ' '
Nor were these words forgotten in the public
festivals which were celebrated the same
evening, to testify the general joy; for the
poets applied them as a chorus to all the
songs they composed
The Caliph, fired with the ambition of pre-
1 A term appltal to nil pontons not of thr Moham-
medan faith
140
JSlUHTtihNTH CKNTUfiY tfOBEBUNNEHS
scribing laws to the Intelligences of Dark-
ness, was bat little embarrassed at this
dereliction; the impetuosity of his blood
prevented him from sleeping, nor did he
encamp any more as befoie. Noiuomhar, 6
whose impatience if possible exceeded his
own, im pot tuned him to hasten his inaich,
and lavished on him a thousand caiesses to
beguile all reflection, she fancied herself
already more potent than Balkis, and pic- 10
tured to her imagination the Genii falling
prostrate at the foot of hei tluone In this
manner they ad^ anced by moonlight, till the>
came within view of the tun tow ei ing rocks
that form a kind of poital to the valley, IB
at whose extienuty lose the vast rums of
Istakhar. Aloft on the mountain glmuneied
the fronts of vaiious ro\nl mausoleums, the
horror of which was deepened bj the Wind-
ows of night They passed thioimh two vil- 20
lages almost deseited. the onK inhabitants
lemaming being a few feeble old men, who
at the sight of horses and httei«, fell upon
their knee? and ciied out
"0 hea\enf is it then b> these phantoms 26
that we June been for six months toimented 7
Alas' it was fiom the teuoi of these spec-
ties and the noise beneath the mountains,
that oui people ha\e fled, and left us at the
mercy of maleficent spirits ! ' 9 30
The Caliph, to whom these complaints
were but uupi onnsing auguiies, dio\e o\ci
the bodies of these \\i etched old men. and at
lenqth aimed at the foot oi the terrace oi
black niaible, theie he descended fiom his 35
litter, banding down Nouionihui ; both with
beating heaits stared wildly aiound them,
and expected with an apprehensive shuddei
the approach of the Giaoiu ; but nothing ah
yet announced his appeal ance 40
A deathlike stillness leigned ovei the
mountain and through the an , the moon
dilated on a \ast platform the shades of the
lofty columns, which i cached fiom the tci-
race almost to the clouds , the gloomy watch- 46
toweis, whose numheis could not be counted,
were veiled by no i oof, and their capitals, of
an architectme unknown in the recoids of
the earth, sened as an asylum foi the birds
of daikness, which, a la lined at the approach so
of such visitants, fled away croaking
The chief of the eunuchs, trembling with
fear, besought Vathek that a fire might l>e
kindled
"No ' " replied he, "there w no time left K
to think of such trifles, abide where thou
ait, and expect my commands. "
Having thus spoken he presented his hand
to Nouronihar, and, ascending the steps of a
vast staircase, reached the ten ace, which was
fagged with squares of marble, and resem-
bled a smooth expanse of water, upon whose
surface not a leaf ever dared to vegetate,
on the right robe the watch-towers, langed
befoie the ruins of an immense palace, whoso
walls weie embossed with taiious fkfuies,
in fiont stood toith the colossal forms oi
four creatures, composed of the leopaid and
the grifhn, and, though but ol stone, in-
spired emotions of teiror; neai these weie
distinguished b\ the splendoi oi the moon,
which stieamed full on the place, characteis
like those on the sabies of the (Jinoiu, that
possessed the same > ntue of rhaiugum e\en
moment; these, aftei vacillating for some
time, at last fixed in Arabic leltois and
piesciibed to the Caliph the following
w 01 ds
"Vathek1 Thou hast \iolated the condi-
tions oi m> paiclunent, and desenest to IN*
sent back, but, in laxoi to tin companion,
and ns the meed toi what thou hast done to
obtain it. E bl is peimitteth that the poitul oi
his palace shall be opened, and the sublet i«-
nean hie will iccene thce into the number oi
its adoieis "
He scai rely had icad these wmds bcfoie
the mountain against which tin KM i ace was
it'aied tiembled, and the watrh-toweis \\eio
ieadv to topple- headlong upon (hern, the
lock yawned, and disclosed within it a stnii-
case of polished marble that seemed to up-
pioach the ab\ss, upon cadi slaii weie
planted two lame loichcs, like those Xmiion-
ihar had seen in hei \ision, the cnmphoiated
\apor ascending tiom which g.itluMod into a
cloud undei the hollow of the \ault
This api^aianre, instead of teiiifvnm,
G^\e new rouu»e tn the dau^htei of Fak-
reddin. Scaiccl^ domnint; to bid adieu i«»
the moon and the fiiinamcnt. she abaudcmed
without hesitation Hie puie atmosphere to
]>lnnge into these mf'einal exhalations The
t»ait of those ini])ious peisoiia^es was
haughty and detei mined, as they descended
bv the effulgence of the toiches they gazed
on each other with mutual admiiation, and
both appealed so lesplendent, that they al-
leady esteemed themsehes spiritual Intelli-
gences, the only en cumstanre that perplexed
them was then not arnvinu at the bottom
of the stairs , on hastening their descent with
an ardent impetuosity, they felt their steps
accelerated to such a degiee. that they seemed
not walking, but falling from a precipice
Their progress, however, was at length im-
peded by a vast portal of ebony, which the
Caliph without difficulty lecognized; hero
WILLIAM BECKFORD
141
the Giaour awaited them with the key 111 hi*
hand.
"Ye are welcome, " said he to them with
a ghastly smile, "in spite of Mahomet and
all his dependants. I will now admit you 6
into that palace where you have so highly
merited a place "
Whilst he was utteimg these words lie
touched the enamelled lock \utli his key, and
the doois at once expanded, \\ilh a noise still 10
louder than the thundei of mountains, and
as suddenly recoiled the moment they had
enteicd
Tlie Caliph und Nouiomlnn beheld each
othei with ama/ement, at finding tlienisehes 15
in a place which, though inofed with a
\aulted ceiling, was so spacious and loft A
fliat at fiist they look it I'oi an immcasui able
plum But their eyes at length plowing
f.nniliar to the giandcui of the objects at 20
hand, thei extended their \\e\\ to those at a
distance, and diseo\eied urns of columns
and ai cades, \\lncli gradually diminished till
they tci initiated in a point, ladiant as the
Min \\hcn he daits his last beams athwait the 25
ocean . the paxemcnt. sticucd ovei with gold
dust and saffron, exhaled so subtle an odoi
as almost ou»ipm\eicd them, they, houcxei
\vent on, and obsened an infinity of ceii-eis
in ulnch amheiinis and the uood of aloes 30
\\eie contmualK binning, between the se\-
cial columns \\eie placed tables, each spiead
\\illi a pioiusion of \iands, and umes ol
«»\cn spe<ies spaikhng in \ase*» of ciTstal
A thiong of Oenn and othei fantastic spmts 35
of each sex danced lasemouslv in hoops, nt
Iho sound of music \\lnch issued fiom be-
neath
In the midst of this immense hall a \ast
multitude uas mcessantl> passing. \\ho se\- 40
eiall\ kept then light hands on then heaiK
\\ithout once ie<» aiding an> thing aiound
them, they had all the In id paleness of
death, then eves, deep sunk in then sockets
lesembled those phosphoiic meteors that 45
slimmer bv night in places of mteiment
Some talked slowly on, absorbed in pro-
found ie\cnes, some, shrieking with agony,
ran fuiiously about, like tigers wounded with
poisoned anous, whilst others grinding 80
their teeth in lage, foamed along, nioie fran-
tic than the wildest maniac The> all axoided
each othei. and, though surrounded by a
multitude that no one could number, each
wandeied at random, nnheedful of the rest. 66
ns if alone on a desert \vhich no foot hod
trodden
Vathek and Nouronihar, frozen with ter-
ror at a sight so baleful, demanded of the
Giaour what these appearances might mean,
and wh> these ambulating spectres nevei
withdiew their hands from their hearts.
'• Perplex not >oui selves," replied he
bluntly, "with so much at once, you will
soon be acquainted with all , let us haste and
piesent you to Eblis "
They continued then way through the mul-
titude, but, notwithstanding their confidence
at fiist, they \\eie not sufficiently composed
to examine with attention the various per-
spectrv es of halls and of galleries that opened
on the right hand and left, which were all
illuminated by toiches and braziers, whose
flames rose in pyiamids to the centre of the
A ault At length they came to a place whei e
loner curtains, biocaded with crimson and
gold, fell from all patts in striking confu-
sion ; here the choirs and dances were heard
no longer, the light which glimmered came
fiom afar
After some time Vatliek and Nouromhai
pci cert ed a gleam brightening through the
drapery, and enteied a \ast tabeinacle eai-
peted with the skins of leopards, an mfimt\
of elders with stream me beards, and Afrits1
in complete aim or, had piostrated them-
selxes before the ascent of a lofty eminence
on the top of which, upon a globe of fire, sat
the foimidable Eblis His person was that
of n you nc: man, whose noble and mrulai
feat in es seemed to \\a\e been tarnished b\
malignant \apors, m his large eyes ap-
peaied both pride and despair, his flowing
hau letamed some resemblance to that of an
angel of light , in his hand, which thundei
had blasted, he swaxed the mm sceptre that
causes the monstei Ouianabad, the Afrits,
and all the poweis of the abyss to tremble:
at his presence the heart of the Caliph sunk
within him. and for the fiist time, he fell
prostiate on his face Nouionihar. however,
though srreatlv di«maved, could not help ad-
miung the peison of Eblis , for she expected
to have seen some stupendous Giant Eblis.
with a voice nioie mild than might be imag-
ined, but such as transfused through the son!
the deepest melancholy, said
"Creatures of clay, I receive you into
mine empire , ye are numbered amongst my
adorers , en jov whatever this palace affords ,
the treasures of the pre-adamite Sultans,
their bickering8 sabres, and those talismans
that compel the Dives to open the subter-
ranean expanses of the mountain of Kaf,
which communicate with these; there, in-
satiable as your curiosity may be, shall you
1 Powerful evil demons In Arabic mythology
* clashing
142
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY JWBERUNNERS
find sufficient to gratify it ; you bhall pos*e>s
the exclusive privilege of entering the foi-
tress of Aherman, and the halls of Aigenk.
where are portrayed all creatures endowed
with intelligence, and the vanous animals 5
that inhabited that earth piior to the crea-
tion of that contemptible being, whom vi
denominate the Fathei of Mankind "
Vathek and Noiuonihni, feelina them-
selves ie\ived and eiicom a«ed bv this ha- w
rangue, eaueih said to the (Jmoiii
"Bung us instantly to the place which
contains* these pimoiih talismans "
' ' Come f ' ' answeied this wicked Di\ e, w ilh
his malignant gun, "come' and posses* 15
all that my So\ereign hath piomised. nml
moie "
lie then conducted them into a lonu aisle
adjoining the tabeinacle. pi feeding them
with hasty steps, and followed bv his disci- »
pies with the utmost alaci ilv Thev reached,
at length, a hall of gieat extent, and co\cie<l
with a lofty dome, aiound \\hich appealed
fifty poi tals of bion/e, MN-UI ed \\ itli as man}
fastening oi iron; a funeienl uloom pie- 25
vailed o\ei the whole scene, heie, upon two
beds of incorruptible cedai, lav lecumbenl
the Ileshless fonns of the Pre-adamite Kms»s.
who had been monaichs of the whole eaith ,
they still possessed enough of life to be con- 80
scious of their dephnable condition, then
eyes retained a melancholy motion, the> re-
garded each other with looks of the deepest
dejection. ea<h licildinu his nghl hand mo-
tionless on his heart, at their feet were 85
inscribed the events of then several reigns,
their powei, then pride, and their crimes.
Soliman Raad, Rolnnan Dnki, and Soliman
Di Oian Ben Oian, who, af tei hav ing chained
up the Dives in the daik caverns of Kal, 40
became so presumptuous as to doubt of the
Supreme Powei ; all these maintained great
state, though not to be compared with the
eminence of Soliman Ben Daoud
Thw king, so renowned foi his wisdom. 45
was on the lottiest clcxation. and placed
immediately imdei the dome, he appealed
t< iKicsess more an mint ion thnn the test .
though from time to tune he hiboied with
profound sighs, and. like his companion-, SO
kept his right hand on his heait. vet his
countenance was more composed, and he
Deemed to be listening to the sullen roar of a
vast cataract, visible in part through the
grated portals; this TV as the only sound that 65
intruded on the silence of these doleful man-
«ion& A range of brazen \«ses MI i rounded
the elevation
•'Remove the covei* fiom these cabal wtic
depositaiies," said the Giaour to Vathek,
"and avail thyself of the talismans, which
will break asunder all these gates of bronze .
and not only rendei thee mastei of the tiea-
ure& contained within them, but also of the
spirits by which they are guarded "
The Caliph, whom this ominous prehmi-
naij had entirety disconcerted, approached
the \ascs with fulteimg footsteps, and was
i"tidy to Milk with terrot when he heaid the
iri oans of Soliman As he pi oceeded, a voice
horn the In id lips of the Prophet niticulated
these words 4
"In my life-time I filled u imuuuncont
I In HUP. hn\ msron mv right hand t\\ehe thou-
sand son N of uold, wheie the patiinichs and
llie piophets hen id mv doct lines, on my left
tlic slices and doct«ns, upon as many (hi ones
of sil\ci, \\cie piesiMit at all mv decision*
Whilst I thus ndminisfeied justice to innu-
?nciahle multitude, the hnds of the nir librat-
nn:1 n\ei me s^ncd .is n canopy tiom the
iavs of the sun. mv people flourished, and
ni\ )ial»ce lose to the clouds. I elected n
temple to the Most Hiirh, \\luch was the won-
dei fit the mm cisc hut 1 hnsHv suffeieil
m\si>lt lo he seduced hv the love of \\omen
and a cuiiosm that could not be test mined
hv suhliinai\ ilnnirs, \ listened to the
(oun-cls of A hei iiuin and the dnui»htei ot
Pliataoli. and adoied Hie and the hosts
of heaxen. 1 toisook the liolv eitv, and
commanded the Genii to real the stupen-
dous palace of Ntakhai. and the teriaee
of the \\atch-to\\eis ea<h of which v\as con-
^ecuitCMl to n star, theie fi»i n \\lnlc I en-
joved mvMi|f ln the zenith of irlorv and
pleasure, not nnlv men, but supeniatural
exi^tenws \\eie sul)|(H*t also to mv v\ill I
bcyau to think, as these unhappv
•iioiind had alieadv thought that the
ance of TIcaxcn v\as asleep, \\hen at on<c
the thunder burst my structures asunder and
precipitated me hithei , \\heie. howexer, I
do not leinain. like the other inhabitants,
totally destitute of hope, foi an ansrel of
h'jht hath te\caled that, in consideiatioii of
ihc piety of my eaily youth, m> woes shall
(ome to an end when this catainct shall foi-
e\er cease to flow; till then I am in tor-
ments, ineffable torments' an unrelenting
hie prey* on my heart "
Having uttered this exclamation Soliman
laised his hands towards Heaven, in token
of supplication, and the Caliph discerned
through his bosom, which was tianspnrent
as crystal, his heart enveloped in flumes At
.1 sunlit so full of hoi ioi Nouionihar fell
1 hnlnndnff
WILLIAM BECKFOBD
148
back, like one petrified, into the arms of
Vathek, who cried out with a convulsive sob
"0 Giaour I whither hast thou brought
ust Allow us to depart, and I will rehn-
quibh all thou hast promised. 0 Mahomet ! •
remains there no more mercy t"
"None! none!" replied the malicious
Dive. "Know, miserable prince! thou art
now in the abode of vengeance and despair,
thy heart also will be kindled, like those of 10
the other votaries of Ebhs A fexv days aie
allotted thee previous to this fatal period;
employ them as thou wilt ; recline on these
heaps of gold; command the Infernal Po-
tentates ; range at thy pleasure through these 16
immense subterranean domains; no bamet
shall be shut against thee , as for me, I have
fulfilled my mission; I now leave thee to
thyself." At these words he vanished
The Caliph and Nouronihai remained in »
the most abject affliction; their teais unable
to flow, scarcely could they support them-
selves At length, taking each othei dc-
•*poiidingly by the hand, they went faltering
fiom this fatal hall, indifferent which way »
thev tinned their steps, eveiv portal opened
at their approach; the I)I\«N fell prostrate
befoic them; every resei\oir of riches was
disc limed to their vieu , but they no longw
felt the incentives of curiosity, piide, or »
avarice With like apathy they heaid the
chorus of Genii, and saw the stately ban-
quets pifpared to regale them, the> went
\\andenng on from chamber to chambei,
hall to hall, and gallery to gallery, all with- 86
out bounds or limit, all distinguishable bv
the same lowering gloom, all adoined v\ith
the «ame awful grandeur, all travel sed b>
Arsons in search of icpose and consolation,
but who sought them in vain, for, everyone *>
earned within him a heart tormented in
flames shunned by these vai ions suffei ings,
uho seemed by their looks to be upbraiding
the partners of their guilt, they withdrew
fiom them to wait in direful suspense the 46
moment which should render them to each
other the like objects of terror.
"What1" exclaimed Nouronihar, "will
the tune conic when T shall snatch my hand
fiiinithinef" w
" Ah f " said Vathek , * ' and bhall my e> es
e\er cease to drink from thine long di aughts
of enjoyment! Shall the moment* of out
reciprocal ecstasies be reflected on with hor-
iorf It was not thou that broughtest me »
luther: the principles by which Carathis
penerted my youth, have been the «ole caiw
of rav perdition!" Having given \ent to
these* painful expressions, he called to an
Afrit, who was Stirling up one ol the bra-
ziers, and bade him fetch the Princess Cara-
this from the palace of Samarab.
After issuing these orders, the Caliph and
Nouronihar continued walking amidst the
silent crowd, till they heard voices at the end
of the gallery; presuming them to proceed
from some unhappy beings, who like them-
selves were awaiting their final doom, they
followed the sound, and found it to come
from a small square chamber, where thev
discovered sitting on sofas five young men of
goodly figure, and a lovely female, who were
all holding a melancholy conversation by t\w
glimmering of a lonely larfp, each had a
gloomy and forlorn air, and two of them
were embracing each other with gieat tendei-
ness On seeing the Caliph and the daugh-
tet of Fakreddin enter, they arose, saluted
and nave them place; then he who appeared
the most considerable of the group addressed
himself thus to Vathek
" Stranger* f who doubtless are in the
same state of suspense with ourselves, a*
you do not jet bear your hand on your heart,
it' you are come hither to pass the interval
allotted previous to the infliction of our
common punishment, condescend to relate
the adventuies that ha\e biought you to this
fatal place, and we in return will acquaint
you \\ii\\ outs, which de<»ene but too well to
he heaid; we will trace back our crimes to
i heir source, though we are not permitted
to repent, this is the only employment suited
to wretches like us!"
The Caliph and Nouronihar assented to
the pioposal, and Vathek began, not with-
out tears and lamentations, a sincere recital
ii f e\ ei y en cumstance that had passed. When
the afflicting narratne was closed, the young
man entered on his ow n Each person pro-
c eeded in order, and when the fourth prince
had reached the midst of his adventures, a
sudden noise interrupted him, which caused
the vault to tremble and to open.
Immediately a cloud descended, which
^laduaily dissipating, discovered Carathis on
the back of an Afut, who grievously com-
plained of his burden She, instantly spring-
ing to the ground, advanced towards her son
and said :
"What dost thou heie in thv> little square
chambei f As the Dives are become subject
to thy beck, I expected to have found thee on
the throne of the Pre-adamite Kings."
"Execrable woman!" answered the Ca-
liph; "cursed be the day thou gavest me
birth ! go, follow this Afrit, let him conduct
thee to the hall of the Prophet Soliman;
144
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
there them wilt learn to what these palaces
are destined, and how much I ought to abhor
the impious knowledge thou hast taught
me "
"The height of power, to which thou art 5
arrived, has certainly turned thy brain, ' ' an-
swered Carathis, "but I ask no more than
permission to show my respect for the
Prophet. It is, however, proper thou should-
est know, that (as the Afrit has informed me 10
neither of us shall return to Samarah) I re-
quested his permission to arrange my affairs,
and he politely consented, a\ ailing myself,
therefore, of the few moments allowed me, I
set fire to the tower, and consumed in it the 15
mutes, negresses, and serpents which have
rendered me so much good service; nor
should I have been less kind to Morakana-
bad, had he not prevented me, by deserting
at last to thy brother. As for Bababalouk. 80
who had the folly to return to Samarah, and
all the good brotherhood to provide husband**
for thy wives, I undoubtedly would have put
them to the toituie, could I but have allowed
them the time, being, however, in a hurry. 1 25
only hung him after having caught him in a
snare with thy wnes, whilst them I buried
alive by the help of my negresses, who thus
spent their last moments greatly to their sat-
isfaction. With icspect to Dilaia, who ever 50
stood high in iny fa\or, she hath evinced the
greatness of her mind by fixing herself near
in the sei vice of one of the Map, and I think
will soon be our own "
Vathek, too much cast down to expie«s 35
the indignation excited by such a discourse,
ordered the Afnt to remove Corn this fiom
his presence, and continued immersed in
thought, winch his companion durst not
disturb. 40
Carathis, howexei, eageily entered the
dome of Snliman, and, without regarding
in the least the gioans of the Prophet, un-
dauntedly removed the co\eis of the vases,
and violently seized on the talismans, then, 45
with a voice moie loud than had hitheito
been heard within these mansions, she com-
pelled the Dives to disclose to her the most
secret treasures, the most profound stores,
which the Afrit himself had not seen; she 80
passed by rapid descents known only to
Eblis and his most favored potentates, and
thus penetrated the very entrails of the
earth, where breathes the Sansar, or icy wind
of death; nothing appalled her dauntless §5
soul, she perceived, howe\er, in all the in-
mates who bore their hands on their heart a
little singularity, not much to her taste. As
she was emerging from one of the abysses.
Eblis stood forth to her View, but, notwith-
standing he displayed the full effulgence of
his infernal majesty, she preserved her
countenance unaltered, and even paid her
compliments with consideiable firmness
This superb Monarch thus answeied
"Princess, whose knowledge and whose
crimes have merited a conspicuous rank in
my empire, thou dost well to employ the
leisure that remains; for the flames and tor-
ments, which are ready to sei^e on thy heart,
will not fail to provide thec with lull employ-
ment " He said this, and was lost in the
curtains of his tabernacle.
Carathis paused for a moment with sur-
prise; but, resolved to follow the advice of
Ebhs, she assembled all the choirs of Genii,
and all the Dives, to pay hei homage , thus
marched slie in timniph thinugh a vapoi of
perfumes, amidst the acclamations of all the
malignant spit its. with most of whom stic
had fonned a previous acquaintance, she
e\en attempted to dethionc one of the Soli-
rnans for the purpose of usurping hm place,
when a \oice, piucmliiui fiom the nb>ss oi
Death, pioclaimed, "All is accomplished f "
Instantaneously, the hmightv forehead ot
the intrepid Princess was conugated with
agony; she uttcied a ticmendous veil, and
fixed, no moie to be withdrawn, hei ri^ht
hand upon hei heait, which uas become a
receptacle of eternal fire
In this delirium, forgetting all ambition**
projects and her thirst foi that knowledee
which should e\ei be hidden fiom inortaN.
she ovei turned the nffciiiiQs <ij fh<» Ocnn,
and, haung e,\eoiated the hour she \\as bo-
sntten and the womb that had home hei,
glanced off in a whnl that rendeied her m-
vi^ible, and continued to ie\ohe without
intermission
At almost the same instant the same \oicr
announced to the Caliph, Nouinmhar, the
fhe princes, and the pi incest, the awiul and
nmocable electee Their heaits immediately
took file, and tbe\ .it once lost the most prec-
ious of the gifts of hea\en— Hope These
unhappy beings recoiled \\ith looks of the
most furious disti action, Vuthek beheld in
the eyes of Noimmihai nothing but rage and
vengeance, nor could she discern aught in his
but aversion and despair The two pi nice-
who were friends, and till that moment had
preserved their attachment, shrunk back,
gnashing their teeth with mutual and un-
changeable hatred Knlilah and his sistei
made reciprocal gestures of impiecation,
whilst the two other princes testified then
horror for each other bv the most ghastly
WILLIAM COWPEB
145
convulsions, and screams that could not be
smothered All severally plunged themselves
into the accursed multitude, there to wander
in on eternity of unabating anguish
5 Such was, and such should be, the punish-
ment of unrestrained passions and atrocious
actions' Such is, and such should be, the
chastisement of blind ambition, that would
transgress those bounds which the Croat 01
10 hath prescribed to human knowledge, and,
by aiming at discoveries resened foi pmc
Intelligence, acquire that infatuated pude.
which perceives not the condition ap]>ointed
to man is to be ignorant and humble
IB Thus the Caliph Vathek, who, for the sake
of empty pomp and forbidden pouei, had
sullied himself with a thousand ci lines, be-
came a prey to gnef without end. and le-
tnorse without mitigation ; whilst the humble
£0 and despised Gulchenroiiz passed whole ages
in undisturbed tianqmllity, and the pine
happiness of childhood
WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800)
Fioin OLVKY HVMXS
177!)
LOVFST THOU ME?'
Haik, mj souP it is the Lord,
Tis thv SHMOI, heai his uord,
.lesus siteaks, and speaks to thee,
"Sax. pool sinni-i. lo\ 'st lliou me7
"' I dehxer'd thee uhen bound,
And, when bleednm, heal'd thy
Sought thee wand 'ring, set thee
TunTd tli\ da ik ness into halit
Can a woman's tendei cuio
(Vase towaids the child ^he baie?
Yes she ma\ fometful be
Yet \vill I lemember thee
Mine is an unchanging lo\e.
Highei than the heights aho\?
Deejier than the depths beneath,
Free and faithful, stron« as death
Thou shalt see m> glory soon.
When the work of grace is done
Partner of rav throne shalt be
Sa>, poor sinner, lov'st thou me"'
Lord, it is my chief complaint,
That my love is weak and faint,
Yet I love thee and adore,
Oh1 foi grace to love thee moic1
LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS*
Qod moves in a mysterious way.
HIR wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea.
And rides upon the storm
5 Deep in unfathomable mines
Of nevei -failing skill,
lie treasures up his bright designs.
And works his sovereign will
^e leaiJul saints, fiesh courage take,
10 The clouds ve so much dread
Are big uith mercv, and shall break
In blessings on >our head
Judge not the Loid by feeble sense.
Hut trust him for his grace,
1" Behind a frowmnji providence,
He hides a smiling face
His pin poses \sill ripen fast.
rntbldin&r e\ 'r\ hour,
The bud rrniv lia\e a bittei taste,
-" But sweet uill be the flow'i
Blind unbelief i»» sine to en.
And scan his woik in vain,
(tod is Ins own mteipretcr.
And he uill make it plain
THE T\SK
3 78?
Fiom BOOK I. THE SOFV
Scenes that sooth M
Oi (liaimM me \onna. no longer \oung,
1 find
Still soothing and of pou 'i to clmrm me
still
And witness, dear companion of rm
115 Wliose arm tins twentieth \\inter I per-
eene
Fast lork'd in mine, \\ith pleasure* such
us lo\e,
('onHrm'd b\ lony expenenee of tin
u 01 tli
And woll-tned \irtues, could alone m-
spne—
Witness a ]tn that thou hast doubled
lonir
r>0 Thou know 'st mv praise of nature most
sincere,
i John, 13 7
-'Mis Mary Unwln, the friend and companion
of Cowper for thirty-four year* Re* Cow-
JUT'S To Warn, p 153
146 EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOREBUNNEB8
'And that my raptures are not conjur'd The wafah oi' Ocean on his winding
up shore,
To Eerve occasions of poetic pomp. And lull the spirit \\Inle they fill the
But genuine, and art partner of them mind,
all. Unnumber'd branches waving in the
How oft upon yon eminence our pace blast,
166 Has slacken M to a pause, ami ue liaxe \nd all their lea\es fast flutt'ring, all
home at once
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that 19° Nor Jess <*omi>oMire units upon the
it blew, ioar
While admiration, feeding at the e\e. Of distant floods 01 on the soitei
And still unsated, dwelt ui>on the scene voice
Thence with what pleasure have ve just Of neighboring fountain. 01 of nils thnt
discern M slip
160 The distant plough blow moving, ami Tlnough the cleft lock, and, chiming as
beside they fall
His lab 'ring team, that b\ven M not Tpon loobe }>ebbles, lose themselves ,it
from the tiack, length
The sturd> swain diminish M to a box f J0r> In matted grass, that mth a Ineher
Here Ouse, slow \vmdm» thiough a level gieen
plain Betra>s the seciet of their silent couise
Of spacious meads with cattle spunkled Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
o'er, But animated natuie sueetei still.
165 Conducts the e\e along his Millions To sooth and sutish the human eai
course J0° Ten thousand win birrs cheer the da\.
Delighted There, fast rooted in their and one
bank, The livelong night not these alone, vliose
Stand, never overlook M, 0111 fa\ 'rite notes
elms, Nice-iingei 'd art must emulate in vain.
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut , But cawing rooks, and kites that sv\nn
While far beyond, and overthwart the sublime
stream In still repeated circles sci earning loud.
170 That, as nuth molten utass. inl.i\> the -05 The jay, the pie, and e\ 'n the boding
vale, owl
The sloping land recedes into the doiuN. That hails the risuia moon, hu\e chuinis
Displaying on its varied side the »iu«e for me.
Of hedge-rou beauties mtuibei les*. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and
square tont'r, harsh.
Tall spire, fiom which the sound ot Yet heard in scenes uheie peace forever
cheerful bells reigns,
ir> Just undulates upon the list'nni" eai . And only there, please highly for their
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, sake.
remote
Scenes must be beautiful, which, dailv God made the country, and man made
view'd, the tontn.
Pleabe daily, and whose noveltv MU- ""* What wonder then that health and vu-
vives tue, gifts
Long knowledge and the t>ciutin\ of That can alone make sweet the bitter
years draught
180 Fiaibe justly due to those (hat I di- That life holds out to all. should most
scribe abound
Nor rural sights alone, but ruial sounds, And least be threaten 'd in the fields
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore and groves f
The tone of languid Nature. Afmhtv Possess ye, therefoic, ye who. lk>nie
winds, about
That sweep the skirt of some far-spread- ™r. In chariots and sedans, know no fa-
ing wood tigue
186 Of ancient growth, make music not un- Rut that of idleness and taste no
like scenes
WILLIAM GOWPJBB 147
Bat such as art contrives, possess >e Lands intersected by a narrow frith
still Abhor each other. Mountains interposed
Your element; there only ye can shine, Make enemies of nations, who had else,
There only minds like your's can do no Like kindred drops, been mingled into
harm. one.
760 Our groves were planted to console at 20 Thus man de\otes his biothei. and de-
noon stroys ,
The pensne wand'rcr in their shades And, worse than all, and most to be
At eve deplor'd,
The moonbeam, sliding sofllt\ in be- As human nature's broadest, foulest
tween blot,
The sleeping lea\es, is all the hsrlit thev * Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts
wish, his sweat
Birds warbling all the music We can With stripe*, that Meicy, with a bleed-
spare ing heart,
765 The qplendor of your lamps, Uie> but 25 Weeps when she sees inflicted on a
eclipse beast
Our softer satellite Your song* con- Then what is man? And what man,
found seeing this.
Our more haimonioiiH notes the thrush And having human feelings, does not
departs blush,
Vur'd. and th' offended nightingale is And hang his head, to think himself a
mute man ?
Tlieie is a public mischief in \oiii inn th. I *ould not hu\e a sla\e to till m\
770 It plagues \our counti\. ,Foll\ such as ground,
vour'h, ?u To carry me, to fan me uhile I sleep,
(irac'd \\ith a suoid, and uoitlnei of .1 And tremble when I wake, for all the
fan, wealth
Has made, uhat enemies could nc'ei That sinews bought and sold lia\e evei
hai e done, earn 'd
Our nidi of empiie. stcdfast but toi No dear as freedom is. and in m\
vnu. heart 's
A mutilated structuic, soon to lall Just estimation pn/'d abo\e all price,
ir' [ had much rather IK* m\self the slave,
From BOOK IT THE TIME-PIECE An<1 «« «* '"""I"- tlmn fasten them
on him
Oh lui a lodge in some \iist \\ildeiness. We have no bla\es ut home -Then wh>
Some boundless contiguit\ ot shade, abroad?
\Vheie rumor of oppression and deceit. And they themsehes. once ferried o'er
Of unsuccessful or successful uar. the wave
'» Might ne\ei icach me inoie! My eai i< That parts us, are emancipate and loos 'd.
pam'd, ' 40 Slaves cannot breathe in England,1 if
My soul is su'k, vith e\ 'ry da\ 's ie- their lungs
poit Receive our air. that moment they are
Of uroiig and outrune nith uhirh earth free,
is fillM They touch out cnmitix. and their shack-
Theic is no flesh in man's olMlniut«> les fall.
heart. That's noble, ami bespeaks a nation
It does not feel lor man; the nut'rnl proud
bond tnd jealous of the blessing Spread it
10 Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax then,
That falls asunder at the touch of fire 45 And let it circulate through e\ 'ry vein
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Of all your empire; that where Britain's
Not color 'd like his own; and, having pow'r
|M)W>r Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too
T' enforce the wrong, for such a worth \
cause
dnvikto« him nv Ins Inwfiil ! The court deoibioo that "flla\e*» cannot breathe
devote* mm ns ins lawrui |n Eng]anjj" wt§ ^en by ^^ Mansfield In
pre\ 1 772 The slave trade wa? nholHbed In
148 EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FORERUNNERS
From BOOK VI THE WINTER WALK By which Heav'n moves ID pard'mng
AT NOON guilty man ,
r,60 i would not enter on mv list of friends And he that shows none, being ii)>e in
(Tho* grac'd with polish 'd manners and years,
fine sense, And conscious of the outrage lie coin-
Yet wanting sensibility the man mits,
Who needlessly sets foot upon a \ioiin b°° Shall seek it, and not find it, in liib tuin
An inadvertent step may crush the snail . . ...
r>66 Tiiat crawls at e\ 'nine: in the pubh<*
„ , THE POPLAR-FIELD
But he that has humanitv, foiewarn d. 1734 1785
Rifr
A i iii i 21 xi j Vnd the \\hispcnng sound of the cool
And charg'd perhaps with \enom, thai colonnade,
A visit^mwXme, into scenes The w|£s,££ no 1("*e' and "lllir '"
Sacred to neatness and repose -II.' al- Xap QUMJ Qn ,jis' |K|som 1|iwr n ^
co\e, pones
The chamber, or refer ton— nun die
« s< sim<> ! lirst
"5 And of offon,o. tl» no.*- thr Bml
Or t«keth«i imslnrn. ,n il.e S,M«M«,,S th<>
/ 11 jaici,
m, ,, , ., i . Al , Vnd the tiee i«* in\ MMt tluif oim- lent
There the\ me piniloi^d and lie that ft ^jp
hunts
Or harms them there is ftinltx oi a \vronir, »P. ,, ..,, , „ , . fl
Disturbs th' ccnnonn of Natuic's icnhu 10 ffL AP {.ill "^ io/n;n!hlM 1|l|l|l'lt
Who, nhcii she fonnM, draen'd then, ^hne " " "
The sum i?th!!-ir man's conven.ence, Xml
Kosounds with his s\\ii»t-lloujii!; ditt\
Or safctv ink'iteic, his n<rht^ and
claims
Are paianiount. «n,l must extinguish yy ft,giti*e >«is a» all ha^tinsr awa>.
Klse they are all-tin- meanest tiling* And Imnst ere long lie as lo»K at th«.
that are— a ' iiienM, and a ••tone
that are
\sfreetolne, andto «i)o\ thnt life.
,, , , . „
\s Ood ^ab free to foim them at the Kre " Ml<h BMn<1 slwl1 al|s<> '"
Who. inbB sox 'rcisn «,s.Iom, ma.le tl.en. Tjs ^ ^^ fo ^^^ |m.
\e. ttaafainho loxe mem. lea. I.
flo lo\e it too The spring-time of 0111 „,, maili
s f Though hi& life be a, dream, his enjox-
™ Is *oon dishonor M and denl'd in most 00 TT "iL1;^ i« SeJ' ui *i i
By budding ills that ask a prudent hand "° TInxo n ^^ Ie^ dlll«lhl(t "en than hp
To check them Hut, alasf none boonei
shoots, THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT
If unrestram'd, into luxuriant growth, 17*8 17W
Than cruelty, most dev'hsh of them all. Forc'd from home and all its pleasures,
v»5 Merc> to him thai shows it, ifc the Af lie's coast I lelt Joiloin,
rule To increase a strangei 9s treasures,
And nsrhteous limitation of its act, O'er the rasing billows borne.
WILLIAM COWPEB
149
6 Men from England bought and sold me.
Paid my price in paltry gold ;
But, though slave thov have enroll M me,
Minds are never to !>e sold
Still m thoimht as free ns ever.
10 What are Knulnnd 'fe rights, I ask,
Me from rav delights to sever,
Me to tort me, me to task?
Fleecv locks mid black complexion
Cannot forfeit nature's claim,
15 Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same
Whv did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
20 Sueat oi ouis must dress the soil
Think, tVo masters, iron-hearted.
Lolhnu at \<mi joual hoauls.
Think IHTO many backs ha\e smaited
For tho sheets >our cane affords
25 Is theie, as \e sometimes tell us,
Is Ilioie one who reicrns on lush "
Has he bid -urn buv and sell us,
Speaking from his tin one, the skv ?
\sk him if i our knotted scout ges
?0 Matdics. blood-e\toitmu screws,
\ie the means which duf\ urges
Agetits of his \\ill to use*
ll.ii k! he an*\\pisf— Wild tornadoes,
<M i e\\ in ir \ ondei sea >\ ith wi ecks ,
3"» \\n«tni!» loAtns. plantations, meadows,
\io the \oice \\ith wbuh he sfwaks
Hi-, loicsoemii what \e\ations
\ i'nc's sons should mulct go.
1 i\M then \\ units' habitations
40 \N line his uliiiluinds ans\\tM— Xo
"Rv oui blood in Afnc \iasted.
Lre our necks locen M the chain,
\\\ the mis 'IKS that \\e lasted.
('tossim* in \oui barks the main.
*** Rv our stiff 'rings since ve hi ought us
To the man-degiadin? mait.
All sustain M by patience, taughi us
On!\ b\ a broken heart
Deem out nation bmtes no longer
50 Till *<>me reason ye shall find
Worthier of rogaid and strongei
Than the coloi of our kind.
S!A\CS of sold, whose sordid dealings
Tarnjsli all vour boasted pow'rs,
6C Pro\e that >ou have human feelings.
Ere ^ou proudly question ours I
ON THE RECEIPT OP MY MOTHER'S
PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM
1700 1708
Oh that those lips had language' Life
has ])ass'd
With me but ronglih since I heard th*<»
last •
Those hps are thine— thv own sweet
«*mile I see,
The same that oit in childhood solaced
me;
5 Voice only fails, else, hoit distinct thex
savv
"Gneve not, m\ child, chase all th\
fears awa> f"
The meek intelligence of those dear e>es
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The ail that baffles Tune's tviannic claim
10 To quench it) here shines on me still the
same
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O \\clcome guest, though unexpected,
here f
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless
song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long:,1
n T Hill obe\, not \\ilhnglv alone,
Hut uladh, as the precept were her oun,
And, nhile that face renews my filial
cuef,
Fancv shall wea\e a charm for m\ le-
hcf-
Shall steep me in Ehsian reverie.
->0 A momentaiy dienin, that thou art she
M\ mother1 when I learn 'd that thou
wast dead,
Sav. uast thou conscious of the teais I
Ho\eiM th\ spmt o'ei th\ sorrowing
son,
Wretch e\en then, life's journey just
begun?
-"' IVihaps thou »a\ 'bt inc. thouch unf'elt,
a kiss,
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in
bliss—
Vh, that matenial smile1 it atwtei**--
Yes
I heard the bell toll'd on tin burial da\.
1 saw the hearse that boie thee slo\\
a*av,
10 And, turning from m\ nurs'rv \imdo\\,
drew
A long, loner surh, and wept a last adieu '
But was it such1*— Tt was— Where thou
art gone
1 Cowper*s mother died In 1787.
150
EIGHTEENTH CLNTUBY
Adieus and farewells are a bound un-
known.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful
shore,
3r» The parting word shall pass my lips no
more!
Thy maidens griev'd themsehes at m>
concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick retain
What ardently I wish'd, I long behe\ M.
And, disappointed still, was still de-
cei\ 'd ;
10 By expectation e^eiy day hegiulM,
Dupe of tomorrow even from a child
Thus many a sad tomouou came and
went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent.
I learn 'd at last submission to my lot.
46 But, though I less deplor'd thee. ne'ei
forgot
Where once *e dwelt our name i*
heard no more,
Children not thine have trod m\ nurs'n
floor;
And where the gard'ner Robin, ilav h\
day,
Drew me to school along the public *u\.
60 Delighted with my bauble coach, ami
wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and \ehet capt.
'Tis now become a lnstoi\ little kno*n.
That once we calPd the past'ral house
our own
Short-hv'd possession! but the record
fair
55 That mem'r> keeps of all tli\ kindness
there,"
Still outlives many a storm that has
effac'd
A thousand other themes less ileeph
trac'd,
Thy nightly visits to my chambei made.
That thou might ist know me sate nn<1
warmly laid ;
60 Thy morning bounties eie I leit in\ home.
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ,
The fragrant waters on my cheeks be-
stow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh the> shone
and glow 'd;
All this, and more endearing still than
all,
65 Thv constant flow of love, that knew no
' fall,
Ne'er roughen 'd by those cataracts and
brakes
That humor interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so, to my latest age,
70 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn 'd in heav'n, though little no-
tic 'd here.
Could Time, his flight reters'd. restore
the hours,
""' When, placing with tin \esture 's tissued
flow'rs,
The \iolet, the pink, and jessamine.
I prick 'd them into paper with a pin.
(And thou want happier than nit self the
while,
Would 'st softly speak, ami stroke mt
head, and smile)
80 Could those few pleasant hours again
appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish
them here ?
1 would not trust in\ heart— the dear
delight
Seems so to lie desir'd, jx»rhaps I miirht -
But no— what here we call our life m
such,
v5 So little to lie lot M, and thou so much,
That 1 should ill lequite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion *s
coast
(The storms all wenther'd and the ocean
cross M)
90 Shoots into port at some well-hut en M
isle,
Where spices bieathe, and bn^htci sea-
sons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that
show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
Wlnle airs impregnated with incense pla>
05 Around her, fanning light her streamers
So thou, with sails how swift! hast
reach 'd the shore
"Where tempests neter heat nor billows
roar,"1
And thy lot M consort on the dangVous
tide
Of life, long since, has anchor M at thv
side.2
100 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest.
Always from port withheld, always dis-
tress M-
Me howling blasts dnte detious tempest
toss'd,
Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and com-
pass lost,
* Garth, The Ditpemary, 8, 226,— "Where bil-
lowa never break, nor tempecitH roar **
1 Cowper'H father died in 1750
WILLIAM COWPER
151
And day by day some current's thwart-
ing force
106 get8 me more distant from a pros'prons
course.
Yet, oh, the thought that Hum art safe,
and he I
That thought n joy, arrive what ma\ to
me
My boast IB not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the
earth,1
110 But higher far my proud pretensions
rise—
The son of parents pasa'd into the skies
And now, farewell —Tun*-, unrevok'd. has
run
His wonted course, yet ^hat I wibhM is
done
By contemplation's help, not Bought in
A am,
115 [ s<»em t' lia\e li\ M im childhood oVr
again.
To have reneu M the jo\s that once mere
mine,
Without the sin of Molatinjr thine
\nd. \\lnle the wings ui Fancj Mill .iir
free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
120 Time has but hall succeeded in Ins
theft-
Th\selt' remo\ M. t!i\ jKwer to sooth me
loft
YARDLEY OAK
1791 1804
Sun ivor sole, and hardly such, of all
That once li\ M lieic lh\ hrethten v— at in\
birth
(Since nhich 1 number three-score win-
ters past)
A shatter M \eternn. holloa -trunk M per-
haps
5 As now, and with excoriate* forks de-
form,
ttehcs o1 agt's' Could a mind, imbued
With truth from heav'n, created thinir
adore,
I might with re\ 'rence kneel and worship
thee
It seems idolatry with some excuse
*• When our forefather Dmids in their oaks
Imagm 'd sanctit\ The conscience yet
ITnpurifled b> an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,
Lo\'d not the light, but, gloomy, into
gloom
«On his mother1* hldo, fowper triired hl« an
oestr? to Henry 711,
• hnrk removing
13 Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.
Thou wast a bauble once; a eup and
ball,
Which babes might play with, and the
10
Seeking her food, with ease might have
purloin 'd
20 The auburn nut that held thee, swallow-
ing do* n
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs
And all thine embr>o vastness, at a gulp
But Fate thy prowth decreed autumnal
rains
Beneath thy parent tree mellow M the
soil,
25 Design VI th> ctadle, and n skipping
deer,
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe,1
prepared
The soft leceptaclc, in winch, secuic.
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter
through
So Fancy dreams — Dispi ove it, if ye can.
reas'ner* broad awake, whose bus\
search
Of argument, employ 'd too oft amiss,
Sifts half the pleasures of short life
away.
Thou fell'st mature, and in the loam\
clod
Swelling, with vegetatne force instinct
35 Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled
Twins
Now stars;2 two lobes, protruding, pair'd
exact ,
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,
And all the elements thy puny growth
Postering propitious, thou 'becam'st n
twig.
Who hv 'd when thou wast such?
couldst thou speak,
Vs m Dodona once thy kindred trees
Oracular,8 I would not curious ask
The future, best unknown, but at
mouth
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.
R> thee I might correct, erroneous oft.
The clock of history, facts and events
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts
Recovering, and misstated setting right—
Heap 'rate attempt, till trees shall speak
again!
1 making boles In the sod or ground •
• Castor and Pollux, who, according to one tra-
dition, were born of an egg
'The retponsea of the oracle at Dodona, in
Rpirui, were given bj the rustling of the oak
trees In the wind. The nnnnd* wore Intrr-
!>v priests
40
Oh.
th\
152 EIGHTEENTH CtiNlUBY
"IU Time made thee what tbou wast— King Thought cannot spend itself, compar-
of the woods ; ing still
And Time hath made thee nhat thou The great and little of thy lot, thy
art— a cave _ growth
For owls to roost in Once thy spread- From almost nullity into a state
ing boimhs Of matchless grandeur, and declension
O'eihumj UK* champaign,1 and the mi- thence,
nierous flock** 90 Slow, into such magnificent deca>.
Tlmt graz'd it stood beneath that ample Time was Hheu, settling: on thy leaf, a
cope fly
"»"» Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltei \1 fioni tho Could shake thee to the root, and time
storm. has been
No flock frequents thee IIOH. Thou hast When tempests could not. At thy firmest
outln 'd ase
Thy popularity and art become Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents
(Unless \erse rescue thee u\\lule) a thins n3 That might lune iibb'd the sides and
Forgotten, as the lolmge oi thv youth plank 'd the deck
f»° While thus through all the stages thon Of some ilagvr'd admiral; and tortuous
hast push 'd aims,
Of treeslup, first a seedling hid in mass. The shipwright'* darling tieasuic. didst
Then twijr, then sapling1, and, as centuix ])iesent
loll'd To the lour-fjuartci 'd Hinds, robust and
Slow after centui\, a giant bulk hold.
Of giith enormous, with moss-cushion M AXaip'd into tough knec-timhei, man} a
loot load
'•" I plica \ M abo\e the soil, and sides em- 1IIU Hut the axe spuicd thco. in those
lx>ssM tluiltii'i ila\s
With piommcnl wens globose,2 till at Oaks loll not. hewn h\ thousands t<>
the List supph
The lottcuness, \\hidi Time is diai^'d Tiie hottoinless demands of contest i\ag <1
t ' inflict Foi senatoi lal honois Thus to Tune
On othet mighty ones found also thee The task \uis left to whittle thee a\\a\
What exhibitions \anous hath the HOT M lrt"' With Ins sly M*\the, ^xliose eAer-nibbhn^
70 Witness M of inutnbilit\ in all edtpc,
That ^e account most durable below f Voiseless, an atom, and an atom moie,
Change is the diet on \\lncli all subsist, Disjoimnp: from theiest, has, unohserv'd,
(Seated changeable, and change at last Aclno\ M a laboi, which had, i'ar and
Deploys them Skies uncertain, now the Hide,
heat (I>v man j^ifoimM) made all the forest
"' Transmit tiim cloiidloss, and the solai ring
beam IMI KmboHeHM now, and of th\ ancient
XOH qiieiichin** in a boundless sen of sell
clouds; IWossinjr nought but the scoop VI nnd.
Calm and alternate storm, moist me and that «eems
di ought. An huue throat calling to the clouds toi
Iimcoiate by turns the spun us of life drink.
In all that live,— plant, ammnl. and Which it would %i\e in rn 'lets to tin
man,— loot,
so And in conclusion mar them Nature's Thou temptest none, but rather much
thieads, forbid 'at
Fine passing thought, ev'n in her coais- m The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill
est works, lequite.
Delight in agitation, yet sustain Vet is th> root sincere, sound as the
The force, that agitates not unimpaired. rock.
But, worn by frequent impulse, to the A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs,
cause Which, crook M into a thousand whim-
85 Of their best tone their dissolution owe &ICR, clasp
ifle1d The stubborn soil, and hold thee still
• *ro«th<< In tho nhape of globes erect
WILLIAM COWPEB
158
1M So stands a kingdom, whose founda-
tion yet
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid,
Though all the superstructure, by the
tooth
Puhem'd of venality, a shell
Stands now, and semblance only of itself
125 Thine arms have left thee. Winds have
rent them off
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild
With bow and shaft have burnt them
Some have left
A splinter 9d stump, bleach 'd to a sno\\\
white;
And some memorial none, where once thc\
crrew
iso yej j,fc st,j| iimrers ,n t]ic,c, aild puts
foith
Proof not contemptible of what she ran.
Even where death predominates The
Spring
Finds thee not less alive to her sueet
force
Than yonder upstart of the neighboring
•wood.
135 So much th\ juniors, ulio their birtli
recei v M
Half a millennium since the date of
thine.
But since, although well qualified l>\
age
To teach, no spint dwells in tlicc. nor
\oice
M.-n IK» expected from thee, seated heie
140 On thy distorted root, with hearers none
Or prompter, save the scene, I will ]>er-
form
Mvsolf the oracle, and will discourse
In my own ear such matter as I may
One man alone, the Father of us all.
145 Drew not his life from woman, never
gaz'd,
With mute unconsciousness of what he
saw,
On all around him ; learn 'd not by degrees,
Nor owed articulation to his ear,
Rut, moulded bv his Maker into man
150 At once, upstood intelligent, suney'd
All creatures, with precision understood
Their purport, uses, properties, assign 'd
To each his name significant, and, fill 'd
With love and wisdom, render 'd back to
heav'n
156 In praise harmonious the first air he drew
He was excus'd the penalties of dull
Minority No tutor charg'd his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd
his mind
With problems; history, not wanted vet,
160 Leau'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose
course,
Eventful, should supply her with a theme
TO MABY
1793
The twentieth year is * ell-nigh past,
Since our first sky was o\ercast,1
Ah, would that thr> might be the last1
My Marj '
6 Th> spirits have a laintei flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow —
Twas my distress that brought thee low.
My Mary'
Thy needles, once a shining store,
10 For my sake restless hcietofoie,
Now nist disus'd, and shine no more,
My Mary »
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
11 Thv sight now seconds not thy will,
My Maijr*
But \\ell thou playM'st the housewife's
part.
And all thy threads \\ith magic ait
Have *onnd themsehes about this heart
20 MyMarv'
Th} indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter VI in a dream,
Yet me they charm, \\liate 'er the theme.
My Man '
2:1 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright.
Are still more lo\ely in mv sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Man f
For, could I \iew nor them nor thee,
80 What sight worth seeing could I sect
The sun would rise in vain for me.
My Marv'
Partakers of thy sad decline,
_ Thy hands their little force resign .
r» Yet, gently prest, press gently mine
My Man '
And then I feel that still I hold
A richer store ten thousandfold
Than misers fancy in their gold,
40 My Man-1
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
1 A reference to Cowper's violent attack of In-
sanltv In 1771,
154
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBEBUNNEB8
Upheld by too; yet still them lov'at,
My Maij !
46 And still to love, though prest with ill.
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Marj '
But ah ! by constant heed I know,
r>0 How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe.
M> Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past
i-i Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Marv'
THE CASTAWAY
iso:
Obscured night imolv'd the sk>.
TV Atlantic billows loar'd,
When such a de&tm'd wretch as 1.
Wash'd headlong fiom on board,
' Of friends, of hope, of all beieft.
His floating home fore\er lelt
No bra\er chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion 's const.
10 With warmer wishes sent
He loved them both, but both in \ain.
Nor him beheld, nor her again
Not long beneath the whelmm? brine.
Expert to swim, he lay ,
15 Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away ;
But wag'd with death a lasting striie,
Supported bv despair of life
lie shouted : nor his friends had fail 'd
J0 To check the vessel's course,
Rut so the furious blast prevail 'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind.
And scudded still before the wind
2fi Some succor yet they could afford .
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay 'd not to bestow
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
so Whatever they gave, should visit more
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rewue them;
36 Yet bitter ielt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self -upheld ;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
*o His destiny repelPd,
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried— "Adieu1"
At length, his transient respite past.
His comrades, who before
45 Had heard his voice in ev'r> blabt.
Could catch the sound no more
For then, by toil subdued, he diank
The stifling wave, and then lie sank
No poet wept him: but the jwm*
r'° Of narrative sincere.
That tells his name, his worth, his ai*e.
Ts wet with Anton's teai '
And tears by bards or heroes ^hed
Alike immortalize the dead
™ I therefoie puiixise not, 01 tlieam.
Descanting2 on his fate.
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date
But miserv still delights to tiac-e
60 Its semblance in another'* case
No voice dmne the storm nlln\ M,
No light piopitious shone.
When, snatch 'd from all effectual aid.
We }>erish M. each alone
65 Rut I beneath a roughei sea.
And whelm 'd in deepei trull* than he *
GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832)
From TIIK VILLAGE
1780-1783 1783
BOOK I
The village hie. and e\eij care that
reigns
O'er youthful peasants and declmiim
swains;
What labor yields, uud \\hut, that labor
past,
Age, in its hour ot languoi, finds at last.
"' What form the real picture of the poor.
Demand a song— the Muse can give no
more.
•Cowper bad a dela-
tion that be bad
lout the favor of
Min'g Voyage Round God See bis let
the World (1748) ter to Newton, writ
'commenting freely ten April 11, 1799.
*Tbe poem la found-
ed on an incident
in Lord George An-
GEORGE OBABBE 155
Fled are those times, when, in harmo- The poor laborious natives of the place,
nious strains, And see the mid-day sun. with fervid
The rustic poet praised his native plains ray,
No shepherds now, in smooth alternate On their bare heads and dewy temples
verse, play,
10 Their country's beauty or their nymphs' 4B While some, with feebler heads and
rehearse; fainter hearts,
Yet still for these we frame the tender Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their
strain, parts*
Still in our lav* fond Corydons complain, Then shall I dare these real ills to hide
And shepherds' boys their amorous pains In tinsel trappings of poetic pride 1
reveal, No; cast by Fortune on a frowning
The onlv pains, alas! they never feel coast,
^ On Mmeio's banks, in Caasar's boun- 50 Which neither groves nor happy valleys
teous reign, boast,
If Tit. \riis found the Golden Age again. Where other cares than those the Muse
Must 'sleepy bards the flattering dream relates,
prolong, And other shepherds dwell with other
Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song' mates,
Fiom Truth and Nat me shall vie widel\ Bv such examples taught, I paint the cot.
stray, As Truth will paint it, and as bards will
20 Whoie Virgil, not where Fancv, leads ^ not:
the way? 5B Nor >ou, ye poor, of letter 'd scorn com-
^ os, thus the Mu^es *ong of* happy plain,
swains, To vou th« smoothest song is smooth in
Because the Muses never knew their vain;
pains O'ercome bj labor, and bow'd down by
T!io\ boast their peasants' pipes, but time,
l>easants now Feel vou the barren flattery of a rhyme ?
Kesmn their pipes mid plod behind the Can poets soothe you, when you pine for
plough ; bread,
26 And low, amid the rural-tribe, ha\e time f'° By winding myrtles round your ruin'd
To number syllables, and pla\ with shed?
ihvme. ' Tan their light tales jour weighty griefs
S«\e honest Duck, what son of verse o'erpower,
rould share Oi glad with airy mutli the toilsome
The poet's rapture, and the peasant's hour?
rare* lx>! where the heath iuth withering
Or the great labors of the field degrade. brake grown o'er.
80 With the new peril of a poorer trade? Lends the light turf that warms the
From this chief cause these idle praises neighboring poor,
spnng, 6B From thence a length of burning sand
That themes so easy few forbear to sing; appears.
For no deep thought the trifling subjects Where the thin banest waves its \\ith-
ask, er 'dears;
To sing of shepherds is an easv task: Rank weeds, that e\eiyart and care defj
.16 TJie happy youth assumes the common Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted
strain, rve-
A inmph his mistress, and himself a There thistles stretch their prickly arms
swain , afar,
With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful 70 And to the ragged infant threaten war;
prayer, There poppies nodding, mock the hope of
But all, to look like her, is painted fair. toil;
T grant indeed that fields and flocks There the blue bugloss1 paints the sterile
have charms soil;
*° For him that grazes or for him that Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
farms; The slimy mallow1 waves her silky leaf;
But when amid swh pleasing scenes I
truer ' \ kind of plnnt
156 EIGH1EENTH CENTURY FOBEKUNNEKb
76 O'er the young shoot the chailoek1 throxxs To loud tlie leadx, steed with gmltv
u shade, haste,
And clasping taies1 cling round the siekly To flv in tenoi o'ei the pathles* \vdhte
hlade, lu3 Or, \\hcn detected, in then strangling
With mingled tint* the lockx eoasU eouise,
abound. To foil then loos b\ cMiiimng 01 h\
And a bad splendor \ainlv bhines aiound Juice,
So looks the nymph whom \\ietehed nils Oi. Melding pftut (\\lucli «|iul kiuxcs
adorn, demand),
80 Betia.x'd bx man, then let! 1m mini to To gam a lawless jw^spoil tluoiigli the
scorn , land
Whose cheek in xam .isMime* the minuc Ileie, \xand 'iin<» long, amid these frown-
rose, ing helds,
While her sad exes the ti on bled bieast llu 1 sought the simple hie that Natuie
disclohe, yields
Whoso outward splendoi is hut loll) V Kapmc and \\ join* and Keai iibiiipM hei
dress, place,
Exposing most, \\lien most it mlds dis- And a bold, .ntlul, smlx, s,n,i»e i.ue,
tiess Who, onlv skill M to take the finnv tube,
85 Heie joyless mam d xxild amphibious _ Theyeaily dmnei, m septennial bnbe,1
race, l!"' Wait on the shoie, and, as the \\a\es inn
With sullen uo disphu M in even iace. ln»h,
Who, far fiom civil arts and social fix. On the tost vessel bend then ea{>ei eve,
And scowl at strangers with suspicious Which to their < oast dneets its vent 'roils
eye. v\aj,
Here too the lawless merchant ot the Theiis, 01 the ocean's miserable prev
main8 Ab on then nemiibonni* beach \on
90 Diaxvs i i om hi* plough th' intoxicated six allows stand,
swam,3 1JO And xxait ioi f'.notuii; xxmds to leaxe
Want only claim 'd the lalmi of the da> , the land,
But xice nnxv steals his nightly iest While still ioi flmht tlie iead\ x\mt» i^
away spiend,
Wheie aie the stains, v\ho, daily labor So xvaited 1 the taxoimu hoiu, and fled
done, Fled from these sboies xxheie ^nilt and
With inral uames? plavM down the set- famine icign,
ting sun. And cued, Ahf hapless the\ \\\io still
n" Who stnick x\ith matchless ioice the „ remain,
bounding ball, ° ^7|l° s<1^ J«*main to hear the ocean loai
Or made the pond'rous (|llolt obluiuch Whose gieedv vxaxes dexoui the lesseninu
iall Rhore;
While some huge Ajav ienible and Till somerce tide, xxith mo, i
ttrtful qtriphnff of tlie
And fell beneath him, foilM, while far ]JO All(i \>e ,)OOI ,llo|W|lon from the
around 1K)orf
Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return M Bllt these aie scenes xt l.eie Nature's nip.
the sound' j,uul hand
Where now arc these?— Beneath von cliff (;UVe a spare pent ion to the famish M
they stand, land ;
To show the freighted pinnace where to Hers is the fault, if here mankind coin-
land ;4 plain
i A kind of Diant ^f fruitless toil and labor spent in vain ,
•The smuggler 18C But yet in other scenes more fair in view,
WSK&S^JXa&affl* Where Plenty sm.le.-alas! she sanies
agriculture, in some place*, was seriously im- tor lew—
pcded by tbe constant employment of farmers'
nones in carrying goods to n distanco from l bribe given at tbe septennial plrctlnnq of mem
the snore bera of Parliament
GEORGE GRABBE 157
And those who taste not, yet behold hei Noi inoek the misery of a stinted meal;
store, 17° llomely, not wholesome, plain, not plen-
Are as the slaves that dig the golden teous, such
ore,— As you who praise would never deign to
The uealtli aiound them makes them touch
doubly pooi Ye gentle souls, who dream of rur^l
110 Or "will you deem thorn amply punl in case,
health, Whom the smooth stream and smoother
Labor's fan child, that languishes with sonnet please;
vtealthf Oof if the peaceful cot vour praises
(io then1 and see them living with the share,
sun, 175 Go look within, and ask if peace be there ,
Tliiougli a long rouise of daily toil to If )>eace be Ins— that drooping weary
run , sire,
See them beneath the dog-star's i aging Or theirs, that offspring round their
heat, feeble fire,
in When the knees tremble nnd the temples Or hers, that matron pale, whose trem-
bent ; bling hand
Hehold them leaning on their sc\thes. Turns on the wretched hearth thf evpir-
look o Vr ing brand '
The lahoi |>ast, and toils to come explore , ist) Xor \ et can Time itself obtain for these
Se»* them iil}ein<it<k suns and showers en- Life's latest comforts, due respect and
«ai»e, case ,
And hoaid up aches and anguish foi For \onder see that hoaiy swam, whose
their aye, age
r>0 Tlnnimh lens and marsliv moots their ("an wit li no caies except his own engage;
steps puisne, Who, proppM on that rude staff, looks
When their uaini poies imbibe the e\en- up to see
inji de\\ , ls"' The bare aims broken irom the ^itheinur
Then OAMI that labor may as fatal be tree.
To these tin sl.nes, as thine e\«*ss to On uhich, a bo\, he climb M the loftiest
thee bough.
Amid this tube too oft a manh pnde Then his first jov. but his «ad emblem
i1"1'1 Strnos in stiony toil the taint in? heait now.
to hide, lie once \\as chief in all the rustic
Theie nun \on spp the \outh of slendei tiade,
irnrne Ilm steady hand the straight est funow
Contend \\ith \\cakness, \\eanness, and made,
shame. 1<>0 Full many a piize he ^on, nn<l still is
>et, iircpd .iloncr, and proudly loth to proud
Mold. To find the tnmnphs of his youth al-
lh» ^n\es to loin his fellous of the field. low'd,
1MI Till loim-tontendins nature droops at A tiansient pleasuie sparkles in his eyes,
last, He heais and smiles, then thinks a eft in
Declinmu hc.iltli rejects his poor repast. and sisrh**
His Hieerlesv xponse the coniinc: dansrer Foi now he iouine\s to his gravein pain:
sees, iqs The iich disdain him, nny, the poor dis-
\nd mutual murmurs uw the slow dis- dam
ease Alteinate masteis now their slave corn-
Yet uiant them health, 'tis not for us mand,
to tell, True the weak efToits of his feeble hand,
I'1"' Though the bend droops not, that the Xnd, uhen his aae attempts its task in
heaif is vi ell. vain,
Oi \\il1 \ou praise that homelv. health v With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor corn-
fare, plain
Plenteous and plain, that happi peas- 2M Oft ma\ \ou see him, when he tends
ants share' the sheep,
Oh* tufle not \\ith ^ants \ou cannot His winter-charge, beneath the hillock
feel.
158' ElUHTJflKNTli CKNTUAY FOKEUUNNEKH
Oft liear him inurniui to the winds that Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
blow And cnppled age with more than child-
O'er his white locks and bury them in hood fears;
snow, The lame, the blind, and, far the hap-
When, roused by rage and muttering in piest they!
the morn, The moping idiot and the madman gay.
206 He mends the broken hedge with icy 24° Here too the sick their final doom receive,
thorn:— Here brought, amid the scenes of grief,
"Why do I h\e, when I desire to l>e to grieve,
At once from life and life's long laboi Where the loud groans from some sad
free? chamber flow,
Like leaves in spring, the young are Mix'd with the clamors r4' the crowd
blown away, below,
Without the sorrows of a slow decay, Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sor-
210 I, like yon wither M leaf, remain behind, row scan,
Nipp'd by the frost, and shnenng in 245 And the cold chanties of man to man:
the wind, Whose laws indeed for rum'd age pro-
There it abides till younger buds come on, vide,
As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone, And strong compulsion plucks the scinp
Then, from the rising generation thrust, from pride,
216 It falls, like me, unnoticed, to the duM But still that scrap is bought with main
'•These fruitful fields, these numeious a sigh, %
flocks I sec, And pride embitters nthat it can't denx
Ai e others 'gain, but killing cares to me, -"'<1 Sa\ ye, oppress M bv home iantastn
To me the children of my youth an1 woes,
lords, Some jairing nene. that baffles youi ic-
Tool m their looks, but hasty in their pose,
words* Who press the downy couch, while sla\<*<»
J-° Wants of their own demand their care: advance
and who With timid eve, to read the distant
Feels his own want and succors othcis glance,
too! Who with sad prayers the weary doctoi
A lonely, wretched man, m pain I go, tease,
None need my help, and none rehe\e im 2">5 To name the nameless eicr-new disease,
wo, * Who with mock patience dire complaints
Then let my bones beneath the turf 1>e endure,
laid, ' Which real pain and that alone can cure ,
225 And men forget the wietch they unuld How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
not aid." Despised, neglected, left alone to dief
Thus groan the old. till, by disease -(i° How would ye bear to draw your latest
oppress 'd, breath,
They taste a final wo, and then they rest Where all that's wretched paves the wa\
Theirs is yon house that holds the for death f
parish-poor, Such is that room which one rude
Whose vialls of mud scarce bear the beam divides,
broken door; And naked rafters form the slopmu
280 There, where the putrid \apors, flagging, sides;
play, Where the vile bands that bind the
And the dull wheel1 hums doleful through thatch are seen,
the day;— 26B And lath and mud are all that lie be-
There children dwell who know no par- tween,
ents' care; Save one dull pane, that, coarsely
Parents who know no children's love. patch M, gives way
dwell there! To the rude tempest, yet excludes the
Heartbroken matrons on their joyless day:
bed, Here, on a matted flock,1 with dust o'et
286 Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed, spread,
* The spinning-wheel. * A bed filled with flock* of rotne wool
UEORGK I'KABHK
The drooping wretch reclines his languid A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's
head; task
270 For him no hand the cordial eup applies, As much as God or man can fairly ask,
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his The rest he gives to loves and labors
eyes; light,
No friends with soft discourse bis pain To fields the morning, and to feasts the
beguile, night;
Or promise hope till sickness wears a 31° None better skill M the noisy pack to
smile. guide,
Hut soon a loud and hasty summons To urge their chase, to cheer them or to
calk, chide;
276 Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round A sportsman keen, he shoots through half
the walls. the day,
Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, And, skilTd at whibt, devotes the night
All pnde and business, bustle and con- to play:
ceit, Then, while such honors bloom around
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of his head,
wo, 315 shall he sit sadly by the sick man's
With speed that, entering, speaks his bed,
haste to go, To raise the hope he feels not, or with
280 He bids the gazing throng around him zeal
fly, To combat fears that e 'en the pious feel *
And carries fate and physic in his e>e Now once again the gloomy scene et-
A potent quack, long versed in hum an ills, plore,
Who first insults the victim whom lie Less gloomy now ; the bitter hour is o 'er,
kills; i-° The man of many sorrows sighs no more
Whose nmrd'rous hand a drowsy Bench1 Up \onder hill, behold how sadly slow
protect, The- bier moves winding from the vale
2RG And whose most tender mercy is neglect below ;
Paid by the parish for attendance here. There lie the happy dead, from trouble
He viears contempt upon his sapient sneer, free,
In haste he seeks the bed where Misery And the glad parish pa\s the frugal fee*
lies, 126 No more, 0 Death* thy \ictira starts to
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes, hear
240 And, some habitual queries humed o'er. Churchwarden stern, or kingly (nerseei .
Without reply, he rushes on the door No more the farmer claims Ins humble
His drooping patient, long inured to bow,
pain, Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance thou'
vain ; Now to the church behold the mourn-
Hc ceases now the feeble help to cra\e eis come,
2q6 Of man ; and silent sinks into the grave n30 Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb ,
But ere his death some pious doubts The village children new their games
arise, suspend.
Some simple fears, which "bold bad" men To see the bier that bears their ancient
despise ; fnend ,
Fain would he ask the parish-priest to For he was one in all their idle sport.
prove ^nd like a monarch ruled their little
His title certain to the jovs abo\e court,
wo For this he sends the murmuring nurse, S3B The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball.
who calls The bat, the wicket, were his labors all;
The holy stranger to these dismal ualls: Him now they follow to his prave, and
And doth not he, the pious man, appear, stand
He, "passing rich with forty pounds a Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand;
year"!8 While bending low, their eager eyes ex-
Ah' no; a shepherd of a different stock, plore
m And far unlike him, feeds this little flock- 84° The mingled relics of the parish poor:
m ._ ^_ The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies
« The local body of Justice* of the Peace wumd
• Goldsmith, rtt />fwrf*r wftaff*. 142. round,
160 EJGH I'KEX Til CEN1 UBY FORERUNNEB8
Fear marks the flight and magnifies the Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound,
sound; and look,
The busy priest, detain 'd by weightier As it steals by, upon the bordering
care, brook,
Defers his duty till the day of prayer. That winding streamlet, limpid, hnger-
345 And, waiting loner, the crowd retire ing, slow,
distress M, 30 Where the reeds whisper when the zeph-
To think a poor man 's bones should he yrs blow ;
unbless'd Where in the midst, upon her throne of
green,
Prom THE BOROUGH Slts tlie lar**e hlV as *h« voter's queen,
isio And makes the current, forced awhile
LETTER I GENERAL DESCRIPTION ., *° st^v'
Murmur and bubble as it shoots awa> ,
"Describe the Borouerh"- though our .u nra^ then the strongest contrast to
idle tribe that stream,
May lo\e description, can we so describe. And our broad river will before thee
That 3011 shall fairh streets and build- seem
ings trace, With ceaseless motion comes and goes
And all that ernes distinction to a place* the tide,
6 This cannot be, >et, mo\ed b\ jour re- Flowing, it fills the channel vast and
quest, wide ,
A pait I paint-let fancy form the rest Then back to sea, with strong majestic
Cities and towns, the \arious haunts sweep
of men, 40 It iolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep,
Require the pencil, the\ def\ the pen Here sampire-banks1 and salt-wort1 bound
Could he, who sang so well the Grecian the flood,
fleet,1 Then* stakes and M».I- weeds wuhenni* on
10 So well ha>c sung of alley, lane, or street* the mud ,
('an measured lines these \anous build- And higher up, a ridge of all things
m°s show, base,
The Town-Hall Turning or the Prospect Which some strong tide has rolPd upon
Row f the place
("an 1 the seats of wealth and want ex- 4f> Thy gentle rner boasts its pigmy
plore, l>oat,
And lengthen out my la>« from door to Urged on by poms, hall grounded, half
door > afloat',
" Then let thv ianey aid me-I repair \vinlc ut her stern an angler takes hi«
Fiom this tall mansion of our last-year's stand,
ma\oi, And nmiks the fish he purposes to land.
Till we the outskirts of the Rorouirh From that cleai space, where, in the
reach, cheerful ro\
And these half -buried buildings next the -MI Qf t|ie wnrm Mln, ti,c seah pe0pie piax
beach, Yar other craft our prouder river shows.
Where hansr a« open doors the net and Hoys, pmK and sloops, brigs, bngan-
M -«T, . cork'f , , . tines, mid mmws -
*° While squalid sea-clanies mend the meshy xor ttnsrier uo on OIIP W1(i0 stream de-
woik. M.rXt
Till comes the hour, when fishmtr through But one poor dredger where his oysters
the tide, }ie
The weary husband throws his freight ',5 He, cold and wet, and dining with the
aside, the tlde,
A hvms mass, which now demands the Beats his weak arms against his tarn
Wlfe, side,
Th'alteinate labors of their humble life Then drams the remnant of diluted gin.
« Can scenes like these withdraw thee fiom TO aid the warmth that languishes within,
thy wood, Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat
Th> upland foiest or thy valley's flood T
' r * i ^ kind of HOB «hroh
i Homer, Iliad, 2 •< Kinds of small roasting \ csvelb
CJIAJJHK 161
60 His tingling fingers into gathering heat y> Before yon bid these busy scenes adieu.
He shall again be seen when evening Behold the wealth that lies in public
comes, view,
And social parties crowd their favorite Those far-extended heaps of coal and
rooms: coke,
Where on the table pipes and papers he. Where fresh-fill M lime-kilns breathe.
The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by; their stifling smoke.
hr> 'Tis then, with all these comforts spread Tins shall pass off, and yon behold, in-
around, stead,
They hear the painful dredger's welcome 10° The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed;
sound, When from the light-house brighter
And few themsehes the savory boon beams will rise,
deny, To show the shipman where the shallow
The food that feeds, the living: luxnr> lies.
Yon is our quay1 those smaller ho\s Thy walks are ever pleasant ; every scene
from town, Is nch in beauty, lively, or serene—
70 Its various wares, for country -use. bung 105 Rich— is that vaned view with woods
down ; around,
Those laden wagons, in return, impart Seen from thy seat, within the shrubb'ry
The country-produce to the city mart; bound;
Haik to the clamor in that miry road. Where shines the distant lake, and
Hounded and narrow 'd by yon vessel**' where appear
load, From rums bolting, unmolested deer;
75 The lumbering wealth she empties round Lively— the village-green, the inn, the
the place, place,
Package and parcel, hothead, chest, and 11° Where the good widow schools her infant
ease lace,
While the loud seaman and the angr\ Shops, whence are heard the hammer
hind, and the saw,
Mingling in busmen, hollou to the wind And village-pleasures uurepioved by law,
Near these a creuv nmphibious m the Then hou serene1 when in vonr favorite
docks, room,
80 Rear, for the sea, those castles on the Gales from jour jasmines soothe the
stocks, evening gloom ;
See1 the long keel, uhich soon the ua\es n5 When from your upland paddock1 you
must hide, look down,
See1 the strong ribs uluch form the And just percehe the smoke which hides
roomy side , the town .
Bolts \ieldiim slowh to the sturdiest When weary peasants at the clo*e of day
stroke, Walk to their cots, and part upon the way ;
And planks which cuixe and crackle in When cattle hlowly cross the shallow
the smoke brook,
86 Around the uhole use domh wreaths. 12° And shepherds pen their folds, and rest
and far uixm their crook
Bear the \\auu pungence ot n'ei -boiling We prune our hedges, prime our slen-
tar der trees,
Dabbling on ^hoie halt-naked sea-ho\s And nothing looks untutoi'd and at ease;
crowd. On the wide heath, or in the flow'ry vale,
S*im round a ship, or suing ii|>on the We scent the >apore of the sea-born gale;
bhroud; ljr> Kroad-beaten paths lead on from stile
Or in a boat purloin 'd, with paddles play, to stile,
W And j»io\v t'ainihai with the watery \*ay Vnd sewers from streets, the road-side
Younir though they be, thev feel whose banks defile;
HODS the> are, Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,
They know what British seamen do and Where garden-crops with corn and clover
dare, grow;
Proud of that fame, thev laise and thev Fences are form'd of wreck and placed
enjoy around,
The rustic wonder of the village-boy. ' email pafttnro ,
162
EIGHTEENTH OENTUEY POBEBUNNEB8
130 (With tenters1 fcpp'd) a strong repul-
Biv* bound;
Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run,
And there in ambush he the trap and gun ,
Or yon broad board, which guards each
tempting prize,
" Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies "-'
n~> There stands a cottage with an open
door,
Its garden undefended blooms before
Her wheel is still, and overturn 'd her stool,
While the lone widow seeks the neigli-
b'ring pool
This gives us hope, all views of town to
shun—
140 No I here are tokens of the sailor-son.
That old blue jacket, and that shirt of
cheek,
And silken kerchief for the seaman fs neck ;
Sea-spoils and shells from many a dis-
tant shore,
And furry robe from irozen Labrador
145 Our bus\ streets and sylvan-walks be-
tween,
Fen, marshes, bog, and heath all inten eue ,
Heiepitsol ciag, with spongy, plashy base,
To some enrich th' uncultivated space
For there are blossoms rare, and curious
rush,
150 The sraleV nch balm, and sun-dew's'
crimson blush,
Whose velvet leaf with ladiant beaut \
dress 'd,
Forms a !*aj pillow for the pkner's
breast
Not distant far, a house commodious
made,
(Lonely yet public stands) ior Sunda\-
trade,
155 Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,
Their tea-house walk, their tippling ren-
dezvous,
Therc humble couples sit in corner-
bowers,
Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours.
Sailors and lasses from the town attend,
160 The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend ,
With all the idle social tribes who seek.
And find their humble pleasures once a
week
Turn to the watery world1— hut who
to thee
(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint—
the sea?
*** Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,
When lull'd b> zephvrs, or when roused
by storms,
i iharp booked nails
• Pope, Moral K**ayi,
Epl«rtl«» 1, 140
• \ kind of plant
Its colors changing) when from clouds
and sun
Shades after shades upon the surface run ,
Embrown 'd and horrid1 now, and now
serene,
17° In limpid blue, and evanescent green;
And oft the foggy banks on ocean he,
Lift the fair sail, and cheat thy expe-
nenced eye
Be it the summer-noon a sandy space
The ebbing tide has left upon its place ,
17S Then just the hot and stony beach above,
Light twinkling streams in bright con-
fusion move,
(For heated thus, the warmer air
ascends,
And \vith the ooolei in its fall con-
tends) —
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
'so An equal motion, swelling as it sleeps,
Then slowly sinking, curling to the strand,
Faint, IBTV waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and
slow
ls"' Ships in the calm seem anchored, for
they glide
On the still sen, inged solely by the tide,
Vrt thnu not pjesent. this calm seene
before,
Where all beside is pehbl> length of shore,
And i'ai as e>e can leach, it ean discern
no more*
no Yet sometimes comes a iiifflinc: cloud
to make
The quiet suit ace oi the ocean shake,
As an awaken 'd mnnt with a frown
Might show his wrath, and then to sleep
sink down
View now the winter-storm* alxne, one
cloud,
WB Black and unbroken, all the skies o'er-
shroud,
Th' unwieldy porpoise througn the day
before
Had roll 'd in \ lew of boding men on shoie ,
And sometimes hid and sometimes
show'd his form,
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the
storm
-M] All where the eve delights, vet dreads
to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising— all the deep
Is restless change; the wa\es so swell'd
and steep,
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken
swells,
> rough (n I ntlnlgm)
GEORGE CRABBE
168
*°* Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells
But nearer land you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chase;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal
they reach,
Then break and hum to their utmost
stretch ;
210 CurPd as they come, they stnke with
furious force,
And then le-flowmg, take their grating
course,
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past
RolPd by then lage, and shall to ages last.
Far off the petiel m the troubled way
216 Swims with hc»r brood, 01 flutters in the
spray;
She rises often, often drops again,
And sports at ease on the tempestuous
main
High o'ei the restless deep, abo\e the
reach
Of gunner's hope. \ast flights oi wild-
ducks stietcli,
220 Fur as the e\c can ulawe on either side
In a bioad space and le\el line they slide,
All in then u edge-like limues liom the
noith,
Da> after day, flight affei flight go forth
In-shore then passage tubes of sea-
gulls llim».
2-"' And diop foi pi««\ \\itlnn the sweeping
singe,
Oft in the lousrh opposing blast the\ fl\
Far back, then turn, and all then torce
applv,
While to the storm the\ erne their weak
complaining ci\ ,
Or clap the sleek white pinion to the
breast,
230 And in the restless nwan dip loi rest
Darkness bemns to man, the louder
Appals the \\eak and awes the firniei
mind
But frights not him, \\liom exenmsr and
the spia>
In part conceal— \ on pi cutler on his way
*** IJ() f i,e has something seen , he i uns apace,
As if he fear'd companion in fie chase,
He sees his pn/c, and now he tin us again.
Slowly and son owing - "Wns voui
* search in \nm ;"
Gruffly he answeis " Tis a soiiv Mght'
240 A seaman's body theie'll IK- nmie to-
night"'
Hark' to those sounds' they're from
distress at sea
How quick tbe\ come' What terrois
ma> there be'
Yes, 'tis a driven vessel. I discern
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from
the stern;
245 others behold them too, and from the town
In \anous parties seamen hurry down.
Their wives pursue, and damsels urged
by dread,
Lest men so dear be into danger led.
Their head the gown has hooded, and
their call
250 In this sad night is pieicing like the squall ;
They feel their kinds of power, and w hen
they meet,
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or
entreat.
See one poor girl, all terror and alarm.
Has fondly sei/ed upon her lover's arm,
?f>~. "Thou shall not \enture," and he ans-
wers, "No!
I will not"— still she cries, "Thou shalt
not go "
No need of this, not here the stoutest
boat
Can through such breakers, o'er such
billows float,
Yet may the\ \ie\\ these lights upon the
beach,
260 \VhiHi \ield them hope, whom help can
ne\er ieac.li
From paited clouds the moon her
ladiance tlnows
On the wild wa\es, and all the danger
shows,
Knt shows them beaming in her shining
\est,
Terrific splendoi ' gloom in glory dress 'd'
j(r> Th,s for a moment, and then clouds again
Hide e\eiy beam, and fear and darkness
leign
Hut hear we now those sounds? Do
lights appear*
I see them not ' the storm alone I hear
And lof the sailors homeward take their
way,
270 Man must endure— let us submit and pray.
Such are our winter-Mews; but night
comes on—
Now business sleeps, and daily cares are
gone,
Now parties form, and some their friends
assist
_ To waste the idle hours at sober whist,
-1""* The ta\ era's pleasure or the conceit's
charm
Un number 'd moments of their sting dis-
arm;
Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite.
To pass off one dread portion of the night ,
And show- and sons and luxury combined,
164
EIGHTEENTH CENTUHY FORKBUNNER8
"^ Lift off from man this burthen of mankind.
Others adventurous walk abroad and
meet
Returning parties pacing through the
street,
When various voices, in the dying day,
Hum m our walks, and greet us in our
way;
285 When tavern-lights flit on from room to
room,
And guide the tippling sailor staggering
home.
There as we pass, the jingling bells betray
How business rises with the closing dn\
Now walking silent, bv the mer's sule.
*W The ear pereerves the nppling of the tide,
Or measured cadence of the lads who tern
Some enter 'd hoy, to fix her in her ro\\ .
Or hollow sound, which from the parish-
bell
To some departed spirit bids farewell1
296 Thus shall you something of our Borough
know,
Far as a verse, with Fancy 's aid, can show ,
Of sea or river, of a quay or street,
The best description must be incomplete ,
Rut when a happier theme succeeds and
>\ hen
800 Men are our subjects and the deeds of men ,
Then mav we find the Muse in happier
style,
And we mav sometimes sierh and some-
times smile
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762-1850)
AT TYNEMOUTH PRIOBY
1789
As slow T climb the cliff's ascending side.
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'ei the dark wave rode the howlini*
blast,
Pleased I look back, and \iew the tranquil
tide
6 That laves the pebbled shore and now the
beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement.
And yon foisaken tower that time has rent .
The lifted oar far off with transient pi earn
Is touched, and hushed is all the billnv \
deep*
10 Soothed by the scene, thus on tned Na-
ture's breast
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred lest.
While sea-sonndis lull her, as she sinks to
sleep,
Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre.
Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn,
expire!
THE BELLS, O8TEND
1787 1789
How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive
peal'
As when, at opening morn, the fragiant
breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of pale
So piercing to my heart their force I ieel '
3 And haik ! with lessening cadence now they
fall'
And now, along the white and level tide.
They fling their melancholy music wide,
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer days, and those delightful years
10 When tiom an ancient touer, in life's fan
prime.
The mouinful magic of then mingling
chime
Fust waked my uondenng childhood into
tears'
But seeming nou. when all those davs ,ne
o Vr,
The sounds of jov once he.uri, and heunl no
mote
HKRKAVKMKNT
17MI
Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispei-
ing sweet,
Pionnsed, methought, long da\s of bliss
sinceie'
Soothing it stole on 1113 deluded eat.
Most like soft music, that might sometime*.
cheat
r> Thoughts daik and dioopmg 'Tuns the
voice of Hope
Of lo\c, and social scenes, it seemed to
b]>eak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek.
That oh r pooi fnend, might to life's down-
\\anl slope
Lead us in pence, and bless our latest hours.
10 Ah me f the prospect saddened as she sung ,
Loud on im stnitled enr the death-bell
rung ,
Chill darkness wrapt the pleasmahlo
bowers.
Whilst Horroi pointing to yon hienthless
clay,
"No peace he thine," exclaimed, "nnm,
awav!"
BAMBOROUGH CASTLK
1789
Ye holy towers that shade the wave-wot u
steep.
Long may ye leai youi aged blow* sublime,
Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES
165
Assail you, and the winds of winter sweep
6 Round your dark battlements; for far
from halls
Of Pnde, here Chanty hath fixed her seat.
Oft listening, tearful, when the tempests
beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient
walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
10 Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost
tower,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry ,
Blessed if her aid some fainting wretch ma\
save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from
the wave
HOPE
1780
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn.
Weary has watched the lingering night, and
heard
Unmoved the carol of the matin bird
Salute his lonely porch , now first at mom
5 Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ,
He the green slope and level meadow VIOA\ s
Delightful bathed with slow-ascending
dews;
Or marks the clouds, that o'ei the moun-
tain 's head
In varying forms fantastic wander white ,
10 Or turns his ear to every random song,
Heard the green river's winding marge
along,
The whilst each sense is steeped in btill
delight
So o'er my breast young Sunmiei 's hi eat h
I feel.
Sweet Hope1 thy fragrance pine and heal
ing incense steal v
INFLUENCE OP TIME ON GRIEF
1789
0 Time f who know 'st a lenient hand to la>
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly
thence,
Lulling to sad repose the weary sense.
The famt pang stealest unperceived a*a\
6 On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter
tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held
dear,
1 may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a
smile;—
1* As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient
shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the
while;—
Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart
endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a
cure
APPROACH OF SUMMER
1789
How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant
tide
First came, and on the Coomb's romantic
side
Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow
bill'1
5 Fresh flowers shall f nnge the margin of the
stream,
As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the
slope
The poplars sparkle in the passing beam .
The shrubs and laurels that I loved to tend,
10 Thinking their May-tide fragrance would
delight,
With many a peaceful charm, thee. my
x poor friend.
Shall put forth then green shoots, and
cheer the sight r
But I shall mark their hues with sadder
eyes,
And weep the nioie for one who in the cold
earth lies'
ABSENCE
1795
Theie is stimige music in the stirring wind.
When loweis the autumnal eve, and all
alone
To the dark wood's cold covert thou art
gone,
Whose ancient tiees on the lough slope re-
clined
* Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere
If in such shades, beneath their murmur-
ing,
Thou late hast passed the happier hours of
spnng.
With sadness thou wilt mark the fading
year;
Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at
'morn
10 Or evening thou hast shared, afar shall
stray
0 Spring, return ( return, auspicious May I
1 bell boon
166
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FORERUNNERS
But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn,
If she return not with thy cheenng ray,
Who from these fehades is gone, far, far
away
WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827)
TO SPRING
1783
0 thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morn-
ing, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach,
0 Spring
6 The hills tell each other, and the listening
Valleys hear, all our longing eyes are
turned
Up to thy bright pavilions issue forth,
And let thy holy feet vibit our clime
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our
winds
10 Kiss thy perfumed garments, let us taste
Thy morn and eiening breath, scatter
thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns ior
thee
0 deck her forth with thy fair fingeis , pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom , and put
16 Thy golden crown upon her languished
head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up
for thee
HOW SWEET I ROAMED
1783
How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
Till I the Pnnce of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide
5 He showed me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses ior my brow ,
He led me through bib gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures gnw
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
10 And Phoebus fired m> vocal rage,
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with
me;
16 Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my lo«w of liberty.
MY SILKS AND FINE ABBAY
178!)
My silks and fine arra>,
My smiles and languished air,
By loie are driven awav;
And mournful lean Despair
5 Brings me vew to deck my gra\e
Such end true lovers have
His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold,
O, why to him was't given,
10 Whose heart is wintry eoldt
His breast is love's all- worshipped tomb,
Whore all love's pilgrims come
Krmg me an axe and spade,
Bring me a windmii-bheet ,
16 When 1 my grave ha\ o made.
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay
True love doth pass away!
TO THE MUSES
1783
Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melod> ha\e ceased,
"» Whether in llemen ve Bander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue rep on s of the air
Where the melodious winds have birth ,
Whether on or\btal rocks ye rove,
10 Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral gro\e,
Fair Nine, iorsaking Poetry1
How have you left the ani'ient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you1
15 The languid strings do scarcely move.
The sound is forced, the notes are few4
INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OP
INNOCENCE
1780
Piping down the valle>s wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a cbild,
And he, laughing, said to me •
5 "Pipe a song about a Lamb!"
So I piped with merry cheer
" Piper, pipe that song again;"
So I piped : lie wept to hear.
WILLIAM BLAKE
167
"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
10 Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piiwi, Mi thee down, and wnte
In a book, that all may read "
16 So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And 1 wrote my happy songs
20 Every child may joy to hear
THE SHEPHERD
1780
How sueet is the shepherd's sweet lot1
From the morn to the evening he strays ,
lie shall follow his sheep all the du>,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
5 For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply ,
He is uatchful *lule they are in peace,
Foi they know uhen their bhepherd
is nigh
THE LITTLE BLACK BOY
1789
Mv mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but (), my soul is white'
White as an angel is the English child,
But 1 am black, as it bereaved of light
5 Mv mother taught me underneath a tiee.
And, sitting doun before the heat ot
day,
She look me on her lap and kissed me.
And,' pointing to the East, begun to say .
"lx>ok on the rising sun there (iod does
live,
10 And gives His light, and gives His heat
awa.v ,
And flowers and trees and beasts and
men receive
Comfort in morning, jov in the noon-
day
"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams
of love,
16 And these black bodies and this sun-
burnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove
Saying. 'Come out from the grove, my
love and care,
20 And round my golden tent like lambs
rejoice.' "
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little Enghsh boy.
When I from black, and he from white
cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs
we joy.
25 I '11 shade hun f lorn the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee.
And then 1 '11 stand and stroke his silver
hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me
LAUGHING SONG
1769
When the fifteen Moods laugh with the
voice ot joy.
And the dimpling stream luns laughing by;
When the an does laugh \uth our merr\
Vnd the green hill laughs with the
noise of it.
5 When the meado\\s laugh with h\el>
gieen,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry
.scene ,
When Mar> and Susan and Emily
With their s\\eet round mouths sing
"Ha ha he"1
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
10 Where our table with cheines and nuts
is spread
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To 81111* tlie s\\eet choius of "Ha ha he!"
THE DIVINE IMAGE
1780
To Mercv. Pit.v, Peace, and Love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight
Retuin their thankfulness
"' For Mercv, Pitv, Peace, and Love,
N (rod, our Father dear;
, And Mercy. Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is man, His child and care.
For, when our souls have learned the For Mercy has a human heart;
heat to bear, 10 Pity, a human face;
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear And Love, the human form divine;
His voice, And Peace, the human dress
Ibfc
EIGHTEEN 1 11 UJN 1 UBY FOBEBUNNEB8
Then e\ery man of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
16 Prays to the human form dmne
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace
And all must love the human loim,
In heathen, Turk, or Je\*.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
20 There God is dwelling too
A DHEAM
1789
Once a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet1 lost its wa>
Where on grass mothought 1 la\
5 Troubled, uildered, and forlorn.
Dark, benighted, travel-woin.
Over mam a tangled bprav.
All heart-broke, L heard her SHY
"O my children! do the\ ci\.
10 Do they hear their fathei sigh '
Now they look abroad to see.
Now return and weep loi me "
Pitting, T dropped a teai
But I saw a glou-uorm neai,
15 Who replied "What mailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night '
"I am set to light the giound.
While the beetle goes his lound '
Follow now the beetle's hum,
20 Little wanderer, hie thee home1"
THE BOOK OF THEL
1780
TIIEL'S MOTTO
eagle know *bat In In the pit.
Or wilt tbou go ank the mole*
Tan wlndom be put in a silver rod
Or love in a golden bouP
The Daughters of the Seraphim led innnd
their sunny flocks-
All but the youngest, she in pnlene*^
sought the secret air,
To fade away like morning beauU tiom
her mortal day
Down by the river of Adona hei Mrf*
voice is heard,
6 And thus her gentle lamentation ialN
like morning dew:
"0 life of this, our Spring! why fades
the lotus of the water T
*ant
Why fade these children of the Spring,
born but to smile and fall?
Ah ! Thel is like a watery bow, and like
a parting cloud,
take a reflection in a glass, like shadows
in the water,
10 Like dreams of infants, like a smile upon
an infant's face,
Like the dove's voice, like transient da>.
like music in the air.
Ah' gentle mav I lay me down, and
gentle rest my head,
And gentle sleep the sleep of death, and
gentle hear the voice
Of Him that walketh in the garden in
the evening time ! "*
« The Lily of the Valley, breathing in the
humble glass,
Answered the lo\eh maid, and said " I
am a watery ueed,
And I am \ery small, and lo\e to duel!
in lo\vh \ales*
So weak, the gilded butterfh scarce
perches on mv head
Vet I am \isited trom heaxen, and He
that smiles on all,
Walks in the \alle>, and each morn o\ei
me -spreads His hand,
J0 Saving, 'Rejoice, thou humble grass.
thou new-born lily-flower,
Thou gentle maid of silent \alle\b and
of modest biooks.
For thou shalt be clothed in light and
fed with morning manna.
Till summer's heat melts thee beside the
fountains and the spring*.
To flourish in eteinal vales ' Then win
should Thel complain T
23 Why should the mistiest, of the \ales of
Har utter a sighf"
She ceased, and smiled in teais, then
sat down in her siher shrine
Thel answered "O thou little \irgin
of the peaceful valle\,
<h\ing to those that cannot cnne, the
voiceless, the o'ertired.
Thy bieath doth nourish the innocent lamb,
he smells thy milky garments.
w He crops thy flowers, while thou sit test
smiling in his face.
Wiping his mild and meekin2 mouth fiom
all contagious taints
Thy wine doth punfy the golden honey .
thy perfume,
Which thou dost scatter on every little
blade of grass that spring*,
WILLIAM BLAKE
169
Revives the milk&d cow, and tames the
fire-breathing steed.
* But Thel is like a faint cloud kindled
at the rising sun-
T vanish from wpy pearly throne, and who
shall find my place?**
44 Queen of the vales," the Lil> answered.
"ask the tender Cloud,
And it shall tell thee why it glitters in
the morning skv,
And why it scatters its bright heautv
through the humid air
40 Descend, 0 little (loud, and ho\ei before
the e\es of Thel *'
The Cloud descended, and the Lih
bowed her modest head,
And went to mind her numerous charge
among the \erdant
"O little Cloud," the \irgm said. "I
charge thee tell to me
Wh\ thou complamest not. when in one
hour thou fad'st awa\
4r> Then we shall seek thee, hut not find
Ah! Thel is like to thee -
1 pass away , yet I complain, and no one
hears my voice '*
The Cloud then showed his golden head.
and his blight foiin einemcd.
Hovering and glittering on the air. be-
iore the face of The!
"0 virgin, know'st thou not our ^teeds
drink of the golden springs
M Where Lmah doth renew his horses7
Look's! thou on in\ >oiith.
And i'earest thou because 1 vanish and
ain seen no more'
Nothing remains () maul. I tell thee,
when I pass awa>.
It is to tenfold life, to lo\e, to peace.
and raptures hoh
Unseen, descending, weigh m\ light wing*
upon balmv flowers.
35 And court the fair-eyed Dew to take mo
to her shining tent
The weeping virgin, tremblmc, knooU be-
fore the risen sun,
Till we arise, linked in a golden band.
and never part,
But walk united, bearing food to all our
tender flowers "
"Dost thou, 0 little Cloud* T foar that
I am not like thee,
60 For I walk through the vales of Har,
and smell the sweetest flowers,
But I feed not the little flowers; I hear
the warbling birds,
But I feed not the warbling birds— they
fly and seek their food.
But Thel delights in these no more, be-
cause I fade away,
And all shall say, 'Without a use this
shining woman lived;
*6 Or did she only live to be at death the
food of worms?' "
The Cloud reclined upon his airv throne,
and answered thus
''Then if thou art the food of worms, 0
virgin of the skies,
How great thy use, how great thy bless.
ing! Everything that lues
70 Li\es not alone nor for itself l Fear not,
and I will call
The weak Worm from its lowly bed, and
thou shalt hear its voice
Come forth. Worm of the silent valley,
to tin pensi\e queen "
The helpless Worm arose, and sat upon
the Lilv's leaf.
\nd the bright Cloud sailed on to find
his partner in the vale
m
" Then Thel, astonished, viewed the Worm
upon its dew> bed
"Art thou a worm, image of weakness9
art thou but a worm?
1 see thee.. like an infant, wrapj>ed in
the Lilv *s leaf
Ahf weep not. little voice, thou canst
not speak, but thou canst weep
I* this a worm? I see thee he helpless
and naked, weeping,
R0 And none to answer, none to cherish
thoe with mother's smiles "
The Clod of Cla\ heard the Worm's
>oice, and raised her pitying head-
She bowed o\er the weeping infant, and
her lite exhaled
In milk\ fondness, then on Thel she fixed
her humble eves
"O beaut \ of the \ales of Har! we live
not for ourselves.
kfl Thou seest me, the meanest thing, and
so I am indeed.
M\ bosom of itself is cold, and of itself
is dark .
But He that loves the lowly pours Hie
oil upon my head,
i Be* Roma**, 14 -7
170
EIGHTEENTH (JKNTUEV FOEEBUNNEH3
And kisses me, and binds His nuptial
bands around my breast,
And says: 'Thou mother of my children,
I have loved thee,
90 And I have given thee a crown that none
can take away.1
But how this is, sweet maid, I know not,
and I cannot know ;
I ponder, and I cannot ponder, yet I
live and love!"
The Daughter of Beauty wiped her pity-
ing tears with her white veil,
And said "Alas! I knew not this, and
therefore did I weep
45 That God would love a worm I knew,
and punish the evil foot
That wilful bruised its helpless form;1
but that He cherished it
With milk and oil, I never knevi, and
therefore did I weep
And I complained in the mild air, lie-
cause I fade awa>,
And lay me down in thy cold bed, and
leave my shining lot ' '
100 "Queen of the vales," the matron Clay
answered, "I heard thy sighs,
And all thy moans flew oVr m\ roof.
but I have called them <lown
Wilt thou, 0 queen, enter my hoiw*
TIB given thee to enter,
And to return* fenr nothing, entei with
thy virgin feet "
r?
The eternal gates' ternfic porter lifted
the northern bar,
105 Thel entered in, and sau the hecrets of
the land unknown
She saw the couches of the dead, and
where fibrous root
Of every heart on earth infixes deep its
restless twists,
A land of borrows and oi tears, where
never smile was seen
She wandered in the land of clouds.
through valleys dark, listening
110 Dolors and lamentations; waiting oft
beside a dewy grave,
She stood in silence, listening to the
voices of the ground,
Till to her own grave-plot she came, and
there she sat down,
And heard this voice of sorrow breathed
from the hollow pit
1 See Cowper'i The Tank, 6. 560 ff (p 148)
"Why cannot the ear be closed to its
own destruction?
115 Or the glistening eye to the poison of a
smile?
Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready
diawn,
Where a thousand fighting-men in am-
bush he,
Or an eje of gifts and graces showering
fruits and coined gold?
Why a tongue impressed with honey
from every wind?
120 \^hy an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw
creations in*
Why a nostril m ide-inhahng terror, trem-
bling, and affright?
Why a tender curb upon the >outhful
burning boy?
Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed
of our desire?"
The Virgin started from her seat, and
with a shnek
l-* Fled back unhindered till she came into
the \ales of liar
THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE
1704
"Love soeketh not itself to please.
Nor lor itself hath an\ care,
But for another give* its ease,
And huildv. a heaxen in hell's despair "
"' So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet
*'Lo\e seeketh only self to please,
10 To bind another to its delight,
Jo>s in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in hea\en's despite "
HOLY THURSDAY
17M4
Is this a hoh thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,—
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
5 Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty1
And their sun does never shine,
10 And their fields are bleak and bare.
And their ways are filled with thorns-
It is eternal winter there.
WILL1\M
171
For tthereVr the sun does
And where 'ei the lam does fall,
15 Babe can ne\er hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal
THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER
1704
A little black thine* amonu the snow.
Tiring "weep* *eepf M in notes ol woe1
"Where are thv fathei and niothei '
Say»"-
"They aie both £»nnc up to chinch to pi ay
6 "Because I vtas hupp> upon the heath,
And smiled among the wintei 's sno\\.
They elothed me in the clothe* nt death,
And taught me to sing the notes of HOC
"And taoause F am happx, and fiance
and sins:,
10 They think thev have done me no injury.
And aie none to pnuse God and His
puest and kmj»,
Who make up a heaven of 0111 nuseiv "
NURSE'S BONO
1704
When the \oices of cluldien are heaid on
the jrrcen.
And \\luspei mgs are in the dale.
The da\s of m\ \outh use tresh in inv
mind ,
M\ tare turns »ieen and pah1
•
6 Then come homo m\ childien, the sun
is irone down,
And the dews oi night arise.
Your splint? and \oiii dav aie wasted in
play.
And Your wintei and night in disguise
TITE TIGER
17«4
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night.
What immortal hand 01 e\e
Could frame thv f em ful symmetrv*
6 Tn what distant deeps 01 skies
Burnt the fire of thine eves?
On what wings dare he aspire'
What the h.md daie sei/e the fire1
And what shouldei and what art
10 Could twist the sinews of thv heart '
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
\\hat the hammer/ uluit the chum?
In what furnace was tin biain *
1 ' \\hat the nn\ilf \\hat dread grasp
Daie its de«idl\ tenors clasp'*
When the stais tlue\\ do\\n then speais,
And wateieil hea\en \\ith their tears,
Did lie smile His \\ork to see*
20 Did lie \\lio made tl)e lamb make theet
rlii»ei, tmei. burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immoital hand 01 e>e
Daie liame thv fearful svmmetry*
AH, SUNFLOWER
1704
Ah, Run flower, weary of time,
Who couiitest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sueet golden clime
Where the h^ellei 's journey is done,
fl Wheie the Aonth pined awa\ with desire,
And the pale \ugin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their gra\cs, and aspire
Where mv Sunflower wishes to gof
THE GARDEN OP LOVE
1794
T \\enf to the Garden of Love,
And saw \\liat 1 ne\ei had been;
A ehai^el was built in the midst.
Where I used to play on the green
" And the sutes of this chapel were shut,
And 4 Thou shalt not" writ over the
door.
So I turned to the (Jarden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore
And T *aw it \\a<* filled with graves,
10 And tombstones where flowers should be;
And pnests in black gowns \\ere walking
their rounds.
And binding \\ith briars my joys and
desires
A POISON TREE
1704
T was angry uith m.\ friend'
T told nn wrath, my wrath did end.
T was angry with mv foe:
I told it not, mv wrath did grow
r> And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
172
EIGHTEENTH CKNTUltl FOBKRUNNE1«»
And it grew both day and night,
10 Till it bore an apple bright,
And m> foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,—
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole,
15 In tlie morning, glad, 1 see
My foe outstretched beneath the tiee
A CRADLK BONO
1794
Sleep* sleep* beauty bright.
Dreaming o'er the joyb of night
Sleep f sleep! in thy sleep
Little soriows sit and weep
6 Sweet babe, in tin face
Soft desires I can irate,
Secret jovs and secret smiles.
Little pretty infant wiles
As thy softest limbs T feel,
10 Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'ei thy hi east
Wheie thy little heait does tesi
0! the cunning wiles that deep
In thy little heait asleep
15 When thy little heart does wake.
Then the dreadful lightnings break
From thy cheek and fiom thy e\t»
O'er the >outhful harxests ni^h
Infant wiles and infant smiles
20 Hea\en and Earth of peace beguiles
\UGUBIES OF TNNOCENC'K
1801-J
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of \our hand,
And eternity in an hoin
5 A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage ,
A do\e-house filled with dove* arid pigeons
Shudders hell through all its regions
A dog starved at his master's giitc
10 Predicts the ruin of the state
A game-cock clipped and aimed toi nuht
Doth the rising- sun affright ;
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood
Every wolf's and lion's howl
15 Raises from hell a human soul ;
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear;
A skylark wounded on the wing
20 Doth make a cherub cease to «ins
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men ;
He who the ox to wrath has moved
Shall never be by woman loved ;
-'"• He who shall tram the horse to wai
Shall never pass the polar bar
The wanton bo> that kills the fl\
Shall feel the spider's enmity,
lie who torments the chafer's spntc
10 Weaves a bower in endless night
The caterpillar on the leaf
Itepeats to thee thy mother's griel ,
The wild deer wandciint? heie and
theie
Keep the human soul iiom care,
35 The lamb misused bleeds public strife
And yet foigi\es the hntchei 's knife
Kill not the moth not hutteifh.
For the last judgment diaweth mirli .
The beggai 's doj» and widow 's cat.
10 Feed them and them shall §iow fat
Kvei> tear from e\ei\ e\e
Becomes a babe in eternity,
The bleat, the baik. hello\\. and 10111,
Are \vn\es that heat on henxen's <
43 The bat, that flits at close of e\e,
lias leit the hi a in that won't believe,
The owl, that calls upon the nurhi,
Speaks the nnbelie\ei 's iimht.
The »not, that sin«»h his snnnnei 's Ming,
>u Poison gets from Slandei 's tonuue,
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat oi En\\ 's foot ,
The poison of the honeybee
Is the aitist's jealousx .
Vl The strongest jwnson e\er known
("aine iroin (tsar's laurel crown
Nought can del'uim the human race
Like to the armorer's iron brace.
The soldiei aimed with sword and mm
«,o paimed strikes the Hummer's sun
When sold and icem* adoin the plough.
To peaceful arts shall Knxy how
The be^gai *s ra^s fluttenng in an
Do to rajrs the hem ens tear.
ll" The pnnce's robes and begpr&r's ra^s
\ie toadstools on the inisei \ bags
One mite wimif* J'roni the laborer's
hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands,
Or, if protected fiom on high,
70 Shall that whole nation sell and buy;
The ]XK>r man 's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Af ric 's shore.
The whore and gambler, by the state
. build that nation's fate,
WILLIAM BLAKE
173
75 The harlot's cry Irom street to street
Shall weave Old England's winding sheet,
The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Shall dance before dead England 'b hearse
He who mocks the infant's faith
S0 Shall be mocked m age and death,
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out ,
Ho who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
MB The babe is more than swaddling-bands
Throughout all these human lands,
Tools were made, and born were hands,
Kvery farmer understands
The questioner \\ho sits so sly
lf° Shall neter know how to reply,
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out,
A riddle, or the cricket's cry.
Is to doubt a fit reply
n* The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons
The emmet V inch and eagle's mile
Make la mo philosophy to smile
A truth that's told with bad intent
100 Heats all the lies you can invent
He who doubts from uhat he sees
Will ne'er behe\e. do nhat >ou please.
If the sun and moon should doubt.
They M immediateh go out
|iri Kvery night and e\erv morn
Some to miseiy are bom ,
Kverv morn and eveiy night
Some are born to sweet delight ,
Some are born to sweet delight,
110 Some are born to endless night
Jo> and woe are wo\en tine,
A clothing ioi the soul divine.
Under every giiet and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
116 It is right it should be so,
Man was made for iov and woe.
And, when this we rightly know.
Safely through the world we go
We ure led to behe\e a lie
l-Ifl When we see uitJt riot through the eye
Which *as bom in a night to perish m a
night
When the soul slept in beams of light
(iod appears, and God ib light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
I2r« Hut doth a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day
1 nut's
THE MENTAL TRAVELLER
1801 1868
I travelled through a land of men,
A land of men and women too;
And heard and saw such dreadful things
As cold earth-wanderers never knew
5 For there the babe is born in joy
That was begotten in dire woe ,
Just as we reap m joy the fruit
Which we in bitter tears did sow
And, if the babe is born a boy.
10 He's given to a woman old,
Who nails him down upon a rock,
Patches his shrieks in cups of gold
She binds iron thorns around his head.
She pierces both his hands and feet;
15 She cuts his heart out at his side.
To make it feel both cold and heat
Her fingers number every ner\e.
Just as a miser counts his gold,
She lives upon his shrieks and cries,
20 And she grows young as he gnws olil
Till he becomes a bleeding youth.
And she becomes a virgin bright .
Then he rends up his manacles,
And binds her down for his delight
-'• He plants himself m all her nerxes.
Just as a husbandman his mould,
And she becomes his dwelling-place
And garden fruitful se\ entv-f old.
An aged shadow soon he fades,
30 Wandering round an earthly cot,
Full-filled all with gems and gold
Which he by industry had srot
And these aie the gems of the human soul.
The rubies and pearls of a love-sick eye,
3* The countless gold of the aching heart,
The martyr's groan and the toner's sigh
They are his meat, they are his drink .
He feeds the beggar and the poor .
To the wayfaring traveller
111 Foie\ei open is his door
His grief is their eteinal joj,
They make the roofs and walls to ring,
Till from the fire upon the hearth
A little female babe doth spring.
45 And she is all of solid fire
And sretns and gold, that none his hand
174
EIGHTEENTH CEXTUBY FORERUNNERS
Dares stretch to touch her baby form,
Or wrap her in his swaddlmg-band
But she comes to the man she loves,
r'° If young or old or nch or pool .
They soon drue out the a&>ed hoM,
A beggar at another's dooi
He wanders weeping far nwav,
Until some other take him in ,
55 Oft blind and age-bent, sore distressed,
Until he can a maiden um
And, to allay his freezing age.
The poor man takes her in his arms ,
The cottage fades before his sight,
*° The garden and itb lovely charm**
The guests are scattered through tho land ,
For the eye altering alters all ,
The senses roll themselves in feur.
And the fiat earth becomes a ball
*5 The stars, sun, moon, all shrink away
A desert vast without a bound,
And nothing left to eat or drink.
And a dark desert all around
The honey of her infant lips,
70 The bread and wine of her sweet smile,
The wild f»ain«* of her roving e>e.
Do him to infancy beguile
For as he eats and drinks, he grows
Younger and >ounger c\er> da\ ,
75 And on tho desert wild, they both
Wander in terror and dismax
Like the wild stag she fli?* auav,
Her fear plants many a thicket wild,
While he pursues her night and day
80 By various art of love beguiled ,
By various arts of lo\e and hate.
Till the wild desert planted o'er
With labyrinths oi ua\ward love.
Where roam the lion, wolf, and boar,
95 Till he becomes a wayward babe,
And she a weeping woman old ,
Then many a lover wanders here,
The sun and stars are nearer rolled ,
The trees bring forth sweet ecstasy
l>0 To all who in the desert roam;
Till many a city there is built
And many a pleasant shepherd 's home
But, when they find the frowning babe,
Terror strikes through the region wide ;
*5 Theycry: " The babe ! the babe is born ' "
And flee away on every side
For who daie touch the frowning form,
His arms is withered to its root.
Bears lions, ^ohes, all howling flee.
100 And even tree doth shed its fruit
And none can touch that iroftmng form
Except it be a woman old ,
She nails him down upon the rock,
And all is done as I have told
COUPLET
Great things arc done when men and
mountains meet.
These are not done by jostling in the street
Fiom MILTOX
1M)4
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Farmland's mountain green?
And -A as the holv I<4imb of God
On Knirland 's pleasant pastures seen 1
""' And did the Countenance Dmne
Shine iortli upon our clouded hills?
And \tas Jerusalem biulded here
Among these dark Satanic* mills '
Bung me my bow ot burning gold'
10 Briny me niv arrows of desire!
Brine me rav spear f 0 clouds, unfold !
Brine? me my chariot ot href
T T\ill not cease from mental fight.
Nor shall my snord sleep in mv hand.
15 Till \ve ha\e built Jeiusalem
In England 's qreen and pleasant land
TO THE QUEEN
.1806 7 1808
The door of Death is made of gold,
That mortal eyes cannot behold ,
But when the mortal eyes are closed,
_ And cold and pale the limbs reposed.
"» The soul awakes, and, wond'ring,
In her mild hand the golden keys
The grave is heaven 's golden gate,
And rich and poor around it wait
O Shepherdess oi England 's fold,
10 Behold this gate of pearl and gold f
To dedicate to England's Queen
The visions that my soul has seen,
And by her kind permission bring
BOBEBT BURNS
175
What I have borne on solemn wing
is From the vast regions of the grave,
Before her throne my wings I wave ,
Bowing before my sov 'reign's feet,
The Grave produced these blossoms sweet,
In mild repose from earthly strife,
-° The blossoms of eternal life.
ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)
O, ONCE I LOV'D A BONIE' LAHb
mi 1786
0, once I lov'd a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still f
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I'll love my handsome Noll
5 As bonie lasses I hae2 seen,
And monie full as bian , *
But for a modest, gracefu' mien,
The like I ne\er sau
A home lass, I will confess,
"> Is pleasant to the e'e,
But without some better qualities
She's no a lass ioi me
Hut Nelly's looks aie bhtlie an<l sweet.
And \ihat is best of a',
r» Her reputation is complete,
And lair without a ila\\
She dresses ,a\ sae clean and neat.
Both dece'nt and ire nt eel
And then there's something in her gait
20 Gars4 onie dress look weel.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart ,
But it 's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dait.
-1 • 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
Tis this enchants mv soul ,
Kor absolutely in my hi east
She reiirns without control
A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OP
DEATH
77W 1780
0 Thou unknown, Almiphtv Cause
Of all my hope and fearf
In whose diead presence, eie an hour,
Perhaps I must appear'
5 If I have wander 'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun,—
As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done,—
Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
10 With passions wild and strong,
And list 'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.
Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,
15 Do Thou, All-Good— for such Thou ail-
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good, and Goodness still
-« Dehghtetlitoforgixe
MART MORISON
1781 1800
0 Mary, at thy window be!
It is the wish 'd, the trysted hour
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the misei 's treasure poor
6 How blithely wad I bide1 the stoure.J
A weary slave frae8 sun to sun ,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison I
10
20
when to the trembling string
The dance gaed15 thro' the lighted ha'f
To (lice mv fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard or saw :
Tho' this was iair, and that was bra\t."
And yon the toast of a' the town,
15 I sigh'd, and said, amang them a'
"Ye are na Mary Morison!"
0 Mary, canst tliou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whase only faut7 is loving thee*
If lo\e for lo\e thou wilt na gie,8
At least be pity to me shown ,
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
MY NANIE, O
J782 17S7
Behind yon hills, where Lngar flows,
'Man» mm us an' mosses many, 0
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I '11 awa to Name, 0.
5 The westlm wind blaws loud an' shill;'
The night's baith mirk and rainy, 0;
« nrrttv
'have
drewd
'nwait: endure
'dust, conflict
'from
« lmt night
haadiiome
176
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUN NElib
But I '11 get my plaid, an ' out 1 '11 bteal,
An1 owre the hill to Name, 0.
My Name's chaimiug, tweet, an ' young,
10 Nae artfu' *iles to win ye, 0
May ill bel'u ' the flattenng tongue
That wad begin le my Name. 0
•
Her tace is fair, her heart is tine;
As spotless as she's home, 0 •
15 The op 'mug guwan,1 uat wif dew,
Nae puier is than Name, O
A country lad ib in\ degiee.
An' few tliere IH» that ken me, 0;
Hut what care I how ie\\ they be1*
20 I'm welcome n> to Name, 0.
M> iiches a's my pen n> -let1,2
An' I maun11 guide it canine,4 0,
But wail's <!(Min iie'ei tumbles me.
My thoughts aie n'— m> Name, O
26 Dm auld guidman'1 delights to \iew
His sheep an' k\c thine borne. O
But I'm as hhthe that hands7 his
An ' has nae care but Name. O
( ome \\cel, tome HOC. I caie nn ln,s
™ 1 '11 tak \\hat Hea\ 'n will send me. 0 ,
Nae ither care in life ha\e I.
But Inc. an' luxe my Name. O
POOR MAILTK'8 ELEGY
ITStf
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose.
AViJ saut teais tncklm down >om nose,
Oui bardie's9 tate is at a close.
Past a' lemead,10
" The last. *..id eape-stane11 ot his \\<iest
Poor Maihe'b dead*
It's no the loss o' warl's <>eai,12
That could sae bitter dra* the tear.
Or mak oui bardie, dowie,18 wear
10 The mouininji ueed
He's lost a friend an' neebor deai
In Maihe dead
Thro' a9 the toun she trotted b> him.
A lang half-mile she could desen him
15 Wi ' kmdlv bleat, when she did sp\ him.
She ran wi f speed
i daisy * I caro nothing
f wages paid In mono? ' bard'b , poetV
mast , wremedj
4 carefully " cope-stone (
"world'"* goods tfve for Hi
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh
him,
Than Maihe dead.
I wat1 she wao a bheep o' tense,
-° An' could behave hersel \vi' raenw J
I '11 say 't, she never brak a fence,
Thro' thievish greed
Our liaiihe, lanel>,8 keeps the bpence4
Sin' Maihe 's dead
25 Or, if be ^andeis up the howe,5
Her Imng linage in her yowe6
Tomeb bleatin till him, i»wre the knowe.7
For bits o' bread;
An ' down the bi my peai Is i owe8
30 Foi Maihe dead.
She \\us nae got" o' moot Ian tips,10
Wi» ta*tedn ket,1J an' hair>' hips;
Foi her iorheurb were brought in ships
Fiue '\ontlj the Tumi
35 A hnniet fleesh jie'ei cioss'd the clips14
Than Mailie's dead
\V.ie u 01 tli the man wha tirst did shape
That \ile. \\anchanc ier> thnif»~a rape111*
It mnks miid i'ellmts fiiin17 an' gape,
111 Wi' ehiikm diead
An' llohin'b l>omiet >\a\e wi' crape,
For Mailie dead
O, a ' \e ban Is on lionie Doon '
An' \\ha on A>i yom chanters18 tune?
4"f Come, join the inelaiicholious cioonlu
O' Robin 'sreed!
His hcnit will ne\ei y:et abcwm-0
His Mailie's dead1
GREEN GROW THE RASHES,-'' O
1783 1803
Chow*
Uieen »io\\ the la^hcx. <)'
Green grow the rashes 0 !
The sweetest hours that e'ei I spend
Are spent aninn** the lasses O
Tlioie's nought but faio on e\ frv ban',
fn every hour that passes. 0
What signifies the lite o' man,
An ' 'twere nae for the lasses, 0 f
° world'"
"master
7 holds
tfve for flnl
touch)
"world'K pood*
1 irlooniy
'kno^s
u matted
- ilUcrptlon ,g«KKl man-
"fleece
ners
11 beyond
lonch
u shearn
1 Inner room
£unluck\ . dangerous
glen
"ewe
T knoll
1(1 bagpipe^
"rull
"mournful tum»
11 no l*Mi«»
«°abovo
>n nims
« main's
ROBERT BURNS
177
The war'ly1 race may nclieh chase,
10 An ' riches still may fly them, 0 ,
An9 tho' at last they catch them fart,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O
But gie me a daiime2 houi at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, 0
"
An' ivai'ly caies an' wai
May a' pie tapsalteerie,*
men,
For you sae douce,4 ye sneer at this,
Ye 're nought but senseless asses, O
The wisest man the wail' e'er saw,
20 He dearlv lov'd the lasses, 0
Auld Natuie sweuib the lovely dears
Her noblebt uork she classes, 0
Her pientiee han' she fued on man.
\n' then *he made the lapses, O
Choi if i
OMHMI grow the rashes, Of
Oieen grow the i ashes, O f
The s\\wtpst hours that e'er 1 spend
Ate s|M-nt amanjr the lusses, O
TO DA VIE
sbCOND EP18T1E
178 'f 178t>
AlLI» NhhBOK,
I'm thiee times doubly o'er vour debtor.
Km \inii nnld-fanant11 fnen'l> lettei
Tho' I HMUM" say 't, I doubt ye flatlvi.
Ye speak sae iair,
•"' KOI m\ puir, silly, rhvmin clatter
Some less maun sail '
For ine, I'm on Parnassus' brink,1
20 Rivin* the words to gar them clink;1
Whyles daez't4 wi' love, whyles daez't
*if drink,
Wi'jads5 or Masons,
An' whyles, but ay owre6 late, I think
Draw7 sober lessons
25 Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Common' me to the Bardie clan ,
Except it be some idle plan
0' rhymin clink8—
The dewl-haet that 1 sud ban»°—
80 They never think
Nae thought, nae \iew, nae scheme o'
hvm,
Nao eaies to pie us joy or grievin;
But ju<t tbe pwichie10 put the nievc11 in.
An ' while ought's theie
5" Then lullie-skiltic,12 we gae scnevin,11
An 'fash naemair."
me on iliyine'1"1 it's a>e a tieusuir.
My < hief , amamt16 my only pleasure ;
At hanic, n-hel', at waik or leisure.
10 The Muse, poor hizzie'17
Tho' rough an* raploch18 l>e her measure.
She's seldom lazy
Hand" to the Muse, my dainty Davie
The uarl' may play you uionie a sha\ie.-°
r> Mut for the Muse, she'll never leave ve,
TJio'e'ei sae pun.21
\n, e\en tho' hmpin wi the spavie2J
Frae door to dooi '
Hule be your heart, hale be your fiddle.
Lang may your elbuck8 jink9 an' diddle.10
To <«lH»ei vou thro' the neary widdle11
10 O'nar'ly cares,
Till baini^' bairns12 kindly cuddle
Your auld !?ray ban*1
But Daxie, lad, 1 'm led18 ye 'ie ulaikit ,14
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit.
'& An ' pif it's sae,1B ye sud be lirket1"
Until >ef>ke,'7
Si«* linn Vs as \oii s«d ne'ei bo fmket,19
Be ham 't wlm like J0
'• rtilldron's i hllclren
M thonghtli^ . foolish
III'1!'"*0
• old favoring ^ga- • beaten
clous " aqulrm
i-iurbbandh
IB lot off
w bo spared who like,—
( f. who*\er may
be spared
" ««tni|rirli
1 worldh
"?onw\-tur\\
EPISTLE TO J. LAPBAIK
AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. APRIL 1 1785
1785 1780
While hi icrs nil ' woodbines budding green.
And | >o it ricks*3 s<'iaichin<z* loud at e'en,
An ' inoi IIIIIJT pou«5siew whiddm^6 seen,
Inspire my Muse,
5 This fieedom in an unknown fnen'
I pray excuse.
1 'Hint is. hofrinnlDK to
r 1 1 o poetrv , <»r,
'-helter-skelter
reeling
perhaps, * about t o " and worry no more
publish r> blessing* on rh\mo
------ (from left me, door
IB to me)
"almofft
17 hussy
1N bomevpun
" hold
10 bad turn
"poor
• make them jingle, or
rime
4 daied
* Jade* • wenches
•the8 devil hat* mv
boul that 1 should
rune them
» pocket
"fat
"calling
•hare
rsely
178
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FORERUNNERS
On Fasten-e'en1 we bad a rockin,8
To ca' the crack8 and weave our
stockm ,
And there was muckle4 fun and 3okm,
10 Ye need na doubt
At length we had a hearty yokin6
At "sang about ""
There was ae bang,7 amang the rest,
A boon8 them a' it pleas 'd me best,
15 That some kind husband had addrest
To some su eet wife .
It thirPd0 the heait-btnngb tluo' the
breast,
A Mo the life
I've scarce heard ought describ'd sac weel,
20 What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel.
Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steel?,
OrBeattie'&wark?"
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind elnel1"
About Mini kirk
25 It pat me iidgm-fam11 to heai 'I,
An' sae about him there I spier VJ
Then a* that ken 't18 him round declai M
He had inirfne,1 '
That nane excell'd it. iew cam ncui 't,
30 It was sae line
That set him to a pint of ale.
An* either douce15 or merry tale,
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel.
Or witty catches 16
35 'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale,
Ho had iew matches
Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,17
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an9
graith,"
()i die a cadger powmeV9 death,
40 At some dyke-back,10
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,
To heai join crack J1
But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell.
•the evening before
Lent
• hoclal meeting
8 have a rbat
4 roach
'time, ipell < literal! v
the word means ag
much work as is
done by the draught
animals at one time )
• A game in which
each participant
Mlngn a nong
'one HOD*
•abovr
• thrilled
"> fellow
"put m r tingling
with pleasure
« arted
"knew
" genius
" M»rlOQb
» three - part songs.
each part flung in
turn
"oath
» tool*
» hawker pony's
* hack of a fence
"chat
45 I to the crambo-jingle1 fell;
Tho' rude an' rough-
Yet crooning to a body's sel,
Does weel eneugh
I am nae poet, in a sense,
50 But just a rhymer like by chance,
An' hae to learning: nae pretence,
Yet, what the matterl
Wliene 'ei my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her
05 Your critic-folk may cock their none,
And say, "How can >ou e'er propose,
You, \\lia ken-' liaidly \eise frae prose,
To mak a bang!"
But, by >our lea\es, mv learned foes.,
60 Ye 'i c maybe wrang
What's a ' your jaigon o' 3 our schools,
Your Latin names toi horns1 an' stools '
If lion Ob t Nature made you iools.
What sans1 youi giam-
inersf
65 Ye'd hettei t.i'en up spades and sliools,5
()i knappin-haramers *
A set o' dull, conceited hashes7
Confuse their brains in college clashes,
They jjanj;* in **1irksu and come out
asses,
70 Plain tiuih to speak,
An ' s>ne*° they think to climb Pnrnassu^
By dint o' Greek1
Che me ae «*paik o' Natme's href
That's a' the learning I desire,
75 Then, tho' I diudge thro' dub11 an T mil"
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, tho' namely in attire,
May touch the heart
O for a spunk12 o' Allan's1*
80 Or Feigusson '&, the bauld an ' slee,14
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be.
If I can hit it !
That would be lear10 eneugh for me,
If I could get it !
8I> Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fow,10
1 rhyming
• knows
• Ink-hornH
• hammer* for hroak
ing stono
•ycarltngstfirs
10 aftorwurds
i' puddle
" spark
11 M1»n It tun mu s
" hold and Indent oun
"loio learning
» full
•go
HUBERT BUBN8
179
I'se no1 insist,
But gif ye want ae friend that 's true,
90 I'm on your list
I winna* blaw about mysel,
As ill I like my fauts' to tell;
But friends an' folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose*
me;
9& Tho1, 1 maun0 own, as monie btill
As far abuse me
There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to
me—
1 like the lasses— Gude forgie me!
For monie a plack6 they wheedle f raeT
me,
100 At dance or fair,
Ma>be some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare
But Mauchlme Kace, or Mauchhne Fan.
I should be proud to meet you there ,
105 We'se8 gie ae night's discharge to care,
Tf we forgather,
And hae a bwap <>' ihymm-ware
Wi' ane an it her
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clat-
ter,9
11° An' kirsen10 him wi' reckm11 watei ,
S\ne ne'll sit down an' tak our whit-
ter,18
To cheer our heart,
An ' faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we part
us Awa, ye selfish warly race,
Wha think that havms,is sense, an'
irrace«
Kv'n love an' friendship, should give
place
ToCatch-the-Plack"*
I dinna like to see your face,
120 Nor hear your crack
But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms.
Who hold your being on the terms,
"Each aid the others,"
i-'3 Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers !
1 1 shall not
•will not
"faults
« praise , flatter
• we sball
• we shall cause him
to make a noise
» christen
» dirty
Mrom
"Runt the coin (a
pamc)
But. to conclude my lang epistle.
As my auld pen's worn to the gnssle;
Twa lines f rae you wad gar me fissle,1
180 Who am most fervent,
While I can either sing or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH
INCLOSING A COPT OF HOLT WILLIE'S PRATER
WHICH HL HAD REQUESTED
1783 1808
While at the stock2 the shearers cow'r
To shun the bitter blaudm' bhow'r,
Or in guliavage, rinnin, scowr4
To pass the time,
6 To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme
My Musie, hr'd \vi' monie a sonnet
On gown an ' ban,"1 an ' douse0 black-bonnet,
Is in-own right eerie7 now she's done it,
10 Lest they should blame
her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathem8 her.
I own 'twas rash, an' i at her hardy.
That I, a simple, countra bardie,
15 Should model le wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken9 me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Louse10 Hell upon me.
But I gae11 mad at their grimaces,
20 Their sighin, cantin,12 grace-proud face*.
Their three-mile pra>ere, an' hauf-mile
graces,
Then raxin18 conscience,
Whase14 greed, rexensre, an* pride dis-
graces
Waui uor15 their non-
sense.
*5 There's Gau'n,18 misca'd17 waur Ihnn a
beast,
Wha has mair honor in his breast
Than monie scores as guid's the priest
Wha sae abus't him
And may a baid no crack his jest
10 What way they \ e use 't
hunt
» tingle with delight 'know
1 shock of sheaves *° loose
•pelting "go
4 ran and chase about "tilted to one bide
in horse-play M elastic
1 band (worn by clergy- " whose
men) *• worse than
• sedate »* (J a v i n Iloiniltou.
1 concerned : fwirf ul t bee Glossary.)
• pronounc o a < in «c x" mist ailed f abased
upon
178
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOKERtJNNERS
On Fasten-e'en1 we bad a rockm,8
To ca' the crack8 and weave our
stockm;
And there was muckle4 fun and jokm,
10 Ye need na doubt
At length we had a hearty yokiu5
At "sang about '"•
There was ae sung,7 araang the rest,
Aboon8 them a' it pleas M me best,
16 That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife.
It thirl'd0 the heail-strings tliio' the
breast,
A Mo the hie
I've scarce heaid ought deserib'd sae weel,
20 What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel.
Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Stcele,
OrBeattie's waik?"
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chipl1"
About Mun kirk
25 It pat me fidgm-fam11 to hear't,
An* sae about linn there I spier 't,12
Then a' that ken 't18 him round derlai M
Ho had inline,14
That nane exeell'd it. dew cam near1!,
so It wab sae fine
That set him to a pint of ale.
An' either douce15 or merry tale,
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty catches -16
S5 'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale,
He had few matches
Then up I gat, an ' swoor an aith,17
The' I should pawn my pleugh an'
gnutbf»
()i die a cadger pern me V* death,
M At some dyke-back,20
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,
To hear > on i <-rack J1
But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
1 1 b «» evening Irforc
Lent
* Hodttl meeting
• have a cbat
« much
- time . fippll (literally
the word meant. ax
much work as Is
done by the draught
animal* at OOP ti mr )
•A game to which
each participant
Hlnan a
7 one song
•above*
• thrlllrd
'" follow
"put me tingling
with pleasure
19 asked
"knew
" gcniui
45 I to the crambo-jingle1 fell;
Tho ' rude an ' rough-
Yet crooning to a body's sel,
Does weel eneugh
I am nae poet, in a 'sense,
50 But just a rhymer like by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence;
Yet, what the matter!
Whene'er my Muse docs on me glance,
I jingle at her
55 Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
Yon, nt 1m ken- hardly >crse frae prose,
To inak a sangt"
But, by 3 our leaves, my learned foes,
60 Ye 're maybe wrang.
What's a' >our juigon o' jour schools,
Your Lntin names leu horn*3 an' stools '
If honest Nature marie you fools.
What sairb4 your gram-
mersf
GB Ye'd belter tn'en up spades and sliools,5
()i knnp])in-hammers 6
A set o' dull, conceited hashes7
Confuse their brains m college classes,
Tliry fr*m<rs in sinks,1' and come out
<isses,
70 Plain tiuth to speak f
An ' syne10 they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek1
Gie me ae «park o' Natiue's fire1
That's a' the learning I desire;
75 Then, tho' I drudge thru' dub11 an' mil"
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, tho' hamely in aitire,
May touch the heart
O for a spunk12 o' Allan VJ price,
*° Or Ferpusson 's, the bauld an f slee,14
Or bright l^apraik'b, my friend to be.
If I can bit it I
That would be lear15 eneuprh for me,
If I could get it!
*r> Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'heve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be f ow,lfl
"three - part
each part sung In
turn
"oath
" tools
"hawker pony's
" hack of a fence
"chat
1 rhyming
•knows
* Ink-hornt)
• yearling Kt^-i
»« novel*
• hammers for hmak
inff stone
* fooft
•go
11 puddle
« spark
" \llnn ItuiiiKm •<
11 lK»ld and lna?nloun
n Joio, learning
«" full
HUBERT BURNS
179
1 'be no1 insist ,
But gif ye want ae friend that 9s true,
90 I'm on your list
I wmna9 blaw about mysel,
AH ill I like my fauts8 to tell;
But friends an9 folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose4
me,
M Tho', I maun0 own, as monie btiil
As far abuse me
There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to
me—
1 like the lasses- Gude forgie me!
For monie a plack6 they wheedle f rae1
me,
100 At dance or fair,
Ma\be some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare
But Mauchhne Race, or Mauchlme Fan,
I should be proud to meet you there .
105 We'se1 gie ae night's discharge to caie,
If we forgather,
And hae a swap n' ihymin-ware
Wi ' ane anither
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clat-
ter,9
>10 An' kirsen10 him wi' reekin11 water,
SMie we'll sit down an* tak oui whit-
ter,1*
To cheer our heart ,
An f faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we part
"5 Awa, ye selfish warly race,
Wha think that ha\ms,18 sense, an
grace,
Ev'n love an1 friendship, should give
> I shall not
• will not
* fault*
« praise , flatter
But. to conclude my lang epistle.
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle,
Twa lines f rae you wad gar me fissle,1
> Who am most fervent,
While I can either sing or whistle,
Your friend and servant
EPISTLE TO THE EEV. JOHN M'MATH
INCLOSING A COPT OP HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER
WHICH HL HAD REQUESTED
J78J
1808
ToCatHi-the-Plack!"
I dinna like to see your face,
120 Nor hear your crack
But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms.
Who hold your being on the terms,
"Each aid the others,"
i-'5 Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
j My f ncnd8| my brothers !
While at the stook2 the shearers cow'r
To shun the bitter blaudin3 show 'i ,
Or in guh a\ age, nnnin, sctmi4
To pass the time,
5 To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.
My Musie, tir'd \\T monie a sonnet
On gown an ' ban,5 an ' douse0 black-bonnet,
Is grown nirht eerie7 now she's clone it.
10 Lest they should blame
hei,
An' louse their holy thunder on it,
And anathem8 her.
T own 'twas rash, an' lather hardy.
That I, a simple, countra bardie,
11 Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturd}.
Wha, if they ken9 me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Louse10 Hell upon me.
But I gae11 mad at their grimaces,
20 Their sighin, cantin,12 grace-proud faces.
Their three-mile prayers, an' liauf-mile
graces,
Their raxin18 conscience,
Whase1* greed, rexeuge, an1 pride dis-
graces
Waut uuin their non-
sense.
*B There's Gau'n,16 nrisca'd17 wani Ihnn a
beast,
Wha has mair honor m Ins breast
Than monie scores as guid 's the priest
Wha sae abub't Inni
And may a Imid iu» <*ia<k Ins jest
so What way the\ '\e use't
hunt
::;£&.« tl-
to make a noise
» christen
» dirty
-„ „.. wrth .Mrt SJSTJSSS*
irS;«i -psrti- — «•
« tingle with delight
*«book of Bbeatca
• pelting
«run and chase about
ID hone-play
•band (worn by clergy-
men)
"sedate
' concerned . fearful
•kno*
• pronoum o
upon
ȴnted to one side
» elastic
"whose
** worse than
n (t A v 1 n lloiniltou.
(MeeOlossary )
a i in so " niNtRlled , abused
180
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOKEBUNNERS
See him, the poor man 's friend, in need.
The gentleman in word an1 deed—
An ' shall his fame an ' honor bleed
By worthless skellums,1
36 An1 not a Muse erect her head
To cowe the blelhuiMJ
0 Pope, had I thy satire's darts,
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
«° An 'tell aloud
Their jugghn hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the eiuwd!
God knows, I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing T could be,
45 But twenty times I rather ^ould be
An atheist clean
Than under gospel colors hid be,
Just £01 a scteen
An honest man may like a glass.
50 An honest man may like a lass ,
But mean levenge, an' malice fause3
He'll still disdain,
An * then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Lake some we ken.
56 They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o* mercy, grace, an' truth,
Foi what? to pie their malice skouth*
On some pun wight,
An' hunt him down, o'er right an* ruth.
•0 To ruin straight
All hail, Religion! Maid divine!
Pardon a Muse sae mean as mine,
Who. in her rough imperfect line,
Thus daunt to name thee
83 To stigmatise false fnends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.
Tho' blotch 't an' foul wi' monie a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train.
With trembling \oice I tune my strain
TO To join with those
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
In spite of foes .
In tspite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite of undermining jobs,
75 In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At worth an' merit,
By scoundrels! even wi ' holy robes,
But hellish spirit)
1 uood-for-notlitngff
• blusterers
1 falne
«vent
0 Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
80 Within thy presbytenal bound,
A candid hb'ral band is found
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown 'd,
An ' manly preachers
86 Sir, in that circle yon are nam'd .
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
An' some, by whom your doctnne'*
blam'd
(Which gies ye honor),
E\ 'u, sir, by them vour heart Js esteem 'd,
90 An ' winning manner.
Pardon this freedom I hate tnen,
An* if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good sir, in ane
Whase heait ne'ei
wiang'dye,
96 But to Ins utmost would befriend
Ought that belang'd >e
THE JOLLY BEGOAR8
A CANTATA
1185 17UW
KEGITATTVO
When lyart1 leaves bestiow the vnd.
Or, wa\erui£ like the Imwkie-bird,-
Bedim cauld Boreas ' blast .
When hailstanes <ln\e ui' bittci skvtt*.'
5 And infant frosts begin to bite.
Tn lioarv cianreuch4 diest.
Ae night at e'en a mem core''
0' randie,0 gangrel7 bodies,
In Poo&ie-Nansie's held the spline."
10 To drink their orra duddies ,D
Wi' quaffing and laughing.
They i anted10 an ' they sang ,
WT jumping an' thumping.
The vera gizdle11 rang
18 First, niest12 the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel biac'd wi' mealy bags11
And knapsack a' in order.
His doxy14 lay within his arm ,
Wi' usquebae1" an' blankets \vaini,
20 She blinket on her sodger 1B
An ' ay he gies the tozie diab17
'grav llThe meal hag waa
F A the (hi<<f equipment
of the beggar Ii
iiHualh runtaln«*d
fiatmoal, which
might be uaed as
food, or traded, 01
Hold Bee 1 48
14 wench
" whiaky
"aoldler
"xivea the tips;
wench
•dash
4 front
•corpH , tfi<iui>
• lawleHK
7 vagrant
• carousal
• ftpare rags or clothe**
10 were Jovial in a
" A plate of niotal for
frying cakra
>» next
ROIIKKT miltNH 181
The father skelpin kiss,1
While she held up her greedy gab so He ended. and lhe kebars Bhcuk,
Jus like an aumouB' dish Abaon, &e chorus roap
llk'wnaek still did crack still Wllle fnghted rattons* backward
Like onie a radgei 'H whup,4 leuk
Then, swagg*nns an ' stagperin8j A|| , ^ the ^wu* boie ,4
HP roar'd this dim np - A lttlly Mdlep f|ae tbe neuk-%
l" He skirl Ma out Kncore'
,,
- ., , . . An' laid the loud uproar —
T am a son of Mars, who have been in
many wars, im
">0 Vnd show m\ cuts and soars \iheic\ei
I corne , Tl NE — Ko*0u Laddie
This heie \\as for a wench, and that F once \\as a maid, tho' I cannot tell
oth<*r in a trench, when,
When \\flcouunK the iMrnch at tlu» Vud still m\ delmht is in proper younsr
sound of the drum men
Lai de dandle, etc M' ^omc- one of a ttoop of diagroonq was mv
daddie;
Mv prenticeftbip I past, when- m\ leinli»i \n \\mi<lei I'm loud of a bodger laddie1
lircnth 'd IIIB last. Sing, lal de dal, etc
5"' WhiMi the blood\ die ntus en si mi the
heights of Abram, The lust of mv lo\ea was a s\\n^&reimcr
nut mv trade *\wn the i»all.ni< blade,
aamo uas play'd, To inttle the thundeiinp drum ^a^ hm
Vnd the Moio low A\:\S lni<l t\\ tin trade,
^ound oi the drum *"• His loir \\as «sn tiyht/ and his cheek \\a^
T lasth uas with Curtis, amonu Hie float- Tianspoited T mat. Mith m\ lodsrer laddie
inu batt'ries,
\nd Iheie I left ioi uitness ,m aim Hut the SOdlv old chaplain lei t him in the
and a limb, luich,
10 ^e« let ui> foiiiiliv nwil me, null Kliott 'n,6 ,^on| f foiw>0k foi the sake of the
to head me, church,
I'd Matter on mv stumps at the sound 1!e llskw lne Mmlt an(1 T ^^tmM t)ie
oi1 the drum ]mdv
. . i, » T it -it i ^ T0 Twns then I prov'd fal*«e to rav
And no\\, tho' T must bee with a wooden Inddie
aim nnd lejr,
\nd manv a tatter'd iao Imnvinu o^eT Fiill wm j
m\ bum, ^
I -.,. as happy i,ith mv wallet, nix bottle T||p Tit^*rt at lame foi a husband T
and my callet,0 ^
\, uhen I iisM in scailet to follow K|f|m ^ ^^^ sp(intlKM1., |n the fife ,
« <llum Mas readv.
What tho' with hoary lock* T must *tnnd T asked no moie but a sodaer laddie
the winter shocks, .. _ , A. . . ,. J .
Menenth tbo woods and locks often " Rut "** I™* « ie«llu * ™* ^ **s in
times foi n home? ,_ _ "e*Hwir«
When the toflliei bajr I ^eH.* «»d lhe Till I metmv old bov in a Cunningham
of bell at the
of a
at
• rafter* «hnok • crlert :
'ciiunt unothoi hottlo < Inmost chink • \ wrrtpon carried by
. i ^ « hlii § n<H* military ofllcem
182
CENTURY FORERUNNERS
And now I have hv'd— I know not how
ng!
I c
so And still I can join in a cup and a song.
And whilst with both hands I can hold
the glass steady,
Here's to thee, my heio, my sodgei
laddie »
Sing, lal de dal, etc
RECITATIVO
Poor Merry-Andrew in the neuk,
86 Sat guzzling wi' a tmklei-hizzie.1
They imnd't na \\lin the choius teuk,
Between themselves they were sae busy.
At length \vitli dunk and courting dizzy,
He stoiterM2 up an' made a face,
90 Then turn 'd, an ' laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne' tim'd his pipe** wi' giave gu-
mace •—
AIR
TL\E — JiiW Sir Symo*
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou:4
Sir Kua\e is a fool in a session,9
He's theie but a prentice 1 tiow,
96 But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie *-l»e bought me a beuk.
An ' 1 held awn to Hie school ,
1 tear I my talent misteiik.
But what will ye hue6 of a foolf
100 "For drink I wad venture my neck ,
A hizzie's the half of my cratt ,
But what could ye other expect
Of ane that's avowedly daft?
I nnce was tyed up like a stirk,7
105 jror civilly swearing and quaffing,
f ance was abusM in the kirk,
For towung a lass i' my daffin.8
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
I^et naebody name wi' a jeei
no Theie's e\en, I'm taul, i' the Court
A tumblei ca'd the Premier
Ob«*rv'd ye yon reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle the mob?
He rail* at our mountebank squad—
"5 it 's nvalship ju&t i ' the job
And now my conclusion I'll tell.
For faith ' I'm confoundedly dry f
The chiel that's a fool for himsel,
Quid Lord1 he's far dafter than 1
1 tinker-wench » tied up like a young
•ataggered bollock or heifer .-
•then i c, punlflbed with
* fall ; drank a sort of iron collar
• oonrt-aesalon • fun
•nave
filQlTATiVO
120 Then niest outepak a raucle carlin,1
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling
For monie a pursie she had hooked,
An ' had in monie a well been douked.
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
125 But weary fa' the waefu' woodie !•
Wi ' sighs an ' sobs she thus began
To wail her braw4 John Highlandman:—
Ant
TUNi—0 An' Ye Were Dead, Quidman
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland3 laws he held m scorn,
180 But he still was taithfu' to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Choru*
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman !
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman '
There's not a lad in a' the Ian'
136 was match I'oi my John Highlandman!
With his phihbeg" an' tartan plaid,7
An' guid claymore" do\in his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,9
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
140 We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,10
An' hv'd like loids an' ladies gay,
For a Lalland face he feared 'none,
My gallant, biaw John Highlandman
They banish 'd him beyond the sea,
"6 But eie the bud uas on (he tree,
A down my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman
But, Och I they catch 'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast,
no My curse upon them every one—
They've bang'd my braw John Highland-
man'
And now a widow, I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return ;
No comfort but a hearty can
166 When I think on John Highlandman.
Chonu
Ring hey my braw John Highlandman !
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman !
There's not a lad in a' 'he Ian'
Was match for my John Highlandman !
to the kneei, worn
by HlfhlaiHleni
T checkered coat
•A kind of broad
1 sturdy old woman
* pinch the ready caftb
'Kallowa (on which
her love bad been
'•£$E?: *"
•A kind of ibort plait-
, from on.
end of the country
to the other
ROBERT BURNS
183
BlGITATlVO
A pigmy scraper on a fiddle,
Wha us'd to trystes an' fairs1 to dnddle,2
Her strappm limb an ' gawue3 middle
(lie i each 'd nae higher)
Had hol'd* his heartie like a riddle, '•
An'blawn'tonfiie
Wi' hand on hainch," and upward e'e,
He croon 'd7 his gamut, one, two, tlnee,
Then in an arioso8 key.
The wee Apollo
Set off wi9 allegretto9 glee
His gtga10 solo —
• Am
TI NE— Vhisllc On re the Laie" O't
Let me ryke up to dight12 that tear,
An ' go wi ' me an ' be my dear,
An9 then your eveiy care an ' fear
May whistle owie the lave o't
C/ionur
I am a fiddler to inv trade,
And a' the tunes (hat e'er I play'd,
The sweetest still to wile or maid,
Was Whittle Own* the Lave O't.
1 At kuus1 ' an* weddings we 'be be there
An'Of sae nicely 's \\ewill fare1
We'll bowse14 about till Daddie Care
Smijfr Winkle Owre the Lave O't
Sne meriily the banes ue'll pyke,1B
' An' sun ouisels about the dyke,18
An ' at our leisure, uhen ye like,
We'll— whistle owio the la\e o'tf
But bless me AM' \om hen\ 'n o' charms.
An' while I kittle bun on thairms,17
) Hungei, cauld, an' a1 sic harms,18
May whistle owre the lave o't
Chorus
T am a fiddler to my trade,
And a ' the tunes that e fei I play 'd.
The bweetest still to wife or maid,
Was Whittle Owie the Lave O't.
RECITATIVO
Her chaurms had struck a sturdy eaird,1
As weel as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
And draws a roosty rapier,
200 He swoor by a' was swearing worth,
To speet him like a phver,2
Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her forever
\\V ghastly e'e, poor Tweedle-Dee
2<* Upon his hunkers8 bended,
An ' pray 'd for gi ace wi ' ruef u1 face,
An ' fane the quarrel ended
But tho' his little heart did grieve
When round the tinkler prest her,
210 He feign 'd to snutle4 m his sleeve,
When thus the caird address 'd her —
AIR
Tt VF — Clout* the Cauldron
My borne lass, I woik in brass,
A tinkler it> my station ,
I've travell'd lound all Christian ground,
In this my occupation
I'\e taen the gold,0 an9 been enrolled
In many a noble squad ion ,
But vain they seaich 'd, when off I march M
To go an ' clout the cauldron.
215
1 cattle-market* anil
market* for hiring
HervantK nncl farm
laborers •
' toddle
1 buxom
• pierced
• sieve
• haunch
T bummed
" smooth , raelodloui
• - •-- '-ited
anee.
• quick . spirit
» A lively bane
"remainder (See
Burns'* poem of
tul* title, p 196 )
"reach up to wipe
'•harvest borne*
"hoote
"bones we'll pick
"stone or turf fence
r tickle hair on cat
gut, — f e, play on
the violin
"all such harms
--° Despise that shrimp, that wither 'd imp,
Wi ' a ' his noise an ' cap 'mi,
An' take a shaie \\i' those that bear
The budget7 and the apron !
And by that stowp,* my faith an1 houpe.'
M5 And by that deal Kiibaigie!9
If e'ei ye uant, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my eraigie 10
KJ-CITATIVO
The cand prevail 'd tb ' unblushing fair
In his embiaces sunk,
230 Partly wi' lo\e o'ercome sae sair,11
An' partly she *as drunk
Sir Violmo, uith an air
That show'd a nun o9 spunk,
Wiah'd unison between the pan,
-3P» An' made the bottle clunk12
To their health that night
* tinker
2 spit him like a
plover
' hams
4 snicker
I mend
II enlisted
7 A tinker's hag o/
tools
•jug
* V kind of whlskev
named from a nntfil
distillery
"wet mj Throat
11 so sorely
"gurgle (from th«
sound of emptying
a narrow-necked
bottle)
184
EIGHTEENTH CKNTUBV FOA&BUlWJSfiti
But hurchin1 Cupid shot a shaft,
That play'd a dame a shavie;8
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft,
240 Bebint the chicken cane.8
Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft,4
Tho' limping wi' the spavie,*1
He hirpl'd* up, an' lap like daft,7
An' shor'd8 them "Dainty Davie"»
3" O' boot10 that night.
He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed '"
Tho ' Fortune &an upon bun laid,
His heart she ever rmssM it
260 He had uae wish but— to be glad,
Nor want but— when he thirsted ,
He hated nought but -to be sad,
An' thus the Muse tugge&ted
His sang that night
AIR
IUNE — pot j« That, An' A1 That
265 I am a bard of no regard
Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that,
But Homer-like, the glownn byke,12
Frae town to town T draw that
Chot u*
For a' that, an' a' thai,
wo An ' twice as muckle V8 a ' that,
^e lost but ane, I'\e twa behin',
1 've wife uueugh for a' that
I ne\er drank the Mnses' stank,14
Castaha's bum,1"1 an' a' that,
2«5 But theie it streams, and iirhlv ream*18—
My Helicon I ca'that
Great ln\e I bear to a' the fair,
In raptures sweet, this houi we meet,
Wi' mutual love, an' a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,1
Let inclination law2 that f
276 Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft,8
They've taen me in, an' a' that,
But clear your decks, an ' here's the sex '
I like the jads for a 'that
Chorvt
For a 'that, an 'a' that,
*M An' twice as muckle's a' that.
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They're welcome till V for n' that '
285
210
29*1
270
Their humble slave, an' a' thai .
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal «un to thraw17 that
.100
BECITATIVO
So sang the bard, and Nansie's wa'b
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Re-echo 'd from each mouth!
They toora'd their pocks/' an' pawnM
their duds,
They scarcely left to com then fuds,8
To quench then lowin drouth 7
Then owie again the jovial thiang.
The poet did lequest
To lowse his pack an ' wale a sang."
A ballad o' the best,
He, ruing, tejoicing.
Between his twa
Looks round him, an ' found them
Impatient for the choi us -
AIR
k 1 1 N* — Jolly J/o> fa/*, Fill Yottr Qla**< H
See the smoking bowl before us '
Mark our jovial lagged ring*
Round and round take up the choius.
And in raptures let u« <
i urchin
•trick .
« a person of Homer M
profpRHlon. — / c , a
poet (Homer in al-
lowed to lie the old-
i»st ballad filnger on
record M— Burn* )
' HpHVlD
« hobbled
» leaped like mad
•offend
• The name of a popo
lar §ong which cele-
brated an amoroua
adventure of Mass
David WllllaniHon,
a seventeenth con*
tary blade, who be-
came known an
Dainty Davy Thi»
aong la printed in
The Hem #«*»
of Caledonia
1 1011), p 81, and
Thr 4fic<mf awl
Modern Hcot* Rung*
(1701), Vol St. p
283 The Adven-
ture is related in
C'reichton'R
Memoir* (Rwi/t
ed)t 12. 19-20.
(Prom Henley '»
note in tbe Cam-
bridge ed. of Burn*,
p #35)
"to boot
u unlisted, or enrolled,
a* a follower
w staring crowd
11 an mncb as
M pool ; ditch
u rivulet
" foam§ (He refera to
ale ai bU M
iniipiration )
" thwart
Chorus
\ iiu foi those by law protected !
Li beity's a ^lonous feast f
runrts toi cowaids were erected,
Churches built to please the pnest '
^r> What is title f what is
What is reputation's care?
I !' wo lead a life of pleasure,
*Ti« no matter how or wheie!
With the ready trick and fable,
310 Round we wander all the day,
of
1 bow long the fly may
atlng ^
• have made mo fool
lab
<tolt
"emptied
leta
nn thlrst
" open hi* pack
their wal-
and
BOBEBT BUBN8
185
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug oar doxies on the hay
Does the tram-attended carnage
Thro' the country lighter rove!
313 Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of lovef
Life is all a vaiioium,
We legard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum
*-<• Who \\a\c chaiactei to lose
Heie'b to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Heie's to all the wandenng tram »
Heie's 0111 tagged brats and calleN1
One and all, cry out, Amen1
Chorus
•«• A fig fin thone by law protected '
Libeity 's a glorious feast '
romts toi cowaids were erect e«l
Him rlii- built to please the piiiM j
THE HOLY
1780
A robe of s< pintug truth and trust
Hid <rnH\ olwervHtlon ,
And w< ret tiuug, with poison d c rust,
The dirk of defamation
A inank that like the gorget hhow d
Ilye varying on the pigeon ,
And for a tnnntlr lurgu a nil bn»a<l
He wrapt him in Religion
// iSfi r*c r i*// « l« mow
Upon a mninier Sunda> morn.
When Nature's face w laii,
F walked forth to \iew the corn,
An' snuff the rallei- an
The using sun owie Galston Mun%
\Vif glorious liglii un> ulintin
The hares were hirplin1 down the tuis^
The la\'n»cksB the> WIMI» ilinntm
Fu' sueet that duv
10 As hjrht^miely 1 islinniW abnmd.
To see a scene sac sav,
Three hizzieh,7 rail at the uuiil.
Cam skelpm* up the way.
Tun had manteeles o' dolefu* black,
w Rut nnc wi* lyart9 lining,
The thud, that gacd a ww a-lmck.
Was in the fashion shining
Fu1 ff«\ that da>
la a
^ limping
land for a aacra- "stared
^
The twa appear 'd like sisters twin,
20 In feature, form, an' claes;1
Their visage wither 'd,4ang, an' thin,
An' sour as onic slaes.2
The third cam up, hap-etep-an Mowp,*
As livht as onie lambie,
25 An' mi' a curchie4 low did btoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that da>
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I. "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me ;
30 I'm sure I've seen that bome face,
But yet I canna name >e "
Quo' she, an' laughm as she spak.
An ' taks me by the ban's,
4 'Ye, ioi my sake, hae gi'en the feck5
& Of a' the Ten Comman's
A sciecd" some day
"Mv name H Fun— your crome dear,
The neatest irieud >e bae,
\n' this is Supeistition here,
10 An ' that "b Hvpocnsy
I'm saun to Mauchlme Hol> Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin 7
Oin8 ye '11 go there, yon runkl'd9 pair,
We will pret famous laughin
^ At them this da> M
Quoth I, "Wi' a' my hcait, I'll do 't,
I'll get my Sunday's sark10 on.
An' meet >ou on the holy spot,
Faith, we'sp hap11 fine icmaikm'"
r>0 Then T anod hnme at crowdie-time.1 -
An' soon T made me ready;
For roails \neie clad, frae side to side,
Wi' monie a wearie body.
In droves that day
ir> Heie, fanners «ash,is in iidm graith M
fJaed hoddm bv their cottei>».ri
There swankies16 younpr, in brnv bunl-
claith.17
Aie spnn^in owre the gutters
The lasses, skelpm barcnt,18 thianu,1"
6° Tn silks an' scarlets glitter,
Wi' s^eet-milk cheese, in monie a
whang,-10
An' »niM« hak'd wi' buttei,
Fu' crump" that tKn
ulHHiidge time
uhhre*d
" attire
"jogging 1»\ then rot
tagen
MHtrapping fellows
17 fine broadeloth
"hastening barefoot
» crowded
» thick allcp
« coarse rake
» rrhp
i hop step and-leap
1 curt^v
ba\e glxen the sub-
stance
"rent
* fun , larking
"Crinkled
'" «hlrt
" we thnll ha\e
186
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FO&EBUNNER8
When by the plate we set our nose,
66 Weel heapfed up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glowr,1 black-bonnet8 throwb,
An9 we maun draw our tippence.
Then m we go to see the show:
On ev'ry side they're gath'nn;
70 Some carrym dails,* some chairs an
stools,
An' some are busy bleth'nn4
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs.
An' screen our countra gentry,
75 There Rarer Jess, and twa-threc whores.
Are blinkin at the entry
Here sits a raw of titthn ' jads,5
Wi1 heavin breasts an' bnie net'k.
An' there a batch o' wabster* lads,
w Blackguardin frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day
Here home are thinkm on their sins,
An' some upo' their claos,
Ane curses feet that fyl'd7 his shins,
Anither sighs an ' pra> t>
Oil this hand sits a chosen su ak'li,"
Wi' screw 'd-upf grace-proud fates,
On that a set o' chaps, at u.itdi
Throng* \\inkm on the lasses
To chairs that day.
86
Hear how he clears the points o' faith
no Wi' rattlin an ' thumpin I
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's Htampin and he'b jumpm!
His lengthen 'd chin, his turn 'd-up snout.
His eldritch1 squeel an' gestuies,
"5 Oh, how they fire the heart devout,
Like canthandian2 plaisteis,
On sic8 a day!
But harkf the tent has chang'd its
voice,
There's peace an' rest nae langei
For a' tbe real judges use,
They canna sit for anger.
Smith opens out his cauld hai, indues
On practice and on morals.
An' an the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jais an' barrels
A lift that day
What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral pow 'rs an ' reason f
His English st>lef an7 gesture fine,
130 Are a» ci(»ari out o? season.
Like Socrates 01 Antonme,
Oi some auld pagan heathen,
The moial man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in
185 That's right that day
1J5
0 happy is that man an' blest '°
Nae wonder that it pride him f
Whase am dear lass that he likes best,
Comes chiikin10 down beside him f
95 Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back.
He sweetly does compose him,
Which, by degiees, slips lound lu*i ii«H*k,
An'b loof11 upon hei bosom,
Tnkend that day
100 yow a» the congregation O'CT
Is silent expectation
For Moodie speels1- the Holy dooi .
Wi' tidings o* damnation
Should Ilurnie. as in ancient da\s.
105 'Mang sons o1 (rod pieseiit him,
The veia sight o' Moodie 's face
To's am het haiue13 had sent him
Wi' in»ht that da>
ilook
•The elder who held
the collection plate
at tbe entrance
usually wore a black
bonnet
• boardi
4 chattering
• row of whispering
jade*
sasr
* sample
•fuci 1m A, 14i» si
(Scotch metrical
veiaion)
10 dropping quickly
"and nU hand
18 climbs, — f e , enters
(Probably a caricn-
ture of bis personal
appearance and
style of oratory i
» to bia own hot home
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison 'd nostrum,4
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,6
Ascends the holy rostrum*
no See, up he's aot the word o' God,
An1 meek an' mim6 has view'd it,
While Common Sense7 has taen the mad,
\u' ait, an' up the Cowgate
Fast, fast, that day.
ir> Wee Miller niest* the guard relieves,
An' orthodoxy raibles,9
Tho' in his heart he weel believes
An' thinks it auld wives' fables*
But faith ! the birkie10 wants a manse ,
160 So, cannihe he hums them,11
Altho' his cainal uit an' sense
Like hafflnifc-wiM* overcomes him18
At times that day.
•prim: affectedly
7 Supposed to refer to
Duron's friend, I)r
Mackeniic
"next
• rattles off
» smart young fellow
"bo cunningly tic
humbugs them
'•nearly half oVr
comes him
1 unearthly
» made of cantharldes,
n nreparntlon of
dried bllfitfl beetles
•such
4d(K>trlne (used figur-
atively)
1 from the water foot,
or river b mouth, —
i e, from Ni^ton,
situated nt the
inoutb of tbe Uivcr
Ayr
HOBtiKT BUKJSfe
1S7
Now butt an' ben1 the change-house1 fills,
166 \Vi* yill*caup" commentators;
Here's crying out for bakes4 an' gills,5
And there the pmt-stowp6 clatters,
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' laug,
Wi' topic an' wi' Scripture,
160 They raise a dm, that in the end,
Is like to breed a rupture
0' wrath that day.
205
An' how they ciouded to the yill,1
When they were a' clismist,
How dnnk gaed lound, in cogs3 an'
caups,8
Amang the furms4 an' benches,
An* cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches
An' clawds0 that day
Leeze me on7 drink ' it gies us mair
Than either school or college;
165 It kindles wit, it waukens lear,8
It pangs us fou0 o' knowledge
Be't whisky-gill, or penny wheep,10
Or onie stronger potion,
It never fails, on drmkm deep,
170 TO kittle11 up our notion,
By night or day.
The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
ir> An' steer about the toddy
On this ane's dress, an9 that ane's leuk.
They'remakin observations;
While some aie cozie i' the nenk,12
An' forming assignations
180 To meet some da>
But now the Lord *s am tiumpet touts,
Till a' the lulls are ramn,13
And echoes back return the shouts,
Black Russell is na spairm
1W His pieicin words, like Hisrhlan1 swords.
Divide the joints an ' marrow ;
His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell.
Our \eiia "sauls doe** hauow"M
Wi 'fright that da vf
1*0 A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit.
Fill'd fou o' lowm briuistane,1 %
Whase ragm flame, an' scorchin heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane f ie
The half-asleep start up wi' fear,
i»B An' think they hear it roann.
When presently it does appear
Twa* but some neebor snorm
Asleep that da\
Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
200 How monie stories past;
In comes a gawsie,6 gash7 guidwife,
An' sits down by the fire,
210 Syne8 draws her kebbuck9 an' her
knife;
The lasses they are shyer
The auld gnidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lay*.
215 An' gies them't like a tether,10
FuMang that day.
220
Waesucks'11 for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that bae naethmg !
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie12 his biaw claithiDg*
0 wives, be mmdiu ' ance yoursel
IIow bonie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna for a kcbbuck-heel13
Let lasses bo affronted
On sic a da> f
Now, Clinkumbell, wi' ratthn tow,14
Begins to jow15 an' croon,16
Some swagger hame the best they do\\,1T
Some wait the afternoon
23° At slaps18 the billies18 halt a blink,
Till lustres strip their shoon,20
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink.
They're a' in famous tune
For crack21 that duj
™ How monie hearts this day converts
0' sinners and o' lasses'
Their hearts o' stane, gm night, are gane,
As saft as onie flesh is.
There's some are fou o' love dmne
240 There's some are fou o' brandy,
An ' monie jobs that day begin,
Ma> end in houghmagandie32
Some ither day.
1 outer and inner
apartments. — < e,
kitchen and parlor
•tavern
•MscSt?
• glasses of whisky
• pint - measure (two
EnglWi quarts)
7 blessings on
• learning
•crams us full
» small ale
u tickle
"nook
M Hamlet, 1, 5t 16
» flaming brimstone
» mill-stone
'air
'noodenhouls
"small bowls, tup*
4 forms
8 in full portions and
Uunp'
the
"dust with meal
» last piece of cbe«*so
"boom
7 shrewd
•then
•cheese
"That tb, gives
WOF" *•* •** |CO
1<( gaps In the fencr
11 voung fellows
"shoes
n talk
"Illicit relations
188
EIGHTEENTH CKNTUBY FOKEBUNNEBS
THE COTTER 'Hi SATURDAY NIGHT
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT A1KKN, B8Q
1783 1780
Let iiot Ambition mock their useful toll,
Their homely Jo^s, and destiny obscure ,
Nor Cirandeur hear, with a disdainful Hmlle,
The Hboit rtn<i-himplt» annata of the poor
— UBAI s Elcf/v
My lov'd, my honor 'd, much respected
fnend!
No mcicenaiy haid hi* homage pa}t>,
With honest pride, 1 scorn each seltish end
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and
praise.
5 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays.
The lowly tram in life's bequestei 'd bcene ,
The native feelings strong, the guileless
ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been .
Ah1 tho' his worth unknown, far hap-
piei theic, 1 \\een f
10 Novemhei chill blaws loud wi ' angry Mighr
The shoi t 'mug winter day is near a close ,
The miry beasts leti eating frae the pleugh.
The black 'nmg trains o' ciaws* to then
repose ,
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goo*,—
** This night his weekly moil is at an end,-
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his
hoes,
Hoping the nioin in ease and lest to spend
And weary, o'ei the moor, his eouise
does hameward bend
At length his lonely cot appeal t» in Me\\
20 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree,
TV expectant wee-things, toddhn, btaehci *
through
To meet then dad, ui' fhchteim''' nmsi
and glee
His wee bit ingle," bhnkin bonilie,7
His clean hearth -stane, his thrifty wifle's
smile,
26 The lisping infant, piatthng on his knee.
Does a' his weary kiaugh8 and caie l>e-
guile,
An' makes him quite forget his labm
and his toil
Belyve,9 the elder banns ccme d tapping in.
At service out, amang the farmers roun',
3° Rome caxo the plough, some herd, some
tentie11 nn
A canuie1 enaud lu a ueebor town:8
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman
grown.
In youthfu' bloom, love spaiklmg in her
e'e,
Tomes hame, peihaps, to shew u biaw8
new gown,
•n Oi deposits her sair-won peniiy-iee,*
To help her parents dear, if they in hard-
ship be
With joy un feign 'd, brothers and bisteis
meet,
And each foi other's, weelfatc kindly
spicis °
The social hours, swift-wing 'd, unnotic'd
fleet,
40 Each tell the uncos0 that he sees or heats
The parents, partial, eye then hopeful
years,
Anticipation forwaid points the uevs ,
The mother, wi' her needle and hci
sheers,
(la is7 auld clacs look anmist as weelV llu1
new;
r' The father mixes a' wi' admonition due
Then mastei 'h and their mist i ess V com-
mand
The younkers a' aic warned to ol>ej ,
And mtnd then labors wi' an eydent8
hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' si^ht, to jauk9 m
play
•^ "And O! be sure to fear Hie Loid alway,
And mind your duty, dulv, morn and night !
Lest in temptation's pntli ye gang abtr»>f
Imploie His counsel and assisting might
They nevei sought in \am that sought
theLoid aright fM
" Rul hnikf a rap comes gcntlx In (he dom .
Jenny, wha kens10 the meaning o ' the same.
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some enands, and convoy hei
hame
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
('° Sparkle in Jenny's e'e( and flush her
cheek;
With heart-stunk, anxious raie, enquiies
hi* name,
While Jenny hafflins11 IN afiaid to speak,
Weel-pleas'd the mother hears it's nae
wild, worthless rake
t cottager'*
* sound
'crowi
« stagger
•flattering
' shining prcttili
•anxielf
r
, fin
heedful
i careful
• farm (witb Its collet
tion of bulldlngfl)
• fine
• bard-won WIIRPB
•newR
7 makei.
"diligent
•trifle
» wbo knows
" parti?
KOUEKT HUKNS
With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him To grace the lad, her weel-ham 'd kebbuck,1
ben, * fell,'
85 A strappm' youth, HP takes the innthn V And aft8 he's prest, and aft he ca's it
eye, guid;
Blythe Jennv sees the Msit'a no ill taen , The frugal wifle, garrulous, will tell,
The fathei ci neks- o1 hoisc*, plcimhs, and ITow 'twas a towmond4 anld, sin' lint8
k\c< wasi'thebelL8
The youiif>stei 's ai i less heai 1 <> 'ei flow s wi '
joy, . 10° The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
Hut, blale4 and lailhliiV seaiee enn weel They, round the ingle, form a circle wide,
beha\ e , The sire turns o 'er, with patriarchal grace,
70 The mother, \M' a woman's wiles, can spv The big ha '-Bible,7 ancehis father's pn<l<
What makes the \onth sm. bashlu' and sac His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
gia\e, " 10B His lyart haffets8 wearing thin and baie
\Veel-pleasM to think her bairn's le- Those stiams that once did sweet in Zimi
s|>ecte«l like the la\e« dide,
He wales9 a portion with 3udicmus can-,
() happy love' \\lieie lo\o like this i«s And, "Let us worship God1" he says,
found f with solemn air.
O h«*£H ™plll,e«' bhss he>-ond oom-
76
"If Ileaxen n diaiiRht «f keenly plpns- p^ j^^ ,o<> Ulld.1laibhn mcaq.
ure spaie, HWK
pan, flame
,„ „.
That run, with stiuhed, sl>f ensnami" ait, P •
*•'' I^et i ay sweet Jenny 's unsuspecting youth? The priest-like falhei leads the sacreil
I'uisp mi his ]>et]uiM .ills' dissembling pa^e,--
sinoiitli f ||fiw Abinm was the fnend cii God on high ,
AIP linnoi. \irtiip, cniwience, all exilM* I.MI <>, MCISI-S bade eleinal wailaie wage
Is theio no pity, no lolpnting nith, \ylti, Amalek's uiit»raeious progeny;
Points to the pnicnts londlmg o'er their Oi how the loval baid12 did «roanmg lie
«'biW* Hpiicath the stioke of Heaxen's avemriner
|M> Then jmints the unn'd mnid, and their lie%
dishactiun wild* O, fj0b's pathetic plaint, and wailing en .
I2r» Or lapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fiie,
But nim the suj>pei croons then simple Or othfr hoi v seei-s that tune the sacieil
lM»nid, ^ lyre
The henlsonic pnintch,7 chief of Scotia's
food Perhaps the Chi istian volume is the theme
The sou pcN then only hnwkie" <loes aiTtml, HO\N inultless blood for guilty man wa<
Thai Von!1" the hallan" sniiislv cho\\v hei shed,
(.0< iil How He, who hoie m ITea>en the second
9R The dame bnnus forth, in complimental name,
mood, ' wp11-n«TWl chw^o ipinbh room In
'^tronir Inrjfo housoK )
iin T ^ hoU'sotiu' (MirrlAec ' of ton '•gra \lcuks ortcn»pl«>
• tajkK ciatinonl « twi»hi -month ihooHi^
• JJWK «milk hlme flax 10 \ s«vn><1
4 «hw " whlti* fntNMl < o\\ i bloiwom ]1 kindles
•iMHhfiil '"h^ond -hall-nihlr (Tlu> hall
*rSt othors i»pnrtltlon **s the pwi il i*
CENTUBY FOBKRUNNER8
130 Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; 166 Puces and lords are but the breath of
How His flibt followers and servants sped , kings,
The precepts sage they wrote to many a "An honest man's the noblest work of
land; God."'
How he,1 who lone in Patraos banished, And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
Saw m the sun a mighty angel stand, The cottage leaves the palace far behind .
135 And heard gieat Bab 'Ion's doom pio- What is a lordhng's pomp! a cumbrous
nouuc'd by Hea\en's command. load,
170 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eteinal Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness
King, refin'dl
The saint, the fathei, and the husband
pi ays 0 Scotia ! my dear, my native soil '
Hope "bprmgs exulting on triumphant For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is
wing,"- wnt!
That thus they all shall meet in future days , Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
140 There, ever bask m nucleated rajs Be blest Wlth liealtn> «nd P**<&, and sweet
No more to sigh or shed the bittei teai, ^ content'
Together hymning then Cieator 'a praise, And 0 » may Hea* en their simple lives pre-
fn such society, yet still more dear, vent
While ending Time moveh round in an From Luxury 's contagion, weak and vile !
eternal spheie. Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A urtuoub populace may rise the while,
146 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's 18° And stand a wall of fire aiound their
pride, much-lov'd Isle.
In all the pump ot method and of ait , ^ _, , .... A . . A._
When men display to congregations wide ° ™ou, who pour 'd the patriotic tide
Devotion'* ev*ry ffiace, except the heart, Th** stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted
The Power, mcens'd. the pageant will de- heart;
gert Who dar fd to nobly stem tyrannic pnde,
iso The pompous strain, the sacculotal stole,' ,„ Or nobly die, the second glorious part!
But haply, m sonic cotta«e far apart, Ul (The pat not 's God, peculiarly Thou art,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the Hls fnend, inapmr, guardian, and re-
houl ward!)
And in His Book of Life the inmates J1 ne™*> "evcr Scotia's realm desert,
poor enroll But gtl11 the Patnot an^ the patnot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament
Then homeward all take off then sev'ml and guard9
way,
nri The youngling cottagers retire to refct , TO A MOUSE
The parent-pair then secret homage pay, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH
And pioffer up to Heaven the warm re- TUB PLOUGH, NOVEMBER. 178B
quest, 1785 1786
That He, who stills the raven's Ham 'nun Wee, sleekit,* cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
nest,4 O, what a panic's m thy breastie!
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pnde.5 Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
160 Would, m the way His wisdom sees the Wi ' bickering brattle !•
best, " I wad be laith4 to nn an' chase thee,
For them and for their little ones provide , Wi ' murdering pattle !•
But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace
Divine preside 1 'm truly sorry man's dominion
„ , , , ,, „ . . llfts broken Nature's social union,
From scenes like these, old Scotia '« flran- An' justifies that ill opinion
deur springs, 10 Which makes thee startle
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd At me, thy poor, earth-born companion.
abroad- ' An' fellow mortal!
.ostmont » , ' **
EGBERT BUANB
I doubt na, whyles,1 but thou may thieve ,
What then? poor beastie, thou maun
live!
15 A daimen icker in a thraves
'S a amaf request
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,3
And never miss't'
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
20 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big4 a new ane,
O' foggage5 green1
Vn' bleak December's win's ensum,
Baith snell0 an* keen'
25 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter oomm fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash v the cruel coulter7 past
so Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o ' leaves an ' stibble
lias cost thce monie a weary nibble!
Xow thou's turned out, for a' thy
trouble,
But8 house or hold,9
15 To thole10 the wintei 'b sleetv dnbble,
An' cianreuch11 cauld1
But, Moufcie, thou art no thy lane,12
In proving foresight may be vain
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men,
40 Gang aft aglej,"
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd jo> '
Still thou art blest, compaied \u" nief
The present only toucheth thee
<5 But ochl I backward cast m> e'e,
On prospects drear!
An1 forward, tho' I canna see,
T gues«i an' feni f
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL
1785 1780
O Prince ' O Chief of many thronM pow'r* '
That led tlT rmbattl'd Mraphlm to war f
— MILTON '*
0 thou! whatever title suit thee—
Auld Hornio, Satan, Nick, or Clootie"
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
» at times , ,
•an oocailonal ear In
a shock (of twentv-
four sheaves)
1 remainder
* bnlld
•rank grass
•sharp
* cutter attached to
the beam of a plow
to cut the sward
» without
• abode
10 endure
" hoar frost
(•not alone
"'Paradise //o«ff 1.
1OQ.Q
» A "clootlo H n little
hoof
1 uplahhen
* brimstone tub
•scald
4 old hangman
1 moment
'slap
T flaming cavern
'slow
• shy nor timid
" sometimes
u unroofing the
churches
Clos'd under hatches,
6 Spairges1 about the bruustane cootie,8
To scaud8 poor wretches'
Hear me, Anld Hangie,4 for a wee,5
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie.
10 Ev'n to a deil,
To skelp8 an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far kend an ' noted is thy name :
15 An' tho' yon lowin heughV thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An' faith! thou's neither lag,8 nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.9
Whyles,10 ranging like a roarin lion,
20 For prey, a' holes an' corners trying,
Whyles, on the strong-wing M tempest
flyin,
Tirlm the kirks;11
Whvles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks
25 I've heard my rev 'rend grannie say,
In lanely12 glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd rattles gray
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way
3° Wi' eldritch croon "
When twilight did my graunie summon.
To say her pray 'is, douce,14 honest
woman *
Aft yont" the dyke she's heard \ou
bummin,16
Wi' eerie dioue,17
35 Oi umtlin thro' the boortrees18 conini.
Wi' heavy groan
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The star shot down wi' sklent m1'1
light,
Wi ' >ou tnysel I gat a fright .
«° Ayont the lough,20
Ye, like a rash-buss,21 stood in sight,
Wi' saving sugh M
» lonely
u unearthly moan
14
u often beyond
16 humming
^ghostly Round
*• elders
"bey'ond'the lake
nbush of rashes
Ba sound as of th«>
wind
192
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FQftEfiUNNEJtt*
The cudgel in my nieve1 did shake,
Each bristrd hair stood like a stake,
15 When wi9 an eldntch, stoor1 "quaick,
quaiek,"
Amang the springs
Awa ye bquatler'd like a dra"
On whistling wings
Let warlocks8 gum, an9 wither M hags,
60 Tell how wi9 you, on ragweed nag*.1
They skim the mnirs an9 dizzy crags,
Wi9 wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards lenew their league**"
Owre hew kit" dead
55 Thence, countra wives, wi9 toil an9 pain.
May plunge an9 plunge the kirn7 in \am.
For 0T the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill ,
An9 dawtit.8 twal-pmt hawkie9s9 gaen
«o As yell's the bill '"
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen,11 fond, keen, an'
croose,1-
When the best waik-lume11 i9 the house,
By cantiaip14 wit,
65 Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit1"
When thowes111 dis^Ke the snawy hoord.17
An9 float the jin^lm icy-booid,18 no
Then, \\atoi-kelpiefelw haunt the toord,
™ By your direction.
An9 nighted travellers are allur'd
To their debtruction.
And aft20 your moss-tra\ersiner spunkies21
Decoy the wight that late an9 drunk is '
7fi The- bleezin,-'-' cuist, mischicvoub monki<"*
Delude his e>es,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to nse |lf|
When Masons9 mystic word an9 gnp
80 In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cork m cat your rage maun stop.1*
Or, strange to tell f
The youngest brother ye wad whip
A3 straight to hell 125
86 Lang syne,1 in Eden's home yard,
When yonthfu9 lovers first were pairM,
An9 all the soul of love they shar'd,
The rapturrd hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
90 In shady bow'r:
Then >ou, ye auld, smck-drawing2 dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An9 play'd on man a cursed brogue*
(Black be your la9!4),
''"' An9 gied the infant waild a shog,5
9Maist ruinMa9
13 ' ye mind that day when in a bizz,"
Wi9 reekit7 duds, an9 reestit gizz,a
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
1011 'Mang better folk,
An* sklented0 on the man ot Uzz1'1
Your spitef u ' joke f
An9 how ye gat him i9 >our thrall,
An9 brak him out o' house an9 hal1,
105 While scabs an 9 botches did him gall,
Wi9 bitter claw,
And I<wh9dlj his iil-tongu9d, wicked
Iflst
•harsh
•wizard*
4 rag-weed stems used
inatead of broom -
sticks, for bor^eH
4 covenants
* dug up
7 churn
* petted
• twelve plot white-
faced COW'H
10 as dry an the bull
11 newlv married men
»bold sure
11 work loom
14 magic
"at tho time when
moat needed
^ thaws
17 snowy hoard
1N surface of Ice
>• river-demons (UHU
ally in the form of
horses)
••often
" wUl-o'-the wisps
• blazing
• That is, by belnc of
fered as a Maeriflce
Was waist at a?1
But a9 jour doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an fechtin14 fierce,
Sin9 that day Michael did you pierce,15
Down to this time,
Wnd ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,10
In prose or rhyme
An9 now, Auld (loots, I ken ye9ic thinkiu,
A certain Bardie's rantin, dnnkin,
Sonic luckless hour will send him hnkin17
To your black pit .
But. faith1 he'll turn a corner jmkm,1*
An1 cheat you yet
But, iaie you weel, Auld Nickie-benr
O, wad ye tak a thought an9 men9'
Ye aibhns19 might— I dinna ken-
Still hae'a stake:10
I9m wae11 to think upo9 yon den,
Ev'n for yonr sake I
•latel-llftlBR. Intrnd-
log
•trick
Mot
•flurry
" Hinged face
' nqulnted , direr ted
11 |gf loose
"•cold
»womt of all
5HS".
•AS
land
Gaelic
" Kkl
« Lout,
baffle a Low-
tongue or
tripping
. aps
*' have a position (cf
"to have a stake in
the country")
11 aad
KOBtiKT HURNS
193
A BABD'B EPITAPH
1786 1786
Is there * whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for
rule,
Owre blate1 to seek, owre proud to
snoolf2—
Let him draw near,
fi And owre this grassy heap sing dool,1
And drap a tear.
Is there a hard of rustic song.
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among.
That weekly this ar£a throng J—
10 O, pa&s not by1
But with a frater-feelmg strong,
Here heave a sigh.
I« there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steei,
15 Yet runs himself life's mad career
Wild as the wave!—
Here pause— and thro' the starting tear
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
20 Was quick to learn and wise to know .
And keenly felt the friendlv glow
And softer flame,
But thoughtless follies laid him lou ,
And stain 'd his name
26 Reader, attend ' whether thv soul
Soars fanc\ '& flights beyond the pole.
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole
In low pursuit ,
Know, prudent, cautious, self-eontiol
Is wisdom's root
ADDRESS TO THE UNOO QUID, OK
THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS
1786 1787
Mi Sun. theae maxima mako a rule,
An lump thorn ay tbetfther
Tho Kljcld Righteous IK a fool.
The ttlrfd WNo anlther
The cleanest corn that e'er was dlpht'
May hae some pvlen o' en IP in ,
Bo neVr a fellow-irenture slight
For random fltn of daffln •
Soiimox— £ccto, 7 10
0 ye who are sae guid yonnd,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebors' fauts1 and folly,
r» Whaae life is like a weei-gaun8 mill,
• cringe ; crawl
« winnowed
•orraiDK of chaff
• well-going
Supplied wi9 store of water,
The heapet tapper's1 ebbing still,
An' still the clap* plays clatter!
Hear me, ye venerable core,1
10 As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce4 Wisdom's door
For glaikit5 Folly's portals;
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes.
Would here propone6 defences—
16 Their donsie7 tricks, their black mistakes.
Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer;*
But cast a moment's fair regard,
20 What makes the mighty differ?"
Discount what scant occasion ga\e,
That purity ye pnde in,
And (what's aft10 mair than a' the lave11)
Your better art o' hidin.
2B Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,12
What ratings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop '
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
KO Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baithis to sail,
It makes an unco14 lee-way.
See Social-life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
35 Till, quite transmogrify 'd,1B they're
grown
Debauchery and Dnnking
O, would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences,
Or— your more dreadful hell to state—
40 Damnation of expenses I
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces
Before >e gie poor Frailty names.
Suppose a change o' cases;
r' A dear-lov'd lad, con \enienco suug,
A treaoh'rons inclination—
But, let me whisper i' jour lug.1*
Ye 're aiblins17 nae temptation
Then gently scan your brother man,
"° Still gentler sister woman ;
Tho' they may panic a kenmn1* wtang.
To step aside is human
1 heaped-up hopper'* >° often
• clapper " remainder
1 corps: compnin "quick Jerk
• grave " both
•giddy "wonderful
• propose " transformed
" unlucky » oar
194
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FORERUNNERS
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it;
65 And just as lamely can ye mark
How far, perhaps, they me it.
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows eaeh chord, its various tone,
60 Each spring, its various bias :
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it ;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE
PLOUGH IV APRIL, 1786
1786 1786
Wee, modest, erimson-tippfccl flo* V,
Thou's met me in an evil Lour,
For I maun1 crush amang the stourej
Thy slender stem
6 To spare thee now IB past my po* V,
Thou borne gem.
Alas! it's no tli> neebor sweet
The home lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
10 Wif spieckl'd breast'
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth ;
15 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield.
20 High shelt'ring woods and waV maun
shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield4
0' clod or stane,
Adorns, the histie* stibble-field,
Unseen, alane
26 There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
•0 And low thou lies!
1 mart
'dart
•walls
• dry ; bare
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow 'ret of the rural shade !
By love's simplicity betray 'd,
And guileless trust .
« Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean, luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card1
40 Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'erf
Such fate to suffering Worth is gi\ 'n,
Who long with wants and woes has
stnv'n,
45 B> human pride or cunning dri\ 'n
To mis 'ry 'sbnnk,
Till, Tireneh'd of ev'rv stay but Hea\ 'n,
He, nun 'd, sink '
Ev'n thou who mourn 'st the Dairy's fate,
<"'° That fate is thine— no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate.
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush 'd beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thv doom'
TO A LOUSE
OV SEEING ONE ON A L\DY'S BONNET \T
CHURCH
Y786 1780
Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin2 ferheT
Your impudence protects you sairly:4
1 canna say but ye strunt6 rarely
Owre gauze and lace ;
5 Thn', faith f I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,'
Detested, bhunn'd by saunt an' sinnci,
How daur ye net your fit7 upon her—
10 Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! s in some beggar's hauffet' sqaat-
tle;10
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and
sprattle,11
16 Wiv ither kindred, jumping Battle,
'foot
• quick
•ride of the head
n rtrafl
med
•Waited
aited marvel (
oontemptaouily)
BOHKRT BUKN8
195
In shoals and nations;
Whan horn1 nor bane* ne'er daur un-
settle
Tour thick plantations.
Now baud' you there1 ye 're out o9 sight,
30 Below the fatt'rils,4 snug an9 tight ,
Na, faith ye yet!" ye '11 no he right
'Till ye've got on it—
The vera tapmost, tow 'ring height
O' Miss's bonnet.
26 My tooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' gray as onie grozet ;e
0 for Rome rank, mercurial rozet,T
Or fell, red smeddum,*
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Jft Wad dress your droddum.9
1 wad na been surpns'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy,10
Oi aibhns11 some bit duddie12 boj,
On's wyliecoat ,18
'"• Hut Miss's fine Lunardi'1* fye»
How daur ye do'tT
0 Jenny, dinna toss your head.
An' set your beauties a' abread'10
Ye little ken what cursfed speed
«« Theblastie'smakm*1"
Thae winks an ' finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
0 wad some Power the giftie17 gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
" It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What aiifl in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
An'ev'n devotion1
THE SILVKR TASSIEi*
17S8 1790
Oo, fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie,
That I may drink, before I go,
A sen ice ID my home lassie 1
"' The boat rooks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the
feirv.
The ship rides by the Berwiek-Laut
And I maun leave my home Mar>
The trumpets sound, the banner fl>,
10 The guttering spears are rankfed
ready;
The shouts o/ war are heard afar.
The battle closes deep and bloody.
It's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
15 Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—
It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary
OF A' THE AIRTBi
2788 1790
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.
6 There wild woods grow, and rivers row,9
And monie a hill between;
Kut day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever *i' my Jean
1 horn romt>
:ar
4 ribbon end**
» t reiteration of tin*
eiclnmatlon In 1 ft
•gooaebem
'rain
•powder
•breech
» flannel rap
upernapfl
»«nall ragged
" flannel vent
" b a 1 1 o o n bonnet
(named n f to r
Lunardl. a lamotis
aeronaut)
» abroad
"blasted, — i e,
dwarfed, iron tun*
IK making (01 pon-
Mlbly, damned crctt
» umall gift
» goblet
I see her in the dewy flowers,
10 I wee her sweet and fair:
1 hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air.
There 'b not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw,a or green,
n There's not a bonie bird that sings,
Hut minds me o' my Jean
AULD LANG SYNE*
1788 1796
Cftorti*
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne!
5 Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mindf
Should auld acquaintance be forgot.
And auld lang syneT
And surely yell be your pint-stowp,'
10 And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For anld lang syne I
We twa hae run about the braes,*
And pou'd7 the gowans" fine;
But we've wandered monie a weary fit*
Sin' auld lang syne.
< direction*
Jroll
«old long ilnre
time*)
tnld
•be good for your
tbree-plnt mearare
• hill-tide*
f nulled
'foot
196
EIGHTEENTH
We twa hae paidl'd1 in the buin,-'
Frae morning ran till dine/
Bat seas between us braid4 hae roar'd
M Sin1 auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, mv trusty fiere,6
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll tak a right guid-wilhe waught9
For auld lang syne.
Chonu
** For auld lang syne, my deai,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kmdues* yet
For auld lang syne f
WHISTLE O'EB THE LAVE O'T?
1789 1790
First when Maggie was my care,
Heav'n, I thought, was in her an ,
Now we're mamed— spier nae mair8—
But— whistle o'er the lave o't!
5 Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Sweet and harmless as a child :
Wiser men than uie's beguil'd—
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
How we live, my Meg and me,
10 How we love, and how we gree,9
I care na by10 how few may see-
Whistle o'er the lave o'tl
Wlia I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish 'd up in her winding-sheet,
36 I could write— but Meg wad see't—
• Whistle o 'er the lave o 't f
MT HEART '8 IN THE HIGHLANDS
1789 1790
Cfconu
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart
ih not hero;
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chnsmp
the deer,
A-chasing the wild deer, and following
the roe—
My heart's in the Highlands, where\ei
I go.
5 Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the
North,
The birthplace of valor, the country of
worth,
Wherever 1 wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever 1
love
> paddled
•brook
1 dinner-time
•broad
1 comrade
" a*k on moro
•agree
» I oar* not
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover M
with snow;
10 Farewell to the straths1 and green val-
leys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging
woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-
pouring floods.
Chorus
My heart's in the Highlands, my heail
is not here,
My heart 's in the Highlands, a-chasinp
the deei ,
15 A-t'habing the wild deei, and following
the ioe—
Mj heait's in the Highlands. wheie\«M
I go
JOHN ANDERSON MY JO*
1789 1790
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your home brow wub brent ,n
6 But now your bro\\ is held,4 John,
Your locks are like the snaw ,
But blessings on your fnwtv pnw,D
John Anderson m\ jo1
John Anderson my jo, John,
10 We clamb the hill thegithei ,
And monie a eantie* day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither,
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
** And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson mv ]of
SWEET APTON
JI789 1789
Flow gently, sweet Aft on, among thv
green biaes,7
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in th\
praise j
Mv Mary's asleep by thy murmuring
stream—
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not
her dream
5 Thou stock-dove, whose echo reROun<N
thro9 the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon
thorny den,
* broad Tile*
'OF
BOBEBT BUBN8
197
Thou green-created lapwing, thy scream-
ing forbear—
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering
fair.
How lofty, sweet Alton, thy neighbor-
ing hills,
10 Far mark'd with the courses of clear,
winding rills f
There daily I wander us noon nses high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in
my eye
How pleasant th> banks and green val-
leys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the prim-
roses blow;
15 There oft, us mild K\ 'mug weeps «>\ei
the lea,
The sweet-scented bnk1 shades my Maiy
and me
Tliy cr\sta! stream. Afton, how lo\el\
it glides,
And winds by the cot wheie my Man
resides f
How wanton thj wateis her snowy feet
lave,
-° As iptlieimg sweet flowerets she stems
thv clear wa\ef
Flow gentl>. sweet Atton, among tin
green braes,
Flow genth, sweet river, the theme of
mv lays,
M\ Mary's asleep bv tin mninmrincr
stream-
Flow gently, sweet \iton, disturb not
her dream
WILLIE BREW'I) A I'KCK OF MAUT-
178t 1790
f'Aorifft
\> e me na inn.1 \\e'ie nae that foil,
But ,iust a diappie4 in oiu e'e!
The cock may craw, the dav may daw,
Vnd ay we'll tante the bailey-biee!1
r» O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maiit,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang1'
night,
Ye wad na found in Christendie.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
10 Three merry boy*, I trow, are we;
'birch
• limit
."full riiiink
< small drop
»hrcw
• 11m k»np
And monie a night we've merry been,
And monie mae& we hope to be!
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift3 sae hie;
13 She shines sae bright tn wyle3 us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he !
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
J0 He is the king amang us three!
Chorus
We are na fou, we're nae that fon,
But just a drappie in our e'ef
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And uv we'll taste the barley -bree I
TAM GLEN
1189 17M»
M> heart it» a-brvakincr, deai Uttief4
Some counsel unto me come len '.
To an«er them a' is a pity,
lint wli.it will T do wi' Tarn Glen?
5 I'm thinking, wi' sic a biaw"5 fellow.
In poor! Ufa* I might uak a fen'7
What care 1 in riches to wallow,
If I niauna8 marry Tain Glen *
There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller,
10 "Guid day to you"— brute! he comes
ben:°
lie bragb and he blaws o' his sillei,
But when will he dance like Tam Qlent
M> nun me10 doet» coiifrtantlj dea\e" me.
And bids me beware o' young men;
15 They flatter, she says, to deceive roe-
Rut wha can think sae o' Tam Glenf
My daddie says, gin12 I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me guid bunder marks18 ten:
But, if it's ordain M I maun take him,
20 0, wha will I get but Tam Glen'
Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,
My heart to my mou" gied a sten,16
For thnce I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, "Tam Glen " !
1more
•entico
• ilator
• Burh a flni » Scotch coins, worth
•povi»rti * 26 cents each
' shift M month
• mm not "pmi* n Imp
198
EIGHTEENTH GENTUBY FOBEBUNNEB8
« The last Halloween I was waukin
My dronkit Bark-sleeve,1 as ye ken;-
His likeness earn up the house staukin,8
And the very gray breeks4 o' Tarn Glen!
Come, cpuubel, dear tittle, don't tarry1
*° 111 gie you my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen
THOU LINGERING STAR
1789 1700
Thou ling 'ring stai with lessening lay,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher 'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn
D 0 Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest*
See 'at thou thy lover lowly laid?
Ilear'st thou the groans that rend his
breast f
That sacred hour can I forget,
10 Can I forget the hallow 'd gro\e,
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity cannot efface
Those records dear of transports pat»t,
15 Thy image at our last embrace—
Ah I little thought we 'twas our last'
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbl'd shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening
green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
20 Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd
scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prebt,
The birds sang love on every spray.
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim 9d the speed of winged day
2*. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes
And fondly broods with miser-care.
Time but th' impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
drenched0 ga hi'" I
01
hia _
ft
Von go out, one or
.(tor ftU.lt a
• outl
wtof'*threeJ
lands me*/ ai
your left
dn Ll<* awake;
and Home time near
midnight, an ai
ritton, having
exact fignrt of
lnqnea-
nua-
come
Sfffi
.... Go to bed
sight of a flre*
J Bang jour wet
fi)r*TP fwforr It to
0 Mary, dear departed shade!
30 Where is thy place of blissful reatt
See 'at thou thy lover lowly laidf
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his
breast?
TAM 0' 8HANTER
A TALK
1790 1791
Of Brown* IB and of BogilUa1 full IK this Boke.
— OAWIN DOUGLAS."
When chapman billies8 leave the street,
And druuthy4 neebois, neebois meet,
As market-days are wearin late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate/'
6 While we sit bousing at the nappy,0
An9 gettin' fou7 and unco8 happ},
We Hunk na on the lang Scots miles,0
The mosses, waters, slaps,10 and btylen,
That he between us and our hame,
10 Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her bro\\s like gathering
storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
Shanter,
Ah he frae Ayr ae night did cantei :
15 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and home lasses).
0 Tarn, hadst thou but been sae wise.
As taen thy am wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum IJ
20 A blethering,1* blustering, drunken blel-
lum;1*
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder" wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller,
25 That evfry naig was ca'd16 a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on .
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Mon-
day.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
*° Thou would be found deep drown 'd in
Doon,
Or catch 'd wif warlotkh" in the mirkls
By Allo way's auld, haunted kirk.
longer than th<*
Bngllah mile.
w gapa ; openlngH In
of the
Prologue ft,
8 peddler follow*
* take, the way,— i
11 scamp
n idly-talking
•rery
•The old Rcotch mile
was 216 yards
or grind*
** driven
" wiaa
"dnrk
KOBEBT BUBN8
199
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet1
To think how monie counsels sweet,
36 How monie lengthen 'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale — Ae market-night,
Tarn had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle,2 bleezwg finely,
40 \Vi» reaming swats,3 that drank di-
vinely ,
And at his elbow, Souter4 Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy erome,
Tarn lo'ed him like a very bnther;
They had been fou for weeks thegither'
45 The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better.
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious
Wi' secret favors, sweet and precious,
The Souter tauld his queerest stones,
50 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus.
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle
Care, mad to see a man sae happ>,
EVii drown M hnnsel amang the nappy
cr» As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wmgM their way wi'
pleasure
Kmi^s may be blent, but Tain was glorious,
O'ei a' the ills o' life \ictorious'
But pleasures are like poppies spread ;
r>0 Yon seize the flow'i, its bloom is shed,
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white— then melts foievei ,
Or like the boreal is race.
That flit ere vou can point their place.
6"' Oi like the rainbow V lo\ely form,
K\anishing amid the storm
Xao man can tethei time or tide:
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride
That hour, o1 night's black arch the ke>-
atane,
70 That drearv hour Tain mounts hi* beast
in;
And sic* a night he tuks the road in.
As ne'er poor sinner mas abroad in
The *md blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast.
7ri The speedy gleam* the darkness swal-
low'd,
Loud, deep, and langr, the thunder hel-
lowM:
That night, a child might understand.
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his gray mare. Meg—
*" A better never lifted leg-
Tarn skelpit1 on thro9 dubj and nure,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fabt his guid blue bonnet,
Whiles cioonnig3 o'ei some auld Scot**
sonnet ,*
86 Whiles glow 'ring round wi ' prudent cares,
Lest bogle*1 catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets* nightly cry
By this time he was cross the ford,
90 Whare in the snaw the chapman
Hinoor'd,7
And past the buks8 and meikle9 stanc,
Whare dmnken Charlie brak's neckbane;
And thro' the whins,10 and by the cairn,11
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn ,12
95 And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel
Before him Doon pours all his floods:
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
100 Near and more near the thunders roll ;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning
trees,
Kiik-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,13
Thio' ilka boie14 the beams were glancing ,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing
106 Inspiring- bold John Barleycorn,
What dangers thou canst make us scorn f
Wi' tippenny,15 we feai nae evil;
Wi' usquabae,"1 \\r'll face the ck-ul1
The swats sae ream 'd17 m Tainmie 's noddle,
110 Fan pla>, he cai M na deils a bodclle 18
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish 'd.
Till, by the heel and hand admonish 'd.
She ventured forward on the light,
And, \ow! Tain sau an unco19
US Warlocks20 and witches m a dance;
Nae cotillion, bient-ne^-1 frae Fiance,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and
reels,"
Put life and mettle m their heels
At winnock-bunker2* in the east,
130 There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast ,
A tousie tyke,84 black, grim, and large,
1 clattered " «»i PIT crevice
•'puddle ^tuo-pennj ale
1 bamming w whiskey
« BOM « ale so foamed
* goblin^ '" copper
•owta
• blrchefl
1 make* me grlo\ r
* flrr sldf
^ fonmltip nli>
11 flton* heap
w child
"Mn/r
B brand-iiew
•Names of Bcnttisli
daneen
• window-seat
Mtoii«eled ^hnsp^ cm
200
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY FOBEBUNNEKB
To gie them music was his charge;
He screw M the pipes and garfc them
skirl,1
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.J
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last
And, by some devilish cantraip sleight,8
Each in its cauld hand held a light,
By which heroic Tarn was able
180 To note upon the haly4 table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet-aunt*,5
Twa span-lang, wee, unchribten'd bairns,
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,"
Wi' his last gasp his gab7 did gape,
186 jplve tomahawks, wi' blind red-iusted,
Five scymitars, wi9 murder crusted,
A garter, which a babe had strangled ,
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
Whom his am son o' life bereft—
140 The gray hairs yet stack to the heft,
Wi1 mair o' horrible an' awefu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfiT
As Tammie glowr'd,8 ainaz'd, and
curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and funous:
145 The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew ,
They reel'd, they set, they cross 'd, the\
cleekit,0
Till ilka carhn10 swat and leekit,11
And coobt her duddies to the wark,12
tfO And linket at it in her bark'"
Now Tarn* 0 Tamf had thae been
queans14
A9 plump and stiappmg in their teens*
Their <tarks, instead o' creeshie15 flanneu,
Been snaw-whjte seventeen hunder linen !lb
r>5 Thir brecks" o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,18
For ae blink o' the bouie buidies!1*
But wither 'd beldams, auld and droll,
160 Rigwoodie20 hags wad sj>eanjl a foal,
Loupuig and flinging on a crnnnnock,*J
1 wonder did na turn thy felomaeh !
1 made thorn shriok
"went at It In her
"ring
"• magic trick
M Hhlrt
« wenches
« holy
°bonea In gibbet
irona
» very fine linen, with
itOO threads to a
•rope
1 mouth
» theMbreechea
'stared
» blps
• linked arms
'•lasses
>o each old woman
11 sweated and steamed
"cast her clothes to
tho wnrk
** lean ; skinny
nwean(bydfanst)
n leaping an<T caper-
Ing on ii cronkrd
But Tarn kend what was what fa9
brawlie l
There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,2
165 That night enlisted in the core,8
tang after kend on Carrick shore
(For monie a beast to dead she shot,
An' pei teh 'd monie a borne boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear/
170 And kept the country-side in fear) ;
Uei cutty sark,6 o' Paisley barn,"
That while a lassie she had woni,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was hei best, and she was vauntie 7
175 Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That sark she cof t8 for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots* ('twas a 'her riches),
\Vad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Mime her wing maun
cour,10
180 Sic flights are far beyond hei powei ,
To sing how Nannie lap and flaug11
(A simple ,]ad she \vas, and stiang),
And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch fd.
And thought his \ery een enrich 'd;
1M EVen Satan fflowi 'd, and Hd«'d fuj fain,"
And botched18 and blew wi1 niinht and
main
Till fust ae ca|>er, svne anither,
Tarn tint14 his ieaM>n a' thegither,
And inais out •• Weel done, Cutty-saikf "
1<l0 And in an instant all \vas dark;
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees biz/ out wi' aiigiy fyke,1''
When plnndeiing herds10 assail their
byke,17
193 As open111 pussieV9 mortal foes,
When, pop' she starts before their nose;
AH eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds
aloud ;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
200 Wi' inotne an eldiitch20 skrieeh and hollo.
Ah. Tain! ah, Tarn! thou'lt get thy
famn f21
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comm!
i fall well
* vigorous
* company
* wheat and barley
•short shirt
* coarse linen
•KSgnt
•A pound Boots Is
worth about forty
cents
* muwt «toop
u leaped and kicked
"fidgeted with eager
M hatched , jerked
"lost
M herders of cattle
» begin to bark
i* the bare*s
*» unearthly
* reward (literally, u
prrnont from R fnlr»
JtOIIKKT HL'KNB
201
Kate souii will be a woeiu' woman'
806 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig/
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross,
But ere the key-stane she could make,
210 The fient* a tail she had to shake,
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie pre&t,
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle,"
But httle wist4 she Maggie's mettle—
215 Ac spring1 brought off her master hale,
But left behind her am giay tail*
The carlm claupht* her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stum])
Now, wha this tale o' tnith shall read,
-20 Ilk man and mother's son take heed
Whene'er to drink YOU are inchn'd.
Or cutty sarks run in your mind,
Think1 \e ma\ bu\ the joys o'er dear,
Remembei Tain o' Rhanter's mare
YE FLOWERY BANKS
17*11 IHOft
Ye flowei> banks of home Doon,
How ean \e blumo sae fair?
How run <\e chant. \e little hinlfi,
And I sae tu* o' careV
r> Thou '11 break ni\ heart, thou tame bird,
That sings upon the bough,
Thou minds me o' the happv da\s
When mj faiiso* Imp was true
Thou '11 break mv heait, thou bonie bird,
10 That sings beside thy mate,
For f»ae 1 sat, and sae 1 sang,
And wist naT of my fate
Aft" hae I lov'd by home Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
ir' And ilka" bud sans o1 its luve,
And sae did T o1 mine
Wi' lightsome heart 1 pu'd a rose.
Frae aft its thornx hee.
And my fanse huei Maw1'1 \\i\ lose,
2° But left tin- thoin wT me*
\B« FONT) KISS
170J
NY un in £ sij;hs and gioans I'll wage1 thee
"' Whd shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae eheerfu' twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancj ,
10 Naethmg could resist my Nancy,
But to see hei was to love her ,
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we ne\er lov'd sac kmdl>.
Had we never lo\ 'd sae blindly,
r> Never met— or never parted—
We hud ne'er been broken-hearted
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fauest1
Faie-thc*e-weel, thou best and dvaiesi '
Tlune be ilka^ jov and treasure,
J0 Peace, enjoyment, lo\e, and pleasure'
Ae iond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas, fore\ei v
Deep in heart-wiung tears I'll pledge
thee,
Waning smhs and groans I'll wage thee!
THE DEIL'S AWA WI'
EXCISEMAN
no* 1702
Ae fond kiss, and then \\e sevei ,
Ae farewell, and then, forever1
Deep in heart-wrung teais I'll pledge thee,
a Intention , aim
'knew
'•died
•falne
-knew
• oftou
• ever*
"ono
THf
The doil's aw a, the deil's a\va,
' The deil ^ awa wi ' th ' Exciseman t
He's danc'd awa, he's dane'd awa,
He's dane'd awa wi1 tb1 Exciseman!
"' The doil cam liddlm tliio' tlie town
And daiioM awa wi' th' Exciseman,
And ilkaj wife fries "Auld Mahoun/
1 \\isli you luck o' the pn/e, man*
* 'We'll niak oui maut.4 \\e'll biow tun
drink,
10 We'll lauufli, sing, and rejoice, man.
And inoiiie hi aw'' thanks to the iueiklen
black ded,
That dane'd awa \\iMh' Exciseman "
Theie's tlneesome ieel«7 theie's foursome
leels,
Theie's hoiupipe" and stiathsiu^s/
man;
ir' But the ae best dance e'er cam to the
land
Was Tkr n<il\ \ua tu9 lit9 Kiriv-
man
1 pledge • mnuT fine
s overj • great
'Old MahoinPt (an un- "revlu in which thnv
dent nami> for the take part
devil) "Lively Spot 1 isli
4 malt ilnn res
202
EIGHTEENTH CENTURA FOBEBUNNER8
Uhw 110
The deil's awa, the deiTs awa,
The deil 'B awa wi ' th ' Exciseman ;
He's danc'd awa, he'b danc'd awa,
2« He'b danc'd awa v\T th' Exciseman!
SAW YE BONIE LESLEY
J792 1798
0, saw ye borne Lesley,
As she gaed o'er the border f
She's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
5 To see her is to lo\e her,
And love but her forever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, lair Lesley—
10 Th> subjects we, before thee:
Thon'ait divine, fan Lesley—
The heart* o' men adore thee.
The deil he could na skaith1 thee,
Nor aupht that wad belang thee;
15 He'd look into thy home face,
And sa^ "1 canna ^ranjr thee "
The Powers alxxm will tent2 thee.
Misfortune sha' na steer8 thee -
Tbou'rt like themsel' sae lovelj,
20 That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledome!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonie
HIGHLAND MAKY
J752 1799
Ye
banks and brae*4 and streams
around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair vour
flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!0
5 There Summer first unfald her rubes
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel,
0' my sweet Highland Mar>
How sweetly bloom 'd the gay, green bnk,n
10 How rich the hawthorn 's blossom,
AR underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp 'd her to my bosom!
* Injure
•tike care of
•molest
'•lope*
« muddy
•birch
Tlie golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
16 For dear to me as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Man
Wi' mome a \ow and lock'd embrace
Our parting was fu' tender,
And, pledging aft1 to meet again,
-u We tore oursela asunder.
But 0, fell Death's untimely irusi,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the s<xl, and eauld's the
Clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary !
25 0, pale, pale now, HKIM* iosy lips
I aft hae kigs'd sac fondly,
And elos'd for ay, the spaiklnig glance,
That dwalt on me sae kindly.
And mouldering now in silent dust.
<"> That heart that lo'ed me dearlv'
But still within m> bosom '« coie
Shall live my Highland Mar?
LAST MAY A BRAW-* WOOER
1794 I"1*'*
Last May a braw wooer cam down the
lang glen,
And sail3 wi' hi** lo\e he did dea\el in<>
I said there was naething 1 hated like men
The deuce gae wi'nP to behe\e me, IH*.
lieve me—
5 The deuce gae wi'm to bchoxp nic '
He spak of the darts in rny borne black ecu,
And tow'd fot my lo\e he was d>in
I said he might die \\hcn he liketA foi* Jeun
The Loid formic me 1oi l>in, ioi Kin—
10 The Loid forgie me for lyin f
A weel-stockct mailen,7 liniisel foi the
laird,
And mamage nff-hand were his prof-
fers:
1 never loot on that 1 keim'd it or car'd,
But thought I might hae waur offers/
waur offers—
15 But thought I might hae waur offeis
But what uad ye think? In a fortnight m
less
(The Deil tak Ins taste to gae near her!)
He up the Gnto-Slack to my black conmn,
Bess!
1 fine : handnomo
••orelv
KOBKttT BURNS
203
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her,
could bear her—
20 Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her.
But a9 the niest1 week, as I petted5 wi'
care,
I gaed to the tryste1 o' Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lovei was there?
I fflowi 'd as I'd seen a warlock,4 a war-
* lock-
25 I glowi 'd as I 'd seen a warlock.
But owre my left shouther I gae him n
blink,
Lest neebors might say I was baucy.
My wooer he caper 'd as he'd been in
drink,
And vow'd I was Ins dear lassie, dear
lassie—
<m And vow 'd I was his dear lassie
I spier 'dft for my cousin fu' couthy and
sweet,
Gin6 bhe had recovered her hearin,
And how her new ahoon fit her auld,
shachl'd' feet-
But heavens ' how he fell a sweann, a
swearin—
r' But heavens f how he fell a nweann f
He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his
wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ,
So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun8 wed him tomorrow, to-
morrow—
4I» I think I maun wed him tomorrow '
SCOTS, WHA HAE
1793 1794
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ,
Welcome to your gory bed,
OrtoVictone!
r» NOW'B the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's9 power-
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave f
i° Wha can fill a coward's grave f
Wha sae base as be a slave t-
Let him turn and flee!
^
• was vexed
JwgttothefMr
•asked
•whether
? shapeless
•must
•Edward II, of Bng-
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
15 Freeman stand, or freeman fa9;
Let him follow me !
By Oppression's woes and pains
By your sons m servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
w But they shall be free I
Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foel
Liberty's in every blow!—
Let us do or die!
A BED, BED BO8E
1794 1796
0, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That 'a newly sprung in June:
0, my luve is like the melodic
That's sweetly played in tune.
5 As fair art thon, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a9 the seas gang dry, my dear,
10 And the rocks melt wi9 the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o9 life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee well a while!
15 And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
MY N ANTE'S AWA
1794 1799
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature
arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er
the braes,1
While birds warble welcomes in ilkn
green shaw,*
But to me it's delightless— my Nanie'<
awa»
* The snawdrap and primrose our wood-
lands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet8 o' the
morn;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly
they blaw;
They mind me o ' Name— and Name 9s awa !
Thon lav 'rock,4 that springs frae the
dews of the lawn
10 The shepherd to warn o9 the gray-breaking
dawn,
'•lopee «w*t
• every green wood • lark
204
JUU11TUKNT11 UCNTUKY Jb'OHEKUNNKKtt
And thou mellow inavib,1 thai hails the
night-fa,
Give over for pity— my Name's awa!
Come autumn, sae pensne, in yellow and
gray,
And soothe me wif tidmps o' Nature's
decay :
15 The dark, drean \\intei, and wild-driving
snaw,
Alane can delight me— now Name's awa
CONTENTED WIf LITTLE
119', 1791)
Contented wi' little, and eantie2 wi' man,
Whene'er I forgather wif Sorrow and
Care,
I £ie them n skelp,8 as they'ie neepin
Wi1 a cog4 o' pud swnto and an auld
Scottish sanp
B I whyleft6 claw7 the eltoro of tioublesorae-
Thought,
But man is a sogei," and life i* a
f aught;9
M> mirth and gnid linnior are com in
my pouch,
And my FieedomV ui> lundship nae
monarch dam touch
A towinond10 o' tiuuble, should that be
my fa',11
10 A night o' guid fellowship sowtheis12
it a':
When at the blythe end o' our journej
at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he
has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and
stoyte18 on her way;
Be 't to me, be 't frae me, e'en let the
jade gae.
16 Come Ense, or come Travail, come Plens-
ure or Pain,
II v warbt word is, "Welcome, and wel-
come again!"
LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE"
LOOKS
CTioru*
Lassie wi1 the lint-white locks,
Borne lassie, artless lassie,
* thrush
Wilt thou wi1 me tent1 the flocks f
Wilt thou be my dearie, Of
6 Now Nature deeds1 the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joy wi9 me,
And say thou 'It be my dearie. Of
The primrose bank, the wimpling burn.*1
10 The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn,
The wanton lambs at early mom,
Shall welcome thee, my dearie, O
And when the welcome simmer sbo\\ei
lias eheer'd ilk drooping little flowei,
is We'll to the breathing woodbine bourn
At bultrj noon, my dearie, O
When Cynthia hghtb, *i' silver rn>.
The weary shearer's haroeward wax,
Thro' yellow waling fields we'll Mrav
20 And talk o? lo\e, my dearie, 0
And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs mv lassie's inidni^lit tcM.
Knclasped to mv faithfu' bieast,
I'll comfort thee, mj dearie, 0
('horns
Lassie wi' the hut -white kicks,
Rome lassie, ait less lassie,
Wilt thou mf me tent the (liM'U!
Wilt thou be my dearie, Of
18 THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY
2*>
• sometime*
••oldter
"•tumble and •tagger
>flAX-colon>d (ft pair
yellow)
Is there for honest poverty,
That lungs his head, an' a' thatf
The cowaid slave, we pass him by —
We dare be poor for a ' that ' "
r» For a' that, an' a' thai,
Our toils obbcuie, an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp.
The man's the gowd4 for n' that
What though on hamely fare ue dine,
10 Weai hoddin pray1 nn' a' lhatf
(lie fools their silks, and kna\e> then
wine—
A man's a man for af tlintf
Fora' that, an' a 'that,
Their tinsel nho^i, an' a' thai.
16 The honest man, thof e'er sac ]K>or,
Is king o' men for a' that
Te see yon birkie,6 ca'd "a lord."
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' thatf
J care for
•meandering brook
'ROld
'roarsomj cloth
' young fellow
ROBERT BURNti
205
Tho' hundreds worblup at bits
20 He's but a cuif1 tor a' that
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, btai, an' u' that.
The man o' independent mind,
lie looks an' laughs at .1' that.
2C A prince ran inak a belted knight,
A marquiH, duke, an' a' tliat.
But an foment man's abooir bib might—
Ouid faith, he innuna ta'J thul '
For a' that, an' a' that.
3° Their dignities, an' a* that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' north,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pra> that come it ma>.
As come it will for a' that,
36 That sense and \iorth, o'ei a' the earth,
Shall beat the gree1 an' a' that;
Fur a1 that, an' a' that.
It's comm yet tor a' that.
That man to man, the world o'ei.
40 Shall bnthers lie for a ' that *
O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST
2796 180U
O. \\ert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
Mv plaidie to the angry airt,P>
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee
5 Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Tliv bield0 should be mv bosom.
To share it a', to share it a'
Oi Here I in the wildest waste?,
10 Sae black and baie, sae black and bare.
The desert were a paradise.
If thou wert there, if thou wert there
Oi weie I monarch of the globe,
Wif thee to reign, HI' thee to reign.
16 The biightest jewel m my crown
Wad be my queen, Had be nn queen
O, LAY THY LOOPT IN MINE, LASS
1790 mw
Cftoneft
0, lay thy loof hi mine, lass.
In mine, lass, in mine, lass,
And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.
5 A slave to Love's unbounded sway,
He aft has wrought me meikle wae;8
»fool
c above
' may not rial in
windy quarter
But now he is my deadly fae,1
Unless thou be my am
There's niome a lass has broke my rest,
10 That for a blink I hae lo'ed best,
Rut thou art queen within my breast,
Fore\er to remain.
Chot tut
0, lay thy loof in mine, lass,
In mine, lass, in mine, la*s,
11 And swear on thy white hand, lass.
That thou wilt be my ain.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST, OR KILMAR
NOCK EDITION OF BURNS '8 POEMS
1786 IThG
The following trifles are not the pro-
duction of the poet, nho, with all the ad-
vantages of learned art, and, perhaps,
amid the elegancies and idlenesses of
s upper life, looks down for a rural theme,
with an e\e to Theocritus or Virgil. To
the author of this, these and other cele-
biated names (their countrymen) are, at
least in their original language, "a foun-
10 tarn shut up, and a book sealed " Un-
acquainted with the necessary requisites
tor commencing poet' by rule, 'he sings the
sentiments and manners he felt and san
in himself and his rustic compeers around
iff him, in his and their natne language
Though a rhymer from bin earliest years
at least from the earliest impulses of the
softer passions, it was not till very lately
that the applause, perhaps the partiality.
20 of friendship, wakened his vanitv so far
as to make him think any thing of his was
worth showing; and none of the following
works were composed with a view to the
press To amuse himself with the little
25 creations of his own fancy, amid the toil
and fatigues of a laborious life; to tran-
scribe the various feelings, the loves, the
griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own
breast; to find some kind of counterpoise
80 to the struggles of a world, always an
alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical
mind ; these were his motives for courting
the Muses, and in these he found poetry
to be its own reward
86 Now that he appears in the public char-
acter of an author, he does it with fear
and trembling. So dear is fame to the
rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure,
nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the
10 thought of being branded as "An mtper-
* palm of the hand
•nuicti «OP
'foe
- for
the \ocatlon of n poet
206
EIGHTEENTH CENTUBY FOBERUNNJ4BB
tiueui blockhead, obtruding his nonsense
on the world; and, because he can make
shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch
rhymes together, looks upon himself as a
poet of no small consequence forsooth/'
It is an observation of that celebrated
poet,1 whose divine Elegies do honor to our
language, our nation, and our species—
that "Humility has depressed many a
genius to a hermit, but never raised one
to fame." If any critic catches at the
word genius, the author tells him, once
for all, that he certainly looks upon him-
self as posbessed of some poetic abilities,
otherwise his publishing in the manner he
has done would be a maneuver below the
worst character which, he hopes, his worst
enemy will ever gi\e him. But to the
genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawn-
ings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson,
he, with equal unaffected sincerity, de-
clares that, even in his highest pulse of
vanity, he lias not the most distant pre-
tensions. These two justly admired
Scotch poets he has often had in his eye
in the following pieces, but rather with
a view to kindle at their flame, than for
servile imitation.
To his subscribers the author returns
his most sincere thanks. Not the mer-
cenary bow over a counter, but the heart-
throbbing gratitude oi the bard, conscious
how much he is indebted to benevolence
and friendship for gratifying him, if ho
deserves it, in that dearest wish of every
poetic bosom— to be distinguished. He
begs his readers, particularly the learned
and the polite, who may honor him with n
perusal, that they will make every allow-
ance for education and circumstances of
life; but if, after a fair, candid, and im-
partial criticism, he shall stand convicted
of dulness and nonsense, let him be done
by as he would in that case do by others
—let him be condemned without mercy, to
contempt and oblivion.
DEDICATION TO THE SECOND, OR
EDINBUBOH EDITION OF
BUBNS'8 POEMS
2787 1787
TO THE XOBLKlfEK AND GENTLEMEN OF THE
CALEDONIAN HUNTS
MY LOBDS AND GENTLEMEN:
A Scottish bard, proud of the name,
and whose highest ambition is to sing in
his country's service— where shall he BO
JAn amodatlon of Mcottlsli liuntMnicii.
properly look lor patronage as to the illus-
trious names of his native laud; those who
bear the honors and inhent the virtues of
their ancestors T The poetic genius of m>
5 country found me, as the prophetic bard
Elijah did Elisha-at the plough;1 and
threw her inspiring mantle over me She
bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural
scenes and rural pleasures of my native
10 soil, in my native tongue • 1 tuned my wild,
artless notes, as she inspired She whis-
pered me to come to this ancient metrop-
olis of Caledonia and lay my songs under
your honored protection : I now obey her
15 dictates.
Though much indebted to >oui good-
ness, 1 do not approach you, my Lords
and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedi-
cation, to thank you for pant favors' that
20 jmth is so hackneyed by piostituted learn-
ing that honest rusticity u» ashamed of it
Nor do I present this address with the
venal soul of a senile author, looking foi
a continuation of those iavor*. I was
85 bred to the plough, and am independent
I come to claim the common Scottish name
with >ou, my illustrious eount r> men; ami
to tell the world that I glory in the title
1 come to congratulate in\ rountrv, that
» the blood of hei ancient heroes still runs
unt'ontaminated ; and that from \our coin-
age, knowledge, and public spirit, she ma\
expect protection, wealth, and libertv In
the last place, I come to proffer my warm-
as est wishes to the great fountain of honoi,
the monarch of the nui\ers<». foi jour
welfare and happiness.
When you go forth to waken the echoeh.
in the ancient and iavorite amusement of
40 >oui foreiathers, may pleasure e\er be
of your party, and may social joy await
your return ! When harassed in courts 01
camps with the jobthngs of bad men ami
bad measures, may the honent conscioiih-
« ness of injured worth attend your return
to your native seats; and ma> domestic
happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet
you at your gates ! May corruption sin ink
at >our kindling, indignant ulauec; utnl
» may tyranny in the ruler, and licentious-
ness in the people, equally find you an
inexorable foe!
I have the honor to be, with the sin-
cerest gratitude and highest respect,
w My Lords and Gentlemen,
Your moftt devoted humble Servant,
ROBERT BURKS.
EDixnUBGH, Apnl 4, 1787
i, 10 to
II. NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
SAMUEL ROGERS (1763-1855) We watched Hie emmet1 to her grainy
nest ;
THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY Welcomed the wild bee home on weary
17M Ii02 wjnft
Pmin PA»T I Laden with sweets, the choicest of the
*roln * _r spring!
Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village 75 How oft inscribed, with Friendship's
green, i votive rhyme,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Tlie bai* now silvered by the touch of
Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet Time;
broke, Soared in the swing, half pleased and
When round the ruins of their ancient oak ? "&™ afraid,
R The peasants Hocked to hear the minstrel riiro sister elms t]iai waved their siun-
p]aVi mer shade;
And games 'and carols closed the busy day. Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwo\ en
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no Cft sea^
mori. *u To lure the redbreast from his lone
With treasured tales, and legendary lore. retreat!
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music Hows Mnidhood s loved group revihits every
10 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. scene;
All, all are fled; yet still 1 linger here! Ilie ta^fle(1f wood-walk and the tufted
What secret charms this silent spot en- T _ . ^'re^-
dear ; Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live"!
Mark yon old mansion frowning thro' Clothed with far softer hues than'Light
the trees, ,- ran £'lve-
Whose hollow 'turret woos the whistling ^ Thou fir^ bfst, friend tliat Heaven
breeze. , assigns below
« That casement, arched with ivy's brownest To S001th aml sweeten all the cares we
shade, * , know;
First to these eve> the light of heaven con- Wllose flad «"eg«stionR still each vain
veyed % ' alarm,
The mouldering gateway strews the grass- Wheu naturc fa(les alld Iife forgets to
grown court, ^ ,?\, ^ . , ,
Once the calm scene of manv a simple Thee ^lld tbe Muse invoke !-to thee
snort* ' belong
When all things pleased, for life itself was 9° ,T'l,e f^J P**™Pt a"d the poet/s song.
new \\hat softened views thy magic glass
20 And the heart promised what the fancy v reveals,
,lvmv \Mien o er the landscape Times meek
1 1 I U \1 t J ' 1 • 1 i J 1 I
twilight steals!
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day.
As thro' the garden's desert paths I Long on the wave reflected lustres play;
rove, ?3 Thy tempered gleams of happiness re-
70 What fond illusions swarm in every signed
grove! Glance on the darkened mirror of the
How oft, when purple evening tinged minel.
the west, J ant
207
208 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
The school's lone porch, with reverend He breathed his prayer, "Long may such
mosses gray, goodness kve ! ' '
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, give.
100 Quickening my truant feet across the Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged
lawn, their flight.
Unheard the shout that rent the noon- Had stopt to dwell nvith pleasure on the
tide air, sight.
When the slow dial gave a panse to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a 13B But hatk! thro' those old firs, with
teai, sullen swell,
Some little friendship formed and cher- The church-clock strikes! ye tendei
ished hcie, scenes, farewell'
105 And not the lightest leaf, but trembling It calls me hence, beneath their shade,
teems to trace
With golden visions and romantic The few fond lines that Time mav soon
di earns1 efface.
Down by \on ha/el copse, at evening, On yon gray stone, that front* tin
blazed chancel door,
The Gipsy's fagot— there TVP stood and no Worn smooth b\ bus\ ieet no* seen no
gazed . more,
Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent Each eve we shot the maible thro' the rin^.
awe. When the heart danced, and life was in
110 Her tattered mantle, and her hood of its spring,
straw ; Alasf unconscious of the kindred earth
Her moving lips, her caldron humming ^ That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth
o'er, 14"' The glow-wonn lo\es hei emei aid-light
The drows\ brood that on her hack she to shed
bore. Where now the sexton rests Ins hoar\
Imps, in the ham with mousing oulet head
bred. Oft, as he tumed the greensward with
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; his spade,
m Whose dark eves flashed thro' locks of He lectured even youth that round ,hmi
blackest shade, played,
When in the breeze the distant watch- And, calmly pointing where our fathers
dog bayed — lay,
And heroes fled the Sibyl's muttered call, 15° Roused us to n\al each, the heio oi hi*.
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard- day
wall Hush, ye fond fluttenngs, hush! uhile
As o'er my palm the silver piece she here alone
drew, I search the records of each mouldering
'-° And traced the line of life with search- stone
ing view, Guides of my life! Instructors of ro\
How thrdbbed my fluttering pulse with youth!
hopes and fears, Who first unveiled the hallowed form of
To learn the color of my future years1 Truth!
Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed 155 Whose every word enlightened and
my breast ; endeared ;
This truth once known— To bless is to Tn age beloved, in poverty revered,
be blest! Tn Friendship's silent register ye live,
125 We led the bending beggar on his way. Nor ask the vain memonal Art can give
(Bare were hw feet, his tresses silver* But when the sons of peace, of pleas-
gray) ure sleep,
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit 16° When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes
felt, to weep,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt What spells entrance mv usionary mind
As in his wip we dropt our little store, With sighs so sweet, with trann ports so
130 And sighed to think tlmt little \\ns no refined?
more.
SAMUEL BOGERb
209
AN ITALIAN HONG
17SM
Dear is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there,
Close by m\ cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager
6 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at hbert\
In orange groves and myrtle
That breathe a gale of fragrance louud
I charm the fair> -footed houis
10 With my lo\ed lute's romantic sound.
Or crowns oi h\m» laurel weau*.
For those that win the race at e\e
The shepherd's horn at break of ilm,
The ballet danced in twilight ulade
r' The can/one!1 and roundela>J
Sung m the silent, green-wood shade
These simple jo\s, that ne\ei tail.
Shall bind me to mv natne Mile
«
%
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT
180U
While thio" the broken pane the tem-
JKVst slghh.
And my step faltcis tin tin* J a it hi ess flooi,
Shades of departed jo>s uionnd me use.
With mnn\ a iace that smiles on me no
more,
"• With many a voice that tin ills of ti tins-
port gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their
grave f
WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF
SCOTLAND
1«*1L»
Blue was the liM'Ii,1* the clouds were gone,
Beti-IjOinond in his glory shone.
When, Luss, I left thee, when the breeze
Bore me fiom tliv siher bands,
"' Th> kirk-yard uall among the trees,
Where gray with age, the dial stands;
That dial so well known to me t
--Tho9 many a shadow it had shed.
Beloved sister,4 since \\ith thee
10 The legend on the stone was read
The fairy isles fled far away;
That with its woods and uplands gieen,
Where shepherd huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day ,
15 That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylum of the dead*
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of Rob Roy the boat-man told,
His arm that fell below his knee,
20 His cattle-foid and nioun tain-hold
Tarbat, thy shore I climbed at la-t ,
And, thy shad} region passed,
I pon another shore I stood,
And looked upon anothei Hood ,
-'"' (Sreat Ocean's self (Tis He *ho hlN
That \ast and awful depth ot hills,)
Where many an elf was plaMni* lonnd
Who treads unshod his classic mound,
And speaks, IIIH natne rocks amoni*.
u As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung
Night iell, and dark and darkei gn'\\
That natron sea. that narrow sk\
Vs o'ei the i>linmieiiiig wa\e* we Jl«»>\ ,
The sea-hud iiistlmt>, \\ailiiiy by
n And now the gianipus, half-dcscned,
I>huk and hupe <iho\(» the tide,
The cliftS and pioniontones there,
Fiont to iiont, and bioad and baie.
I^ach bevond each, with giant feet
lu Ad \ancmg as in haste to meet;
The shattered tortiess, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill l>laM. nor lushed in \ain,
Txinnt of the diear domain,
Ml into midnight shadow sueep—
r» When dav springs upuaid Irom the deep
Kindling the waters in its flight.
The prow wakes splendoi , and the oai.
That lose and tell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea ot liaht !
50 (ilad su>n, and sure* lor now \vo hail
Tliv flowers, Olentinnait, in the gale
And blight indeed the path should be
That leads to friendship and to thee'
Oh blest retieat, and sacied too1
r>6 Sacred as A\hen the bell o1 pia\oi
Tolled duly on the deseit an,
And ciosses decked thy summits blue
Olt, like some lo\ed romantic tale,
Oft shall m\ wearv mmd lecall,
60 Amid the hum and stir ot men.
Thy beer hen grove and waterfall,
Th> terry with it* gliding sail,
And hei— the Laclv of the (Men'
"A abort «ongf light
•A «mntf iiltli n
rlngword,phra8e,or
line
Make
«1TN
AN INSCRIPTION IN TUB
1812
Shepherd, or huntsman, or \\orn mariner.
Whatever thou art, ^lio \\ouldst allav
thj thirst,
Dnuk and bo glad Tin* < istein of i\ lute
stone,
Arched, and o'erwi ought \\ith man> a
sacied veise,
This non cup chained for the geneial
use,
210
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
Atid these rude seats of earth within the
grove,
Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a
bride,
'Twas here she turned from her beloved
sire,
To see his face no more. Oh, if thou
canst,
10 ('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with
flowers,
And with a drop of this sweet watei
fill
The two small cells scooped in the
marble there,
That birds may come and dnnk upon
his grave,
Making it holy1 * * » •
THE BOY OF EGREMOND
1819 1810
' ' Say, what remains when Hope is fled f ' '
She answered, "Endless weeping!"
For in the herdsman 's eve she read,
Who in his shroud lay sleeping
5 At Embsay rung the matin bell,
The stag was roused on Barden fell .
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying.
And down the Whaife a hern2 was flying,
When near the cabin in the wood,
10 In tartan clad and foiefct-preen,
With hound in leash and hawk in hood,
The Boy of Egremond was seen
Blithe was his song, a song of yore ,
Rut where the rock is rent in two,
15 And the river rushes through.
His voice was heard no more '
Twas but a step! the gulf he passed .
Hut that step— it was his last!
As through the mist he umgerl his way,
20 (A cloud that hovers night and day,)
The hound hung back, and back he drew
The master and his merlin8 too
That narrow place of noise and strife
Received their little all of life!
25 There now the matin bell is rung,
The "Miserere" duly sung;
And liolv men in cowl and hood
Are wanderinsr up and down the wood
But what avail theyf Ruthless Lord,
30 Thou didst not shudder when the sword
Here on the young its fury spent.
The helpless and the innocent
Sit now and answer, groan for groan
The child before thee is thy own.
85 And she who wildly wanders there,
The mother in her long despair,
>A Turkish wpentition
•heron
•mnall European falcon
Shall oft remind thee, waking, deeping,
Of those who by the Wharfe were
weeping;
Of those who would not be consoled
40 When red with blood the river rolled.
From ITALY
1819-1881 1822-34
THE LAXI OF GENEVA
Day glimmered in the east, and the white
moon
Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky,
Yet visible, when on my way I went,
Glad to be gone, a pilgrim from the North,
5 Now more and more attracted as I drew
Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan
Had from his window leant, drowsy,
half-clad,
To snuff the morn, or the caged lark
poured forth,
From his green sod upsprmging as to
heaven,
10 (His ttfbeful bill overflowing* with a song
Old in the days of Homer, and his wings
With transport quivering) on my way I
went,
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavih ,
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut ,
16 As on that Sabbath eve when he armed,1
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee,
Such virtue dwells in those small syllables.
Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street,
His birth-place,— when, but one short
step too late,
20 Tn his despair, as though the die were cast,
He flung him down to weep, and wept till
dawn;
Then rose to go, a wanderer through the
world.
Tis not a tale that every hour brings
with it
Vet at a city gate, from time to time,
26 Much may be learnt; nor, London, least
at thine,
Thy hive the busiest; greatest of them all,
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by,
Vnd note who passes. Here comes one.
a youth,
(flowing with pride, the pride of con-
scious power,
30 A Chatterton— in thought admired, ca-
ressed,
And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol;
Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand,
And fester with f he vilest. Here come two,
» Jean Jacques RmiHsenu, wuo visited Geneva,
bis birthplace. In 1754 H« bad left there In
1788, when rixteen \ears of age
SAMUEL EOGEBS
211
Less feverish, less exalted— soon to part,
M A Oarrick and a Johnson; Wealth and
Fame
Awaiting one, even at the gate ; Neglect
And Want the other. But what multi-
tudes.
Urged by the love of change, and, like
myself,
Adventurous, careless of tomorrow's fare,
40 Press on— though but a rill entering the sea,
Entering and lost ! Our task would never
end.
Day glimmered and I went, a gentle
breeze
Ruffling the Lemon Lake Wa^e after
wave,
If such they might be called, dashed as
in sport,
46 Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach
Making wild music, and far westward
caught
The sunbeam— ^ here, alone and as en-
tranced,
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff
Lay with his circular and dotted line
50 On the bright waters. When the heart
of man
Ts light with hope, all things are sure to
please;
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by.
Laden with peasant girls and fruits and
flowers
And many a chant iclcei and paitlet1 caged
56 por Vevey 's market place —a motley group
Seen through the silvery haze But soon
'twas gone
The shifting sail flapped idly to and fro,
Then boie them off I am not one of
thohe
So dead to all things in this visible world,
GO So wondrously profound, as to move on
In the sweet light of heaven, like him of
old3
(His name u» justly in the Calendar1),
Who through the day pursued this pleas-
ant path
That winds beside the mirror of all
beauty,
65 And, when at eve his fellow pilprnmh bate.
Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was.
They marvelled as they might; and so
must all,
Seeing what now I saw : for now 'twas day,
And the bnght sun was in the firmament,
70 A thousand shadows of n thousand hues
'•Smart! Abbot of ClnirMiux <l<nn 11.VI)
8 list of saints
Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile
his orb
Hung o'er thy trackless fields of wow,
Mont Blanc,
Thy seas of ice and ice-built promon-
tories,
That change their shapes forever as in
sport,
75 Then travelled onward and went down
behind
The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up
The woodman's casement, and perchance
his axe
Borne homeward through the forest in
his hand ;
And, on the edge of some o 'ei hanging cliff,
80 That dungeon-fort less1 never to be named,
Where, like a lion taken in the toils,
Toussaint breathed out his brave and
generous spirit
Little did be,2 who sent him there to die,
Thmk, when he gave the word, that he
himself,
83 Great as he was, the greatebt among men.
Should in like manner be so soon conveyed
Athwart the deep, —and to a rock so small
Amid the countless multitude of waves,
That ships have gone and sought it, and
returned,
90 Saying it was not !
THE GONDOLA
Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set
It came, and we embarked, but mstanth,
As at the waving of a magic wand,
Though she had stept on board so light
of foot,
6 So light of heart, laughing she kne\\ not
why,
Sleep overcame her, on my arm she slept
From time to time I waked her; but the
boat
Rocked hei to sleep again. The moon
was now
Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud
10 The wind was hushed, and the sea
mirror-like.
A, bingle zephyr, as enamored, played
With her loose tresses, and drew more
and more
Her veil across her bosom Long I lay
Contemplating that face so beautiful,
15 That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled
1 with smiles,
That neck but half-concealed, whiter
than snow
1 The Cattle of Jons in Francne-Comtt
•Napoleon, who Bent Touftsalnt L'Omertuiv to
prison, and who tins la tor Imniilird to Rt
Helena
212
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
'Twas the sweet slumber of her early age
I looked and looked, and felt a flush of joy
I would express but cannot. Oft I wished
20 Gently— by stealth— to drop asleep myself,
And to incline yet lower that sleep might
come,
Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness
Twas all in vain Love would not let
me rest
But how delightful nhen at length she
waked'
25 When, her light hair adjusting, and hei veil
So rudely scattered, she lesumed hot plnee
Beside me; and, as gailv as before,
Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer,
Ponred out her innocent mind f
So, noi lone: since.
™ Simp a Venetian; and his lay of lo\e.
Dangeioiis and sweet, charmed Venice
For myself,
(Less fortunate, if hue be happiness)
No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm.
I went alone beneath the silent moon ,
11 Thy square, St Mark, thy churches
palaces,
Glittering and frost-like and, as dm
drew on,
Melting away, an emblem of themselves
Those porches passed, thro' which the
water-breeze
Plays, though no longei on the noble forms
10 That moved there, sable-\ested— and the
quay,
Silent, grass-grown —adventurer-like T
launched
Into the deep, ere long discovering
Isles such a« cluster in the southern seas.
\11 ^erd^le Evervwheie, fmm bush and
brake.
r* The muskv odor of the serpents came ,
Their slimy tract across the woodman's
path
Rri&rht in the moonshine . and. as round
I went,
Dreaming of flieece, whither the waves
were eliding,
I listened to the uwrable pines
60 Then in elo«*e eomerse, and, if right T
,
Delivering nmnv a message to the winds,
In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida.
Nor when again in Venice, when again
In that strange place, so stirring and so
still,
55 Where nothing comes to drown the
human voice
But music, or the dashing of the tide,
Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica
Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate
At her half-open window Then, me-
tbougbt,
60 A serenade broke silence, breathing hope
Thro' walls of stone, and torturing the
proud heart
Of some Priuh. Once, we could not err,
(It was before an old Palladian house,
As between night and day we floated by)
65 A gondolier lay singing; and he sung,
As in the time when Venice was herself,
Of Tancreil and Erminin On our oais
We i ostod , and the verse was verse divine v
We could not err— perhaps he was the
last-
70 For none took up the strain, none an-
swered him;
And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear
A something like the dying voice of
Venice f
The moon went down, and nothing
now was seen
Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone
7fi Faintly— or heard, but when he spoke,
uho stood
O\ei the lantern at the prow and ciied,
Turning the corner of some icveiend pile,
Some school or hospital of old renown.
Tho ' haply none were coming, none were
near,
80 ''Hasten or slacken" But at length
Night fled;
Vnd with her fled, scattering, the sons of
Pleasure
Star after star shot bv, or, meteor-like,
dossed me nnd \amshed— lo«t at once
among
Those hundred isles that tower mnjes-
ticalh,
*"• That rise abruptly from the water-mark,
Vot with rough crncr, but marble and the
WOllv
Of noblest architects I lingered still ,
Xor sought my threshold, till the hour
\\ns come
Ynd past, when, flitting home in the gray
light,
Q0 The young Bianca found her f athei 's door.
That door so often with a trembling hand.
So often— then so lately left ajar,
Shut . and, all terror, all perplexity.
Now by her lover urged, now by her love.
*B Fled o'er the waters to return no more.
THE FOUNT MN*
• It was a well
Of whitest marble, white as from the
quarry;
i"The place bm deHcrlbed is near Mola dl
GnPtfl, In HIP kingdom of NaplM "— Rngprn
WILLIAM GOD\\1X
1213
And richly wrought with inauj a high
rehef,
Greek sculpture— in some earher da\
perhaps
6 A tomb, and honored with a hero'b abhet
The water from the rock filled and o'er-
flowed,
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost— stealing unseen, un-
heard,
Thro' the long giass, uud lound the
iwi&ted loots
10 ()i aged liees, disco\oiinu1 uheie it ian
liy the f i csh > ei dm e ( h ei come \i ith heat
1 thiew me down, admiring, us 1 la\,
That shady nook, a singing-plate lot birds,
That gio\e so intncute, so lull of flowers,
15 Moie than enough to please* a child
The sun had set, a distant coin cut- bell
Kingiii!* the -iwr/r'/Ms,- and now ap-
piouchcd
The hoiu l«»i stn and Mlla^e-»ossip theic,
The horn Kehekuh caiue, when iiom the
well
20 She diew with such ulaciitx to sei\e
The stiangei und his camels3 Soon I
heaid
Footsteps, and lo, descending ))\ a path
Trodden foi uues, inan> a n\mph ap-
peal ed.
Ap|>eaied and \anished, healing on hei
head
25 iier enithen pitchei It called up the da>
Ulvsses landed theie,4 and lonu 1 mi/vd,
Like one awaking in a distant time
At length theie tame the loxehest of
them all,
Her little hi other dancing dow 11 bet 01 e hei ,
•° And ever as he spoke, which he did exer,
Tiuniiii? and looking up in uninith ol1
heait
And brut hei lv alTection Stopping theie,
She joined hei ios\ ImiiiK and. iillim:
them
With the puie element, £A\? him to dunk,
r» And, ulnlo he quenched his thirst, stand-
iim on tip-toe, t
l^K)ked do* 11 upon ,111111 \\ith a si&tei s
smile,
Xor stirred till he had clone, fixed m a
statue
•ThaMii?fhe miniiuons to tho \iincldM. a sorMi.
commcraoratlDC tlio iiunrniitlon of Christ
AtrndKon: wrtrt In HtrnUo',
V, 4, G Sec* the OdjpNf y, 11.
Then hadbt tliou seen them as they
stood, Canova,
Thou hadst endowed them with immortal
youth;
40 And they had evermore lived undivided,
Winning all hearts— of all thv works the
fairest.
WILLIAM GODWIN (1756-1836)
KVgriRY CONCERNING POLITIC '\L
JU8T10K
170J 170J
Fium BOOK I. OF THE POWERS OF M\N TON
SJDLKED IN llis SOCIAL
CHAPTER 111 SPIRIT OP POLITIC VL I\8TITITTION^
Additional perspicuity will be communi-
cated to our \ie\\ of the CM!S of pohtual
bociet>, il \\e leflect >\ith iaithei and
dosei attention upon ^vliut ma\ he inlleil
c its in tenor and domestic hist on
T\\o ot the greatest abuses relutne tu
the inteiiur i>olic\ ol nations, \\ \\u\\ at tin-
time ]>ie\.ul m the woild, consist in the
iiieuulur tiauslei of propeit\. either hist
iu bv Molence, 01 secondly b> fraud U
,11110112: the inhabitants of au\ countr>.
theie existed no desire m one indnidnnl
to possess himself ot the substance oi nn-
<»thei, 01 no desiie so \ehement and lest-
IK less as to piompt him to ncfjmrc it b\
means inconsistent uith oidei and justice,
undoubtedly in that count r\ jruilt could
M-tticely be kno^n but b\ lepoit If e\ei\
man could uith ]>eite<t iaciht\ obtain the
20 necessities ol lite, and, obtaining them.
feel no unea^x cia\iiiQ aftei its supei-
II in ties, temptation \\ould lose its powei
Piixnte inteiest \\ould Msiblv accord with
public srood, and cnil societ\ become \\hat
26 poetiv has femued ot the golden age Let
us eiiqimc into the piinciple» to which
these exils me indebted toi then existence
First, then, it is to be obseived thnt in
the most refined states of Europe, the in-
» equality of piojwitx has ansen to an
alaimmir height Vast numlwrs of then
inhabitants aie de])ined of almost e\erv
accommodation that can lender life tolei-
able or secure Their utmost industry
86 scarcely suffices for their support The
\\oinen and children lean \\ith an insup-
portable weight upon the efforts of the
man, so that a largo family has in the
lower orders of life become a proverbial
40 expression for an uncommon degree oi
|K>verty and wretchedness If sickness 01
some of those casualties which are per-
214
NINETEENTH CKNTURY BOMANTICISTS
petually incident to an active and labori-
ous life be added to these burdens, the
distress is yet greater.
It seems to be agreed that in England
there is less wretchedness and distress
than m most of the kingdoms of the conti-
nent. In England, the poor's rates1 amount
to the sum of t\\o millions sterling per
annum. It has been calculated that one
person in seven of the inhabitants of this
country derives at some penod of his life
assistance from this fund. If to this we
add the persons who, from pride, a spirit
of independence, or the want of a legal
settlement, though in equal distress, re-
ceive no such assistance, the proportion
will be considerably increased.
I lay no stress upon the accuracy of this
calculation; the general fact is sufficient
to gn e in an idee of the greatness of the
abuse. The consequences that result are
placed beyond the reach of contradiction.
A perpetual struggle with the evils of
poverty, if frequently ineffectual, must
necessarily render many of the sufferers
desperate A painful feeling of their op-
pressed situation will itself deprive them
of the power of surmounting it The
superiority of the rich, being thus un-
mercifully exercised, must inevitably ex-
pose them to reprisals; and the poor man
will be induced to regard the ( state of
society as a state of war, an unjust com-
bination, not for protecting every man in
his rights and securing to him the means
of existence, but for engrossing all its
advantages to a few favored individuals,
and reserving for the portion of the rest
want, dependence, and misery.
A second source of those destructive
passions by *hich the peace of society is
interrupted is to be found in the luxury,
the pageantry, and magnificence with
which enormous wealth is usually accom-
panied. Human beings are capable of
encountering with cheerfulness consider-
able hardships, when those hardships are
impartially shared with the rest of the
society, and they are not insulted with
the spectacle of indolence and ease in
others, no way deserving of greater ad-
vantages than themselves. But it is a
bitter aggravation of their own calamity
to have the privileges of others forced on
their observation, and, while they are per-
petually and vainly endeavoring to secure
for themselves and their families the poor-
est conveniences, to find others reveling in
* Taxo* tariod for thp re!1«f of the poor.
the fruits of their labors. This aggrava-
tion is assiduously administered to them
under most of the political establishments
at present in existence. There is a numer-
• OUB class of individuals who, though rich,
have neither brilliant talents nor sublime
virtues, and however highly they may
prize their education, their affability, their
superior polish, and the elegance of their
i manners, have a secret consciousness that
they possess nothing1 by which they can HO
securely assert their preeminence and keep
their inferiors at a distance as the splen-
dor of their equipage, the magnificence of
their retinue, and the sumptuousness of
their entertainments The poor man i<<
struck with this exhibition; he feels his
own miseries; he knows how unwearied
are his efforts to obtain a slender pittance
of this prodigal waste, and he mistake*
opulence for felicity. He cannot persuade
himself that an embroidered garment ma \
frequently cover an aching heart.
A third disadvantage that is apt to con-
nect poverty with discontent consists in
the insolence and usurpation of the rich,
If the poor man would in other respects
compose himself in philosophic indiffer-
ence, and, conscious that he po8<*esseh
everything that is truly honorable to man
as fully as his rich neighbor, would look
upon the rest as beneath his envv, his
neighbor would not permit him to do so
He seems as if he could never be satisfied
with his possessions unless he can make
the spectacle of them grating to others,
and that honest self-esteem, by which his
inferior might otherwise arrive at apathy,
is rendered the instrument of galling him
with oppression and injustice In manv
countries justice is avowedly made a sub-
ject of solicitation, and the man of the
highest rank and most splendid connec-
tions almost infallibly carries his cause
against the unprotected and friendless. In
countries where this shameless practice is
not established, justice is frequently a
matter of expensive purchase, and the
man with the longest purse is proverbiallv
victorious. A consciousness of these facts
must be expected to render the rich little
cautious of offence in his dealings with
the poor, and to inspire him with a temper,
overbearing, dictatorial, and tyrannical
Nor does this indirect oppression satisfy
his despotism. The rich are in all such
countries, directly or indirectly, the legis-
lators of the state; and of consequence
are perpetually reducing oppression into a
WILLIAM GODWIN
215
system, and depriving the poor of that
little commonage of nature, as it were,
which might otherwise still have remained
to them.
The opinions of individuals, and of eon-
sequence their desires, for desire is nothing
but opinion maturing for action, will al-
ways be in a great degree regulated by
the opinions of the community. But the
manners prevailing in many countries are
accurately calculated to impress a convic-
tion that integrity, virtue, understanding,
and industry are nothing, and that opu-
lence is everything. Does a man whose
exterior denotes indigence expect to be
well received in society, and especially by
those who would be understood to dictate
to the restf Does he find or imagine him-
self in want of their assistance and favor9
lie is presently taught that no merits can
atone for a mean appearance The lesson
that is read to him is, "Go home; enneh
yourself by whatever means; obtain those
superfluities winch are alone regarded as
estimable; and you may then be secure
of an amicable reception." Accordingly,
poverty in such countries is viewed as the
greatest of dements It is escaped from
uith an eagerness that has no leisure for
the scruples of honesty. It is concealed
as tbe most indelible disgrace. While one
man chooses the path of undistinguishing
accumulation, another plunges into ex-
penses which are to impose him upon the
world as more opulent than he is. lie
hastens to the reality of that penur>, the
appearance of which he dreads; and, to-
gether with his property, saciifice* the
integrity, veracity, and character, which
might have consoled him in his adxersity.
Such are the causes that, in different
degrees under the different governments of
the world, prompt mankind openh or
secretly to encroach upon the propeitv of
each other T*et us consider how far they
admit either of remedy or aggravation
from political institution. Whatever tends
to decrease the injuries attendant upon
poverty, decreases, at the same time, the
inordinate desire and the enormous accu-
mulation of wealth. Wealth is not pur-
sued for its own sake, and seldom for the
sensual gratification it can purchase, but
for the same reasons that ordinarily prompt
men to the acquisition of learning, elo-
quence, and skill, for the love of distinc-
tion and fear of contempt. How few
would prize the possession of riches if
they were condemned to enjoy their equi-
page, their palaces, and their entertain-
ments in solitude, with no eye to wonder
at their magnificence, and no sordid ob-
server ready to convert that wonder into
5 an adulation of the owner 1 If admiration
were not generally deemed the exclusive
property of the rich, and contempt the
constant lackey of poverty, the love of
gam would cease to be an universal pas-
10 sion. Let us consider in what respects
political institution is rendered subservient
to this passion
First, then, legislation is in almost every
country grossly the favorer of the rich
15 against the poor Such is the character
of the gume laws, by which the indus-
trious rustic is forbidden to destroy the
animal that preys upon the hopes of his
future subsistence, or to supply himself
20 with the food that unsought thrusts itself
in his path Such was the spirit of the
late rexenue laws of France, which in
several of their provisions fell exclusn ely
upon the humble and industrious, and
95 exempted from their operation tho^e who
are best able to support it Thus, in Eng-
land, the land tax at this moment pro-
duces half a million less than it did a
century ago, while the taxes on consump-
ao tion have experienced an addition of thir-
teen millions per annum duiinj? the same
period. This is an attempt, whether effec-
tual or no, to throw the burden from the
rich upon the poor, and as such is an
85 exhibition of the spirit of legislation.
Upon the same principle, robbery and
other offences, which the wealthier part of
the community have no temptation to
commit, are treated as capital crimes, and
40 attended with the most rigorous, often the
most inhuman punishments The rich are
encouraged to associate for the execution
of the most paitial and oppressive posi-
ti\c laws: monopolies and patents are
45 lavishly dispensed to such as are able to
purchase them; while the most vigilant
policy is employed to prevent combinations
of the poor to fix the price of labor, and
they are deprived of the benefit of that
50 prudence and judgment which would select
the scene of their industry.
Secondly, the administration of law is
not less iniquitous than the spirit in which
it is framed. Under the late government
55 of France,1 the office of judge was a matter
of purchase, partly by an open price ad-
vanced to the crown, and partly by a
secret douceur* paid to the minister He
* Before tbe Rerolottoii. * gift ; bribe
2115
XINUTEEVril CENTUltY HOMANTIC1BTS
who knew best how to manage this market
in the retail trade of justice, could afford
to purchase the good will of its functions
at the highest price. To the client, justice
was avowedly made an object of personal
solicitation, and a powerful friend, a hand-
some woman, or a proper present, were
articles of a much greater \alue than a
good cause In Knsrland, the criminal la\v
is administered with greater impartiality
HO far as regards the trial itself, but the
number of capital offences, and of conse-
quence the frequency oi pardons, oi>en n
wide door to fa\or and abuse In cause*
relating to property, the piactice of la*
is arrned at such a pitch as to render all
justice ineffectual The length of our
chancei y suits, the multiplied appeals from
court to comt, the enoimous fees of coun-
sel, attorneys, secretanes, clciks, the di aw-
ing of briefs, bills, replications, and re-
joinders, and what has sometimes been
called the glorious uncertamt} of the law,
render it frequently more advisable to
resign a property than to contest it, and
particularly exclude the impoverished
claimant fiom the faintest hope ot redress
Thirdly, the inequality of conditions
usually maintained by political institution
is calculated greatly to enhance the imag-
ined excellence of wealth In the ancient
monarchies of the East, and in Turkey at
the present day, an eminent station could
scarcely fail to excite implicit deference.
The timid inhabitant trembled before his
superior, and would have thought it little
less than blasphemy to touch the veil drawn
by the proud satrap over his inglorious
origin. The same principles were exten-
sively prevalent under the feudal system.
The vassal, uho was regarded as a sort of
live stock upon the estate, and knew of no
appeal from the arbitrary fiat of Ins lord,
would scarcely venture to suspect that he
was of the same species This, however, -
constituted an unnatural and violent situa-
tion. Theie is a propensity in man to look
farther than the outside , and to come with
a writ of enquiry into the title of the
some reason to believe that, e\en in the
milder state in which we are accustomed
to behold it, it is still pregnant with the
most mischievous effects.
6
From CHAPTEK V THE VOLUNTARY ACTIONS OF
MEN ORIGINATE IN THEIR OPINIONS
The corollaries respecting political
10 truth, deducible from the simple propo-
sition, which seems clearly established by
the reasonings of the present chapter, that
the \oluutary actions of men are in all
instances conformable to the deductions of
16 their undei standing, aie of the highest im-
portance Hence, we may infer t\hat are
the ho]>eH and prospects of human im-
pnnemerit The doctrine \vhich may be
lounded upon these principles may, per-
20 liaps, best be expressed in the fhe follow-
ing propositions- sound reasoning and
truth, when adequateh communicated,
must always be \ictoiioiiR o\er error,
sound reasoning and truth are capable of
» being so communicated ; truth is omnipo-
tent, the vices and moral weakness of
man are not invincible, man is perfect-
ible, or, in other words, susceptible of
perpetual improvement.
BO These propositions will be found in part
synonymous with each other But the time
of the enquirer mil not be unprofitabh
spent in copious!} clearing up the founda-
tions of moral and political system. It i*
16 extremely beneficial that truth should be
viewed on all sules, and examined under
different aspects. The propositions are
even little more than so many different
modes of stating the principal topic of
K» this chapter. But if they will not admit
each of a distinct train 'of aigumcnts in
its support, it may not, howe\er, be use-
less to bestow upon each a short illus-
tration.
16 The first of these propositions is so
evident that it needs only be stated in
order to the being universally admitted
Is there any one who can imagine that
sound argument and sophistry are
upstart and the successful By the opera- 60 fairly brought into comparison, the vic-
tion of these causes, the insolence of tory can be doubtful? Sophistry may
wealth has been in some degree moderated.
Meantime, it cannot be pretended that
it
even among ourselves the inequality is not
strained, so as to give birth to very unfor-
tunate consequences. If, in the enormous
degree in which it prevails in some parts
of the world, it wholly debilitate and
emasculate the human race, we shall Bee
assume a plausible appearance, and con-
trive to a certain extent to bewilder the
understanding. But it is one of the pre-
rogatives of truth to follow it in its maze*
and strip it of disguise Nor does any
difficulty from this consideration interfere
with the establishment of the present
proposition. We mippnse truth not merely
WILLIAM GODWIN
217
to be exhibited, but adequately communi-
cated; that is, in other words, distinctly
apprehended by the person to whom it is
addressed. In this ease the victory is too
sure to admit of being: controverted by the s
most inveterate skepticism.
The second proposition is that sound
reasoning and truth are capable of being
adequately communicated by one* man to
another This proposition may be under- 10
stood of such communication, either as it
affects the individual or the species. First
of the individual.
In order to its due application in this
point of view, opportunity for the com- 15
mum cat ion must necessarily be supposed.
The mcapacit> of human intellect at pres-
ent requires that this oppoit unity should
be of long duration or repeated recurrence
We do not alums know hou to comnuini- 20
cate all the eiidcnce we are capable or
communicating, in a vnigle eon versa lion
and much less in a single instant But il
the communicator be sufficient^ master
of Ins subject, and if the truth be alto- as
get her on his side, he must ultimately
succeed in his undertaking We suppose
him to have sufficient urbanity to concil-
iate the »ood m ill, and sufficient energy to
engage the attention of the partv con- 80
cernod. In that ea-.o there is no piejudice,
no blind rexeience lor established systems,
no false IVar of the inferences to be
drawn, that can resist him lie will en-
counter these one after the other, and he K
will encounter them with success. Our
prejudices, our un<lue reference and imagi-
nary fears flow out of some views the
mind has been induced to entertain ; the>
are founded in the belief of some propo- 40
sitions. But e\erv one of these projwsi-
tions is capable of being relnted The
champion we describe proceeds from point
to point; if in any his success luue been
doubtful, that he will retrace and put out 46
of the reach of mistake; find it is evi-
dently impossible that with such qualifica-
tions* and such perseverance he should not
ultimately accomplish his purpose
Such is the appearance which this prop- »
osition assumes when examined in a loose
and practical view In strict considera-
tion, it will not admit of debate Man is
a rational being. If there be any man who
is inoapable of making inferences for him- »
self; or understanding, when stated in the
most explicit terms, the inferences of an-
other, him we consider as an abortive
production, and not in strictness belong-
ing to the human species It is absurd,
therefore, to say that sound reasoning and
truth cannot be communicated by one man
to another. Whenever in any case he
fails, it is that he is not sufficiently labo
nous, patient, and clear We suppose, 4oi
course, the person who undertakes to com-
municate the truth really to possess it, and
be master of his subject , for it is scarcely
worth an observation to say that that
which he has not himself he cannot com-
municate to another
If truth, therefore, can be brought home
to the com iction of the individual, let us
see how it stands with the public or the
world Now in the first place, it is ex-
tremely clear that il no individual can
resist the force of truth, it can only be
necessary to apply this proposition from
individual to individual and ^e shall at
length comprehend the whole Thus the
affirmation in its literal sense is com-
pletely established.
With respect to the chance of success
this *ill depend, first, upon the precluding
all extraordinary convulsions of nature
and after this upon the activity and
energy of those to whose hands the sacred
cause of truth mav be inti listed It is
apparent that if justice be done to it*
merits, it includes in it the indestructible
germ of ultimate victor\ Every new con-
\ert that is made to its cause, if he be
taught its excellence as well as its reaht\,
is a fresh apostle to extend its illumina-
tions through a wider sphere In thi*
respect it resembles the motion of a fall-
ing bodv, which increases its rapidity in
proportion to the squares of the distance*
Add to which, that \slien a convert to
truth has been adequately informed, it is
barelv posmble that he should e\er fail in
Ins adherence, ^heieas error contains in
it the principle of its own mortality Tim*,
the advocates of falsehood and mistake
must continiialh diminish, and the well-
informed adherents of truth incessantly
multiplv
It has sometime* been affirmed that
whenever a question is ublv brought for-
ward for examination, the decision of the
human species must ultimately be on the
nght side. But this proposition is to be
understood with allowances Civil policy,
magnificent emoluments, and sinister mo-
tives may upon many occasions, by dis-
tracting the attention, cause the worse
reason to pass as if it were the better. It
is not ntaolnteh coitnin tlmt in the eon-
218
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIC18T8
troversy brought forward by Clarke and
Wilson against the doctrine of the Trinity,
or by Collins and Woolstpn against the
Christian revelation, the innovators had
altogether the worst of the argument. Yet 5
fifty years after the agitation of these
controversies, their effects could scarcely
be traced, and things appeared on all sides
as if the controversies had never existed
Perhaps it will be said that though the 10
effects of truth may be obscured for a
time, they will break out in the sequel
with double lustre But this, at least, de-
pends upon circumstances. No comet must
come in the meantime and sweep away the 15
human species, no Attila must have it in
his power once again to lead back the flood
of barbarism to deluge the civilized world ,
and the disciples, or at least the books, of
the original champions must remain, or 20
their discoveries and demonstrations must
be nearly lost upon the world.
The third of the propositions enume-
rated is that truth is omnipotent Thib
proposition, which is convenient for its 26
brevity, must be understood with limita-
tion? It would be absurd to affirm that
truth unaccompanied by the evidence
which proves it to be such, or when that
evidence is partially and imperfectly *>
stated, has any such property. But it has
sufficiently appeared from the arguments
alread> adduced, that truth, when ade-
quately communicated, is, so far as relates
to the conviction of the understanding, H
irresistible There may, indeed, be propo-
sitions which, though true in themsehes.
may be beyond the spheie of human
knowledge, or lespecting whic'h human
beings have not yet discovered sufficient 40
arguments for their support Tn that case,
though true in themselves, they are not
truths to us The reasoning by which tbe\
are attempted to be established, is not
sound reasoning. It may, perhaps, be 45
found that the human mind is not capable
of arriving at absolute certainty upon any
subject of enquin ; and it must be ad-
mitted that human science IH attended mth
all degrees of certainty, from the highest 80
moral evidence to the slightest balance of
probability. But human beings are capable
of apprehending and weighing all these
degrees; and to know the exact qnantit}
of probability which I ought to ascribe to 65
any proposition, may be said to be in one
sense the possessing certain knowledge.
It would farther be absurd, if we regard
truth in relation to its empire over our
conduct, to suppose that it is not limited
in its operations by the faculties of our
frame. It may be compared to a connois-
seur, who, however consummate be his
talents, can extract from a given instru-
ment only such tones as that instrument
will afford. But within these limits the
deduction which forms the principal sub-
stance of this chapter, proves to us that
whatever is brought home to the convic-
tion of the understanding, so long as it is
present to the mind, possesses an undis-
puted erapiie over the conduct Nor *ill
he who is sufficiently conversant with the
science of intellect be hasty in assigning
the bounds of our capacity. There aie
some things which the structure of our
bodies will render us fore\er unable to
effect , but in many cases the lines which
appear to prescribe a term to our efforts
\\ill. like the mists that arise fiom a lake,
retire farther and farther, the more closely
\\e endeavor to approach them.
Fourthly, the vices and moral weakness
of man are not invincible. This is the
preceding proposition with a very slight
Mination in the statement Vice and
weakness are founded upon ignorance and
error; but truth is more powerful than
any champion that can be brought into the
field against it, consequently, truth has
the faculty of expelling weakness and vice,
and placing nobler and more beneficent
principles in their stead
Lastly, man is perfectible This propo-
sition needs some explanation.
By perfectible it is not meant that he
is capable of being brought to perfection
Hut the word seems sufficiently adapted to
express the faculty of being continually
made better and receiving perpetual im-
provement, and in this sense it is heie
to be understood The term perfectible,
thus explained, not only does not imply
the capacity of being brought to perfec-
tion, but stands in express opposition to it.
Tf we could arrne at perfection, there
would be an end of our improvement
There is, however, one thing of great im-
portance that it does imply, every per-
fection or excellence that human beings
are competent to conceive, human beings,
unless in cases that are palpably and
unequivocally excluded by the structure of
their frame, are competent to attain.
This is an inference which immediately
follows from the omnipotence of truth.
Every truth that is capable of being com-
mnnicntwl is cqpnble of Iwing brought
WILLIAM GODWIN
219
"home to the conviction of tlie mind. Every
principle which can be brought home to
the conviction of the mind will infallibly
produce a eoiiebpondent effect upon the
conduct. If there were not something in 6
the nature of man incompatible with abso-
lute perfection, the doctrine of the omnipo-
tence of truth would afford no small prob-
ability that he would one da> reach it.
Why is the perfection oi man impossible? 10
The idea ol absolute perfection is
scarcely within the grasp of human under-
standing If science were more familiar-
ized to speculations of this sort, we should
perhaps discover that the notion itself was 15
pregnant with absurdity and contradiction.
It is not necessary in this argument to
dwell upon the limited nature of human
faculties We can neither be present to
all places nor to all times We cannot 20
penetrate into the essences of things, or
lather, ue ha\e no sound and satisfactory
knowledge of things external to ourseh ea,
but merely of our own sensations We
cannot discover the causes of things, or as
ascertain that in the antecedent which
connects it Autli the consequent, and dis-
cern nothing but their contiguity With
\\hat pretence cnn a being thus shut in
on all sides lay claim to absolute perfec- so
tion f
But not to insist upon these considera-
tions, there is one principle in the human
mind \\hich must forever exclude us from
arriving at a close of our acquisitions, and 35
confine ns to jierpetnal progress The
human mind, so tui as \ie aie acquainted
with it, IK nothing else but n faculty of
l>ereeption All oin knowledge, all oui
ideas, e\ery thing A\e possess a* intelh- 40
Kent beings, comes from impiestuon All
the minds that exist set out fiom absolute
ignorance. They received first one im-
pression, and then a second As the
impressions became more numerous, and 46
were stored bv the help of memorv, and
combined by the facultv of association;
HO the experience increased, and mth the
experience, the kmrwleilsre, the wisdom,
every thing that distinguishes man from 80
what we understand by a "clod of the
valley/91 This seems to be a simple and
inconvertible history of intellectual
beings; and if it be true, then as our
accumulations have been incessant in the «
time that is gone; so, as long as we con-
tinue to perceive, to remember or reflect,
they must perpetually increase
From BOOK V OF LEGISLATIVE AND EXECU-
TIVE POWER
CHAPTER JV OF A VIRTUOUS DBSPOTIhM
There is a principle frequently main-
tained upon this subject, which is well
entitled to our impartial consideration
It is granted b\ those who espouse it,
4 'that absolute monarchy, irom the im-
perfection of those by whom it is admin-
istered, is most frequently attended with
evil," but they assert, "that it is the
best and most desirable of all forms under
a good and virtuous prince It is ex-
posed," say they, "to the fate of all
excellent natures, and from the best thm«r
frequently, if corrupted, becomes the
i\ orst ' ' Tins remark is certainh not 1 01 v
decisne of the general question, HO loni»
as any weight shall be attributed to the
arguments which ha\e been adduced to
c\ince, what sort of character and dis-
position may be ordinarily expected in
princes. It may, however, be allowed, if
true, to create in the mind a sort of par-
tial retrospect to this happv and perfect
despotism , and if it can be shown to be
false, it will render the argument foi the
abolition of monarchy, so far as it is
concerned, more entne and complete
Now, whatever dispositions anv man
mav possess in favor of the welfare of
others, two things are necessar> to gne
them validity discernment and po\\ei T
can promote the welfare of a few persons,
because I can be sufficiently informed of
their circumstances. I can pioinote the
A\ elf are of many in certain geneial arti-
cles, because for this purpose it is onh
necessary that I should be informed of
the nature of the human mind as such,
not of the personal situation of the mdi-
uduals concerned. But for one man to
undertake to administer the affairs of
millions, to supplv, not general pnnciples
and perspicuous reasoning, but particular
application, and measuies adapted to the
necessities of the moment, is of all under-
taking the most extravagant ami absurd
The most simple and obxious of all
proceedings is for each man to be the
sovereign arbiter of his o\\n concerns If
the imperfection, the narrow views, and
the mistakes of human benign render this
in certain cases inexpedient and imprac
tieable, the next resource is to call in the
opinion of his peers, persons who from
their vicinity may be presumed to have
some srenornl knowledire of the <nse, nnd
NINETEENTH CENTURY RQMANTICI8T8
who have leisure and means minutely to
investigate the merits of the question. It
cannot reasonably be doubted that the
same expedient which men employed in
their civil and criminal concerns, would 6
by nninstructed mortals be adopted in the
assessment of taxes, in the deliberations
of commerce, and in every other article in
which their common interests were in-
volved, only generalizing the deliberative 10
assembly or panel m proj>ortion to the
generality ot the question to be derided
Monarchy, instead of leterrintr ever\
question to the persons concerned or their
neighbors refers it to a single indnidual 16
placed at the greatest distance possible
from the 01 ilmarv members of the societi
Instead of distributing the causes to be
judged into as nmn> parcels as they uould
conveniently admit for the sake of pro- 20
viding leisure and opportunities of exami-
nation, it draws them to a single centre,
and renders enquiry and examination im-
possible. A despot. houe\er Mrtuounlv
disposed, is obliged to act in the dark, to 25
derive his knowledge from other men's
information, and to execul e his behests b\
other men's instrumentality Monaicln
seems to be a RIWIPB of go\ eminent pio-
scribed bv the nature of man , and those 50
persons who furnished their despot with
integrity and virtue fmgot to add om
ni science and omnipotence, qualities not
less necessary to fit him for the office the\
have provided. 36
Let us suppose tins honest and incoi
ruptiblc despot to be served bv ministers,
avaricious In identical, and interested
What will the people gain bv the good
intentions of their monarch f He will *o
mean them the greatest benefits, but he
will be altogether unacquainted with their
situation, their character and their wants
The information he reccnes will frequently
be found the very reverse of the truth lie 43
will be taught that one individual IB higlih
meritorious and a proper subject of ic-
>\ard, whose only merit is the profligate
cruelty with which he has served the pur-
poses of his administration. He will be BO
taught that another is the pest of the
community, who is indebted for this report
to the steady virtue with which he has
traversed and defeated the wickedness of
government. He will mean the greatest 56
benefits to his people; but when he pre-
scribes something calculated for their ad-
vantage, his servants under pretence of
eomplyincr fihnll in rcnlitv pprpetrnto dia-
metrically the reverse. Nothing will be
more dangerous than to endeavor to re-
move the obscurity with u Inch his minis-
ters surround him. The man who attempts
so hardy a task will become the incessant
object of their hatred. However unalter-
able may be the justice of the sovereign,
the time will come when his observation
will be laid asleep, while malice and re-
M»nge are ever Mgilant. Could he unfold
the secrets of his prison houses of state.1
he would find men committed in hits name
whose crimes he never knew, whose names
he ne\er heard of, jwrhaps men whom ho
honored and esteemed Such is the luston
of the bone\olent and philauthiopic des-
pots whom memory has recorded ; and the
conclusion trom the whole is, that \therevei
despotiHm exists, there it will alwa>s be
attended with the evils of despotism,— cap n-
cious mcasuiea and atbihary inlliction
''But will not u wise king take care to
provide himself with good and Mrtuou<-
seivnntH?" Undoubtedly he Atill effect u
pait of this, but he cannot suj>erHe<le the
essential natuics of things. He that exe-
cutes an> office as a deputy mil iievei
discharge it in the same perfection as if
he \\ere the principal Either the minister
must be the author of the plans which he
<arries into effect, and then it is of little
< onsequence, except so far as relates to
his integrity in the choice of his «enants,
v\ hat sort of mortal the sovereign shall be
found , or he must play a subordinate part,
and then it is impossible to tranHiuse into
his mind the ]>erfipicacitv and energy oi
ins master Wherexer deBjwhsm exists it
cannot remain in a single hand, but must
be transmitted whole and entire through
all the progrvHsne links of authontv To
rendei depot ism auspicious and benign it
is necessary, not only that the sovereign
should possess every human excellence, but
that all his officers should be men of ]>ene
trating genius and unspotted vittue Tt
they fall short of this, they will, like the
ministers of Elizabeth, be sometimes Hpe
cious profligates,- and sometimes men who.
however admirably adapted for the tech-
nical emergencies of business, consult on1
many occasions exclusively their private
advantage, wdrship the rising sun, enter
into vindictive cabals, and cuff down new-
fledged merit* Wherever the continuity is
iffomle*,l.ff,14
* "Dudley. Earl of Leicester "—Godwin
1 "Cecil, iwrl of Ralisbury, Lord Treasurer , Ho*
nrd, Earl of Nottingham Lord \dmlrnl " — <Jnri
win
WILLIAM UODW1N
221
broken, the flood of vice will bear down all
before it. One weak or disingenuous man
will be the source of unbounded mischief.
It is the nature of monarchy under all its
forms to confide greatly m the discretion fi
of individuals. It provides no resource for
maintaining and diffusing the spirit of
justice. Everything rests upon the per-
manence and extent of personal virtue
Another position, not less generally 10
asserted than that of the desirableness of
u virtuous despotism, is, "that republican-
ism is a species of government, practicable
onlv in a small state, while monarchy is
best fitted to embrace the concerns of a 16
\ ast and flourishing- empire ' ' The reverse
of this, so far at least as relates to mon-
archy, appears at first sight to be the
tiuth. The competence of anv government
cannot be measured In a purer standaid 20
than the extent and accuracv of itb infor-
mation. In this respect inonimln ap|*»aih
in all cases to he wretchedlv deficient , but
ii§ it can e\er be admitted, it must surely
be in those nanow and limited instances 26
\\heie nn individual can. with least absurd-
ity, be supposed to be acquainted uith the
n flan x and inteiests of the \\hole *
«1IV1TKK \I MOR\I LKFFlTfc OP \MSTOCK\CY *>
There is one thing, more than nil the
lest, ot importance to the ucll-toms* ot
mankind,— justice ("an there lie anv tlnnj-
piohlematical or paradoxical in this fun da- 85
mental piinci]iU%— that nil ininstice is m-
|in\ , and a thousand tunes nioie iniurious
In its effects in penerting the under
standing and oxertumim* our calculations
of the futuie, than b\ the immediate 40
cahumtv it ma\ piodme '
All moral science ma\ be reduced to this
one head,— calculation of the tutuio We
cannot reasonahh e\|>ect \irtue from the
multitude of mankind if thev IN' induced 46
by the peneisenoss of the conductors of
human affairs to believe that it i* not then
uiteiest to be \ntuous. But this is not
the point iijwii nthiHi the (|iiestion turns
Virtue is nothing else but the pursuit ot 60
general pood Justice is the standard
which discriminates the advantage of the
many and of the few, of the whole and a
part. If this first and moht important of
all subjects be involved in obscurity, how 66
shall the well-being of mankind be gub-
Rtantially promoted f The most bene\olent
of our species u ill be engaged in crusades
of error, while the cooler and more phle&r-
matic spectators, discerning no evident
clue that should guide them amidst the
labyrinth, sit down in selfish neutrality,
and leave the complicated scene to produce
its own denouement.
It is true that human affairs can never
be reduced to that state of depravation as
to reverse the nature of justice. Vntue
will always be the interest of the indi-
vidual as lAell as of the public Imme-
diate virtue will always be beneficial to
the present age, as well as to their pos-
terity. But though the depravation cannot
nse to this excess, it will be abundantly
sufficient to ob&ciue the undei standing and
mislead the conduct. Human beings will
iie\er be so virtuous as they might easih
be made, till justice be the spectacle pei-
petually presented to their view, and
injustice be wondered at as a prod i try
Of all the principles of justice there is
none so material to the moral rectitude
of mankind as this that no man can be
distinguished but In Lib ]>ersonal nient
Why not endeaxor to i educe to practice
so simple and sublime a lesson ? When a
man ha* pro\ed himself a benefactor to
the public, when he has already b\ laud-
able ]>erseverance cultixated in himselt
talents which need onlv encouragement
and public favor to bring them to m«i-
turitv, let that man be honored In a state
of society where fictitious distinctions aie
unknown, it i& impossible he should not be
honored But that a man should he lookc.l
up to with serMht\ and a\te because the
king has bestowed on him a spurious name
or decorated him with a nbband, that
another should ^ allow in luxury because
his ancestor three centuries ago bled in
the quarrel of l^an caster or York,— do x\e
imagine that these iniquities can be prac-
ticed without uijnryT
I-et those who entertain this opinion
converse a little with the lower orders ot
mankind. Thev null perceue that the un-
fortunate wretch, who uith unremitted
labor finds himself incapable adequateh
to feed and clothe his iaimlv, has a sense
of injustice rankling at his heart.
one whom distress has spitod with the world
Is ho nhom tempting flonils noiild pitch upon
To do Huch deeds d«* make the pioNperoutf men
lift up their hands nnd uondi»r who could do
them1
Such is the education of the human spe-
cies Such is the fabric of jxriitical
society
1 John Home, Dovnln*. Ill 100 1",
222
NJNUTKHNTH CKNTITKY ROMANTICISTS
But let us suppose that their sense of
injustice were less acute than it is here
described. What favorable inference can
be drawn from thatT Is not the injustice
real? If the minds of men be so withered
and stupifled by the constancy with which
it is practiced, that they do not feel the
rigor that grinds them into nothing how
does that improve the picture T
I jet us for a moment give the lems to
reflection, and endeavor accuratel.v to con-
ceive the state of mankind where justice
should form the public and general prin-
ciple. In that case our moral feelings
would assume a firm and wholesome tone,
for they would not be perpetually counter-
acted by examples that weakened their
energy and confounded their clearness
Men would be fearless because they would
know that theie were no legal snare*
lying in wait for their lives. They wouW
1>e courageous because no man would be
pressed to the earth that another might
enjoy immoderate luxury, because every
one -would be secure of the just reward of
his industry and prize of his exertions
Jealousy and hatred would cease, for they
are the offspring of injustice. Every man
would speak truth with bis neighbor, for
there would be no temptation to falsehood
and deceit. Mind would find its level,
for there would be everything to encour-
age and to amtaate. Science would be
unspeakably improved, for understanding
would convert into a real power, no longer
an ignis fatuus, shining and expiring by
turns, and leading us into sloughs of soph-
istry, false science, and specious mistake
All men would be disposed to avow their
dispositions and actions; none would en-
deavor to suppress the just eulogmm of
his neighbor, for so long as there were
tongues to record, the suppression would
be impossible; none fear to detect the
misconduct of his neighbor, for there
would be "no laws converting the sincere
expression of our convictions into a libel
Let us fairly consider for a moment
what is the amount of injustice included
in the institution of aristocracy. I am
born, suppose, a Polish prince, with an
income of £300,000 per annum. Tou aie
born a manorial serf or a Creolian negro,
attached to the soil and transferable by
barter or otherwise to twenty successive
lords. In vain shall be your most generous
efforts and your unwearied industry to
free yourself from the intolerable yoke
Doomed by the law of your birth, to wait
t at the gates of the palace you must never
enter, to sleep under a ruined weather-
beaten roof while your master sleeps undei
canopies of state, to feed on putnfie<l
offals while the world is ransacked for
10 delicacies for his table, to labor without
moderation or limit under a parching sun
while he basks in perpetual sloth, and to
be rewarded at last with contempt, repri-
mand, stripes, and mutilation. In fact the
15 case is worse than this. I could endure
all that injustice or caprice could inflict,
provided I possessed in the resource of a
firm mind the power of looking down with
pitv on my tyrant, and of knowing that 1
20 had that within, that Barred character of
truth, virtue, and fortitude, winch all hi*
injustice could not reach. But a slave and
a serf are condemned to stupidity and vice
as well as to calamity
25 Is all things nothing! Is all this neces-
sary for the maintamanee of civil order9
Let it be recollected that, for this distinc-
tion, there i« not the smallest foundation,
in the nature of things, that, as we have
SO already said, there is no particular mould
lor the construction of lords; and that
they are born neither better nor worse
than the poorest of their dependents. It
is this structure of aristocracy in all its
85 sanctuaries and fragments against which
reason and philosophy have declared war
It is alike unjust, whether we consider it
in the castes of India, the villainage of
feudal system, or the despotism of the
40 patricians of ancient Rome dragging their
debtors into personal servitude to expiate
loans they could not repay. Mankind will
never be in an eminent degree virtuous
and happy till each man shall possess that
45 portion of distinction, and no more, to
which he is entitled by hix personal merits
The dissolution of aristocracy is equally
the interest of the oppressor and the op-
pressed. The one will be delivered from
BO the listlessness of tyranny, and the other
from the brutalizing operation of servi-
tude. How long shall we be told in vain,
"that mediocrity of fortune is the true
rampart of personal happiness 1"
WIIJJ\M
22:*
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1770-1850)
EXTRACT
FROM THE CONCLUSION Of A POIkM, COMPOSED
IN ANTICIPATION OP LEAVING SCHOOL
278G 1815
' Dear native regions, T foretell,
Fiora what I feel at thib farewell,
That, wheresoe'er my steps mav tend.
And whensoever my course shall end
" If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy
My soul will cast the backward A leu ,
The longing look alone on >on
Thus, while the sun sinks down to rest
10 Far in the regions of the west.
Though to the vale no parting beam
Be given, not one memoiial gleam,
A lingering hpht he fondlv throws
On the dear hills inhere first he rose'
WBITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH
1786 1802
Calm IB all nature as a resting wheel
The kme are couched upon the dewy pi ass ,
The horse alone, seen diml> nt* 1 pass,
la cropping audibly his later meal
5 Dark ih the ground , a slumber seems to
steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the stui-
lesa sk\
Now, in tins blank of things, a haimony,
Home- felt, and hcmie-cieated, comes to henl
That irnef foi which the senses still
supply
10 Fresh food; for onlv then, ^\hen memorv
Is hushed, am T nt rest M\ tnendsr
restrain
Those busy caies that would alla\ 1113 pain ,
Oh' lea\e me to myself, nor let me feel
The olliciou* touch that makes- me dump
again.
From AN EVENING WALK
1787-85 1703
Dear Brook, farewell' Tomorrow's
noon again
Shall hide me, wooing long thv wild-
wood strain;
But now the sun has coined his western
road,
And eve's mild hour invites rav steps
abroad.
w While, near the niidwa> chif , the wlvered
kite
In many a whistling circle wheels her
Slant watery lights, from parting clouds,
apace
Travel along the precipice's base,
M Cheeimg its naked waste oi scat Leied slnnr.
*" Bv lichens gi.iy, and hcanly moss, oVi-
grown ,
Wheie scarce the foxglove peeps, 01
thistle's beaid,
And restless stone-chat,1 all day long, is
heard
How pleasant, as the sun declines, to
view
The spacious landscape change in foim
and hue!
100 Here, vanish, as m mist, before a flood
Of blight obscinity, hill, lawn, and wood .
There, objects b\ tlio searching beams
betrayed.
Come forth, and heie retire in purple
shade,
K\en the white sterns ot birch, the cot-
tage Tibite,
l°B Soften then glaie before the mellow light ,
The skifFs, nt anchor where with um-
brage nude
Yon chestnuts halt the latticed boat-
house hide.
Shed from their sides, that face the
sun's slant beam,
Strong flakes of radiance on the trem-
ulous stream
110 Raised by ton travelling flock, a dnstv
cloud
Mounts from the load, mid sjueads its
mount: shroud.
The shepherd, all in\ol\ed in uieaths of
fue.
Now shows a shadow v speck, and now is
lost entne
LINES
LEFT UPON \ SE\T IN \ TETT-TREE WHICH
STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OP ESTHWATW,
ON A DLSOLATt P\RT OP THE SHORE,
COMMANDING A BEAITIFITL PROSPECT
1195 1708
Nay, traveller* rest This lonely yew-tree
stands
Far from all human dwelling what if heie
N<i fqiarkling rivulet spread the verdant
herb!
< A common Eurnpeao Mntfng bfril
224
NINKTKENTH OKNTUUY ROMANTICISTS
What if the bee love not these barren
boughs f
* Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling
waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull
thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was
That piled these stones and with the
mossy nod
10 Fust covered, and here taught this aged
tree
With its dark arms to form a circling
bower,
I well remember.1— He was one who
owned
No common soul Tn youth by science
nursed,
And led by Nature into a wild scene
*5 Of lofty hopes he lo the world went forth
A favored Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow, 'gainst
the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and
hate.
And scorn,— against all enemies prepared.
20 All but neglect The world, for so it
thought.
Owed him no wvice , wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself awa\.
And with the food of pride sustained hi**
soul
In solitude — Stranger' these gloonn
boughs
-'"' Had charms for him, and here he kue<l
to sit,
HIP only visitants a straggling sheep.
The stone-chat,2 or the glancing sand-
piper
And on these barren rocks, with fern
and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,
10 Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life
And, lifting up bis head, he then would
gaze
On the more distant scene,— how lovely 'tis
:~ Thou seest,— and he would gaze till it
became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not
sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous' Nor,
that time,
1 "He was a gentleman of the neighborhood, a
man of talent and learning, who had been
educated at one of our nnlYemitle*, and re-
turned to pass his time In aecliralon on MR
own estate ff — Wordsworth
1 A common European Hinging bird
When Nature had subdued him to her-
self,
Would he forget those Beings to whoso
minds,
40 Warm from the labors of benevolence,
The world and human life appeared a
scene
Of kindred loveliness* then be would sigh,
Tnlv disturbed, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost
Man'
45 On \isionar> \ieua would fano> feed,
Till his eve streamed with tears In tins
^ deep vale
He died,— this seat his onlv monument
If tliou be one whose heait the holv
forms
Of young imagination ha\e kept pure,
|0 Stranger! henceforth be warned; and
know that pride,
Howc'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness, that he who feels contempt
For anv living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used, that thought
with him
r>r> Is in its infancy The man whose eye
l& ever on himself doth look on one, '
The least of Nature's works, one who
might move
The wise man to that scorn which wis-
dom holds
Unlawful, ever 0 lie wiser, thou!
fio Instructed that true knowledge leads to
love;
True dignity abides mtli him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inwaid thought,
("an still suspect, and still ie\ere himself,
In lowliness of heart.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
1797 1800
At the corner of Wood Street, when
daylight appears,
Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it lias
snng for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and
has heard
In the silence of morning the song of
the bird.
6 9Tis a note of enchantment; what ails
herf She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of
trees;
Bright volumes of vapor through Loth-
bury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of
CheapRide
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
225
Green pastures she views in the midst of
the dale,
10 Down which she so often has tnpped
with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like
a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she
loves.
She looks, and her heart IH in heaxen
but they fade,
The mist and the rwer, the hill and the
shade:
15 The stream will not flow, and the hill
will not rise,
And the colors have all passed away
from her eyes!
WE ABE (SEVEN
1798 1708
—A simple child,
That lightly draub its breath,
And feelb its life in cxery limb,
What should it knoxi of death f
5 I met a little cottage girl
She was eight >ears old. bhe said,
Her hair \ias thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head
She had a rustic, woodland air,
10 And she was wildlx clad*
Her eyes were ian, and verx fair.
—Her beauty made me glad
"Sisters aud brotheiR, little maid.
How many may >ou be?**
15 "How many? Seven in ail,1' she said.
And wondering looked at me
"And where are they? I pray you tell "
She anbuered, "Sex en aie we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
20 And two aie gone tn sea
"Two of us in the church>aid lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church>aid cottage, 1
Dwell near them with my mothei "
26 "You sa> that two at Con wax dwell.
And two 'are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be ' *
Then did the little maid reply,
«• "Seven boys and girls are we,
Two of us in the churchyard he.
Beneath the churchyard tree "
"You lun about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive,
36 If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five.11
"Their graves are green, they mav he
seen,"
The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother fb
door,
40 And the> are bide by side
"M> stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief theie 1 hem,
And there upon the ground 1 sit,
And sing a bong to them
45 "And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer.
And eat my supper there
"The first that died was sister Jane,
r>0 In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her ot her pain ,
And then she went awav
"So in the clmichxaid she xxa*-, laid
And, when the grass was dry,
"|B Together round her grave we pi axed,
Wv brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white xtitli
snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced tn go,
6° And he lies by her hide "
"How man> are you, then." said I.
"If thej two are in heaven?"
Quick \\as the little maid's repl>,
"0 master ' we are seven "
66 But they are dead ; those two are dead '
Their spirits are in hea\enl"
Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her M ill,
And Miid, "Xax*, xve are seven1"
THE THOHN
2798 1798
"There is a Thorn— it looks so old.
In truth, you'd find it hard to sa>
How it could exer have been young.
It looks so old and gray.
6 Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn ;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;
It is a mass of knotted joints.
NINETEENTH CKNTUKY ROMANTICISTS
A wretched thing forlorn.
10 It stands erect, and like a atone
With hctiens is it overgrown.
"Lake rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with hea\y tufts of moss,
16 A melancholy crop
Up fiom the earth these mosses cioep,
And this poor Thoiu they clasp it lound
So close, you 'd say that they ure lient
With plain and manifest intent
20 To drag it lo the ground,
And all ha\e joined in one endeavoi
To bmy this poor Thoin forever
"H«*h on a mount am V highest ndge,
Wheie oft the stoim> winter pale
23 Cuts like a scythe, nhile through the clouds
It s \\ecpb tiom vale to vale,
Not h\e yaids from the mountain path.
This Thoin tvm on \oui left espt\ ,
And to the left, thiee vauls beyond,
J0 You sw a little imuhK pond
Of \\atei-ne\ei dry.
Though but of compass small and bnie
To tlnist\ suns and paidim^ an
"And, close beside thii- aged Thoin,
a3 Theie is a iiesh and lou»lj smht,
A beauteous heaj>, a hill of moss,
Just halt a toot in height
VII lo\el\ colois theie \ou s<>e,
Ml colfiis that iieie e\ei seen,
10 And mossy net ^ oik too is there,
\s i1 by hand of la<h fan
The i\oik bad wo\eu been,
And cups, the dulling ol the exe,
So deep is then Aermihon dye
A woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
65 'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe ib me ! oh misery ! '
''At all tune* of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes ,
And she ib kuo\\n to every stai,
70 And eAciy nmd that blows,
And theio, beside the Thoin, she bits
\Yhen the blue da) light's in the skip*,
And when the whnhvmd's on the hill,
Or f ittetj an ib keen and still,
""' And to heiself she met..
'Oh imseiy! oh misery I
Oh woe is mef oh inihei> |f "
"N«n\ \\heiefoie, thus, b} iht} tiini ni^ht,
In lain, in tempest, and in sno\\,
S0 Thus to the dieni} niouiilam-iop
Does this IHKII \\oman ^o9
And \\hy sits hhe Inside the Thoin
When the blue daylight's in Hie skv
Oi \\hen the \vhnK\imrv nil the lull,
H"' Oi iios|\ an i*, keen and ^till,
Vnd ^heietoK1 diK-s she ci\ ' -
O \\hei efoif/ ttheicloie' lell me \\h>
l)(H's she icpcal that o!ol<*1ul ci\ '"
4* "Ah me f Tihat Jo\eh tints aic theic
Of olive p ice1 n and ^ailct brmht,
In spikes, in IMHIK lies, and in MJIN
CJii'i'ii, red, and peuiij whitf '
Tins heap of eaitb o'ciirnmn \utli
:»° Which clobe beside the Thorn >ou sec,
So fresh in nil it*« beauteous dves,
Is like an niianl's mn^c m H/e.
As like as like 4*an Ix1
But never, ne\er nnjwheic,
r':i An infant's «ia\e vns half s«» tun
"Now would you see tins aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moth,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross
60 For oft there sits Itttwocn the heap,
So like an inf nut's «io\e in sixe,
And that same p«nd nf which T spoke,
*4 1 (.iiinot (ell, 1 uish 1 «»uld,
Fm the tine leason no one knoins
Hut \\ould you ^ladh \ie\\ the spot,
The spot to which she noes,
The hillock like an mi nut's ••iuu>,
The pond -and Thoin, sn old and ^i.«
Pass b} hei dooi — 'tis seldom shut-
\nd il you see hei in her hut
Then to the *>pu( «u\n\ *
I ne\ei heaid ol Mich as d.ne
Vp]>ioaih tht spot >vln»n she i
100 "lint \\heietoie to the mountain-lop
Can this unhupp.x \\oinan ^o,
\Vhate\ei stai is in the skies,
Whate\ei mud mn> blow?"
'•Full twenty >cnis aie p«st and «one
]"'* Snue she (her name is Mnitha Kn> )
Ua\c \\itli a maiden's tiuc ^rood-will
IJei company to Stephen Hill
And she \\ns blithe and gov,
While friends and kmdrcil all appro\od
110 Of him whom tendcily she loved.
"And the.\ had fixed the wedding da^,
The rimming that must wed them both ,
Rut Stephen to another maid
Had Hwom another oath,
1I"» And, with this othei maid, to ehureh
Stephen wont —
WILLIAM WOHD8WOKTJI
227
Poor Martha! on that woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;
180 A fire was kindled in her breast.
Which might not burn itself to rest.
• ' They say, full six months af tei this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go,
u>> And theie uas often seen.
\Vhat could she seekt— 01 wish to bidet
Her state to any e>e was plain ,
She was with child, and she was mad ,
Yet often was she sober sad
uo From her exceeding pain.
0 guilty father— would that death
Had sa\ed him from that breach of faith !
' * Sad ca«»e ioi such a brain to hold
Communion with a sturing child'
l-5 Sad case, as you may think, ioi one
Who had a brain so wild '
Last Chiistinas-eve we talked of this.
And gia> -bailed Wilfied oi the glen
Held that the unborn infant uiought
n" About its mother's heait, and bioutfit
Hei senses back again
And, \\hen at last hei time dic\v neai.
Hei looks \\eie calm, hei sense* deal
"More know f not, 1 wish 1 did,
1 >r» And it should all be told to you;
Foi what became of this poor child
No mortal e\ei knew,
Nay— if a child to her was bom
No earthly tongue could ever tell ,
ir>0 And if 'twas bom ah\e or dead,
Km less could this with piooi he said,
But some lemembej \\ell
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up* the mountain often climb
l"1" "And all that wintei , when at night
The \sind blew from the mountain-peak,
'Twas worth youi while, though in the
dark,
The Hiuich.uiicl path to heek.
For mafiy a tune and oft weie heaid
i t.o <;nes coining fiom the mountain head
Some plainly living voices were,
And otheis, I've heard many swear.
Were voices oi the dead .
1 cannot think, whatever they say,
16". They had to do with Martha Ray.
"But that she goes to this old Thorn,
The Thorn which 1 described to you.
And there sits in a scarlet cloak.
I will be sworn in true.
170 For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first 1 came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height'—
176 A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.
' ' 'Twas miht and lain, and storm and i .im
No screen, no fence could I discover,
And then the wind ! in sooth, it was
180 A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought 1 saw
A jutting crag,— and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving iam
The shelter of the eiag to gain ,
186 And, as 1 am a man,
Instead of jutting ciag I found
A woman seated on the giound
t
"1 did not speak— 1 saw her face,
Her lace '—it was enough for me,
J<*° I tunied about and beard her cry,
* Oh misery ! oh misery ' '
And theie she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky \\ill <:«•
And when the little breezes make
1<fr> The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know,
She shudders, and you hear hei ci j .
§ Oh nnseiy ' oh misery ? ' ' '
"But what's the Thorn f and what the
pond?
2(10 And what the hill of moss to bert
And what the creeping breeze that comes
The little pond to stir f"
•'I cannot tell, but some will say
^ She hanged her baby on the tree;
-'0"» Some say she diowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond
Hut all and each agree,
The little babe was buried theie,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair
210 i < i >ve heard, the moss is spotted red
With drops of that poor infant 's blood ,
But kill a new-bom infant thus,
I do not think she could;
Some say if to the pond you go,
215 And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
220 The baby looks at you again.
"And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
228
NINKTKENTH CM&TUHY HOMANTJC18TO
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought
» But instantly the hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And, for full fifty yards around,
The grass— it shook upon the ground '
Yet all do still a\er
230 The little babe hen bimed their,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair
"I cannot tell how this may be,
But plain it is the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss that strive
285 TO drag it to the ground ,
And this I know, full many a time.
When she was on the mountain high.
By day, and m the silent night.
When all the stars shone clear and hiicht,
240 That I have heaid her cry,
1 Oh misery! oh misery'
Oh woe IP me! oh misery1'"
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL
\ TRUF STORY
1798 1798
Oh! what's the matter f what's the matter t
What is't that ails young Harry Gillt
That evermore his teeth they chatter.
Chatter, chatter, ehatter still !
15 Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle1 gray, and flannel fine,
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smothei nine
In March, December, and in July,
10 'Ti* all the same with Harry Gill ,
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still
At night, at mornimr* and at noon,
TIR all the same with Harry Gill ,
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still
Young Harry was a lusty drovei,
And who so stout of limb as net
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ;
20 His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
111 fed die was, and thinly clad ,
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.
** All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours9 work at night,
Alas ! 'twas hardly worth the telling.
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
*0 On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
» A kind of coarae woolen cloth baring H thick
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
86 Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor woman f housed alone.
Twas well enough, when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty1 dame
40 Would ait, as any linnet, gay
But when the ice our stienms did fetter.
Oh then how her old bones \\ould shake '
You would have said, if you had met hei,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake
45 Her evenings then were dull and dead
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to lied ,
And then for cold not sleep a wink.
0 joy for her ! whene 'ei in wintei
r>0 The winds at night had made a rout ,
And scattered many a lush splinter
And many a rotten bough about
Yet never had she, well or sick.
As every man who knew her sa\s.
''"' A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm hei for three days
Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
*° Than an old hedge to Goody Blake f
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fiic, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
*5 Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody .Blake,
And vowed that she should he detet ted-
That he on her would vengeance take
And oft from his warm flic he'd ^n,
70 And to the fields his road would take.
And there, at night, in frost und snou.
He watched to seize old Good} Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand •
75 The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land
—He hears a noise— he's all awake-
Again t— on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps— ftis Goody Blake:
™ She's at the hedge of Harry' Hill '
bt glad was he when he beheld her:
~: lifter stick did Goody pull :
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH
229
He stood behind a budi of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full
86 When with her load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
90 And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook hei.
And cned, " I've caught you then at last 1 ' '
Then Goody, who had nothing- said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall ,
96 And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God that is the judge of all
She prayed, her withered hand upreanng,
While Harry held her by the arm—
''God ! who art never out of hearing,
100 0 may he ne\er moie be waim |M
The cold, cold moon above her head.
Thus on her knees did Goodv pray ,
Young Harrv heaid what she had said
And icy cold he tin ned nu a\ .
lo:> He ueiit complaining all the moiiow
That he \\as cold and \eiy chill*
His face uus gloom, his fieait was sorrow,
Alas! that <la\ foi Harry Gill1
That day he woie a riding-coat.
110 But not a unit the warmer he
Anothei was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets \\crc about him pinned ,
"& Yet still his jaus and teeth they clatter,
Like a loose casement in the wind
And Harry's flesh it fell awa> ,
And all who see him sny, 'tis plain,
That, Ine as long as li\e he may.
]-° He never will be warm again.
No word to any man he utters,
A -bed or up, to young or old ;
But ever to himself he mutters,
4 'Poor Harry Gill is very cold "
125 A-bed or up, bv night or day;
His teeth they chatter, chatter still
Now think, ye farmers all, T pray,
Of Goody Blake and Han y Gill v
HEB EYES ABE WILD
1748 1798
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the mam
18 She had n baby on her arm.
Or else she were alone .
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
10 And it was in the English tongnc
' ' Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad ,
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing
1B Then, lovely baby, do not fear I
I pray thee have no fear of me,
Rut safe as in a cradle, here,
My lovely baby ! thou shalt be
To thee 1 know too much I owe ;
20 I cannot work thee any woe.
' ' A fire was once within my brain ,
And in my head a dull, dull pain ,
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me ,
JB But then there came a bight of jo> ,
It came at once to do me good ,
1 waked, and saw my little boy.
Mv little boy of flesh and blood.
Oh joy for me that sight to see r
80 Foi he was here, and only he.
"Suck, httle babe, oh suck again f
It coolb my blooil , it coolb my brain ,
Thy lips I feel them, baby 1 they
Draw from my heart the pain awaj
35 Oh ! pi ess me with thy little hand ,
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest
The breexe 1 see is in the tiee
10 It comeb to cool my babe and me
"Oh ! love me, love me, little boy f
Thou art thy mothei 's only joy ,
And do not diead the va\eb belou,
When o'er the sea-rock 'b edge we go.
43 The high crag cannot work me harm.
Nor leaping torrents when they ho\vl .
The babe I carry on my ai m,
He saves for me my precious soul .
Then happv lie; for blest am I;
r>0 Without me my sweet babe *onld du
"Then do not fear, my boy ! for theo
Bold as a lion will I be;
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide
55 I'll build an Indian bower; I know
The leaves that make the softest bed :
And if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing9 then thou shalt sing
B0 As mem" a* the bud* in sprinsr
280
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANT1CI8TB
4 ' Thy father cares not for uiy bieaut,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest ;
'Tis all thine own I— and if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
01 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove '
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love ;
And what if my poor cheek be brown t
'Tis well for me thou canst not see
70 How pale and wan it else would be.
"Dread not their taunts, my little life,
£ am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tiee
We two will live in honesty.
75 If his bweet boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stayed :
From him no harm my babe can take ,
But he, poor man I is wretched made.
And eveiy day we two will pray
80 For him that 's gone and far away
"I'll teach my boy the sweetest things.
I'll leach him how the owlet sings
My little babe » thy lips are still.
And thou hast almost sucked th> till
85 — Whei o art thou gone, my own clear child t
What wicked looks aie those I see?
Alas' Alas* that look so wild,
It ncvei, never came fioni me
If thou ait mad, my pretty lad,
90 Then 1 must be I'm ever sad
4 ' Oh ? smile on me, my little lamb !
Fm I thy own dear mother am .
My love foi thee has well been tned
1 've sought thy father far and wide
1)5 I know the poisons of the shade,
I know the earth-nuts fit for food
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid
We'll find thy father in the wood
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away !
100 And there, my babe, we'll live for aye."
SIMON LEE
THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN
WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED
1798 1708
In the sweet shire of Cardigan.
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old man dwells, a little man,—
'Tis said he once was tall.
' Full five and thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
IB red as a ripe cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
10 And bill nml valley rang with crl«*e
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage ,
ir> To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.
lit* all the countiy could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind ,
And often, ere the chase was done,
20 He reeled, and was stone-blind
And btill theie's something in the world
At winch ins Leait rejoices.
For when the chiming hounds aie out,
He dearly loves their \oices!
20 But, oh the hea\v change!— beie tt
Of health, strength, friends, and kin-
dred, sec!
Old Simon to the woild is left
In liveried poverty.
His master's dead,— and no one now
*° Dwells in the Hall ot Ivor,
Men, dogs, and IJOISPS, all aie dead.
He is the sole survivor
And he is lean, anil he is sick ,
His body, dwindled and awn,
35 Kests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry
One prop he has, and only one,
His uifc, an aged woman.
Lives with him, neai the wuteifall,
40 Upon the village common
Reside their mobH-grown hut of cla>,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they ha\ r, hut tliev
Are poorest of the poor
**> This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when lie was stronger,
Rut what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?
Oft, working by her husband 'H ud<*
"'° Ruth does what Simon cannot do.
For she, with scanty cause foi pnd«»
Is stouter of the two
And, though you with voui utmost skill
From laboi could not wean them,
55 Tis little, very little-all
That they can do between them
Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
w Do his weak ankles swell.
Afv crentle render, T peieoivc
\\1LLIAM WORDSWORTH
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related
115 0 reader! had you 111 your mmd
Such stores na silent thought fan
O gentle teadei ! >uu would tind
A tale in every thing
What more 1 Tune to say is falioit,
70 And >ou must kindly take it
It is no tale, hut, should >ou flunk,
1'eihaps a tale \ou'H make it
One bummei-day I chanced to see
This old uian doing all he could
7B To unearth the loot of an old tiee,
A stump ol rotten wood
The mattock tottered m ins hand,
So \aui uas Ins endeavor,
That at the root ot the ol<l tiee
80 lie mu>ht ha\c u inked
"You're o^ertllsked, jjood Simon Lee,
(ji\e me your tool," to him 1 said,
And at the woid unlit s»ladl\ he
Recened m\ pioilcied aid
85 I struck, und \\ith a single blow
The tangled loot I se>eied,
At 11 Inch the pool old man so long
Vnd \cimh had endea\oied
The teais into Ins e\es \\ere bious*ht
00 And thanks and piaises seined to iun
So last out ot his heart, 1 thought
They nexei would ha\e done
— l'\e heaid ot heaits unkind, kind deeds
With coldnobs still letinninii,
93 Alas1 the gratitude oi men
llath olteni'i left me moiiiiunt:
LINKS WR1TTKN IN EARLY HPRIM*
1798 1708
I heard a thousand blended notes.
While in a ?io\e I sate leclined,
Tn that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
ti<* sad thoughts to the mind
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure*—
15 But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs bpiead out then tan,
To catch the breezy an ,
And 1 must think, do all 1 can,
-'° That there was pleasure there
It this belief 1'ioin heaven be sent,
It such be Nature's hoh plan,
Have I not leason to lament
What man has uuidc ot man /
TO MY BIHTERi
'70s 1708
It is the first mild dajt ol Mau-h
I Inch minute sweetei than before,
The redbieabt smgb horn the tall hutli
That stands beside oui dooi
1 Theie ib a blessing in the an.
Which seems a sense of jo> to weld
To the baie tiees, and mountains baie
And grass in the uieen lie Id
My Mstci f ( 'tis « wish of mine)
10 Now that oui inoiniiiji meal is done.
Make haste, \oiu morning task lesmn
(.'ome ioith and feel the sun
Kdwurd will come with ,\ou,— and, pia\
Put on \\it\\ «<peed v oui 'woodland diess
"' And bring no book loi this on< ilav
We'll gue to idleness
3 To hei fair \\oiks did Nat me link
The himian soul that thiough me mn .
And much it irne\cd my heart to think
\Yhnt man has mnde of man
Through primrose tufts, in that green
bower,
10 The periwinkle trailed its ^reatliR,
And 'tis mv faith that exerv flower
tho mi it brcnthos
No .jOAless foiuis shall iei»ulate
Our living caleudai
Wo from todav, mv friend, will date
-'" The openni" ot the yeai
Lo\e, now a unixersal buth,
Kiom heart to heait is stealing
From earth to man, from man to eaith
— It is the hoin of
-1"' One moment now ma\ si\e us moie
Than years of toiling leason
Our minds shall drink at e\er\
The spirit of the season
Some bilent laws our hearts will make.
30 Which they shall long obey
We for the year to come mav take
Our temper from todav
1 Domtliv Worclvn orth
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIflTS
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
85 We'll frame the measure of our souls*
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my sister I come, I pray.
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book . for this one day
*° We'll give to idleness.
A WHIBL-BLAST FEOM BEHIND THE
HILL
1798 1800
A whirl-blast from behind the hill
Rush M o'er the wood with startling souud ,
Then— all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round
5 Where leafless oaks towered high above,
I sat within an nndergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
10 With withered leaves is covered o'er,
And all the year the bower is green.
But see' where'er the hailstones drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze— no breath of air—
U Yet here, and theie, and everywhere
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
20 Some Robin Good-fellow were there.
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.
EXPOSTULATION AND BEPLY
1798 1798
"Why, William, on that old gray stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time awayf
r> "Where are your books t- that light
bequeathed
To beings else forlorn and blind !
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"Ton look round on your Mother Earth,
10 As if she for no purpose bore yon ;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before yon!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake.
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
16 To me my good friend Matthew1 spake,
And thus I made reply :
"The eye— it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
20 Against or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
2ri "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things forever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking f
" — Then ask not wherefore, liere, alone,
80 Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old gray stone,
And dream my time away."
THE TABLES TURNED
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT
1798 1798
Up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you 11 grow double1
I7p! up! my friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
5 The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has
spread,
His first sweet evening yello*
1 Books f 'tis a dull and endless «tnfc-
10 Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How s \\eet his music! on my life.
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
1:> Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to Mess-
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
->u Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach yon more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
i "A friend who wai Romewfaat unreasonably at
tarhed to modern hooks of moral philosophy "
\V1LLI\M WORDSWOUTII
2J.J
26 Sweet IB the lore winch Nature bimgb;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of
things:—
We murder to dissect
Enough of Science and of Art ,
J0 Close up those barren leaves,
Come forth, and bring with >ou a heart
That watches and receives
LINES
COMPOSED A FEW MILLS AMOVE TIN TERN
ABBE7, ON REVISITING THE HANKS OF TH*
WYE DURING A TOUR, JULT 1 *», 1TOR
1798 1708
Five yearn have past ; five Rummers, with
the length
Of the long winters*' and again I hour
These waters, lolling from their moun-
tain-springs
With a soft inland murmur — Once again
6 Do L behold these steep and lofty cliffs.
That on a uild secluded scene impress
Thoughts ot more deep seclusion; and
connect
The landscape mth the quiet of the sk\
The day is come A* hen I again repose
10 Here, under this daik syca more, and \ie*
These plots ot cottaire-in ound, these
orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with then unripe
fruits,
Are clad in one preen hue, and IOM>
themseh es
'Mid groves and copses Once a^uni 1 see
16 These hedgerows, hardly hedgeuws, little
lines
Of sportive Mood run mid these pas-
toral farms,
Green to the \er> dooi , anil wreaths o1
smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the tieesf
With some uncertain notice, us might seem
20 Of vagrant dwelleis in the houseless woods
Or of some heimit 's ea\e. where by his iiie
The hermit sits alone
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, ha\e not been
to me
2G As is a landscape to a blind man's eve
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the dm
Of towns and cities, I have cwed to them.
In houis of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ,
And passing even into my purer mind.
10 With tranquil restoration:— feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man 's hie,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
36 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime , that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mastery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
40 Of all this unintelligible uorld,
Is lightened-— that serene and blessed
mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
45 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul .
While with an e>e made quiet by the power
Of harmom, and the deep power of ]o\.
We see into the hie of things.
If this
lft Be but a vain belief, \et, oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight, *hen the fretful
stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of mv
heart—
r'ri How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
0 sylvan Wye1 thou wanderer thro' the
woods,
How often has my spirit tinned to thee'
And now, with gleams of half-extin-
guished thought,
With manv reco&mitions dim and faint,
fir) And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives "again
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but* with pleasing
thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
fiB For futuie yeais. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I
Titts when fhst
1 came among these hills, when like a roe
I hounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rneis, and the lonely streams,
•° Whemer nature led more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads
than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For
nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all
gone by)
75 To me was all in all.— I cannot paint
What then I was The Rounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion • the tall rock.
The mountain, and the deep and gloom \
wood,
284 NJNJjJTJbJENTII OUNTUilV HOMANTlOIHTfl
Their colors and their forms, were then Knowing that Nature uo\ or did betray
to me The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
80 An appetite; a feeling and a love, Through all the years of this our life,
That had no need of a remoter charm, to lead
By thought bupplied, nor am interest 12:> Flora IOA to joy: for she can so inform
Unhorrowed from the eye.— -That time IK The mind that is within us, so impress
past, With quietness and beauty, and so feed
And all its aching joys are now no more. With lofty tliouojits, that neither evil
83 And all its dizzv raptures Not for this tongues,
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other Unsh judgments, nor the sneers of selfish
gifts men,
Have followed; for such loss. I would 13° Nurgicetmus ^heie no kindness is, nor all
believe. The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Abundant recompense For T luue leained Shall e'er prevail against us, or distuib
To look on nature, not as in the horn Our cheerful faith, that all which wo
90 Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often- behold
times Is full of blessings Thei of 01 e let the moon
The still, sad music of humanity, 135 Shine on thee m thy sohtaix walk;
Nor liaish nor gratiner, though of ample And let the misty mountain-winds lie fiee
)K>wei To blow against thee and, in after yeais
To chasten and subdue And I lune felt When these mild ecstasies shall be ma'tunM
A presence that disturbs me with the joy Into a sober pleasure; TV lien thv mind
qB Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime 14° Shall be a mansion for all lovclv forms
Of something far more deeply mtei fused. Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
Whose dwelling is the lisrht of setting suns, For all sueet sounds and harmonies
And the round ocean and the living an, oh' then,
And the blue skv, and in the mind of man If solitude, or feai, 01 pain, or giief,
100 A motion and a spirit, that impels Should be th> portion, mith what heal-
All thinking things, all objects of all ing thoughts
thought, 1IB Of tender joy A\ilt thou rememlier me.
And rolls through all tinners Theiefoie And these my exhortations' Nor, por-
am I still chance—
A lover of the meadows and the woods. If I should be where I no more can hear
And mountains; and of all that we behold Thy \oiee, nor catch from thy wild e^ses
KW From this green earth , of all the mi&rhtA these gleams
world Of imst existence— wilt thou then foiget
Of eve, and ear,— both what they half 1RO That on the banks of this delightful stream
create, We stood togetliei i and that I, so lon»
Ami wlmt perceive: well pleased to rec- A worshipper of Natuie, hither came
ogniase Unwearied in that service • rather say
In nature and the language of the sense With warmer lo\e— oh » with far deeper
The anchor of mv purest thoughts, the aeal
nurse, 1BB Of holier lo\c Xor wilt thou then foiget
110 The guide, the guardian of mv heart. That aftei main wanderings, many years
and soul Of absence, these steep woods and lofh
Of all mv moral being. fliflfe,
Nor perchance,' And this gieen pastoral landscape, were
If I were not thus taught, should I the moi e to me
Suffer my genial spirits to decay More dear, both for themselves and for
For thou art with me here upon the banks thv sake '
u* Of this fair river; thou mv dearest friend, ,m™«.
My dear, dear friend; and in thy voice THE OLD OTMBKTU,A\I> REGGAR
I catch J'™ IKfm
The language of my former heart, and read I TOW an aged beggar in my walk;
Mv former pleasures in the shooting lights And he was seated, by the highway mile,
Of thv wild eves Oh ! yet a little while On a low structure of rude masonry
«> May I behold in the* what I was once, Built at the foot of a huge hill, that thev
My dear, dear sister! and this prayer * Who lead their horse* down the steep
T make, rough road
WILLIAM WOKDSWOHTir
235
May thence remount at ease. The aged
man
Had placed his staff across the broad
smooth stone
That overlays the pile, and, from a bap:
All white with flour, the dole of village
dames,
10 He diew his scraps and fragments, one
by one,
And scanned them with a fixed and sei i-
OUB look
Of idle computation In the sun,
Upon the second step of that biuall pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
r> He sat, and ate his food m solitude
And ever scatteied from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the w aste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little
showeis
Fell on the ground , and the small moun-
tain buds,
20 Not \ent linns* >et to peck their destined
meal,
Approached within the length of half In*
staff
Him f lorn m\ childhood lm\e I known
and then
He was so old. lie seems not oMei now .
He tra\els on. a sohtai\ man
2B So helpless in iipjM'iiiancc, thai for him
The sauntering hoiscinun thiows not
with a slack
And careless hand his alms upon the
ground.
Hut btops,— that ho nun safelv lodge the
coin
Within the aid man 's hat , noi quits him so,
*° But still, when ho has m\en his hoi**
the lein,
Watches the a^ed heggai vith a look
Sidelong, and half-ie\eited She who
tends
The tull-gnie, when in suniniei at hei door
She tin us hoi wheel, if on the road she sees
r' The aged beggai coining, quits her work.
And lifts the latch for him that he inav
pass
The post-bo>, when his rattling whoeK
o'ertake
The aged beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind , and, if thus
warned
40 The old man does not change his course.
the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the
roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips or anger at his heart.
He travels on, a solitary man,
45 His age has no companion. On the ground
His eyes are turned, and, as he nurves
along,
They move along the ground, and, ever-
more,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
"° And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, fiom day to day,
How-bent, hib eyes foiever on the giound,
fie plies his weary journey, seeing still,
Ami seldom knowing that he sees, some
straw,
"' Rome scattered leaf, or marks which, in
one track,
The nails of eart or chariot-wheel have
left
Impiessed on the white road,— in the
same line,
At distance still the same. Poor tia\ellei !
His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his
feet
60 Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the <ottage cms,
Kie he has passed the dooi, will tuin away,
Weary of balking at him Boys and git Is,
The \ftcant and the h\iM, mauls and
fi" Ami urchins iiewh bieeched— all pass
him b\
Him e\en the slow-paced wayon leases
behind
Hut deem not this man useless —
Statesmen T je
Who aie so restless in vuur wisdom, >e
Who have a bioom still leady in youi hands
70 To nd the woild of iiinsances, >e proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye con-
template
Vour talents, power, or wisdom, deem
him not
A burthen of the earth ' 'Tis Nat ure 's law
That none, the meanest of cieated thinus,
75 Of forms created the most \ lie and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from srood— a spirit and pulse
of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked Then be assured
*° That least of all ran aught— that ever
owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sub-
lime
Which man is born to— sink, howe'er
depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
236 NINBTKKNTII CKNTTTRY ROMANT1C1HTS
85 Like the dry remnant of a garden flower 13° His present blessings, and to husband up
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement The respite of the season, he, at least,
Worn out and worthless. While from And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt
door to door,
This old man creeps, the villagers in him Yet further.— Many, I believe, there are
Behold a record which together binds Who live a life of virtuous decency,
90 Past deed* and offices of charity, 185 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
Else unrememberi'd, and so keeps alive No self-reproach; who of the moral law
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse Established in the land where they abide
of years, Are strict observers, and not negligent
And that half-wisdom half-experience In acts of love to those with whom thev
gives. dwell,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign J4° Their kindred, and the children of their
96 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. blood.
Among the farms and solitary huts, Praise be to such, and to their slumbers
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, peace '
Where'er the aged beggar takes his rounds —But of the poor man ask, the abject
The mild necessity of use compels poor;
100 To acts of love; and habit does the woik Co, and demand of him, -if there be here
Of reason; yet prepares that a f lei -joy In thib cold abstinence from evil deeds,
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 143 And these me\ itable charities,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpunmed, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
Doth find herself insensibly disposed No— man is dear to man ; the poorest pooi
105 TO virtue and true goodness Long for some moments in a weary life
Some there are, When thev can know and feel that they
By their good works exalted, lofty minds, \ia\ e been,
And meditative, authors of delight 1KO Themsehes, the fal hers and the dealers-out
And happiness, which to the end of time Of some small blessings, have been kind
Will live, and spread, and kindle e\f»n to such
such minds As needed kindness, for this single cause,
110 In childhood, from this solitary being, That we hate all of us one human hehrt
Or from like wanderer haply have received —Such plea sine is to one kind being
(A thing more precious far than all that knovtn,
books ln>> Mv neighbor, when \uth punctual care,
Or the solicitudes of love can dof) each week,
That first mild touch of sympathy and Duly as Friday comes, though pressed
thought, herself
116 In which they found their kindred with B> her own wants, she from her store of
a world meal
Where want and sorrow were The eas\ Takes one unspanng handful for the scrip
man Of this old mendicant, and, from her door
Who sits at his own door.— and, like the 16° Returning *ith exhilarated heart,
pear Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in
That overhangs his head from the green heaven
wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and Then let him pass, a blessing on his head f
young, And while in that vast solitude to which
120 The prosperous and unthinking, the> The tide of things has borne him, he
who live appears
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove ]*5 To breathe and live but for himself alone.
Of their own kindred;— all behold in him Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
A silent monitor, which on their minds The good which the benignant law of
Must needs impress a transitory thought Heaven
125 Of self-congratulation, to the heart Has hung around him* and, while bfe
Of each recalling his peculiar boons, is his,
His charters and exemptions; and, per- Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
chance, 17° To tender offices and pensive thoughts
Though he to no one give the fortitude —Then let him pass, a blessing on his head !
And circumspection needful to preserve And, long a A he can wander, let him breathe
WILLIAM WORD8WOBTH
287
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Straggle with frosty air and winter snows ,
"3 And let the chartered1 wind that h weeps
the heath
Beat his gray lockb against his withered
face
Reveience the hope whose vital anuousueas
Gives the last human interest to his heart
May never House, misnamed of Industry,-'
180 Make him a captive 1 — for that pent-up
din,
Those life-conbuming sounds that clog
the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age'
Let him be free of mountain solitudes,
And have around him, whether heard
or not,
ls3 The pleasant melod> oi woodland birds
Few are his pictures : if bib eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon eaith
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal bun,
190 Rising or netting let the light at least
Find a free enhance to their languid orbs,
And let him. \\heie and when he will,
sit don n
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the bttlc Jmdv
196 Share his chance-gathered meal; and.
finally
As in the e~\e of Nature he has lived.
So in the eve of Nature let him die!
NUTTING
1199 1800
It seem& a da>
(I 8}>eak oi one from many singled out)
One of those hea\enl> days that cannot
die.
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope.
5 I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders
slung,
A nutting crook in hand ; and turned m\
steps
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a figure
quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off
10 Which for that sen ice had been hus-
banded.
By exhortation of my frugal dame-
Motley accoutiement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—
and in truth
More ragged than need was* O'er path-
less rocks,
1 The poorhouso
16 Through beds ot matted fern, and tangled
thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, un-
gracious sign
Of devastation ; but the hazels rose
20 Tall and erect, with tempting cluster*
hung,
A \irgin scene!— A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the
heart
As joy delights in ; and with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a iival, eyed
25 The banquet,— or beneath the trees 1 sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers
I played;
A temper known to those who, after long
And wearj expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope
30 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose
leaves
The violets of five seasons reappear
And fade, unseen by any human eye,
Where fairy watei-bieaks1 do nmimui on
Forevei , and I saw the sparkling foam,
•*"' And— with my cheek on one of those
green stones
That, fleeced with moss, under the shad}
trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of
sheep—
1 heard the murmur and the murmuring
sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure love*
to pay
40 Tnbutc to ease, and, of its joy secure.
The heait luxuriates with indifferent
things.
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones.
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose.
And dragged to earth both branch and
bough, with crash
45 And merciless ia\age: and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the
past,
*'° Ere from the mutilated bower I turned
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
T felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding
sky.-
Then, dearest maiden, move along these
shades
r>6 In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch— for there is a spirit in the woods
1 rlpplr*
238
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I
KNOWN
1800
Strange fits of passion have I known
And I will dare to tell,
Bnt in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell
5 When she I loved looked every da>
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage hent iny ua>.
Beneath an evening moon
Upon the moon I fixed rav e>e
™ All over the wide lea ,
With quickening pace my hor^c drew nmh
Those paths so dear to me
And now uc reached the ou haul-plot .
And, as we climbed the hill,
1B The sinking moon to Luc\ \ rot
Tame near, and uearei btill
In one of those sweet dream** I slept.
Kind Nature's gentlest boon'
And all the while mv eyes T kept
20 On the descending moon
M\ horse moved on. hoof uitei hoof
He laised, and never stopped
When down behind the cottaue loot
At once, the bright moon dropped
26 What fond and wavward thoughts will slide
Into a lover 'H headf
"0 racicy'" lo myself I cried.
-If Lucv should he dead' ''
SHE DWELT AMONG THE
UNTRODDEN WAYS
1799 1800
She dwelt among: the untrodden
Beside the springs of Dove.
A maid whom there were none to praise
And ven few to love-
5 A violet by a moss} stone
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair us a star, when only one
Tb shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
10 When Lucy ceased to be;
Rut she is m her grave. and. oh,
Tho difference to me'
I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN
MEN
2799 1807
1 travelled among unknown men,
In lands bevond the sea;
Nor, England ! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee
r' 'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
V second time ; for still I seem
To love thee more and more
Among thy mountains did I feel
10 The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The borers where Luc\ placed:
15 And thine too IH the last gieen Held
That Lucy's evcb Hurve\ed
THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN HI'N
AND SHOWER
1NOO
Three years she grew in Run and show 01
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was ne\er sown,
This child 1 to myself will take,
1 She shall be mine, and T AM 11 make
A lady of my own
"Myself will to m> dailiug be
Itoth law and impulse and with me
The mil, in lock ami plain,
10 In earth and heaven, m glade and bouei.
Shall feel an overseeintr power
To kindle 01 lestrain
"She shall be bpoitive ab the fawn
That wild with glee aerobs the lawn
n Or up the mountain spungs,
And heis shall be the breathing balm.
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
"The floating clouds their state fehall lend
20 To her; for her the willow bend,
Nor shall she fail to see
Kven in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden ^ tmni
By silent sympathy
25 "The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place ,
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
10 Shall pans into her fnce.
\\1LLUM WOKDBWORTH
2:19
"And vital ieehngs oi' delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her vn gin bosom swell,
Such thoughts to Lucy I will
3& While she and 1 together live
Here in this lmpj)y dell "
Thus Natuie spake— -The work was done—
Uow soon m> Lucy's race was iunf
She died, and left to me
40 This heath, this calm, ami quiet scene
The memory oi \\lint has been,
And never moi e \\ ill lie
A SLUMBEK DID MY SPIRIT SEAL
1700 1800
A slumbei did my spirit seal,
I had no human i'eais
She seemed a tliin«r that could not I eel
The touch of eaithh \ears
" Xo motion has she no\\, no lone
She neithei hears noi sees,
Rolled lound in earth's diuinal cotii*e.
\\ith locks, and stones, and tiees
A POET'S EPITAPH
1MNI
Ail thon a statist in the \an
Ot public <onflicts tiamed and biod'f
Fust leain to love one Innm man
Then nun M thou think upon the dend
"• V la\\>ci art lhoii?— diin\ not nush1
(Id, c-a'nj to some httci place
The keenness of that piacticed e>c.
The baldness of that snllom tace
Vit thon a man ot ] nu pie cbcei '
111 A rosy man, nnht plump to see*
Appioach. \et, duct 01 J not too neai.
This aia\e no cushion is fin Ihee
Oi ait thou one of »allant pude
A qnldiei and no man oi chaff?
15 Welcome1— but lav thv s\\oid aside.
And lean upon a peasant's staff
Physician nil thou '-one, all e>e-,
Philoso]>bei '— a tiiiueniur sla\e.
One that would peep and botani/c
-° Upon his mothei 's jiin\c?
Wra])t closely in thy scnsunl ilmc.
0 turn aside,— and take, T pia>,
That he below may icsi in
Thy e\ei-dwindlum soul, n
1 \
J"' A moialist1 perchance appeals.
Led, Heaven knows how f to this pool sod
And he has neither eyes nor ears,
Himself his world, and his own God ,
One to whose smooth- rubbed soul can cling
50 Noi ioiui, nor feeling, gieat 01 small,
A ipflsonniK, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual all-in-all f
Shut close i lie dooi , piess down the latch,
Sleep in th> intellectual ciust,
r» Noi lose ten tickings of thy watch
Neai this unpiolitable dust
But who is he, with modest looks,
And clad in homely tusset blown If
He mm nuu s neai the limning brooks
•*" A music suectcM than then own
Tip is iptired «•« noontide dew,
Oi fountain in a noon-day gnnc,
And >ou must love him, eie to you
He mil seem worthy ot your lo\e
4<i The outward shous of sky and earth.
Of bill and valley, he has vie\\ed ,
\nd miTdilsc^ of deepei biith
lla\c come to him in solitude
In common things that lound us he
|0 Some landcnn tinths he can nnpai*t.
Thchuixest ot a cpiiet eye
That bioods and sleeps 'on his o\\n heait
Rut he is ucak, lioth man and bo\
Hath bwn an idler in the land,
"" Contented if ho nimht PII.IO\
The things which otheis undei stand
—Come hither in ll^ hour oi st length,
Come, ^\eak as is a bieakum wa>e'
licit- stieUh Ihv body at full length.
M] (>i build tin house upon tiiispia\e
MATTHEW
119B 1800
Tf Nature, for a favonte child,
In thee hath tempered so hei clay,
That e\eiy hour thy heait runs wild,
Vet ncxei once doth 1*0
R Head o'er these lines; and then re\iew
This tablet, that thus humbly leais
in such dneisit\ of hue
Its hiMon of two bundled >euis
—Wlien tbrourfi this little wreck of fame
10 Cipher and syllable.' thine eye
1 Ono \\1in tonfh
240
MNETEENTH CENTUKY ROMANTICISTS
Has travelled down to Matthew's name.
Pause with 110 common sympathy.
And if a sleeping tear should wake.
Then be it neither cheeked nor stayed .
ir> For Matthew a request I make
Which for himself he had not made.
Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er.
Is silent as a standing pool ;
Far from the chimney's merry roar,
30 And murmur of the village school
The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
Of one tned out with fun and madness,
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness
26 Yet sometimes uhen the secret cup
Of still and sei ions thought went round,
Tt seemed as if he drank it up—
He telt with sjmit so profound
—Thou «oul of God's best earthly mould*
30 Thou happy Soul f and can it be
That these tun words of glittering gold
Aie nil that must remain of thee?
TITE TWO APRIL MORNINGS
ll't'J 1800
We walked along, while bright and red
I'prose the moi inng sun ,
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
"The will of Owl be done1"
"' A ^ illage schoolmaster was IIP,
With hair of glittering gray ,
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spimg holiday
And on that morning, through the glass.
10 And by the steaming nils,
We tia\elled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills
"Our work," said I, "was well begun,
Then from thy bieast what thought,
16 Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought f"
A second time did Matthew stop ,
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
20 To me he made reply:
"Ton cloud with that long purple eleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A dav like this which I have left
Fn1! Iliirfv \«ir*< behind.
-5 "And just abo\e you slope of corn
Such colors, and no other.
Were in the sky, that Apnl morn,
Of this the very brother.
"With uid and line I sued1 the sport
30 Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the churchyard coine, stopped
short,
Beside my daughter's grave
"Nine summers had she scarcely seen.
The pnde of all the vale;
35 And then she sang,— she would have been
A very nightingale.
"Six feet in eaitli my Emma lay,
And yet I loved her more,
For oo it seemed, than till that day
40 I e'er had toed before.
"And, turning from her gra\ef I met.
Beside the churohvard >cw,
A blooming gill, whose ban was met
With point* of morning dew.
r> "A basket on her head she bare,
Tier biow UBS smooth and white:
To see a child so \eiy fair,
It MBS a pure delight' f
"No fountain from its locky cave
•° F/er tripped with foot so fiee,
She seemed as happy as a \ia\e
That dances on the sea.
''There came fiom me a sigh of pain
_ Which I could ill confine,
" I looked at hei. and looked again
And did not mish her inmef"
Matthew is in his gra\e, yet now.
Methmks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
60 Of wilding in his hand
THE FOUNTAIN
I CONVERSATION
1790 1800
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Vffertionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young.
And Matthew seventy-two
3 We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
\\1LUAM WOKDHWOKTil
241
"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match
10 This water's pleasant tune
With some old border-song, or catch
That suits a sunnnei fs noon ,
"Or ol* the chinch-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
16 That half-mad tinny: of witty ihymes
Which you last Ajml made1"
In silence Mattheu laj, and eyed
The spring Yreneatli the tiee ,
And thus the deai old man le plied,
20 The gray-haired man of glee
"No chuck, no stay, tins sticamlet feais.
How meriily it goes*
'Twill murmur on a thousand jcais,
And How as nou it fhnis
26 "And hcie on (his delightful day,
1 cannot choose but think
How ni't, a \igoiiuis man, 1 lay
Beside this fountain's bunk
"My e\es art* dim uilh childish teais.
30 My'hea'it is idl> stmed,
For the sumo sound is in nn uais
Which in those da\s I hcaid
"Thus fares it still m oui deta\
And \ct the \\isci mind
85 Mourns less foi uhat age takes a\\a\
Than what it lea>es behind
"The blackbnd amid leutj
The larkabo\e the hill,
Let loose their nuoN \\hcti they please.
W Are cjuiet when the} will
"With Nature ne>ei do //««•// wage
A foolish stute, the> see
A happ> youth, and then old atre
Is beautiful and fiee
45 "But ve aie piessed b> he.nj lavs.
And oiten, plail "» i««ie,
We \ieai a lace of joy.
We have been lilad of
tkI1 thei*e be une \\lu> need
50 His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that ueie his
It is the man of mirth
"My da>s, my friend, aie alm«>st gone,
My life has been approved,
And man> lo^e me! but by none
Am I enough beloved "
"Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus com plains* f
I live and sing my idle bongs
60 Upon these happy plains,
"And, Matthew, foi thy child i en dead
I'll be a son to thee'"
At this he grasped my hand, and said
-Alas! that cannot be"
*"' We rose up from the fount am -bide ,
And down the smooth dpHcent
Of the green sheep-tiack did we glide,
And through the wood we went ,
And, ere we came to Leouaid's nx-k,
70 He sang those witty rhymes
About the craxv old church-dork,
And the bewildered chimes.
LUCY GRAY
OR, SOLITUDE
1799 1800
Oft I had heaid nl Liu^ Gray
And. when 1 c tossed the wild,
I chanced to see at bienk of day
The solitary child
~ No mate, no comiade Lu<\ knew,
She d\\elt on a uidc mooi.
-The sweetest thins that e\ei jrie\\
Beside a human dom '
^ mi jet ma\ sj»v the ia\\n at plavy
10 The liai«* upon the uriven;
But the sweet face ot Lucy Gia>
Will never more be seen.
"Tonight Mill be a stormy night—
_ You to the tfwii must go,
r> And take a lantein, child, to light
Voui mothei thiougli the snow."
'•That, fathfi1 \\ill J gladly do
"Tis scnireK atternoon —
The minster-dork ha^ just stiuck tu
20 Vnd yoiule? is the moonf'*
At this the father laised his h(»«»k.
And Hiapped a faggot-band;
He j)lied his * oik;— and Luc> n»«»k
Tho lantern in her hand.
25 Not blither is the mountain me
With iiinnv a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powoVn sno\\.
That uses up like amoke
242
NTNETEKNTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
.110
The storm came on before its time
30 She wandered up and down ;
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But nevei reached the town
The wietched patents all that night
Went shout in u far and wide,
i5 But there was neither sound nui sight
To serve them for a eruide
At daybreak on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor.
And thence thev SHU the budge of wood,
10 A furlong fioni their door
They wept— and, tinning homeunid. cued
"In heaven we all shall meet ,"
—When in the snow the mothei spied
The print of Lue\ 's feet
11 Then downuaids I mm the steep hill's edge 12°
They t lacked the footmaiks small,
And tliiough the hioken haw thorn hedge
And by the long stone wall ,
And then an open field they ciossed
50 The inaiks weie still the saine.
They tracked them on. noi e\er lost, 32"'
And to the budge they <ame
The\ followed iiom the sno\\\ bank
Those footmaiks, one by one,
5"' Into the middle of the plank ,
\nd furthoi theie ueie none1
—Yet some maintain that to this da\
She is a living child , 3JO
That you may see sweet Luo (iia\
80 Upon the lonesome wild
O'ei lough and smooth she trips along.
And nevei looks behind, 3'<5
And sings a solitary sonp
That whistles in the wind
THE PRELUDE
1709-1805 1850
From BOOK I INTRODUCTION — CHILDHOOD
AND SCHOOL-TIME
Fair seed-time had my soul, and I giew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by feai ***
Much faxored in my birthplace, and no less
In (hat beloved Vale1 to which erelong
305 ^yc were transplanted— there weie we let
lose
For sports of wider range Ere I had told
3*5
1 Ruthwalto Lancahhlrp. in i\!ilch th<» village of
HflwkshPAd, wherp Woi<Nuorth n Mend pel
' ' , wim Hltiiflt»»d
Ten birthdays, when among the mountain
slopes
Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had
snapped
The la*t autumnal ciocus, 'twas my joy
\vfth stoic Of springes1 o'er my should?!
hung
To lange the open heights \\heie wood-
cocks run
Among the smcnith gi*ecn tnif Tliiough
half the night,
Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied
That anxious visitation,— moon and stars
Were shining o'er my head I was alone,
And seemed to be a tiouble to the peace
That dwelt among them Sometimes it
befell
In these night wanderings that n stmnir
desne
O'erpowered my better icason, and the bud
Which was the captive of another's toil
Became my prey, and when the deed was
done
I heaid among the solitary hills
Lou breathings comincf after me, and
sounds
Of un distinguishable motion, steps
Almost as silent as the turf they tiod
Xor less when skiing had wnnntMl the
cultured Vale,2
Mo\ed we as plnndeiers where the mothei -
bird
Had in high places built her lodge, though
mean
Our object and ingloiious, jot the end
Was not ignoble Oh! when I ha\c hum-
Above the i men's nebt, b> knots of pi ass
And half-inch fissures in the slippery lock
Hut ill-sustained, mid almost (so it seemed )
Suspended fa llu> blast that blew amain.
Shouldering the naked ciag, oh, at that time
While on the pei ilous i idge I hung alone.
With what stianjre utterance did the loud
dry \i md
Tilow through my earf the sky seemed not
a sky
Of earth— and with uhat motion mo^ed
the clouds'
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit gi ows
Like harmony in music, theie is a dark
Inscrutable noiknianship that icconcilcs
Discordant elements, makes them cling to-
gether
In one society llo\v strange that all
The terrors, pains. HIM! eailv miseries,
nonr Hnwkslirari
1 snare* ; trap*
flY<>x\GnU>, n vnlo
\V ILU AM \\ ORDB WORTH
243
Regrets, \cxiitions, lassitudes interfused
Within my mind, should e'er ha\e home
apart,
And that a needful pait, in making up
The calm existence that is mine when 1
ar'° Am worthy of myself' Piaise to the end f
Thanks to the means which Natme dcurncd
to employ ,
Whether hei fearless \isitmgs, or those
That came with soft aim in, like hint less
light
Owning the peaceful clouds, 01 she inaj
use
iV» Se\eici mtci \ent ions, nnnisti>
Mme palpable, ns lie-st might suit hei aim
Onesuniinei e\emng (led In hei ) I found
A little boat tied to a willow" tiee
Within a loclrv cove, its usual home
!MI Straight 1 unloosed her chain, and stepping
in
Pushed fiom the shoie It was an a<t
of stealth
And tioubled plensuie, not without the
^ out1
OJ moiiiitnin echoes did im boat mo\e on,
Famine hehind hei still, on eithei side,
">'' Small cuclcs glittcinm idl\ in the moon.
Kiiti! the% mrlted nil into mu> tiack
Of spaiklnig lujht Hut now, like one
who lows
Pi oud of his skill, to lendi a chosen point
With an unswervnm 1me9 I fixed m> Mew
870 Upon the summit of a ciHf>^\ nduc.
The hoi i/.on 's utmost houndai>, tai aboxe
Was not hum hut the stais and the ^im sk\
She was an elfin pinnace, lustih
I dipped inv oai*s into the silent lake.
•i7& And, as I rose upon the stioke. my boat
Went hea\mg tlnonerh the water like a
swan.
When, tiom behind that cuu»tt> steep till
then
The hoi izon 's bound, a huge peak, black
and huge,
As if with \oluntary powoi instinct
J^° Fpreared it*» head T «tiuck and struck
auain,
Vnd urowinpr still in Ratine the s>mn shape
Toweied up between me and the stai-,
and still.
For so it seemed, with pmpose oJ it* own
And measured motion like a lump thing.
'W Stiode after me With trembling oai-s
I tumed,
And through the silent watei stole my wav
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooriim-phiec 1 left my
bark,—
And through the meadows home wa id went.
in gra^c
^° And serious mood , but after T had seen
That spectacle, fin nianv da^s, my brain
Woiked with a dim and undetci mined sense
Of unknown modes of hems:, o'er m>
thoughts
Theie hum; a daikness. call it solitude
ti»r. (>r biank deseition No tamihai shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees.
Of sea or sky, no colois of gieen fields.
Hut huge and mighty ioinis, that do not h\e
Like living men, nuned slowly tlnou»h the
mind
400 B\ day, and were a tiouble t«> my dreams
Wisdom and Spirit of the nniveisc1
Thou Soul that ait the eteinitv of thought
That pi vest to toims and images a bie.it h
And e\ei lasting motion, not in \am
Ior' HA dav 01 stai -light thus fiom my hi^t
dawn
Ot childhood didst thou mtei twine toi me
The passions that build up out human soul .
\ot with the mean and Milgai woiks ot
man.
Hut with hmh objects, with endimnir
things—
110 With life and natuie—puiif>Hi^ thii^
The elements of feel in i> and oi thous>ht,
And sanctifying, by such discipline.
Hotli pain and feai, until we recognize
A mandeui in the beatings of the heait
ir' \oi wa^ this icllowshi]* \ouchsafeil to me
With stinted kindness In Nmembei days.
When \apois lolling down the valley made
A lonel> scene moie lonesome, ainonu
wt»ods,
\t noon and 'mid the calm of suimnei
niiihts
420 When, by the niai^iu of the fieinbling lake.
Beneath the clooim InlN home\\aid J went
In solitude, such niteicouise was mine.
Mine wa< it in the fields both day and night,
And bv the wateis. all the sunnnei lon»
42"» Vnd in the fio*t\ stMson, when the sun
1 Was vet, and \isible Joi many a mile
The cottage windows blazed through twi-
light gloom,
I heeded not then summons happ\ turn*
Ft was indeed for all of us— for me
130 It was a time of laptuic* Cleai and loud
The village clock tolled *i\,— T wheeled
about,
Proud and e*ultmt> like an until ed hoise
That cares not for his home All shod
with steel.
We hissed alonu the polished ice in ua
244
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
646
550
"•5
"|WI
436 Confederate, mutatne of the chane
And woodland pleasures,— the resounding
horn,
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted
hare
So through the daikuess and the cold we
flew,
And not a voice was. idle; with the dm
440 Smitten, the precipices rancr aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iion, \\hile fat distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy not unnoticed, \ihile the
stare
446 Eastward ueie sparkling clear, and in the
west
The oiange sky of e\eiiing died awn\
Not seldom fiom the uproar I retiied
Into a silent bay, or sport ivelv
Glanced sideway, lea\mg the tumultuous
throng,
450 To cut across the reflex of a star
That fled, and, flying still before me
gleamed
Upon the glassy plain , and oftentimes.
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
456 Caine sweeping thiough the daiknc*s
spinning still
The lapid hue of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped shoit, }et still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me— even as if the earth had
rolled
460 With visible motion her dmiual lound'
Behind me did they stietch in solemn tram,
Feebler and feeblei. and I stood and
watched
Till all was tranquil as a di cam less sleep
Ye Presences of Nat me in the sky
4*B And on the earth ! Te Visions of the hills !
And Souls of lonely places9 can I think -.75
A vulgar hope was yours when ye em-
ployed
Such ministry, when ye through many B
year
Haunting me thus among my boyish spurts,
170 On ca>cs and tiees, upon the woods and
hills, 680
Impressed upon all forms the chaiactets
Of danger or deshc; and thus did make
The surface of the umveisal earth
With triumph and delight, with hope and
fear,
475 Work like a seat
Not uselessly employed.
Might T puisne this theme through every
change
Of e*eicise and play, to which the year
Did summon us in his delightful round.
• •••••
Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace
How Nature by extrinsic passion first
Peopled the mind with forms sublime 01
fair,
And made me love them, may I heie omit
How other pleasures have been mine, and
Oi subtler ougm, how [ ha\e felt,
Not seldom even in that tempestuous time.
Those hallowed and pure motions of the
sense
Which seem, in their simplicity, to own
An intellectual charm, that calm delight
Which, it I eii not, suiely must belong
To those first-born affinities that lit
Our new existence to existing things,1
And, in our dawn of being, constitute
The bond of union between life and joj
Yes, I remembet when the changeful
eaith,
And twice five summers on my mind had
stamped
The faces of the moving year, even then
I held unconscious in tei course with beaut \
Old as creation, drinking in a pure
Organic pleasure fioni the silver meaths
of curling mist, or fiom the level plain
Of waters coloied by impending clouds
The sands of Westmorland, the cieeks
and bays
Of Cumbria's locky limits, thev can tell
How, when the Sea threw off his evening
shade
And to the shepheid's hut on distant lulls
Sent welcome notice ot the rising moon,
How I June stood, to fancies such as these
A strangei, linking with the spectacle
No conscious memory of a kindred sight,
And bringing with me no peculiar sense
Of quietness or peace , yet have I stood,
E\en while mine eye hath moved o'ci
many a league
Of shining water, gathering as it seemed.
Through every hair-breadth in that field
of light,
New pleasuie like a bee among the floweis
Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar jov
Which, through all seasons, on a child *s
pursuits
Aio prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy
bliss
Which, like a tempest, works along the
blood
nf
(p
WILLIAM WORUtiWOHTlI 245
585 And 10 forgotten; even then I felt And BOI row is not there! The seasons came,
Gleams like the flashing of a shield,— And every season wheresoe'er I moved
the earth 29° Unfolded transitory qualities,
And common face of Natuie spake to me Which, but for this most watehlul pouer
Bememberable things; sometimes, 'tis true, of love,
By chance collisions and quaint accidents Had been neglected, lett a registei
"MU (Like those ill-sorted unions, woik sup- Of permanent lelat ions, else unknown
posed Honce life, and change, and beauty, soh-
()f evil-minded fames), yet not vain hide
Nor profitless, if haply they impiessed -OB More actne e\en than "best society"—
Collateral objects and appeal unces Society made sweet as solitude
Albeit lifeless then, and dtxmied to sleep Hv silent mobtiusixo sympathies,
r'9B Until niatiuei seasons called them iotth And gentle agitations of the mind
To impregnate and to elevate the inmd From manifold distinctions, difference
—And if the vulgar jo\ by its o\in u eight 30° Perceued in things, wheie, to the un watch-
Weaned itself out of the memory, i'ul eye,
The scenes which weie a witness oJ that jo> No difference is, and hence, fiom the same
coo liemaiiied in their substantial lineaments souicc,
Depicted on the biam, and to the e>e Sublnner joj v for I would walk alone,
\\Vie \isible, a daily sight , and thus Tndci the quiet stais, and at that tune
By the impiessne discipline ot teai, lla\o felt whale 'ei tlieie is of po\\ei in
Hv pleasuie and icpcatcd happiness. sound
Mr» So hequentlv icpeated. and )rv feme ''OB To breathe an ele\ated mood, by fonn
Of oWme feelings icpicscntatne ()t linage un profaned, and I would stand.
Of things forgotten, these smne scenes MI If the night blackened with a coming storm,
blight, Ilciienflh some lock, listening to notes that
So beautiful, so nia]Csti( in thcniselxes. aie
Though vet the da> was distant, did become The ghostlv language of the ancient caith.
110 IlnhitiinlK dcai, and all then ioims *10 Oi make then dun abode in distant winds
And changeful colois b\ imisihle links Thence did I dunk the MSI on a IT po\\ei .
\Veie fastened to the affections And deem not piofitless those fleeting
moods
Prnn PftAK T7 ftlUIArtl TlMl °f ^in<l<mV eXlllfatlOll Hot for tills,
Fron, BOOK II SCHOOL T.ML That fhey fl|fi fcu|dio|1 (n |mr pmtii ^^
nfir> Ft om eailv da\s «B And intellectual life, but that the soul,
Beginning not long aftei that liist tune Remembering him she felt, but what she
In which, a babe, b\ intcicmiise of touch felt
I held mute dialogues >\ith m> mothei '* Remembei ing not, retains an obscure sense
heait, Of possible sublimity, \vheieto
I have endeavoied to display the means With growing faculties she doth aspne.
-711 Wheieby this infant KenmlNlit\. «!2° With faculties still gi-o\\mg, feeling still
(lieot bnthright of nin being. \\as in me That whatsoever point thej' gain, they jet
Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path Have something to pursue"
Moie difiicult bet oie me, and J leai And not alone.
That in its bioken umdings \\e shall need 'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'in id
275 The chamois f sme\\ s, and the eagle 's \\ ing fair
Koi now a trouble came into my mind And tiauquil scenes, that universal power
Fiom unknown causes I was left alone 3-r» And fitness in the latent qualities
Seeking the visible woi Id, nor knowing why And essences of things, by which the iniiicl
The props of my affections weie lemovcd. Is mined with feelings of delight, to me
280 And yet the building stood, as if sustained Came strengthened with a superaddcd soul,
Hy its own spirit1 All that I beheld A virtue not its oun
Was dear, and hence to finer influxes
The mind lay open, to a more exact S46 How shall I seek the oiiginl \\heie find
And close communion Many are our joys Faith in the marvellous things which I hen
28«i xn youth, but oh f what happiness to live I felt ?
When every hour brings palpable access Oft in these moments such a holy calm
Of knowledge, when all knowledge i« de- Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes
light, SRO Were utterly forgotten, and what T saw
246
NJNKTKKNTJI C'KNTUKY KOMA^N TllUHTB
Appeared like something in myself, a
dream,
A prospect in the mind
'Twere long to tell
What spring and autumn, what the winter
snows.
A PC! what the suminei shade, what din
and night,
**>3 E\ miiiig and rooming, sleep and waking,
thought
Piom sources inexhaustible, pouied Joith
To feed the spuit of religious love
In which I * alked with Nature. But let tins
Be not f 01 gotten, that I still retained
260 My first riputive sensibility,
That by the tegular action of the world
Mv soul was unsubdued A plastic power
Abode with me, a forming hand, at times
Rebellious, acting in a devious mood,
385 A local spnit of his own, at nar
With creneial tendency, but, foi the intM,
SuWment stiK'tK to e\teinal Ihnisrs
With which it coinm lined An aiiMhai light
r.iine from m\ iniiid mhich on the settnm
sun
370 Best o\\ed neui sjilendoi , the melodious
buds.
The Iliitteiing biec^es, foiuitams that inn
011
Mm mm im» so s\vtH»lh in themselxes.
ol>eyed
A like dominion, and the midnight stuini
875 Giew daikei in the presence of mj e-\e
Hence my obeisance, my demotion hence.
And hence my tiunspoit
Nor should this, peichance.
Pa««t uniecoided, that I still had lo^efl
The exeicise and pioduce of a toil,
Than analytic industry to me
™° More pleasing, and whose character I deem
Is moie poetic as lesembling moie
rieative agency The song would speak
OL that mteiminable building i eared
By observation of affinities
•!S3 In objects \\heie no brotheihood exists
To passive nnnils My seventeenth year
was comct
And, whether fiom this habit rooted now
So deeply in my mind, or from excess
In the great social principle of life
900 rocicing all things into sympathy,
To unoiganic natuies were tiansfened
My own enjoyments; or the power of truth
Coming in revelation, did converse
With things that really aie, I, at this time.
396 Saw blessings spread around me like a sea
Thus while the days flew by, and yearn
nasaed nn
passed OH, .
From Nature nnd h^r overflowing soul
1 had received so much, that all my
thoughts
Weie steeped in feeling; I was only then
40° Contented, when with bliss ineffable
I felt the sentiment of Being spread
O'er all that moves and all that seemelh
btill,
<>'ei nil that, losl be>ond the londi ol
thought
m And human knowledge. to the human e\e
|ir' Invisible, yet hveth to the heart,
O'ei all that leaps nnd num. and shouts
and sings,
Oi beatfe the gladsome an, o'oi all that
glides
Beneath the wa\e, >ea, in the wa\e itself,
And mighty depth of \vateis Woudei not
41° If high the tiauspoit, gieal the joy I fell
Coin minimi* in this soil tluoiurh eailh and
With e\en Joim of cientme, as it
TowaioS the Vnciealed \\ith a
Of iidoiatmii. \\ith an CM* of lo\e
Hr> One song lhe\ sain*, .uuPit \uis aiulihli
Most audible, then, itht'ii the fleshh cm
O'eicome by humblest ])ielude «>t tli.it
strain.
Foit»ot hei fiuu I inns, and slept
If this IM> eiioi. and anothei iaith
42° Find easiei access to the pious mind
^et weie 1 t>m<*sK ilestitute c»f all
Those human sentiments that mnke this
eaith
So dear, if J should iail uith guitetnl \oice
To speak of von. AC mountains, ,ui<] >c
lakes
12'~ And sounding cataracts, ye mibts and winds
That duell amon&r the hills where T uas
bom
If in uiy youth I ha\c been ]>uie in heait
If, mingling uith the world, I am content
With my o\in modest jtleasuies, and June
lived
«° With God and Natuie comiiiuniim. n-
moved
From little enmities and lo\\ desires
The gift is yours, if in these times oi leai '
This melaiichoh waste of hopes nVi
t hi own,
If, 'mid mcliffeience and a])athy,
43B And wicked exultation when good men
On every side fall off, uc know not how.
To selfishness, disguised in gentle names
Of peace and quiet and domestic love,
1 Daring the War of the Hecond Coalition, 1790
1N01. when Bugliind feared an Invasion In
Napoleon So«' rnlnrlilipVi Fmr* /« Hnlitutli
(p. an \)
WILLIAM WOKDbWOinil
Yet mingled not uii willingly with biieen>
4*o On visionary minds; if, in this time
Of Dereliction and dismay, I yet
Despair not of our nature, but retain
A innie than Roman confidence, a faith
That fails not, in all sonow my support,
146 The blessing of my life, the i>ift is \ouis,
Ye winds and sounding cataracts' 'tisyonis
Ye mountains' thine, O Natmcf Thou
hast fe<l
My lofty speculations, and m thee,
Foi this uneasy hcait of on is, I find
4"'° A ue\ei-fnilini» piinnple ot joy
And pmest passion
• •••••
From BOOK III RESIDENCE \T CVM BRIDGE
f|° Oft \\heu the dazzling slum no lougei m>\\
Had ceased to da/zle, ot'ttunes did I quit
\1\ conn ados, IcaAe the cmud, buildings
and n i ox PS
Vnd as 1 | meed alone the level held-.
Fai horn those luxeK sights and sounds
sublime
''r| With \\hich I had been comeisaiit.the mind
1 hooped not, but tlieie into heiselt ic-
tin nuifi.
With piompt icbound seemed iicsh as
lieietoioie
At least J moie distinctly lecogui/ed
llei miti\e instincts- let me daie to speak
1110 A hmhei Janiruaiie. sin that u<m I felt
What independent solaces \vcie mine,
To militate the mj ui ions s\\a\ oi place
()i circumstance, lio\\ fai soe\ei changed
In youth, 01 to be changed in attei \eais
lft"' As" if auakencd, siuiinioiipd, roused, con-
sti nined,
1 .looked ioi uimcisal things. ]>eiused
The common connten.inec of cai th and sk>
Earth, lumheie uneniMhshoil h\ some
tiaci*
OI that fiist I'aiailise whence man \\a^
din en.
-110An<l sk\. \\hrsc l)e;iuh and bounty me
120 All Imitu motioiib uiciiulmg, Ines
In glory immutable But peace* enough
Here to record that I was mounting now
To such community with -highest truth—
A track pui suing, not untrod befoie,
125 Fiom stuct analogies by thought supplied
Oi consciousnesses not to be subdued
To every natural foim, ro<'kf fmit, <»i
flo^ei.
Even the loose stones that cover the Ingh-
a moial hie 1 saw them feel,
130 Or linked them to some feeling the great
mass
Ijay Ixnlded in a quickening soul, and all
That ] beheld respued with m\\ard mean-
ing
Add that M hat e'er of Teiroi 01 of Lose
Oi Beauty. Nature's daily face put on
Ia" Kiom tiansitory passion, unto this
I uas as sensitive as waters aie
To the sky's influence in a kmdied mood
< >f passion , \ias obedient as a lute
That uaits UJMJII tlie touches oj the \vind
1|n I nknown, uuthought of. >ei I was most
iich—
I had a woild about me — 'luas m\ omn.
I made it, foi it onl} Ined to me.
And to the (lod who sees into the )n»ait
Tumi BOOK IV Si MMH. \AC\TION
'Mid a throng
310 Oi maids and youths old men. and n-a-
tions staid,
A medley of all tempeis, 1 had passed
The nmht in dancuii;. gaiety, and ninth.
With dm oi mshuments and
feet,
And ulancmtr forms, and tapers
•tr> And nnaimed piattle tlyint> up and do\\n,
S])iiitb upon the stietch, and heie and theie
Slight shocks ot >oung lo\e-likmg infei-
M\ the ]>ioud name she YKMUS — the name
ot ITen\en
on both to teach me uhat they
Whose tiansient ]>lea<uie mounted to the
liead,
And tingled through the veius Ere \\e
letued,
Or turning the mind in upon heiself,
Pored, watched, expect ed. listened, spiead
my thoughts
11" And spread them \\ith a widei ciecpme:,
t'clt
Incumbencies more auful, usitings
Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul.
That toleiates the indignities of Time.
And. f loin the mitre of Etemitv
.120 T
em skj
Was kindling, not unseen, from humble
copse
And open field, through which the path
way uouud,
And homeward led my steps Magnificent
The monmig rose, in memorable pomp.
*25 Glorious as e'er I had beheld— in fiont.
The sea lav laughing at a distance, near,
248 NINKTKHNTH C ION TUB Y KOMANT1C1HT8
The solid mountains shone, bright as the Pressed closely palm to palm, and to hip
clouds, mouth \
Grain-tinctured,1 drenched in empyrean Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
light; Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
And in the meadows and the lower grounds That they might answer him; and they
s*o wa8 all the sweetness of a common dawn— would shout
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds, 87B Across the watery vale, and shout again.
And laborers going forth to till the fields Responsive to his call, with quivering peals.
Ahf need I say, dear friend' that to the And long halloos and screams, and echoph
brim ' • loud,
My heart was full , I made no vows, but Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild
vows Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened
155 ^ore then made for me; bond unknown pause
to me 38° Of silence came and baffled his best skill,
Was given, that I should be, else sinning- Then sometimes, in that silence while he
greatly, hung
A dedicated Spirit On I walked Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Tn thankful blessedness, which yet survnes Has earned far into his heart the voice
Of mountain toi rents; or the visible scene
_ _ 38r§ Would enter unawares into his mind,
Prom BOOK V BOOKS with all its Mlemn imagery, its rocks,
These mighty workmen of our later a<re, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, 10-
Who, with a broad highway, have over- ceived
bridged Tnto the bosom of the steady lake
The froward chaos of futurity,
™ Tamed to their bidding, they who ha*e ^is Bov waq taken fro|n hjq matew
the skill and'died
To manage books, and thing*, and make **o Tn chlldhood, ere he was full twelve yean
them act o]^
On infant minds as surely as the sun Fair w the spot, most beautiful the vale
Deals with a flowei . the keepeis of onr Where he was born;1 the piass> elmreh-
*ime» _ f yard hangs
The guides and wardens of our faculties, Upon a slope above lhe vi,,n|,e ^hoo, 8
v* Sages who in their prescience would control And through that churchyard when inv
All accidents, and to the very road way \IBB \^
Which they have fashioned would eon- 393 Qn summer evenings, I behexe that there
fine us down, A long half hour together I ha\e stood
Like engines; when will their presumption Mute> looking at the grave in which he lies '
learn, ^ FA en now appeals befoie the mind's cleai
That in the unreasoning progress of the gyp
**« . worW • , * That self-same village church ; I see her sit
»•» A wiser spirit is at work for us, 400 (The thronfcd Lady whom erewhile we
A better eye than theirs, most prodigal hailed)
Of blessings, and most studious of our On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy
ff°°d» _ . M , Who slumbers at her feet,— forgetful, too.
Even in what seem onr most unfruitful of all her silent neighborhood of graves,
hours T And listening only to the gladsome sounds
There was a Boy: ye knew him well, 405 £**> £°m ** ™*l •*«* pending, play
ve cliffs Beneath her and about her. Hay she loiifr
w And islands of Winander !-many a time ^Id • raef ££.2™V* ^ .llke. ^^
At evening, when the earliest stars began SSLSfcLft!^^ * . '
To move along the edges of the hills, 410 JJ ^^ S^i^fS^ f
Rising or setting, would he stand alone 41° Of arte. anf l«ttera-but be that for-
Beneath ft. trees or by the glimmering A ^yj^ ^^ § not too ^
™ And there/ with fingers interwoven, both To° learn^' or too good; but wanton,
hands rresrif
9 \f nan knhead
WILLIAM WOBDSWOBTH
249
And bandied up and down by love aud
hate;
Not unresentful where self -justified,
415 Fierce, moody, patient, venturoub. modebt,
shy;
Mad at their sports like withered lea\es
in winds,
Though doing wiong and suffeimg, and
full oft
Bending beneath our life's mysterious
weight
Of pain, and doubt, and feai, yet yielding
not
420 In happiness to the happiest upon earth
Simplicity in habit, truth in speech,
Be these the daiJy strengthened of their
minds ,
May books and Nature be their early joy f
And knowledge, rightly honored with that
name—
425 Knowledge not purchased by the loss of
power!
• •••••
A gracious spirit o'er this earth pre-
sides,
And o'er the heart of man . invisibly
It comet*, to woiks of unreproved delight.
And tendency benign, directing those
495 Who care not, know not, think not what
they do. •
The tales that chaini away the wakeful
night
In Araby, romances, legends penned
For solace bv dun light of monkish lamps ,
Fictions, foi ladies of their love, devised
•.oo By youthful squires, ad\cutures endless,
spun
By the dismantled warnor in old age,
Out of the bowels of those very schemes
In which his youth did first extravagate , l
These spread like day, and something in
the shape
306 Of these will live till man shall be no more.
Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are
ours,
And fkey must have their food. Our
childhood sits,
Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne
That hath more power than all the ele-
ments.
"•10 I guess not what this tells of being past.
Nor what it augurs of the life to come;
But so it is, and, in that dubious hour,
That twilight when we first begin to see
This dawning earth, to recognize, expect,
616 And, in the long probation that ensues,
The time of trial, ere we learn to live
In reconcilement with mir stinted powers;
* wander ft bout
To endure this state of meagie vassalage,
Unwilling to foiego, confess, submit
520 Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-felloes
To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed
And humbled down,— oh! then we feel,
we feel,
We know when) \\e luue fueiids le,
dreamers, then,
Forgers of daring talcs ' we bless you then,
625 Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape
Philosophy will call you; then we feel
With what, and how great might ye aie in
league,
Who make our nush, our power, our
thought a deed,
An enipue, a possession,— ye whom time
530 And seasons serve, all Faculties to whom
Earth crouches, the elements are potter's
clay,
Space like a heaven filled up with northern
lights,
Here, nowheie, there, and every wheie at
once.
From BOOK VI CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS
The poet 's soul was with me at that time ,
Sweet meditations, the still overflow
Oi present happiness, while futuie jwu*
45 Lacked not anticipations, tendei dieaiiis.
No few of which have since been reah/ed v
And some lemain, hopes for my futuie
life.
Four years and thiity, told this \ery week,
Ha\e I been now a sojoumei on earth,
co By sorrow not unsnutten , yet for me
Life's morning radiance hath not left the
hills,
Her dew is on the floueis Those \veie the
days
Which also fiist emboldened me to trust
With firmness, hitherto but slightly touched
56 By such a daring thought, that I might
leave
Some monument behind me which pure
hearts
Should reverence. The instinctive humble-
ness.
Maintained even b> the very name and
thought
Of printed books and authorship, began
60 To melt awa> ; and further, the dread aue
Of mighty names was softened down and
seemed
Approachable, admitting fellowship
Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now,
Though not familiarly, my mind put on,
*•** Content to observe, to achieve, and to
enjoy.
250 NINETEENTH OENTUKY ROMANTICISTS
All winter long, whenever free to choose, Effort, and expectation, and desire,
Did I by night frequent the College groves And something evermore about to be.
And tributary walks; the last, and oft Under such banners militant, the soul
The only one, who had been lingering theie 61° Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no
TO Through hours of silence, till the porter's spoils
bell, That may attest hei pi OH ess, blest in
A punctual follower on the stroke of nine, thoughts
Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice, That are their o\\n }>ertection and rcwaid,
Inexorable summons ' Lofty elms, Strong in herself and in beatitude
Inviting shades of opportune recess, That hides hei, like the mighty ilood o!
76 Bestowed composure on a neighborhood Nile
Unlawful in itself A single tree rtir» Poured fioin his fount of Abyssinian
With sinuous tiunk, boughs e\qm-»itel\ clouds
wreathed, To fertilize the whole Egyptian plain
(tiew there; nn ash which Wintei i or him- _. , , , , ,
v^jf The melancholy slackening that ensued
Docked as in piide, and mtli outlandish ]>IU those tidin«s by the peasant given
" as won dislodged Dowmvaids we hm
Up finm the groiuid, and almost to the ^fli^f' u i i i i i
t0 b-H And uitli the hali-shuped loud winch
y
The flunk und CA civ inaMei hianch wcic ., had missed, «...
iJiileied a iiaiiou chasm The biook anil
With <-'lusteiiii« u\, and the li*»htM»n)c r/)JJy
(W1ps were Jellow-tra\elleis in this gloomx
And outer sprav profusely tipped uith t , strait,
^e(]s * And with them did \\e jouine\ se\eial
That hung in yellow tassels, \\hile the nn 4 1howis
8> Stmed them, not \cricele*, Olten ha\e 1 , tf At, a slow Pat'e Tlje inimeabiii able heiulil
fctoQd ''-° C)l woods decaying, nevei to be decayed,
Foot-bound nplookms at this loxely tiw Thc*ltt1ionaiy blasts of wnleifalls,
Beneath a frostv mcmn The hemiipheie Airi 111 the iiannw lent at e\ety tuin
Of mai?ic fiction, \ersc of mine perchanro A\mds iliwaitiim uimls. liewildeied ,ind
Mav ne\ei Iread, but scaicelv Sj>ensei 's foilorn,
i he loirent sh(M>tiii|> iroin Ihe cleai hlnr
90 Cimld have nioie tranquil visions in his ...... sy»
youth, *'ie r<K*vS lhat iimtteied close ii]>on om
Or could more blight appeainnces cienle e,ais,
Of hnmanfornm with superhuman pow eis. >ll«^ diizzling ciagb Unit spake by ll.c
Than I beheld loitenng on calm clcai niphts ^ay-wde
Alone, beneath this fairy woik ot earth <}s it a \oicc ueie in them, the sick sio|,i
And j»i<ldy piosj>ec( ol the raving stream,
Iinagination-heie th'c Power Co failed The unfettered clouds and leerion of the
Through sad incompetence of human .. _ havens,
speech, Tumult and pence, (he daikness and the
That awful Power rose from the mind's Hf^i" IP i .
a^vss \\iw all hke woikin&>H of one mind, tin*
596 Like an unfathered \apoi that enwraps, g^n featines
At once, some lonely traveller I was lost , / IIlc ««* ^ blfmninw upon one tiee
Halted without an effort to bieak through . laracteis of the Rreat Apwalypse,
nut to my conscious soul I now can say- , lft !$***•** «»<J ^tnbolh ol Ltennty,
Ol°
"
, lft
Ol° Of firqt' «llfl last' m* «^- •'">
I leeogmze thy glory" in such strength
«oo of usurpation, when the light of sense ' . ^l'1 ....
Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed ^^^
The invisible world, doth greatness make BOOK VHI. BETROSPECT-LOVI or NATURI
abode LEADING TO LOVE or MAM
Theretarbors ; whether we be young or old, What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are
Our destiny, our being's heart and home, heard
«°« Is with infinitude, and only there; Up to thy summit, through the depth of an
With hope it is hope that can never die, Ai*»ndinQ, «*• H1 distance had the power
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
251
Tu make the sounds mote audible? What
crcwd
5 Covets, 01 sprinkles o'er, yuii village
giecnf
Crowd beems it, solitary lull ' to thee.
Though but a little i'amily of men,
Shepheids and tillers iif the pi-muid— be-
t lines
Assembled with then children and their
wive**,
10 And here and theieustiannei mteis|»eise<l
Thc\ hold a mslic lair— a iestnal.
Such iih, on this Bide no\\, and now on that.
Repeated through his tnhutan Miles
Hohellyn, in the silence ol his iest,
'* Sees annually, if clouds towards either
ocean
hlown tioin then iiivonte lestmg-plaec,
or mists
Dissolved, lum« Jotl linn an inisliioudcd
head
IMmhtfiil da> it is loi nil \\lio dwell
In this secluded glen, and eaj»eil%\
-'" They gi\e il welcome Long eio heat of
noon.
Ft 0111 Imo1 01 field the knu1 wcic bious*ht ,
the sheep
Aiv penned in cote*, the chattel nm is
begun
The heifer lows, nncns\ at the* \OHC
Ol a new mastoi , bloat the (lock^ aloud
-'» Booths aie their none, n stall 01 two is
hero ,
A lame mnn 01 a blind, the one to hour.
The other to make inusii , hither, too.
Kiom lai, \\iih h.isket, slun<z upon hei aim.
Ot basket's uaies — hooks ]iictuies
combs, inul pms-
!0 Siiiiie ai*ed \\oman finds hoi \\i\\ aj^ani.
Voar nltci M'JII, n punctual Aisitantf
Their aNo stnnds u speeih-makei h\ ioto,
rnlhn«: the stints ol his boxed taree-
And m the lapse of ninnx xeais max come
r» Prouder it met ant, mountebank, or he
Whose wonders in a coveiod wain he hid
But one theie is the lo\ chest ot them all.
Some sweet hiss ot the xallex, lookum out
Koi natns, and vbo that sees hei would
not bu> ?
*° Flints of hei fathet *s oichaid aie hei
waies.
And with the iudd> produce she walks
round
Among the crowd, half pleased with, half
ashamed
Of her new offlee, blushing restlessly
The children now are rich, for the old todav
1 mtt hnrn
15 Are generoub as the }oung , and, it content
With looking on, some ancient wedded pan
Sit m the shade together, while they pa/e,
•'A cheerful smile unbends the wnnkled
brow,
The days depaited stait auam to lite,
11 And all the scones of childhood icappeai.
Finnt, but inoie linnquil, like the rhaninim
sun
To him who slept at noon mid wake* at
eve "'
Thufe ninety and cheettuhicss ]>ie\ail,
Spreading* 'fioin youn^ to old, irom old to
young:,
5' And no one soems to want his shaie —
TmiuenMJ
fs the lecoss, the circuuiamhiont woild
MaETHincent, bv which the\ aie embiaced
Tlie\ inoM- alH>iU ii])on the soft green tint
How little they, they and then doings,
seem,
Ml And all that the\ can iuithei 01
Thiougii uttei weakness pitiabl>
As tender irii'ants aie and yet' luw great '
For all things sene them , them the morn-
m IT liplit
Loxes, as it f> likens on the silent locks.
*"* And them the silent locks, which HOIK irom
Ijonk down upon them, the leposinir
clouds,
The wild biooK's prattling fiom invisible
haunts,
\nd old llehelhn, conscious oJ the sin
Which animate^ this day their calm abode
7" With detp dcuilion, Natuie. did 1 ioeL
In that enoi mous {City's turbulent \\oild
Ot men and things, \\hat benefit I owed
To thce, and those domains of mini j)eaco
Where to the «ense of beauty flut my hem t
""' Was opened, tiact moie exqiunloly fan
Than that tamed paiadise of ten
<)i Gehol's niiitchless ^aulens.- lot delurhr
Of the Tnitniinn dvnasty composed
(Tieumd that mmhty wall, not fabulous.
so China's stupendous mound) b\ patient toil
Of mvi inds and boon Natuie 's lavish help ,
Theie. m a clime tiom widest empire
chosen,
Fulfilling (could enchantment ha\e done
more?)
A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns,
with domes
86 Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells
For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts
1 Joseph Cottle, Malt cm Till?*, (152 n<f
Tin*
252 NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
With temples crested, bridges, gondolas, Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds,
Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught 13° With arts and laws so tempered, that
to melt their lives
Into each other their obsequious hues. Left, even to u* toiling hi this late day,
(*° Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, A bnght tradition of the golden age,
Too fine to be pursued; or standing forth Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses
In no discordant opposition, strong Sequestered, handed down among thern-
And gorgeous as the colors side by side selves
Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds; 13fi Felicity, in Grecian song renowned,1
<r> And mountains over all, embracing all ; Nor such as— when an adverse fate had
And all the landscape, endlessly ennched driven,
With waters running, falling, or asleep. From house and home, the courtly band
» * i i * A xi.- iu j- whose fortunes
But lovelier farfoan this, the paradise Entered W]th ghakspeare's genius, the
Where I was reared, in Nature's primi- w,|<j WOCMjg
IAA ™ *?** *!*** * . Of Arden-amid sunshine or in shade
100 Favored no less, and more to every sense 140 Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted
Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky, hours
^e elements, and seasons ab they chan^. Ere phflPbe 'sighed for the false Gany-
Do find a worthy fellow-laborer there— mede a
Man free, man working for himself, with Or there wl|^ Perdltft and FIon7jCl
in* ** .. choleej . , . . . . Together danced, Queen of the feast, and
106 Of time, and place, and object, by his 'Kinj?,n
wante» Nor such as Spenser fabled 4 Tnie it is,
His comforts, native occupations, cares, 145 That I had heaid (what lie perhaps had
Cheerfully led to individual ends *&m)
Or social, and still followed by a ham Of mauls at snniise bnnLnn^ in fiom far
Unwooed, unthougbt-of even -simplicity, The]r May.busli, and along the stieet in
110 And beauty, and inevitable grace fl0(i]vs
Yea, when a glimpse of those imperial P*™*m* ™{}l? MU* of Bunting ihymes,
bowers Aimed at the lagmiids slumbenng within
Would to a child be transport over-great, ... „ ?cl°Tf , « .. .
When but a half-hour^ roam through M Hnd alw) IJ»Kl; irom thofie wll° yet re'
such a place niembeied,
Would leave behind a danee of images, Tales °* the M«y pc,^ dunce, and wreath*
That shall break in upon his sleep for n . tj!at decked . _ „
r«i eh, doorway, or knk pillar, and of
Even then the common haunts of the gieeri ., . - . , , , _
eartj, kadi with his maid, befoie the sun was up,
And oidmarV interests of man, lfifi JJV annual custom, issuing forth m troops,
Which they embosom, all without regard |° d™k th« waterf of *°me fainted well,
As both may seem, are fastening on the And hanff .Jl n>und Wlth garlands Love
heart survives,
120 Insensibly, each with the other's help But» for feuch P»P«*i flowers no longer
For me, when my affections first were led m. 8row,
From kindred, friends, and playmates, to The ****** fi10 «««. perhaps too proud,
partake ha\e dropped
Love forthe human creature's absolute self, 1M "J1"6 ]l&ieT »raw^ and1 i]*m*\ WW
That noticeable kindliness of heart And ««">«* whifh mv childhood lookeil
'* Sprang out of fountains, there abounding ,„ upon
m0f& Were the unhuunant pi uduce of a life
Where sovereign Nature dictated the taste ^'*«nt °n h*tle ^ut /|ub8ian^ai need5 ,
And oecupations which her beauty adorned, Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt
And shepherds were the men that pleased B"1 images. of danger and distress,
ma fl—t.i Man suffering among awful Powers and
**** •** °* I HV*i**iii •
» These shepherds lived close to Nature and were ^^^ '
intensely real They appealed to Words- - - - - -
RhPphranleK
WILLIAM WOKDbVVORTlI
Of this I heard, and saw enough to make -OB in unlabonous pleasure, with no task
Imagination restless ; nor was free More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl
Myself from frequent perils; nor were For spring or fountain, which the traveller
tales finds,
Wanting,— the tragedies of fonner times, When through the legion he* puisnes at
170 Hazards and strange escapes of which the will
locks His devious couise A glimpse of such
Immutable, and evoi flowing stieains, sweet life
Wheic'er I roamed, wore speaking nionn- -J0 I saw when, Irom the melancholy walls
incnts Of Goslai, once nnpeiial, 1 icnt^icd
M} daily walk alone: that \\ide chain-
Smooth life had flock and shepheid in paign.1
old time, That, teaching to liei mates spieads east
Long springs and tepid winters on the and west,
banks And north waids, 1'joni beneatli the nioiin-
f7fl Of delicate Galcsus, and 110 less tainous verge
Those scatteied alone: Adiia's myrtle -15 Of the Heicyniau loiest Yet, hail to jou
shoies Moots, mountains headlands, and ye hol-
Sinooth life had heidsman, and his mmu- low vales,
white herd Ye Inntr deep channels foi the Atlantic V
To tiiuni]>hs and to saeiificial ntes \oite.
l)e\oted, on the in\ lolable stieam Poums ot my nuine region r Ye that sei/e
1RO Of rich t'litnninus, and the goat-he. id h\ed The lieail \\iih fnniei giasp' Voursno\\s
As calmlv, undeineath the pleasant bio\is and stieains
Of cool Lucretihs, nhcre the pipe uas 2-° 1 iii»o\einal)Io, nn<I MUII tenifyui? wind*
heaid That \\o\\\ *o dismally for him who tread*
Of Pan, imisible pod. thnllinu the rock* (1nmpan ion less ,v>ui a \\ful politudes'
With tntelaiy music, tiom all haini Theie, 'ti* the shepheul's ta*k the wintoi
UB The fold protecting I ur\self. niatine lon»
Fn manhood then, hnu» seen a pastoral To wait upon the stonns of then ap-
tract1 m ])H»ach
Like one of thes<», \\licie Fnnc\ inipht inn 22"> Sagacious, into shelteimg co\es he dines
wild. His flock, and thithei fioni the hoiuestend
Though undei skies less »on PIOUS less beais
nennu' A loilsoine buiden up the craggy \^a>s.
Thoie, foi hei o\\n dclmht had Nat HIP And deals it out, then ic^ular uoiirishinent
framed Stieun on the i'loren snow And vhen the
lq° A pleasuie-giound, diffused a tan expanse spiing
Of level pastuie, islanded mith pioves 2^° Tjooks out, and all the past in es dance with
And hanked \\ith woody nsinpw. hut the lambs,
plain And when the flock, uith warmer weather,
Endless, heie opening \\ uleh nut, and there climbs
Shut up in lesser lakes 01 l>eds of lawn Higher and higher, him his office leads
19r' And intncate iccesscs, cieek 01 bay To watch then goings, whatsoever track
Sheltered mthin a slielter, \iheie at larerP The wand ems choose For this he quits
The shepheid stiavs a rolling hut his ^ his home
home 23r> At day-spun^, and no souiiei doth the sun
Thither he comes with spring-time, there Begin to stnke him uith a fit e- like heat,
abides Than he lies down upon some shining rock.
All suinmei, and at sunrwe ye may hear And breakfasts with his dog When tbe>
200 Hw flageolet to liquid notes of lo\e ha\e stolen,
Attuned, or spnghtlv fife resounding far As is then wont, a pittance from strict
Nook is theie none, 1101 tract of that ^ast tune.
space 24° For rest not needed or exchange of love,
Where passage opens but the same shall Then from his couch he starts; and now
ha\e his feet
In turn its visitant, telling there his hours Crush out a livelier fragrance from the
flowers
n<»in fbo Hnrtr Mountains J li-rol flold
254
NJNKTKKNTII CHNTUKY UOMANT1G1BTH
245
250
2r>5
-'""
-•TO
275
285
Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill en-
wrought
In the wild turf: the lingering dews of
morn
Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he
hies,
His staff piotending like a hunter's speai .
Or by its aid leaping from eia«? 1o eras,
And o'er the brnwlincr beds of unbndced
streams
Philosophy, inethmks, at Fancy's call,
Might deign to follow him through what
he does
Or sees in his day's maich; himself he
feels,
In those vast regions where his sen-ice lies,
A freeman, redded to his life of hope
And hazard, and hard labor mterchanired
With that majestic indolence so dear
To native man A rambling schoolboy, thus
I felt his presence in his own domain.
AR of n lord and master, or a power,
Or genius, under Natuie, under God,
Prradmg, and severest solitude
Had moie commanding looks when he uas
there
When up the lonely brooks on lainy da>s
Angling I went, or trod the backless lulls
By mists bewildeied, suddenly mine eyes
TTa\e glanced upon linn distant a few steps.
In size a giant, stalking through thick fo».
His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he
stepped
Beyond the boundary line of some hill
shadow, *
His form hath flashed upon me, glorified
By f}ie (j^p radiance of the setting sun •
Or him have I descried in distant sky,
A solitary object and sublime,
Aho\e all height' like an aenal cioss
Stationed alone upon a spiry rock
Of the Chartreuse, for worship Thus was
man
Ennobled outwardly befoie my sight,
And thus my heart was early introduced
To an unconscious love and reverence
Of human nature ; hence the human form
To me became an inc|ex of delight,
Of grace and honor, power and worthiness
Meanwhile this creature— spintual almost
As those of books, but more exalted far,
Far more of an imaginative form
Than the gay Corin of the groves, who lives
For his own fancies, or to dance by the
hour,
fn coronal, with Phyllis in the midst—
Was, for the purposes of kind, a man
With the most common; husband, father;
learned,
*90 Gould teach, admonish; suffered with the
rest
From vice and folly, wretchedness and
fear;
Of this I little saw, cared less for it,
But something must have felt
Call ye these appeaiances-
^ Winch I tahold of shepherds in my youth,
-1*"1 This handily of Naline given to man —
A shadow, a delusion, ye who poic
On the dead lettei, miss the spirit ot
things,
Whose truth is not a motion 01 a shape
Instinct with vital functions, but a block
'<0° Or waxen image which >ouisel\es have
made,
And ye adoie' But blessed be the God
Of Nature and of Man that this was so ,
That men before my inexpei lenced eyes
Did first present themsehes thus purified,
30B Removed, and to a distance that was fit
And so we all of us in some degree
Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led,
And howsoever, veie it otheiwise,
And we found evil fast as we find good
"in In our first years, 01 think that it is found,
How could the innocent heait bear up and
live'
But doubly lortiinate my lot , not lieie
Alone, that something of a better life
Perhaps was lonnd me than it i<* the
privilege
m Of most to nicne in, but thai fiist I
looked
At man through objects that weie eient tor
fail ;
First communed with him by then help
And thus
Was founded a sure safeguard and de-
fence
Against the weight of inennneHs. selfish
cares,
?2° Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that
beat in
On all sides from the ordinal y world
In which we traffic Starting from this
point,
I had my face tinned towiud the truth .
began
With an advantage fuinished by that kind
225 Of prepossession, without which the soul
Receives no knowledge that can bring forth
good,
No genuine insight ever comes to her.
From the restraint of over-watchful eyes
Preserved, I moved about, year after year,
83° Happy, and now most thankful that my
walk
Wag guarded from too enrly intercourse
WILLIAM WOKl>bV\OUTli 235
With the deformities oi crowded life, They bui nibbed her. From touch of tins
And those ensuing laughters and con- new power
tempts, Nothing was safe : the elder-tree that gieu
Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish to Beside the well-known charnel-house had
think then
>r> With a due reverence on earth's rightful A dismal look, the yew-tree had its ghost,
lord, 8M) That took his station there for ninament
Here placed to be (lie inhentoi oi hca\en, The dignities oi plum oceuirenee then
Will not pcimit us, but pin MIC the mind, Were tameless, and truth's golden mean, a
Tbat to de\otion x\illmgl.\ would use, point
Into the temple and the temple's lieait Wheie no Miimient plcusine could )>e
iound
:tl° \vt deem not, iiiend1 thai Inn nan kind Thou, it a xtulow, staggering \vith the blow
with me l8"' OI hei disticss, \uis known to ha\c tunied
Thus curly took a place pic-eminent , hei steps.
Nat me herself was, at this uniipe time, To the cold gra\e m which her husband
But secondary to m> own pin hints slept,
And animal activities, and all (hie night, 01 hapl> moie than one,
.us Then tmial ploasuies, and \ihen the** thiough pain
hud diooped Oi ha li -in unsafe impotence of mind,
And giadiially expned, and Nut me. pii/ed The iact was caught at greedily, and theie
Koi hei own sake became my jo^, e^oll s<f" ^lu mn>t be \isitnnt the \\hole >eai
then— tlnou*.*)!,
And upwaids ilnoiu>h late xoulh. until imt \\t itm» th( tint' \\ith u^\ei-eiid]n<;
Thnn t^o-inid-tuentA ^innnieio h.nl been 'llnoii<>|i (juamt oblKiuities1 I mmht
told— ] m i ^uo
r>0 W«s Man in u\\ afl'eition^ and n^nid^ 'I he^ iia\in&>^v \\hen the loxglove, one
Suboidmnte to hei. hei MMble ioiui^ b^ one,
And viewless a^eiMie^ a pa^ioii. s|u», I puanU ihiouuh e\ei\ stai*e ot the tall
A ia]>tuie iilten. and mmiethute IOM ^ ^ stem,
K\ci at hand; he, onh a delight "><r> Had shed beside the public ua> its bells,
Ti5 Occasional, an accidental giace, And stoini oi all dismantled, sa\e the lust
His hom bemi! not \et come Fai less II.H! lx*tt at the tapenng lacldi'i V top. that
then seemed
The mteiioi cieatuies, beast 01 hud, at- To bend as doth a slcndci blade ol t»rass
tuned Tipped uith a lam-diop, Famy lo^eil to
My spmt to that gentleness oi lt»\e seat,
(Thoimh tlie> ha<l lonu n*H>n carefulU 4m Beneath the plant de^nnled, bin ciesfed
obseixetl), still
:GO \yon ilom me tho^e minute i»beisaiues With this last lehc, soon itself to fall,
Of 1 oi idol ness, uhieh T max mini) KM mm Some \agiant inothei. \\lu>s^ uich little
\Vilh m> lust blessing Ne\eitheless on ones,
tliese Vll unconceined b\ hei dejwted plight,
The light of lM?auU did not fall m A am ^ Lauuhe<l as \Mth 1 1\ a leatrei ness their hands
(h j£iiiiideiii eiienmf iis<< them t<i no end *<r> (S.itheied the pmplc enps that lound them
la>.
3fl" But ^hen thai liist j>oelic facult\ Slie\\ms» the tuif's meen slope
Ot plain linaunmhon and sexeie, ^ A diamond light
\oloimeiamiitemiluenceotthesoul, ( \Vhene Vi the sunmiei smi. dpchnmtr.
Vent in e«l, at home rash muse *s ea i nest oa 1 1 smot e
To ti> her strength among haimomous A smooth nn*k wet M it h constant sprm»**)
'woids, was set»n
170 And to book-notions and the rules ot art Spaikhng fiom out a copie-clad bank that
Did knowingly conform itseli , theie t ame
Among the simple shapes of human life "<> Fronting out cottaue Oft beside the hearth
A wilfulness of fancy and conceit Seated, \\ith open door, oiten and lom>
And Nature and hei objects beauliiied Upon this lestlew lustie have 1 gazed,
375 Thfse fictions, as m some soit, in then tuin,
2f,(J N1NKTKKNTH CENTURY 1IOMANT1C1WTS
That made iny fancy restless as itself. Some pensive musings which ought well
'Twas now for me a burnished silver shield beseem
415 Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay Maturer yean.
Inglorious, buned in the dusky wood • A grove there is whose bough?
An enhance now into some magic cau> Stretch from the western marge of Thm-
Or palace built by fames of the rock, ston-mere,
Nor could I have been bribed to disenchant |MI With length of shade so thick, that whoso
420 The spectacle by visiting the spot. glides
Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood, Along the line of lo* -roofed water, mo>e*
Kugrafted far-fetched shapes on feeling*. A s in a cloister. Once— while, in that shade
bred loitering, I watched the golden beams ol
By pure Imagination • busy Power light
She was, and with her ready pupil turned Flung from the setting sun, as they re-
425 Instinctively to human passions, then posed
Least undei stood Yet, 'mid the t'enent 465 In silent beauty on the naked ndge
swarm Of a high eastern hill— thus flowed my
Of these vapaiies, with an eye so rich thoughts
As mine wa& through the bounty of a grand In a pure stream of words fresh from the
And lovely region, I had forms distinct heart:
430 To steady me each airy thought revohed Dear native Regions1 ^hereso'er Khali
Round a pubstanhal centre, which at once close
Incited it to motion, and con ti oiled. My mortal course, there will I think on you
I did not pine like one in cities bred,1 47° Dying, will cast on you a backward look
As was thy melancholy lot, dear friend ' Even as this setting MIII (albeit the vale
435 Great Spu it as thou ait, in endless dreams Is nowhere touched b\ one memorial
Of sicklmess, disjoining, joining, things gleam)
Without the light of knowledge. Where Doth with the fond remains of his laM
the harm, power
If, when the woodman languished with Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds
disease 47B On the dear mountain-tops where first he
Induced by sleeping nightly on the ground rose.
440 Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise,
I called the pangs of disappointed love, Enough of humble arguments; recall,
And all the sad etcetera of the wrong, My songf those high emotions which thy
To help him to his grave f Meanwhile the voice
man, Has heretofore made known ; that burst-
If not already from the woods retired ing forth
446 To die at home, was haply as I kne*, Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired.
Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle 48° When everywhere a vital pulse was felt,
airs. And all the seveial frames of things, like
Birds, running streams, and hills so beaut i- stars,
ful Through every magnitude distinguishable.
On golden e\enmgs, while the charcoal pile Shone mutually indebted, 01 half lost
Breathed up its smoke, an image of his Each in the other 's blaze, a galaxy
ghost 485 Of life and glory. In the midst stood Man,
450 Or spint that full soon must take her Outwardly, inwardly contemplated,
flight As, of all visible natures, crown, though
Nor shall we not be tending towards that born
point Of dust, and kindred to the worm; a
Of sound humanity to which our tale Being,
Leads, though by sinuous *ays, if here I Both in perception and discernment, first
show 49° In every capability of rapture,
How Fancy, in a season when she wove Through the divine effect of power and
4W Those slender cords, to guide the uncon- Jove;
scious Boy As, more than anything we know, instinct
For the Man's sake, could feed at Na- With godhead, and, by reason and by will,
hire's call Acknowledging dependency sublime.
* Bee Col<»r1dRp'« Fm*t *' VMnfoftf 51-IK (p ' The following eight Hnw AI* wart from tho
850) Frtnrt, p liw
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 257
405 Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I Some inner meanings which might harbor
moved, there.
Begirt, from day to day, with temporal But how could I in mood so light indulge,
shapes B4° Keeping such fresh remembrance of the
Of vice and folly thrust upon my view, day,
Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn, When, having thndded the long labyrinth
Manners and characters discriminate, Qf the suburban villages, I first
600 And little bustling passions that eclipse, Entered thy vast dominion f On the roof
As well they might, the impersonated ^ Of an itinerant vehicle I sate,
thought, fi45 With vulgar men about me, trivial forma
The idea, or absti action of the kind. Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and
things,—
An idler among academic bowers, Mean sh*Pes on e*erv Slde: but> at the
Such was my new condition, as at large instant, .
606 Has been set forth , yet here the vulgar ^hen to myself it fairly might be said,
light The threshold now is overpast, (how
Of present, actual, superficial life, rKn _. . stl*nge .
Gleaming, through coloring of other time*, C5° ^at aught external to the living mind
Old usages and local privilege, Shollld have such mi8bty ^y ! yet 8° *
Was welcome, softened, if not solemnized. . T"? * ^ -i ^ •• ••
610 This notwithstanding, being biought moie £ wei£ht °* *&* &d ** «• descend
near I pon my heart; no thought embodied, no
To vice and guilt, foierunmng wretched- l)lstmct remembrances, but weight and
ness power,—
I trembled,'-thought, at times, of human ™ Power growing under weight- alas! I feel
life' fe f ' That I am tnflmg 'twas a moment's
With an indefinite tenor and dismay, A „ ., P8]186*""
Such as the storms and angry elements A11 that took Place ™«™ me came and
616 Had bred in me, but gloomier far, a dim A went , Al_ _ , , „
Analogy to upnmr and misCule, *s m a moment; yet with Time it dwells,
Disquiet, danger, and obscuntj And S»teM memory, as a thing divine.
_ . . A ., .. A . . . B6° The curious traveller, who, from open
It nn^ht be told (but wherefore speak (jav
of things Hath passed with torches into some huge
Common to all?) that, seeing, I was led
>
MO Giavely to ponder- judging between pood The Grotto of Antiparos, or the den1
And evil, not as for the mind's delight In old tlme haunted by that Danish witch,
But foi her guidance- one who vas to Yordas, he looks around and sees the vault
aet> . ,...., r'65 Widening on all sides, sees, or thinks he
As sometime* to the best of feeble means
,
I did, by human sympathy impelled. Erelong, the massy loof a bine his head,
6*6 And, through dislike and most offensixe That instantly unsettles and lecedes,-
Pain> , , « . « , Substance and shadow, light and darkness.
Was to the tiulh conducted, of this faith a\\
Nevei forsaken, that, by acting well. Commingled, making up a canopy
And understanding, I should leam to love 670 Qf 8hapes and foims and tendencies to
The end of life, and everything \ve know. SQftpe
That shift and vanish, change and inter*
6SO Grave teacher, stern preceptress! for at change
times Like spectres,— ferment silent and sub-
Thou canst put on an aspect most severe, lime!
London, to thee I willingly return. That after a short space works less and less,
Erewhile my verse played idly with the Till, every effort, every motion gone,
flowers 675 The scene before him stands in perfect view
Enwrought upon thy mantle; satisfied Exposed, and lifeless as a written book'—
6*6 With that amusement, and a simple look But let him pause awhile, and look again,
Of child-like inquisition now and then And a new quickening shall succeed, at first
Cast upwards on thy countenance, to detect > A cavern in Yorkshire.
258 NINETEENTH CENTUEY BOMANTICI8T8
Beginning timidly, then creeping fast, 62° Stript of their harmonizing soul, the life
680 Till the whole cave, 00 late a senseless mass. Of manners and familiar incidents,
Busies the eye with images and forms Had never much delighted me. And less
Boldly assembled,— here is shadowed 1'oitli Than other .intellects had mine been used
From the projections, wrinkles, cavities, To lean upon extrinsic circumstance
A variegated landscape,— there the shape 62fi Of record or tradition; but a sense
585 Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail, Of what in the great City had been done
The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk, And suffered, and was doing, suffering.
Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff • still,
Strange congregation I yet not slow to meet Weighed with me, could support the test
Eyes that perceive through minds that can of thought ;
inspire. And, in despite of all that had gone by,
680 Or was departing never to return,
WO Even in such sort had I at first been The" ? conversed with majesty and po*ei
movec| Like independent natures. Hence the
Nor otherwise continued to be moved, __ place
As I explored the vast metropolis, Was thronged with impregnations like the
Fount of my country's destiny and the „. wilds
world's- I*1 which my eai»y feelings had been
That great emporium, chronicle at once M. ^ ^H186^ u « ,. «
5»B And burial-place of passions, and their 635 Bare hllla and valleys, full of caverns,
home rocks,
Imperial, their chief living residence. £nd audible secluaonH, dashing lakes,
0 Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags
_... . . . , , That into music touch the parsing wind
With strong sensations teeming as it did Here Uien my lmaffmation found
Of past and present, such a place must 640 No uncongenial element , could here
needs ... , , Among new objects sene 01 ime coin-
Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at mand,
4AA ^. , that time _ gvcn ag ^e heart's occasions might re-
600 Far less than craving power; yet knowl- quire
edge came, To forward reason's else too scrupulous
Sought or unsought, and influxes of power march
Came, of themselves, or at her call derived The effcct wa'g stlll moie elcvated views
In fits of kindliest apprehensneness, 945 Of human nature Neither Mce nor guilt.
™r E™"1 a11 8l*CS ^hen whate'er w« jn ltfeclf Debasement undergone by body or mind
<M Capacious found, 01 seemed to find, in me Nor all the miflery forced upon my Sl^
A correspondent amplitude of mind, Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes
Such is the strength and glory of our scanned
youth! ,,..,. Most feehnply, could overthrow my trust
The human nature unto which I felt 660 jn whflt we may become; induce belief
-fn^«tlbelong«lf and weicneed with love, That I was ignorant, had been falselv
610 Was not a punctual piesence, but a spirit taught
Diffused through time and space, with aid A gohtary, who with vain conceits
derived Had been inspired, and talked about in
Of evidence from monuments, erect, dreams
Prostrate, or leaning towards their com- Yrom those Bad scenes when meditation
mon rest turned,
In earth, the widely scattered wreck sub- 655 LO» everything that was indeed divine
M_ _ _ J™8. . . . _ Retained its purity inviolate,
«« Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn Nay brighter shone, by this portentous
From books and what they picture and gloom
record. get off; such opposition as aroused
The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise
'Til true, the history of our native land, eeo Though fallen from bliss, when in the
With those of Greece compared and popu- east he saw
lar Borne, Darkness ere day's mid course, and morn-
And in our high-wrought modern narra- ing light
lives More orient m the western cloud, that drew
WILLIAM WORD6WOHTH
665
O'er the blue firmament a radiant white,
Descending slow with something heavenl}
fraught.
Add also, that among the multitudes
Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen
Affectingly bet loith, moie than elsewhere
lb possible, the unity of man,
One spirit over ignorance and \iee
(.70 Predominant in good and evil hearts,
One sense for moral judgments, as one eye
For the sun's light The soul when smit-
ten thus
By a sublime idea, whencesoe'er
Vouchsafed for union or communion, feeds
675 On the pure bliss and takes her rest with
Ood.
Thus from a \ cry early age, 0 f riend f
&fy thoughts by slow gradations had been
diawn
To human-kind, and to the good and ill
Of human life Natuie had led me on ,
6X0 And oft amid the "busy hum" 1 seemed
To travel independent of her help,
As if I had forgotten her, but no,
The world of human-kind outweighed not
hers
In my habitual thoughts; the scale of loie,
<»S5 Though filling dailv, still was light, com-
pared
With that in which Iff mighty objects la>
Prom BOOK XT FWVNCE
10<* 0 pleasant exeicise of hope ami jo\ M
Foi mighty weie the auMlmi^ ulnrli then
btood
Lpon our side, us \\lio weie shoim in lo\e'
Bliss was it in that dawn to be nine,
But to be young \\as \ery Hea\enf ()
* times*
110 In which the meagre, stale, toi bidding wavs
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in lomance1
When Reason seemed the most to assert her
lights
When most intent on making of herself
115 A pi ime enchant less- to assist the work,
Which then was going t'orwaid in hei
name '
Not favored spots alone, but the whole
Earth,
The beauty WOIP of pionnse— that which
sets
(As at some .moments might not be unfelt
120 Among the bowers of Paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
*To "Meditate with nrdor on the rale and man-
agement ot nntionN "—1 90
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness un thought oft The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away !
125 They who had fed their childhood upon
dreams,
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and
strength
Their mimsteis,— who in lordly wise had
stiried
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
130 And dealt with whatsoever they found
there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it ,— they, too, who of gentle mood
Had watched all gentle motions, and to
these
Had fitted then own thoughts, schemers
more mild,
135 And in the region of their peaceful
selves,—
Now was it that both found, the meek and
lofty
Did both find, helpeis to their hearts' de-
sire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could
Wifcll,—
Wc*re called upon to exercise their skill,
140 Not m Utopia,— subterranean fields,-
Or some secreted island,1 Hea\en
whei e f
Hut m the \eiy world, which is the woild
Of all of us,— the place where, in the end,
We find oiu happiness, or not at all I
11* Why should I not confess that Earth
was then
To me, what an inhentance, new-fallen,
Seems, when the first tune visited, to one
Who thither comes to find m it his hornet
He walks about and looks upon the spot
no With cordial transpoit, moulds it and
moulds,
\nd is half-pleased with things that are
amiss,
'Twill be such joy to see them disappear.
An acti\e partisan, I thus convoked
From every object pleasant circumstance
156 To suit my ends, I moved among mankind
With genial feelings still predominant,
When erring, erring on the better part,
And in the kinder spirit , placable,
Indulgent, as not uninformed that men
160 See as they have been taught— Antiquity
Gives nghts to ei ror , and aware, no less,
That throwing off oppression must be work
As well of License as of Liberty ,
And above all— for this was more than all—
' Such an Bacons New Atlantis
re-
260 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
itf Not caring if the wind did now and then Which they had struggled for : up
Blow keen, upon an eminence that gave mounted now.
Prospect so large into futurity; 21° Openly in the eye of earth and heaven,
In brief, a child of Nature, as at first. The scale of liberty. I read her doom,
Diffusing only those affections wider With anger vexed, with disappointment
170 That from the cradle had grown up with sore,
me, But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame
And losing, in no other way than light Of a false prophet While resentment rose
Is lost in light, the weak in the more strong. 21& Stiiving to hide, what nought could heal,
In the mam outline, such it might be said Qf mo£fl£°£Suinpt,oaf I «""»«<1
i» Waf my condrtl,on' tlU. *£ OP6" w« . More firmly to old tenets, and, to prove
176 Britain opposed the liberties of France1 Th *„-„. at«,n«l them mn«.- .nj
This threw me first out of the pale of love , Their f^ fy* them more ' and
Soured and corrupted, upwards to the Qf conte8t;dld opinion8 every day
source, . 220 (3.,^ ^0 consequence, till round my mind
My sentiments; was not, as hitheito, Th d ^ ^ te tf
A swallowing up of lesser things in great. ' mo^' ' ' *
MO But change of them into their contraries, The ^ of ^ . ^ ^
And thus a way was opened for mistake*, ' n
And false conclusions in degree as RIOBS,
In kind moie dangerous What had been 270 ^ strong shock
a pride, Wag gjven to oM Op,molls ajj mcn>.
Was now a sliame, my likings and my loves minds
«6 Ran in ne« channels, Iwmnsr old ones Rad felt lt§ and m)ne WJW both ,et
dry, jn,,,^
And hence a blow that, in. maturer age, r,et loose and goaded Aftei what hath been
Would but have touched the judgment, Aheady „,„,*;, tnoiw ,ove>
struck more deep 276 Suffice it hei e to add, that, somewhat sten
Into sensations near the heart meantime, ,„ tempelal,lenl , llhal a happv mau
«ftisfr?mthefi!st'Wlldth^?e8?reieafl?lt' And theiefore bold to look on painful
"« To whose pretensions, sedulously uisred, thln v
lhadbutlentacarelewear.a&suied Piee hkewise of |he wol,d and thenw,
That time was ready to set all thiua^ riarht, ,uore j,ojd
And that the multrtude, w. long oppress«l. j Slimraoned my ^ ^j, and toiled Inten,
Would be oppressed no more 280 To anatomize the frame of rocml life .
,ae „ ,. , B»l whe» "en,ts Yea, the whole body of soc.ety
195 Brought less encouragement, and unto these Searched to its heart. Share with me.
The immediate pi oof of principles no moie f, leud t y,e ^^
Could be entrusted, while the e^ent8 them- Thal ^^ dramatlc tale> endu^ ^^
selves, sh&Des
Worn out in greatness, stripped of novelty, Livelier, and flinging out less guarded
Less occupied the mind, and sentiments words
»>0 Could through my understanding 's natural 285 Than slut the work we fashlon might wt
growth forth
No longer keep their ground, by faith Whnt then j leained or ^^ j iearneclt
mauitamed of truth>
Of inward consciousness, and hope that A|ld lhe errorh |nfo whldl j fell> bctraye4l
, , . i_- i. j By present objects, and by reasonings false
Her hand upon her object-evidence From tbeir beginnings, inasmuch as drawn
Safer, of universal application, such 290 OiU of a heart that had been turned aside
*o* As could not be impeached, was sought Prom Nature's way by outward accidents,
elsewhere. And which was thus confounded, more
But now, become oppressors in their pand more
turn, Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared.
Frenchmen had changed a war of self- Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims,
defense creeds,
For one of conquest, losing sight of all *• Like culprits to the bar; calling the mind,
ilnl793 Suspiciously, to establish in plain day
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
261
Her titles and her honors , now believing,
Now disbelieving, endlessly perplexed
With impulse, motive, right and wrong,
the ground
800 Of obligation, what the rule and whence
The sanction; till, demanding formal
proof,
And seeking it in everything, I lost
All feeling of conviction, and, in fine,
Sick, weaned out with conti aneties,
«05 Yielded up moial ()uestions in despair
• • • •
Then it was—
Thanks to the bounteous flnei oi all
good!—
533 That the beloved sistei1 in whose sight
Those days were passed, now speaking in
a voice
Of sudden admonition— like a brook
That did but cioss a lonely road, and n<>\\
Is seen, heaid, felt, and caught at e\en
tin 11.
3*° Companion ni'\ei lost thioiuzh nian\ a
lea uiH1—
Maintained toi me a saxnii; inteieoui^c
With m> tine self, ioi, thou»h bedimiued
and changed
Much, as it seemed. I uas no fuithei
changed
Than as a clouded anil a \\aimm moon
J4B She whibpeied still that blight nesv \\ould
ictuin,
She, in tile midst of all, piescned me still
A poet, made me beck beneath that name,
And that alone. m\ otfiee upon eai th ,
And. lastly, as lieieattei mil be shown,
i50 If milling audience tail not, Natuie's self,
By all \aiieties of human love
Assisted, led me back through opening da\
To those sweet counsels between head and
heart
Whence gicw that genuine knowledge,
ii aught with peace,
365 Which, t humph the latei sinking** ot this
cause.
Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now
From BOOK XII IMAGINATION \ND TAST*.
How IMPAIRED AND RESTORED
Long time have human ignorance and
guilt
Detained us, on \\hat spectacles of woe
Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed
With sorrow, disappointment, \exmg
thoughts,
Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed,
• WordBWorth Joined hla rf«tcr Dorothy at Hull
fn\ In the winter of 1704
And, lastly, utter loss oi hope itself
And things to hope for! Not with these
began
Our song, and not with these out song
must end —
Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides
10 Of the green hills ; ye breezes and soft airs,
Whose subtle intercouise with breathing
flowei s.
Feelingly watched, might teach Man's
haughty race
How without injury to take, to gne
Without offence , ye who, as if to show
15 The wondrous influence of po^er gently
used,
Bend the complying heads of lordly pines.
And, with a touch, shift the stupendous
clouds
Through the uhole compass of the sky,
yc biooks,
Mutti'img along the stones, a busy noise
J0 By day, a quiet sound in silent night.
Ye waves, that out ot the en eat deep steal
forth
In a calm houi to kiss the pebhh shoie.
\ot mute, and then retire, feanng no
stoini,
And 3011, ^e gio\es, uhose 11111118117 it is
-5 To mtcipose the covert of joui shades,
E\en as a sleep, between the heart of man
And outwaid troubles, between man him-
self,
Not seldom, and his o\\n uneas> heait
Oh f that I hud a music and a \oiee
J0 Harmonious as your own, that I might tell
What ye ha\e done Ioi me The mom-
ing1 shines,
Noi heedeth Man's pel \ciseucss, 8pini£
letuins,-—
I saw the Spiing letuin, and could icjoice,
In common \\ith the elnldien of her lo\e,
•r» Piping on boughs, or spoiling on fiesh
fields,
Oi boldly seeking pleasiue neaier hea\en
On wings that navigate cerulean skies
So neither wei e complacency, nor peace,
Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my good
10 Thiough these disti acted times; m Na-
tuie still
Gloiymg, I found a counterpoise in hei.
Which, when the spirit of evil reached
its height,
Maintained for me a secret happiness
Befoie I was called forth
175 From the retirement of my native hills,
I lo\ed whate'er I saw nor lightly hned,
But most intensely; never dreamt of aught
262
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
More grand, more fair, more exquisitely
framed
Than those few nooks to which my happy
feet
"° Were limited. I had not at that time
Laved long enough, nor in the least survived
The first diviner influence of thib world.
As it appears to unaccustomed eyes.
Worshipping then among the depth of
things,
185 As piety ordained ; could I submit
To measured admiration, or to aught
That should preclude humility and love?
I felt, observed, and pondered, did not
judge,
Yea, never thought of judging, with the
gift
19° Of all this glory filled and satisfied
And afterwards, nhen through the goi-
genus Alps
Roaming, I earned with me the same heart .
In tiuth, the degiadation— homsoe'ei
Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree,
196 Of custom that prepares a partial scale
In which the little oft outweighs the great ,
Or any other caiibe that hath been named ,
Or lastly, aggravated by the times
And their impassioned sounds, which well
might make
200 The milder minstrelsies of inial scenes
Inaudible— \t as transient, I had kno\\n
Too forcibly, too early in my life,
Visitmgs of iiiiaginatne powei
For this to last • I shook the habit off
205 Entirely and foievei, and again
In Nature's presence stood, as now I stand,
A sensitive being, a cieattve soul
. •
BOOK XIII. IMAGINATION AND TASTE, How
IMPAIRED *KD RESTORED —
(Concluded)
Prom Nature cloth emotion come, and
moods
Of calmness equally aie Nu tine's gift
This is her glory; these two attributes
Are sister horns that constitute hei
pfreggth.
5 Hence Genius, bom to tluive by intei-
change
Of peace and excitation, finds in her
His best and purest friend; front her
receives
That energy by which he seeks the: truth,
From her that happy stillness of the mind
10 Which fits him to receive it when unsought.
Sueh benefit the humblest intellects
Partake of, each in their decree; 'li* mine
To speak what I myself have known and
felt;
Smooth task! for words find easy way,
inspired
15 By gratitude, and confidence in truth.
Long time in search of knowledge did I
range
The field of human hie, in heart and mind
Benighted , but, the dawn beginning now
To reappear, 'twas proved that not in vain
20 I had been taught to reverence a Power
That is the visible quality and shape
And image of right reason; that matures
Her processes by steadfast laws; gi\es
birth
To no impatient or fallacious hopes,
25 No heat of passion or excessive zeal,
No vain conceits, provokes to no quick
turns
Of self-applauding intellect, but tinins
To meekness, and exalts by humble faith,
Holds up befoie the mind intoxicate
5(1 With present objects, and the bus^ dance
Of things that pass away, a tern i KM ate show
Of objects that endme, and by tins course
Disposes hei, when <ncr- fondly set
On throwing: off incumbrances, to seek
**"' In man, and in the frame ol* SOCHI I life,
Whatever theie is desirable and «<»<<!
Of kmdied pel iiinncnce, unchanged in
f 01 in
And function, 01, thiough stuct Mcissitude
Of life and death, levohing Abme all
10 Were re-established now those watchful
thoughts
Which, seeing little worthy 01 sublime
In what the historian's pen so much de-
lights
To blazon— power and eneip> detached
Fium in 01 a 1 pin pose— eaily tntoied me
4"' To look with i'eelnifcR of fraternal lo\c
rpon the unassuming things that bold
A silent station in tins beauteous woild
Thus moderated, thus composed, I found
Once moi e in Man an object of delight,
50 Of puie imagination, and of love:
And, as the honzon of my mind en laired,
Again T took the intellectual eye
Foi my mstructoi, studious moie to see
Omit truths, than touch and handle little
ones.
fi"» Knowledge was qiven accordingly, ni\
trust
Became more firm in feelings that had stood
The test of such a trial ; clearer far
My sense of excellence— of right and
wrong-
The promise of the present time retired
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH 268
60 Into its true proportion; sanguine By bodily toil, labor exceeding far
schemes, Their due proportion, under all the weight
Ambitious projects, pleased me lesb, I Of that injustice which upon ourselves
sought 10° Ourselves entail.'9 Such estimate to frame
For piesent good in hfe'h familiar face, I chiefly looked (what need to look
And built thereon my hopes of good to beyond 1)
come. Among the natural abodes of men,
Fields with their rural works; recalled
With settling judgments now of what ^_ ** "P*
would last My earliest notices, with these compared
66 And what would disappear, prepared to l06 The observations made in later youth,
flnd And to that day continued —For, the time
Piesumption, foll>, madness, in the men Had u*Y«r *™n when throes of mighty
Who thrust themsehes upon the passne * a tlon?.,
W01j(j And the world 'b tumult unto me could
As Rulers of the world , to see in thcbe, _. y^W,
Even when the public welfare is their aim, no How far soe 'er transported and p^i^ed,
70 Plans without thought, or built on theorui U° ™ ™»«™ j* content, but still I craved
Vague and unsound, and having brought An intermingling of distinct regards
the books And truths of individual sympathy
Of modem statists to their proper test, Nearer fn«elves. Such often might be
Life, human life, uiith all its sacred claims _, gleaned
Of «ex and ngi, and heaven-descended r™m tbc *™t <**. •>•• * *«* have
i ichts proved
« Moitnl. or 'those beyond the leach of "6 To me a heart-depressing wilderness;
j(>atl, But much was wanting therefore did I
And haung thus discerned how due a thing _ turn
Is worshipped in that idol proudly named £0 you ye pathway, and ye lonely roads,
"The Wealth of Nations,"1 where alone bou*ht y«» ennched with everj-thing I
that wealth _r t. . Prized' .
N l,Klged, and ho^ me, eased , and having ^ Ith human kindna*eh and uuiple joy*
«"' A iHorej-'"^ knouledpe of the worth 13° Oh! n«* *» °ne dear "W« of bliss,
And dignitv of mdnidual man, .. vouchsafed
Xo .-omposi'tion of the biain. hut man ^asJ.to fe,w lnn,thls "nt1oward1 7»rid,
Of when. «e i«i«l. the man «luim we be- The bliss of walking daily m life's prime
,1()|d Through field or forest with the maid we
With oui own ujes— I could not but en- __ . '•"['» .
L._ * While yet our heaitb aie young, while yet
N5 ^ol with less inteiest than heretctuie, ,„ VT . we breathe
But Rieatei. though in Ppmt moie sub- "B Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook,
diii'd— Deep vale, or anywhere, the home of both,
\Vln .s ilns ttkwmuk nntme to be found E""11 whl'h jt *ould be misery to stir:
One' only in ten thonmidl What one is, .Oh ' «"* *« bu<>h enjoyment of our youth,
Why may not million bet What ban, In my e*teem, ne«t to such dear delight,
ai e thiown ^M *** °* wandenng on from day to day
Wafted upon the wind from distant lands,
And geSI virtue they possess who live WhiA Backed not voice to welcome me in
«A reference to the work, of Ad.m Bmltb. iw ** «*«»*•« P1'8""4 toU had
fiinoui political ecooomistjnho W1H c.linr»ed to Please>
with treating man, in hii If cam of 'Xtttoii*. Converse with men, where if we meet a face
nm?" ' " We almost meet a fnend, on naked heaths
284 NINETEENTH CENTTJBY BOMANTICI8T8
140 With long long ways before, by cottage From mouths of men obscure and lowly,
bench, truths
Or well-spring where the weary traveller Replete with honor; sounds in unison
rests. 186 With loftiest promises of good and fair.
Who doth not love to follow with his eye There are who think that strong affec-
The windings of a public wayt the sight, tion, love
Familiar object as it is, hath wrought Known by whatever name, is falsely
MB On my imagination since the morn deemed
Of childhood, when a disappearing line, A gift, to use a term which they would use,
One daily present to my eyes, that crossed Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires
The naked summit of a far-off hill 19° Betnement, leisure, language purified
Beyond the limits that my feet had trod, By manners studied and elaborate,
160 \Vas like an invitation into space That whoso feels such passion in its
Boundless, or guide into eternity strength
Yes, something of the grandeur which Must live within the very light and air
invests Of courteous usages refined by art.
The manner who sails the roaring sea 195 True is it, where oppression worse than
Through storm and darkness, early in my death
mind Salutes the being at his birth, where grace
IK Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the Of culture hath been utterly unknown,
earth; And p<neity and labor in excess
Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more From day to day preoccupy the ground
Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites, 20° Of the affections, and to Nature's self
From many other uncouth vagrants Oppose a deeper nature; there, indeed,
(passed Love cannot be; nor does it thrive with
In fear) have walked with quicker step, ease
but why Among the close and overcrowded haunts
i*° Take note of thist When I began to Of cities, where the human heart is sick,
enquire, 205 And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed.
To watch and question those I met, and — Ye&, in those \\andermgs deeply did I
speak feel
Without reserve to them, the lonely roads How we mislead each other, abo\e all,
Were open schools in which I daily read How books mislead us, seeking their re-
With most delight the passions of mankind, ward
165 Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears. From judgments of the wealthy Few, *lm
revealed , see
There saw into the depth of human souls, 21° By artificial lights, how they debase
Souls that appear to have no depth at all The Many foi the pleasure of those Few ,
To careless eyes. And— now convinced Effeminately level down the truth
at heart To certain general notions, for the sake
How little those formahtieb, to which Of being understood at once, or else
170 With overweening trust alone we give 215 Through want of better knowledge in the
The name of Education, have to do heads
With real feeling and just sense, how vain That framed them; flattering self-conceit
A correspondence with the talking world with words,
Proves to the most; and called to make That, while they most ambitiously set forth
good search Extrinsic differences, the outward marks
175 If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked Whereby society has parted man
With toil, be therefore yoked with igno- 220 From man, neglect the universal heart.
ranee,
If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, Here, calling up to mind what then I
And intellectual strength so rare a boon— saw,
I prized such walks still more, for there A youthful traveller, and see daily now
I found In the familiar circuit of my home,
1*0 Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure Here might I pause, and bend in reverence
peace 226 To Nature, and the power of human minds,
And steadiness, and healing and repose To men as they are men within themselves
To every angry passion. There I heard, How oft high seivice IR performed within.
WILLIAM WOBD8WORTH 265
When all the external man is rude in Meek men, whose very souls perhaps
show,— would sink
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 27° Beneath them, summoned to such inter-
280 But a mere mountain chapel, that protects course : *
Its simple worshippers from sun and Theirs is the language of the heavens, the
shower power,
Of these, said I, shall be my song , of these, The thought, the image, and the silent joy :
If future years mature me for the task, Words are but under-agents in their souls;
Will I record the praises, making verse When they are grasping with their great-
215 Deal boldly with substantial things, in est strength,
truth 275 They do not breathe among them: this
And sanctity of passion, speak of these, I speak
That justice may be done, obeibance paid In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts
Where it is due thus haply shall I teach, For His own service ; knoweth, loveth us,
Inspire , through unadulterated ears When we are unregarded by the world.
240 Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope,— my
theme Also, about this time did I receive
No other than the very heart of man, 28° Convictions still more strong than hereto-
As found among the best of those who fore,
live— Not only that the inner frame is good,
Not unexalted by religious faith, And graciously composed, but that, no less,
Nor uninformed by books, good books, Natuie tor all conditions wants not power
though few— To consecrate, if we have eyes to see,
246 In Nature's piesence thence may I 28B The outside of her creatures, and to
select breathe
Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight , Grandeur upon the very humblest face
And miserable love, that is not pain Of human life I felt that the array
To hear of, for the glory that redounds ()i act and cneumstance, and visible form,
Thcrefiom to human kind, and what we Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind
are. 29° What passion makes them; that mean-
250 Be mine to follow with no timid step while the forms
Where knowledge leads me it shall be Of Nature have a passion in themselves,
my pnde That intermingles with those works of man
That I have dared to tread this holy To which she summons him , although the
ground, works
Speaking no dieam, but things oraculai , Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own ,
Matter not lightly to be heaid by those 295 And that the Genius of the poet hence
255 Who to the letter of the outward promise May boldly take his way among mankind
Do read the invisible soul, by men adroit Wherever Nature leads, that he hath stood
In speech, and for communion with the By Nature's side among the njen of old,
world And so shall stand forever. Dearest
Accomplished, minds whose faculties are friend'
then 30° If thou partake the animating faith
Most active when they arc most eloquent, That poets, even as prophets, each with
260 And elevated most when most admired. each
Men may be found of other mould than Connected in a mighty scheme of truth,
these, Have each his own peculiar faculty,
Who are their own upholders, to them- Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to
selves perceive
Encouragement, and energy, and will, 30B Objects unseen before, thou wilt not
Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively blame
words The humblest of this band who dares to
*« As native passion dictates. Others, too, hope
There are among the walks of homely That unto him hath also been vouchsafed
life An insight that in some sort he possesses,
Still higher, men for contemplation A privilege whereby a work of his,
framed, 31° Proceeding from a source of untaught
Shy, and unpractised in the strife of things,
phrase; Creative and enduring, may become
266
NINETEENTH CENTURY HOMANT1CI8T8
A power like one of Nature's. To a hope
Not leas ambitious once among the wilds
Of Serum's Plain,1 my youthful spirit
was raided ;
*1K There, as I ranged at will the pastoral
downs
Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare
white roads
Lengthening m solitude their dreary line,
Time with his retinue of ages fled
Backwards, nor checked his flight until I
saw
S20 Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear,
Saw multitudes of men, and, here and
there,
A single Bnton clothed in wolf-skin ve*»t,
With shield and stone-axe, stiide across
the wold;
The voice of spears was heard, the rattling
spear
*H Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in
strength,
Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty.
I called on Darkness— but before the word
Was uttered, midnight darkness teemed
to take
All objects from my sight; and lo! again
'*° The Desert visible by dismal flames ,
It is the sacrificial altai, fed
With living men— how deep the groans'
the \oice
Of those that crowd the giant \\ickei2
thrills
The monumental hillocks, and the pomp
886 Is for both worlds, the living and the dead
At other moments— (for through that
wide waste
Three summer days I roamed) where'er
the Plain
Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or
mounds,
That yet survive, a work, as some divine,
840 Shaped by the Druids, so to represent
Their knowledge of the heavens, and image
forth
The constellations— gently was I charmed
Into a waking dream, a reverie
That, with believing eyes, where'er I
turned,
*" Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white
wands
Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky,
1 In 1793, Wordsworth roamed over Rftlifthurr
Plain with hta friend, William Calvcrt SOP
Wordsworth'i O*l1t and Borrow
•The ancient Druids In Britain liuprinoned
human beings In giant Idols of wickerwork
aad burned them alive at sacrifice* to the
«idi. (See Holmes'* (fetor/a Conq uejt of
Gaul, 2nd edf 38, 528, and Cmara Oallfo
, 10. )
Alternately, and plain below, while breath
Of music swayed their motions, and the
waste
Kejoiced with them and me in tliuw wwt
sounds.
3r»o This for the past, and things that may
be viewed
Oi fancied in the obscurity of years
From monumental hints and thou, 0
friend !
Pleased with some unpremeditated strains'
That served those wanderings to beguile,
hast said
r.r>5 That then and there my mind had exercised
Upon the vulgar forms of present things,
The actual world of our familiar days,
Yet higher power, had caught from them
a tone,
An image, and a character by books
300 Not hitherto reflected Call we this
A partial judgment— and yet whyt for
then
We were as strangers,2 and I may not
speak
Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude,
Which on thy young imagination, trained
865 In the great City, broke like light flow fai
Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself
Witness and judge , and 1 remembei well
That in life's every-day appearances
I seemed about this time to gam clear sight
870 Of a new world— a world, too, that vas fit
To be transmitted, and to other ejes
Made visible, as ruled by those fiked laus
Whence spmtual dignity originates.
Which do both give it being and maintain
876 A balance, an ennobling interchange
Of action from without and from within ,
The excellence, pure function, and best
power
Both of the object seen, and eye that sees.
MICHAEL
A PASTORAL POEM
1800 1800
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head
Ghyll,8
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle, in such bold
ascent
'The Dencrtptii f Bketchet, praised by Coleridge
ai tbe work of "a great and original pen-tic
lui"
did not meet until 1797
• "A Gfayll la a ihort. and. for the most part, a
•teep, narrow valley, with a utream running
through it." — Wordsworth.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
267
5 The pastoral mountains front you, face to
face.
But courage; for around that boisterous
bi ook
The mountains lime nil opened out them-
selves,
And made a hidden ^ alley of their own
No habitation can be seen . but they
10 Who journev thither find themsehes alone
With a few sheep, with locks ami stones,
arid kites
That overhead are sailiim in the sky
It is in truth an utter solitude,
Nor should T ha\e mude mention of this
dell
1(5 But for ono object Mlneh you might pass
In i
Might see and notice not Reside the brook
A] > pen IN a Mi am; I in;* heap of unhewn
stones '
And to that simple object appertains
A stoiv— unenriehed with strange events,
20 Yet not unfit, I dcc.ni, tor the fireside,
Or fin the summer shade It was the fhs*
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of shephetds, dwelleis in the valleys, men
Whom I ahead> loved,— not ^c^lv
25 For their own sakes, but for the fields and
hills
Wheie \\as then occupation and abode
And hence this tale, \\lule I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet ha\ ms» felt the ponei
Of Nature, bv the gentle agency
30 Of natuial objects, led me on to ieel
For passions that weie not my own, and
think
(At landom and impeifectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human lite
Theiefoie, although it be a histoiy
*6 Homely and inde, I uill i elate the same
For the delight of a few natuial hearts,
And, uith yet fondei feeling, ioi the sake
Of youthful poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone
*0 Upon the forest -side in Giasmeie Vale
Theie ihtelt a shepherd. Michael was his
name ,
An old man, stout of heait, and strong of
limb
His hodilx fiame had been from youth to
age
Of an unusual strength • his mind was keen,
45 Intense, and frugal, apt lor all affairs,
And in his shepheid's calling he was
piompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all
winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes,
50 When others heeded not, he heard the south
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipeis on distant Highland hills
The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would
rri "The winds aie no\i deusmg woik foi
me'"
And, truly, at all times, the ntoim, that
drives
The traveller to a sheltei, summoned him
l'p to the mountains he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
h° That came to him, and left him, on the
heights.
So lived he till his eightieth yeaz was past.
And grossly that man en's, who should
suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams
and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the shepherd's
thoughts
66 Fields, \\here nith cheeiful spirits he had
meal lied
The common an , hills, which with vigor-
ous step
He had so often climbed, which had im-
pressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill 01 courage, joy or fear,
70 Which, like a brook, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved.
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honorable gain;
Those fields, those hills— what could they
less f— had laid
75 Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasuie which there is in life itself
His days had not been passed in single-
ness
His helpmate was a comely matron, old—
80 Though younger than himself full twenty
years
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heait was in her house* two wheels
she had
Of antique form, this large, for spinning
wool;
That small, for flax; and, if one wheel
had rest,
85 It was because the other was at work
The pair had but one inmate in their
house,
An only child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years,
began
268 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
To deem that he was old,— in shepherd's This light was famous in its neighborhood,
phrase, 18° And was a public symbol of the life
90 With one foot in the grave. This only son, That thrifty pair bad lived. For, as it
With two brave sheep-dogs tned in many chanced,
a storm, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
The one of an inestimable worth, Stood single, with large prospect, north
Made all their household I may truly say, and south,
That they were as a prove ib in the vale _ High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
96 For endless industry. When day was gone, 1S" And \\est\\aid to the ullage near the lake,
And from their occupations out of doors And from this constant light, so regular,
The son and father woie come home, e\en And 80 far seen, the house itself, by all
then, Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Their laboi did not cense; unless when all Both old and young, was named THE
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and EVENING STAR
there,
100 Each with a mess nf pottage and skimmed 14° Thus In ing on through such a length
milk, of years,
Sat round the basket piled with oaten The shepherd, if he loved himself, must
cakes, needs
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet Hn\o loved his helpmate, but to Mi-
wheii the meal chad's heart
Was ended, Luke (foi so the son was This son of his old a«?e was yet more
named) dear—
And his old father both betook themselves Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
105 TO such convenient woik as might employ 14B Fond spirit that blindly works in the
Their hands by the fireside, peihaps to blood of all-
card Than that a child, more than all other gifts
Wool for the housewife's spindle, or re- That eaith can offer to declining man,
pair Brings hope with it, and forward-looking
Some injur> done to sickle, flail, or scythe, thoughts,
Or other implement of house or field And stirrings of inquietude, when they
150 BV tendency of nature needs must fail
110 Down fiinii the reiling, b\ tlio Hum- Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
noy 's edpe, II is heart and his heart fs joy f For often-
That in our ancient uncouth count ly style times
With huge and blark pioieHum o\ei- Old Mwliael, uliilp he was a babe in arms
browed Had done him female sen ice; not alone
Large space beneath, as dul> as the light 166 For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of day greu dim the housewife hung a Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
'lamp, To acts of tendeineK, and he had rocked
115 An aged utensil, which had pei formed His cradle, as u itli a woman 's gentle hand.
Service beyond all others of its kind
Early at evening; did it burn— and late, And in a later time, ere yet the boy
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 16° Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Which, going b\ fioni yrai to yeai, had Albeit of a stem unbending mind,
found, To have the young one in Ins Right, when
120 And left, the couple neither gay perhaps he
Nor cheerful, yet with objects* and with Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's
hopes, stool
Living a life of eager industry. Sate with a fettered sheep before him
And now, when Luke had reached his stretched
eighteenth year, le6 Under the large old oak, that near his door
There by the light of this old lamp they Stood single, and, from matchless depth
sate, of shade,
126 Father and son, while far into the night Chosen for the shearer's covert from the
The housewife plied her own peculiar work, sun,
Making the cottage through the silent hours Thence in our rustic dialect was called
Murmur as with the sound of summer THB CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it
flies. bears.
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH 269
170 There, while they two were sitting in the From day to day, to Michael's ear there
shade, came
With others round them, earnest all and Distressful tidings. Long before the time
blithe, 21° Of which I speak, the shepherd had been
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks bound
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed In surety for his brother's son, a man
Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep Of an industrious life, and ample means.
175 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Scared them, while they lay still beneath Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now
the shears. 215 Was summoned to dischaige the forfeituie,
A giievous penalty, but little less
And when by Heaven's good giace the Than half his substance This unlocked-
boy giew up for claim,
A healthy lad, and earned in his cheek At the fiist bearing1, foi a moment took
Two steady inses that \ierc five years old, More hope out of his bfe than he sup-
180 Then Michael fiotn a vimtei coppice cut posed
With his own hand a sapling, which he 22° That any old man ever eould have lost.
hooped As soon as he had armed himself with
With iron, making it thioughout in all strength
Due requisites a perfect shepheid's staff, To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
And gave it to the hoy , wherewith equip! The shepherd 's sole resource to sell at once
186 He as a watchman oftentimes v\as plaeed A poition of Ins patrimonial fields
At gate or gnp. to stem or turn the flock, 22G Such uas his Hist icsolve; he thought
And, to hi*-, otlice prematuiolv called, again,
There stood the in chin, a** you will divine, And Ins heart failed him. "Isabel," said
Something between a hmdiance and a he,
help , T\vo evenings after he bad heard the news,
790 And ioi this cause not aluays, I believe, "I ha\e been toiling more than seventy
Receiving from his faflier hue of praise, yenrs,
Though nought was left undone which And in* the open sunshine of God's love
staff, or voice, 23° Hove *e all lived, vet, if these fields
Or looks, 01 threatening gesluies, could of ours
peifoim Should pasv mto a stranaei 's hand, I think
That I could not he quiet in my grave.
Tint soon a-. Luke, full ten vears old, Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
could stand m lias scarcely been moie diligent than I;
195 Again**! the mountain blasts, and to the 235 And 1 have lived to be a tool at last
heights To mv own famil> An evil man
Not fearing toil, noi length of \\caiy ua.vs, That uas, and made an evil choice, if he
He with his father daily went, and thev Weie false to us; and, if lie \vere not false,
Were as companions, why should I relate Theie are ten thousand to whom loss like
That object* which the shepheid loved this
befoie 24° Had been no *onow I foigive him, — but
200 Were deaier nowt that from the boy 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus
theiecame
Feelings and emanations— things which "When I began, niv pin pose was to
weie speak
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; Of remedies and of a cheerful hope
And that the old man fs heart seemed bom ^ Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel , the land
again? 245 Shall not go from us, and it shall be fiee.
He shall possess it. fiee as is the wind
Thus in his father's sight the boy grew That pastes over it We have, thou
up • knovi *st,
206 And now, when he had i cached his eigh- Another kinsman— he will be oui fnend
teenth year, In this distress He is a prosperous man.
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 25° Thriving in trade— and Luke to him shall
P««
While in this sort the simple household And with his> kinsman's help and his own
lived thrift
270 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
He quickly will repair this loss, and then But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
He may return to us. If here he stay, To stop her in her work : for, when die lay
What can be donet Where every one is 29°'By Michael's side, she through the last
poor, two nights
What can be gained V9 Heard him, how he was troubled in his
255 At this the old man paused, sleep:
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind And when they rose at morning she could
Was busy, looking back into past times. see
"There's Richard Bateman," thought she That all his hopes were gone That day
to herself, at noon
"He was a paribh-boy— at the church-door She said to Luke, while they two by them-
MO They made a gathering for him, shillings, selves
pence, 295 Were silting; at the door, "Thou must not
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors go :
bought We have no other child but thee to lose,
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's None to lernenibei— do not go away,
wares; For if thou leave thy father he will die."
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad The youth made anbwer with a jocund
Went up to London, found a master there, voice,
266 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 50° And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
To go and overlook hib merchandise Recoveiod heart That evening her best
Beyond the seas, where he grew won- fare
drons rich, Did she bung forth, and all together sat
And left estates and monies to the poor, Like happy people round a Christmas fire
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel
floored With daylight Isabel resumed hoi woik,
270 With marble, which he sent from foreign 305 And all the ensuing: week the house ap-
lands." peared
These thoughts, and many others of like As cheerful as a prove in spring at length
sort, The expected letter fiom then kinsman
Passed quickly through the mind of came,
Isabel, With kind assurances that lie mmild do
And hei face bughtened The old man His utmost for the welfare of the boy,
was glad, 31° To which, requests wcie added, that foitli-
And thus resumed --"Well, Isabel ' this with
scheme He might be bent to him Ten times or
275 These two days has been meat and drink more
to me. The letter was read ovei , Isabel
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. Went forth to show it to the neighbors
—We have enough— I wish indeed that I round;
Were younger,— but this hope is a good Noi was there at that time on Eimhsh
hope. land
Make ready Luke's best gairnents, of the 815 A prouder heart than Luke's When Isabel
best Had to her house letuined, the old man
280 Buy for him more, and let us send him said,
forth "He shall depait tonionow." To this
Tomorrow, or the next day, or tonight . woid
—If he could go, the boy should go to- The housewife answered, talking much of
night " tinners
Which, if at snrh short notice he should go,
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields 3-° Would surely be forgotten But at length
went forth She gave consent, and Michael was at ease
With a light heart The housewife foi
five days Near the tumultuous Yuook of Oieen-
288 Was restless morn and night, and all day head Ghyll,
long In that deep valley, Michael had designed
Wrought on with her best fingers to prc- To build a sheepfold ; and, before he heard
pare ?2<* The tidings of his melancholy loss,
Things needful for the journey of her MHI For this same purpose lie had gathered up
WILLIAM WOBBBWOBTH 271
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's Received at others9 hands; for, though
edge now old
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 86B Beyond the common life of man, I still
With Lake that evening hitherward he Remember them who loved me in my
walked: youth.
8W And soon as they had reached the place Both of them sleep together: here they
he stopped, lived,
And thus the old man spake to him:— As all their forefathers had done, and,
"My son, when
Tomorrow thou wilt leave me: with full At length their time was come, they were
heart not loth
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 37° To give their bodies to the family mould
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 1 wished that thou shouldst live the life
886 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. they lived,
I will relate to thee some little part But 'tis a long time to look back, my t»on,
Of our two histories , 'twill do thee good And see so little gain from threescore years.
When thou art from me, even if I should These fields were burthened when they
tou^h came to me;
On things thou canst not know of.— After 87S Till I was forty years of age, not more
thou Than half of my inheritance was mine.
840 First cam 'st into the world— as oft befalls 1 toiled and toiled; God blessed me in
To new-born mf ants— thou didst sleep my work,
away And till these three weeks past the land
Two days, and blessings from thy father's was free.
tongue —It looks as if it never could endure
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed 88° Another master Heaven forgive me,
on, Luke,
And still I loved thee with increasing love. If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
846 Never to h\mg ear came sweeter sounds That thou shouldst go."
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside At this the old man paused ,
Firbt uttenng, without words, a natural Then, pointing to the stones near which
tune; they stood,
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy Thus, after a short sileuce, be resumed
joy 385 "This was a work for us; and now, my son,
Sing at thy mother's breast. Month fol- It is a work for me. But, lay one stone-
lowed month, Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own
350 And in the open fields my life was passed hands
And on the mountains, else I think that Nay, boy, be of good hope;— we both may
thou live
Hadbt been brought up upon thy father's To see a better day At eighty-four
knees. 89° I still am strong and hale;— do thou thy
But we were playmates, Luke: among part;
these hills, I will do mine.— I will begin again
As well thou knowebt, in us the old and With many tasks that were resigned to
young thee
363 Have played togethei, nor with me didst l"p to the heights, and in among: the
thou storms,
Lack any pleasuie winch a boy can Will I without thee go again, and do
know " 89B All workb which I was wont to do alone,
Luke had a manly heart, but at these Befoie I knew thy face —Heaven bless
woids thee, boy!
He sobbed aloud The old man grasped Thy heart these two weeks has been beat-
bis hand, Kg f**t
And said, "Nay, do not take it so-I see With many hopes; it should be so-yes-
880 That these are things of which I need not yes—
spenk. I knew that thou oouldst never have *
— Even to the utmost I have been to thee wish
A kind and a good father: and herein 40° To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound
1 but icpay a grift which I myself to me
272 NINETEENTH CENTUJKY BOMANTICISTS
Only by links of love : when thou art gone, The shepherd went about his daily work
What will be left to us!— But I forget With confident and cheerful thoughts; and
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, now
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 44° Sometimes when he could find a leisure
405 When thou art gone away, should evil men hour
Be thy companions, think of me, my son, He to that valley took his way, and there
And of this moment; hither turn thy Wrought at the sheepfold. Meantime
thoughts, Luke began
And God will strengthen thee • amid all fear To slacken in his duty , and, at length.
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou He in the dissolute city gave himself
410 May'st bear in mind the life thy fathers 446 To evil courses* ignominy and shame
lived, Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
Who, being innocent, did for that cause To seek a hiding place beyond the seas
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare
thee well— There is a comfort in the strength of
When thou return 'st, thou in this place love;
wilt see 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
A work which is not here : a covenant 45° Would overset the biain* 01 bienk the
415 'Twill be between us, but, whatever fate heart.
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, I have conversed with more than one who
And bear thy memory with me to the well
grave " Remember the old man, and what he was
Yeais aftei he had heaid this heavy news
The shepherd ended here, and Luke His bodily frame had been from youth to
stooped down, age
And, as his father had requested, laid 456 Of an unusual strength Among the rock*
420 The first stone of the sheepfold At the He went, and still looked up to sun and
sight cloud,
The old man's grief broke from him, to And listened to the wind, and, as befnie,
his heart Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep,
He pressed his son, he kissed him and And for the land, his small inheritance
wept; 46° And to that hollow dell fiom time to time
And to the house together they retuined Did he repair, to build the fold of which
—Hushed was that house in peace, or His flock had need 'Tis not forgotten
seeming peace, yet
426 Ere the night fell '—with morrow's dawn The pity which was then in every heart
the boy For the old man— and 'tis believed by all
Began his journey, and, when hfe had 465 That many and many a day he thither went,
reached And nevei lifted up a single stone
The public way, he put on a bold face,
And all the neighbors, as he passed their There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was
doors, he seen
Came forth with wishes and with farewell Sitting alone, or with his faithful dog,
prayers, Then old, beside him, lying at his feet
430 That followed him till he was out of sight 47° The length of full seven years, from time
to time,
A good report did tiom their kinsman He at the building of this sheepfold
come, wrought,
Of Luke and his well-doing* and the boy And left the work unfinished when he died.
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous Three years, or little more, did Isabel
news, Survive her husband* at her death the
Which, as the housewife phrased it, were estate
throughout, 476 Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
455 "The prettiest letters that were ever The cottage which was named THE EVE-
seen." NINO STAR
Both parents read them with rejoicing Is gone— the ploughshare has been through
hearts. the ground
So, many months passed on* and onco On which it stood; great changes have
again been wrought
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
273
In all the neighborhood :— yet the oak is
left
480 That grew beside their door; and the
remains
Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head
Ghyll.
IT WAS AN APRIL MORNING
1800 1800
It was an April morning:- fresh and clear
The rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man 's speed , and yet
the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
B Was softened down into a venial tone
The spmt of enjoyment and desire.
And hopes and wishes, from all living
things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds
The budding groves seemed eager to urge
on
10 The steps of June ; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object but, meanwhile,
prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air
That e\ery naked ash, and tardy tiee
16 Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summei — lTp thebionk
I roamed in the confusion of mv heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all
80 At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The stream, so ardent in its coiuse beioip
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, tluit
all
Which I till then had heaid appealed the
voice
26 Of common pleasure, beast and bud, the
lamb,
The shepheid's dog, the linnet and the
thrush,
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song
Which, while I listened, seemed like the
wild growth
Or like some natural pioduce of the an,
*° That could not cease to be. Green leaves
were here;
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks— the
birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green
thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze •
And on a summit, distant a short space,
85 By any who should look beyond the dell
A single mountain-cottage might be seen
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
"Our thoughts at least are ours; and this
wild nook,
My Emma,1 1 will dedicate to thee."
40 Soon did the spot become my other
home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And of the shepherds who have seen me
there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
lr> Years after we are gone and in our grayes,
When they have cause to speak of this
wild place.
May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
'TIS SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED
FOB LOVE
1800 1800
'Tis said that some have died for love:
And heie and there a churchyard grave
is found
JH the cold noith's unhallowed giound,
Because the wretched man himself had
slam,
5 His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have
known,
He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn 's side
He loved- the pietty Baibara died,
10 And thus he makes his moan
Three yeais had Barbara in her grave been
laid
When thus his moan he made
1 ' Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that
oakf
_ ()i let the aged tree upiooted he,
15 That in some other way yon smoke
. May mount into the sky !
The clouds pass on , they from the heavens
depart
1 look— the sky is empty space,
I know not what I trace,
20 But when I cease to look, my hand is on
my heart.
"Of what a weight is in these shades'
Ye Leaves,
That murmur once so dear, when will it
cease?
Your sound my heait of rest bereaves,
It robs my heart of peace.
26 Thou Thrush, that singest loud— and loud
and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit ;
Or muff another song, or choose another
tree
1 \ name given to Wordsworth'* «!ster Dorothy
274
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
"Roil back, sweet RilP back to thy
mountain-bounds,
30 And there forever be thy waters chained f
For thou dost haunt the an with sounds
That cannot be sustained ,
If still beneath that pme-tiee'h lagged
bough
Headlong yon wa toil nil must come,
35 Oh let it then be dumb*
Be anything., sweet Rill, but that which
"thou art now
"Thou Eglantine, M> hught with sium>
showeis,
Pioud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
Thou one fair shrub, oh ' shed thy floweis,
40 And stir not in the gale.
For thus to see thee nodding in the an ,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus use and thus descend,—
Distuibs we till the sight is mote than I
can beai "
45 The man who makes this f evei ish complaint
Is one of giant statute, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail
Ah gentle Love* if ever thought was thine
To store up kindled houis for me, thy face
r»° Turn from me, gentle Lo\ef nor let me
walk
Within the sound ol Emma's \oiec. noi
know
Such happiness as I have known today
THE EXCURSION
7705 .IS/ fr 1814
From BOOK T THE WVVDEKMC
1795-1801 1814
'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted
high
Suuthwaid (he landscape indistinct K
glared
Through a pale steam, but till the nuithein
downs
In cleuiest an ascending, shuued l»«i off
r> A surface dappled o'er with shadows tlnng
Fiom brooding clouds, shadtws that lav
in spots
Petei mined and unmoved, uith stead\
beams
Of bright and pleasant sunshine mtei-
posed,
To him most pleasant \\lio on soil eon!
moss
10 Extends his caiele&s limbs along the 1'nmt
Of some huge cave, whose rocky coihns
casts
A twilight of its own. an ample shade,
Where the wien warbles, while the dream-
ing man,
Half conscious of the soothing melody,
16 With side-long eye looks out upon the
scene,
B\ power of that impending covert,
Tn finer distance Mine was at that hour
Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon
Tndei a shade as grateful I should find
20 Rest, and be welcomed there to Inehei joy.
Acioss a baie, wide Common I was toiling
With languid steps that by the shppeiy
tuif
Were baffled ; noi could my weak arm dis-
perse
The host of insects gatheung round my
face,
*'* And ever with me as T paced along
Upon that open mooiland stood a <>i<ne,
The \ushed-for poit t<> which my course
\\as bound
Thithei I came, and theie, amid the
gloom
Sptcjd by a biotheihood of loM\ elms,
30 Appealed a looflesshut, fom naked \\alls
That stared upon each othei f— I looked
round,
And to my wish and to my hope espied
The friend I sought, a man of texeieml
age,
But stout and hale, foi tra\el unimpaired
33 There was he seen upon the cottage-bench,
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep,
An iron-pointed staff la> at his side
Supine the Wandeiei lax.
His eyes as if in diowsmess half shut,
440 The shadows of the bieezy elms alxne
Dappling his t'uee lie had not heard the
sound
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade
Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat
415 Was moist with water-drops, as if the
' bum
Had newly scoo]>ed a running stream. He
rose,
And ere our lively greeting into peace
Had settled, " 'Tis," said I, "a burning
day
My lips are patched with thirst, but you,
it seems,
4&(i Have somewhere found relief " He, nt
the word,
Pointing towards n sweet -briar, bade me
climb
WILLIAM WORDfiWOKTH 275
The fence where that aspiring; bhrub 49° In nioital stillness, and they nmiibteied
looked out To human comfort Stooping down to
Upon the public way. It was a plot dunk,
Of garden ground run wild, its matted Upon the slimy foot-stone 1 espied
weeds The useless fragment of a woodeii bowl,
455 Maiked with the bteps of those, whom, Gieen with the moss of jears and subject
as they passed, _ only
The lioosebeny tiees that shot in Ions lank 4sr> To the soil handling oi the clemenis
slips, Theie let it he— ho\\ foolish arc such
Or cuiiants, hanging from then leaflets thoughts1
stems, Foigixe them ,— ne\ei — nexci did mj steps
In scanty sti mgh, hud tempted to o'ei leap Appioac'h this dooi but she who* d\\elt
The bioken wall 1 looked mound, and within
theie, A daughtei \ xxclcomegaxeme, mid 1 lo\ed
4t»o Where two tall hedge-lows of thick aldet her
boughs 60° As nrv O\A n child Oh, bii ! the good die
.Joined m a cold damp nook, espied a \\ell fhst,
Shiouded tuth willow-flow eis and phnm And the\ whose heuits «ic dij as Minium
fern dust
]\h tlmst I staked, and. tiom I he checiless Hum to the socket Mini} a passengei
h]>ot licit h blessed pool Maigaict loi hei gentle
A\ ithdiawnm, shamht\ta\ to the shade ie- looks,
tinned When she upheld the cool leheshment
4G' \\lieie siite the old man on the cottage- _ diawn
benili, C03 Fiom that ioisaken spimg, and no one
And. while. lx»sid<* him, \\ith uneo\eied > came
liencl. But he was welcome, no one went away
I vet wu- standing, heel\ to respnc, But that it seemed she lo\ed him She is
And cool my temples m the fanning an. dead,
Thus did lie sjK'ak 4M see aiound me The light extinguished ol hci Ion el > hut,
heie m The hut itself abandoneil to decay,
470 Things wlmli >ou cannot see \\e die, m\ 31° And she Joigotten m the (juiet gia\e.
f i lend,
Noi \\e alone, but Unit A\liieh emh man 4* I speak, " ion i in ned he, ''of one \\hosc
lo\ed stock
And puzed in his peiuluu nook of caith Oi MI tues bloomed hcncnth this lowl> uiof
Dies \Mth him, 01 is ( hanged and \eiy She was a woman of u steady mind,
soon M Tendei and deep m hei excess ol love ,
Exen oi the good is no memoiial lelt r>lG Not speaking much, pleased lathei with
I7"» —The poets, in then elegies and songs the jo\
Lamenting the depaited, call the gimes. Of her o^n thoughts bj some especial
They cull upon the hills and Mi earns to caie
mom n, Her temper had been ii amed, as if to make
And senseless locks, nor idly, ioi the> A being, who bv adding love to peace
speak. Might h\e on earth a life of happiness
In these then invocations with a AOICC 52° Hei wedded paitner lacked not on his side
4*t° OlHHlient to the stioug cieatnc power The humble \\oith that satisfied hei heait
Of human passion Sympathies theie aie Frugal, affectionate, sobei, and \\ithal
Moic tranquil. >et peihapt of kmdied Keenly mdustnous She mth pnde \\oultl
bnth, " tell
That steal uj>on the medilatue mmd, That he was often seated ut his loom.
And glow with thought Beside yon 5a5 In summer, eie the mowei * as abroad
spring T stood. Among the dewy grass.— m eaily spring,
4KB And eved its wnteih till wo seemed to feel Ere the last star had \anished —They \\lio
One sadness, they and I For them a bond passed
Of brothel hood is broken- time has be At evening, from behind the gnulen fence
When, every day, the touch of human hand Might hear his busy spade, which he would
Dislodged the natural sleep Hint hinds ply,
them up r>*° Aftei his daily woik, until the light
276 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Had failed, and every leaf and flower were Then, not less idly, sought, through every
lost nook
In the dark hedges. So their days were In house or garden, any casual work
spent Of use or ornament; and with a strange,
In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy 57B Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty,
Was their best hope, next to the Ood in He mingled, where he might, the various
heaven. tasks
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring*
635 "Not twenty years ago, but you I think But this endured not ; his good humor soon
Can scaicely bear it now in mind, there Became a weight in which no pleasure was :
came :>8° And poverty brought on a petted mood
Two blighting seasons when the fields were And n sore temper : day by day he drooped,
left And he would leave his work— and to the
With half a harvest It pleased Heaven to town
add Would turn without an errand his slack
A worse affliction in the plague of wai steps;
540 This happy land was stricken to the heart v Or wander hei e and there among the fields.
A wanderer then among the cottng**, 58B One while he would speak lightly of his
I, with my fi eight of winter laiment, saw babes,
The hardships of that season many iich And \\ith a ciuel tongue at othei times
Sank down, as in a dieam, among the poor, He tossed them uith a false unnatural joy
646 And of the pool did many cease to ho, And 'tuns j uiel'ul thing to see the looks
And then place knew tlipin not Mean- Of the pnor innocent children 'Eveij
while, abi idged smile,'
Of daily comf 01 ts, gladly leconciled 59° Said Maigaiet to me, here beneath these
To nuiuei cms self -denials Margaret ti ees,
Went struggling on through those calami- 'Made inv heait bleed ' "
tous years At this the Wanderer paused ;
550 With cheerful ho|K>, until the second And, looking up to those enormous elms
autumn, He said, " 'Tis now the houi of deepest
When her life's helpmate on a sick-bed la> . noon
Smitten with perilous fe\ei In disease ^ At this still season of lepose and peace,
He lingered long, and, when his st length 59> This houi when all things which are not at
returned, lest
He found the little he had stoied, to meet Aie cheeiful, while this multitude of flies
556 The hour of accident or crippling age, With tuneful hum is filling all the air,
Was all consumed. A second infant new Why should a tear be on an old man's
Was added to the troubles of a time cheek 1
Laden, for them and all of their degiee, Why should we thus, with an untowaid
With eaie and sorrow: shoals of artisans mind,
580 From ill-requited labor turned adnft 6o° And in the weakness of humanity,
Sought daily bread from public chanty, From natural wisdom turn our hearts
They, and their wives and children— hap- away;
pier far To natural comforts shut our eyes and
Could they have lived as do the little birds ears;
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb
kite The calm of nature with our restless
565 Tli at makes her dwelling on the mountain tbouc^itsf "
locks'
606 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone :
"A sad meise it was for him who long But, when he ended, there was in his face
Had filled with plenty, and possessed in Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,
peace. That for a little time it stole away
This lonely cottage. At the door he stood, All recollection ; and that simple tale
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 61° Passed from my mind like n forgotten
570 That had no mirth in them; or with his sound.
knife A while on trivial things we held discourse.
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of To me soon tasteless. In my own despite,
sticks— T thought of that poor woman ns of one
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 277
Whom I had known and loved. He had I cannot tell how she pronounced my
rehearsed name-—
615 Her homely tale with such familiar power, «* With fervent love, and with a face of grief
With such an active countenance, an eye Unutterably helpless, and a look
So busy, that the things of which he spake That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired
Seemed present; and, attention now re- If I had seen her husband As she spake
laxed, A strange surprise and fear came to my
A heart-felt chilliness crept along my veins heart,
620 I rose, and, having left the breezy shade, 66° Nor had I powei to answer eie she told
Stood dnnking comfort from the warmei That he had disappeared— not two months
sun, gone.
That had not cheered me long— ere, looking He left his house two wretched days had
round past,
Upon that tranquil ruin, I leturned, And on the third, as wistfully she raised
And begged of the old man that, for my Her head from off her pillow, to look forth,
«ake, x 665 Like one in trouble, for returning light,
626 He would resume his story Within her chamber casement she espied
He replied, A folded paper, lying an if placed
1 ' It were a wantonness and would demand To meet hei making eyes This tremblingly
Severe leproof, if we uete men whose She opened— found no wilting, but beheld
hearts 67° Pieces of money carefully enclosed,
Could hold \am dalliance uith the nnseiv SiUei and gold. 'I shuddeiedat thesight,'
Even of the dead , contented thence to draw Said Maigaiet, ' for I knew it was his hand
630 A momentary pleasure, never marked That must have placed it there, and ere
By rensbn, bai ten of nil future good that day
But we ha\e known that theie, is often Was ended, that long anxious day, I
found learned,
In mournful thoughts and always might 675 Fi om one u ho b> my husband had been sent,
be found, With the sad news, that he had joined a
A power to vutue fiiendK , \\eie't not «*o, troop
WR 1 ain a dreamci among men, indeed Of soldiers, going to a distant land.
An idle dreamer* 'Tis a common tale, —He left me thus— he could not gather
An ordinary sorrow of man fs life, heart
A tale of silent suffeiing. hardly clothed To take a farewell of me, for he feared
In bodily foim —But \\itliout hntliei bM- fi80 That I should follow with my babes, and
ding sink
HO I WiH proceed Beneath the nnsei> of that wandenng life '
Wlide thus it faied \\ith them,
To whom tins cottage, till those hapless "This tale did Margaret tell with many
years, tears :
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance And, when she ended, I had little power
To travel in a country far remote , To give her comfort, and was glad to take
And when these loftv elms once moie ap- 68B Such words of hope from her own mouth
ptared as served
645 What pleasant expectations lined me on To cheei us both But long we had not
O'er the flat Common '—With quick step I talked
reached Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts.
The threshold, lifted with light hand the And with a brighter eye bhe looked around
latch ; As if she had been shedding tears of joy.
But, when I eriteied, Margaret looked at wo We parted— 'Twas the time of early
me spring;
A little while , then turned her head away I left her busy with her garden tools;
660 Speechless,— and, sitting down upon a And well lemember, o'ei that fence she
chair, looked,
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, And, while I paced along the foot-way path,
Nor how to speak to her. Poor wretch ! at Called out, and sent a blessing after me,
last 695 With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice
• She rose from off her seat, and then,-0 That seemed the very Bound of happy
8irl thoughts.
278 NINETEENTH CENTUAV ROMANTICISTS
"I roved o'er many a hill and many a Her solitary infant cried aloud;
dale, Then, like a blast that dies away self-
With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, stilled.
Through many a wood and many an open The voice was silent. From the bench 1
ground, lose,
700 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fan. But neither could dneit nor soothe my
Diooping or blithe of heart, as might be- thoughts
fall, 74° The spot, though fair, was very desolate—
My best companions now the driving winds The longei T lemained, more desolate
And now the 4 trotting brooks'1 and whm- And, looking round me, now I first observed
pei mg t iees, The comer stones, on either side the poich,
And now the music of my own sad steps, With dull led stains discolored, and stuck
705 With many n short-Inert thought that o'er
passed between, 74C With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the
And disappeared sheep,
I journeyed back this wa\. That fed upon the Common, thither came
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the Pflnnluuh, and found a couching-place
wheat K\on at her threshold Deepei shadows
Was yellow , and the soft and bladed glass, fell
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field From these tall elms, the cottage-clock
spread struck eight ,—
710 Its tendei verduie At the door arrived. 75° T tinned, and saw her distant a few steps
I found that she was absent. In the "hade, Her face was pale and thin— her figure,
Wheie now we sit, I waited her return. too,
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore Was changed As she unlocked the door.
Its customary look,— only, it seemed, she said,
713 The honeysuckle, crowding round the * It t»iie\es me you have waited hcie so long,
porch, But, in good truth, I'^e wandeied much of
Hung down in heavier tufts, and that late,
blight weed, 7V| And, sometimes— to my shame T speak—
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root have need
Along the window's edge, profusely giew, Of my best piayeis to bung me back
Blinding the lower panes I turned aside, again.'
720 And strolled into her garden It appealed While on the board she spread 0111 evening
To lag behind the season, and had lost meal,
Its pride of neatness Paisy-floweis and She told me— interrupting not the work
thrift Which gave employment to her listless
Had broken then trim border-lines, and hands— *
straggled 76° That she had paitcd with her elder child;
O'er paths they used to deck * carnations To a kind master on a distant faun
once Now happily apprenticed —'I peiceive
725 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less You look at me, and you have cause, today
For the peculiar pains they had required, 1 have been travelling far; and many days
Declined their languid heads, wanting sup- 765 About the fields I wander, knowing this
port Only, that what T seek I cannot find ;
The cumbrous hind -weed, with its wieaths And HO I waste my time . for I am changed ;
and bells, And to myself,' said she, 'have done much
Had twined about her two small rows' of wrong
peas, And to this helpless infant. I have slept
780 And dragged them to the earth. 77° Weeping, and weeping have T waked , my
Ere this an hour tears
Was wasted —Back T turned my restless Have flowed as if my body weie not such
steps. As others are; and I could never die.
A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I But I am now in mind and in my heart
sought, More easy ; and I hope, ' said she, ' that God
He said that she was used to ramble far — 775 Will give me patience to endure the things
The sun was sinking in the west ; and now Which I behold at home. '
715 i gat with sad impatience. From within It would have grieved
1 Btinw, Tn WUHam ttmpfon, «7 Your very soul to see her Sir, T feel
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 279
The story linger in my heail ; I fear Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence ,
'Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings The floor was neithei dry nm neat, the
780 To that poor woman :— so familiarly health
Do I perceive hei wannei , and hei look, Was comf 411 tlcss, and luji small lot oi
And presence; and so deeply do 1 tcel books,
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in nrt SJB Which, in the cottage- window, heieloioie
walks Had been piled up against the comer panes
A moment a ty tianee come* ci\ei me, In seemly oidci. no\\, with stiagghni;
78C And ti> myself I Heem to inline on one lea\es,
H> soi low laid asleep, oi home aun>, La\ scattered heie and theie, open or shut,
A human being destined to awake As the> had chanced to full Hei infant
To human hie, or something \ery neai babe
To human life, when he shall come again S!(> Hud horn its nmthei caught the tiick of
7MO Fni whom she suffered Yes, it would haw ^iwt,
gne\ed And muhecl ain.>n» its plavthmt>s I with-
Your very soul to see her: evemuuc drew,
Her eyelids drooped, hex eyes dounwaid And onco again entei ing the garden saw,
were cast, Moie plainly still, that poverty and grief
And, when she at hei table ga\e me food, Weie non come neaiei to her weeds de-
She did not look at me Her voice u as Ion , faced
7915 Hei body was subdued In every act W5 The hardened soil, and knots of wit hei ed
Pertaining to hei house-uffaits, appealed grass,
The careless stillness ot a thinking mind No iidges theie appeared oi cleai black
Self-occupied , to which all outwaid things mould,
Aie like an idle nmttei Still she sighed, \o wmtei meenness, of her heibs anil
so° Hut yet no motion oi the breast was seen, flowers,
Xo heaving oi the hea it While by the fii e It seemed the bettei pint \teie snaked
\Ve sate togethei , sighs came on my ear, away
I knew not \\liv. ,md h.ndU whence tliev Or trampled into eaith. a chain of stiaw,
came Rl° Which had been twined about the slendei
stem
44 Eie my depart me, to hei caie I sa\c. Of a younj» apple-tiee, lay at its toot ,
X°P| Foi her Min's use, some tokens of i eitaid. Tl«e baik was nibbled round bv tiuant
Which with a look of welcome she iecei\ed sheep
And I exhorted hei to place her tiust — Maiyaict stood neat, hei infant in hei
In Hod's good hne, and seek his help Irv aims,
]>iayei And, noting that tnv eve \vas on the tiee,
1 took my staff, and, when I kissed lici S4~> She said, ' I ieai it will lie dead and gone
babe, Ere Robeit come a era in ' When to the
MO The teais stood in her e^es I left hei then house
With the best hope and comfort 1 could We had returned together, she enquired
gi\e If I had any hope —but for her babe
She thanked me ioi m\ wish ;— but for im And for lui little orphan boy, she said,
hope s:>0 She had no wish to live, that she must die
It seemed she did not thank me Of sorrow Yet I sa\\ the idle loom
1 le tinned, Still in its place, his Sundav gaiiuents
And took im rounds along this road again hung
818 When on its Minny bank the pimnoM* Upon the self-same nail , his very staff
flower ' Stood undisturbed behind the door.
Peeped ioith, to ^i\e an eainest of (he And when.
spiing. 85B In bleak December, I let raced this way.
T found hei sad and diooping: she had She told me that hei little babe was dead.
Ieai ned And she was left alone She now, released
No tidings of her husband , if he lived, From her mateinal cares, had taken up
She knew not that he lived: if he were The employment common through these
dead, wilds and trained,
R2° She knew not he was dead. She seemed the 8«<> Bv spinning hemp, a pittance for herself,
game And for this end had hired n neighbor's
In person and appearance; but her house boy
280 NINETEENTH CENTURY JJOJdANTJLULBTS
To give her needful help. That very time JMM) The same sad question. Meanwhile her
Most willingly she put her work aside, poor hut
And walked with me along the miry road, Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose
866 Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort hand.
That any heart had ached to hear her, At the first nipping of October frost,
begged Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands
That, wheresoever I went, I still would ask of straw
For him whom she had lost. We parted Chequeied the green-grown thntch. And
then— so she lived
Our final parting, for from that time forth 905 Through the long winter, reckless and
870 Did many seasons pass ere I returned alone ;
Into this tract again Until her house by frost, and thaw, and
Nine tedious years , ram,
From their first separation, nine long years, Was sapped; and while she slept, the
She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; nightly damps
A wife and widow. Needs must it have Did chill her breast , and in the stormy day
been Her Uttered clothes were ruffled by the
876 A sore heart-wasting* I have heard, my wind,
fnend, 91° Even at the side of her own fire Yet still
That in yon aibor oftentimes she sate She loved this wretched spot, nor would for
Alone, thiough half the vacant Sabbath worlds
day , Have parted hence , and still that length of
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit road,
The shade, and look abroad. On this old And this rude bench, one torturing hope
bench endeared,
880 For hours she sate; and evermore her e>e Fast rooted at her heart* and here, my
Was busy in the distance, shaping things friend,—
That made her heart beat quick You see 915 In sickness she remained ; and here she
that path, died ;
Now faint,— the grass has crept o'er its Last human tenant of these ruined walls I'9
gray line,
There, to and fro, hhe paced through many The old man ceased he saw that I was
a day moved ;
886 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp Fiom that low bench, rising instinctively
That girt her waist, spinning the long- 1 tuined aside in weakness, nor had power
drawn thread 92° To thank him for the tale which he had
With backward steps. Yet ever as there told
passed I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall
A man whose garments showed the soldier's Reviewed that woman 's sufferings; and it
red, seemed
Or crippled mendicant in soldier's garb, To comfort me while with a brother's love
890 The little child who sate to turn the I blessed her in the impotence of grief.
wheel 925 Then towards the cottage I returned , and
Ceased from his task , and she with falter- traced
ing voice Fondly, though with an interest more mild,
Made many a fond enquiry; and when That secret spirit of humanity
they, Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies
Whose presence gave no comfort, weie Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and
gone by, flowers,
Her heart was still more sad And by yon 9I° And silent overgrowing*, still survived
gate, The old man, noting this, resumed, and
8*6 That bars the traveller's road, she often said,
stood, "My friend! enough to sorrow you have
And when a stranger horseman came, the given,
latch The purposes of wisdom &sk no more :
Would lift, land in his face look wistfully • Nor more would she have craved as due to
Most happy, if, from aught discovered one
there *>* Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat felt
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
281
The unbounded might of prayer, and
learned, with soul
Fixed on the Cross, that consolation
springs,
From sources deeper far than deepest pain,
For the meek sufferer. Why then should
we read
940 The forms of things with an unworthy eyef
She sleeps in the calm eaith, and peace is
here
I well remember that those very plumes,
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on
that wall,
By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er,
946 Ab once I passed, into my heart conveyed
So still an image of tranquillity,
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my
mind,
That what we feel of sorrow and despair
960 From ruin and from change, and all the
grief
That passing slices of being leave behind,
Appeared an idle dream, that could main-
tain,
Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened
spirit
Whose meditative sympathies repo&e
9G5 Upon the breast of Faith I turned away.
And walked along my road ui happiness "
He ceased Ere long the sun declining
shot
A slant and mellow radiance, which began
To fall upon us, while, beneath the tree"*,
ft«° We sate on that low bench and now we
felt,
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming
on.
A linnet waibled from those lofty elms,
A thnifeh bang loud, and other melodies,
At distance heard, peopled the mildei air.
9«5 The old man rose, and, with a sprightly
mien
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff;
Together cahting then a farewell look
Upon those silent walls, we left the phade,
And, ere the stais were visible, had reached
970 j± village- mn,— our evening resting-place.
PELION AND OSSA
1801 1815
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side.
Together in immortal books enrolled
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ;
And that inspiring hill,1 which "did
divide
5 Into two ample horns his forehead wide, ' '*
Vlrffil'a dual . 21 22
Shines with poetic radiance aa of old;
While not an English mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in
crowds1
10 What was the great Parnassus' self to thee,
Mount Skiddaw 1 In his natural sovereignty
Our British hill is nobler far; he shrouds
Hib double front among Atlantic clouds
And pours forth streams more sweet than
Castaly.
THE SPABROW'S NEST
1801 1807
Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
^ Gleamed like a vision of delight
5 I started— seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My father's house, in wet or dry
My sihter Emineline1 and 1
10 Together visited.
She looked at it and seemed to fear it,
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it.
Such heart was in hei, being then
A little prattler among men.
15 The blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy .
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears,
20 And love, and thought, and joy
TO A BUTTERFLY
ISO* 1807
Stay near me— do not take thy flight !
A little longer stay in sight !
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy f
6 Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee :
Thou bring 'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family*
10 Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days.
The time, when in our childish plays,
My sister Emmehne1 and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
15 Upon the prey;— with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush ;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
1 \ Hi mo gtvra to Wordsworth's sister Dorothy.
282
NINETEENTH OENTtJBY ROMANTICISTS
MY HEART LEAPS UP
1802 1807
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky :
So \va& it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man ;
5 So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die f
The Child is father of the Man,
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
WRITTEN IN MARCH
WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT TUE FOOT
OF BROTHER'S WATER
1802 1807
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
s The preen field sleeps in the sun ,
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the str on crest ;
The cattle are grazing.
Their heads nevci raisins .
10 There are i'oity feeding like onef
Like an army defeated
The snow hath reheated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill .
15 The ploughboy is whooping— anon— anon •
There's joy in the mountains,
There 's life in the fountains ,
Small clouds ate sailing,
Blue sky prevailing:
-o The rain is o\ei and gone'
TO A BUTTERFLY
1802 1807
T'\e watched you now a full half -hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow llowei ,
And, little Butterfly f indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
6 How motionless I—not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees.
And calk you forth again f
10 This plot of orchard-ground is our*- .
My trees they are, my sistei fs flowers .
Here rest your wings when they are weary ,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary 1
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
15 Sit near us on the bough '
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE
180* 1807
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Pi im roses will have their glory;
' Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in stoiy
There's a flower that shall be mine,
the little Celandine
Eyes of some men tra\el fai
10 For the finding of a star,
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout !
I 'm as great as they, 1 tiow,
Since the dav I found thee out,
16 Little Flower— I'll make a stir,
Lake a sago nstronoinei
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and hmsh of thyself ,
Since \\e need* must first have met
20 I have seen thoo, high and low,
Thirty yeais 01 moic, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know ,
Thou hast now, i»o \\hoie T may,
Fifty gieetmgb in n d«i}
2" Ere a leaf is on a bush.
In the tune befoie the tluuhli
Has a thought about her net»t.
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy gloss> hi cast
!0 Like a careless Prodigal*
Telling tales about the sun.
When we've little wauuth. 01 none.
Poets, vain men in their mood f
Tra\el with the multitude
35 Never heed them ; I avei
That they all are wanton wooers;
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doois,
Joys to spy thee near her home ,
40 Spnng is coming, thou art come '
Comfort ha\e thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spint f
Caretaw of thy neighborhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
46 On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane;— there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH
288
111 befall the yellow flowers,
50 Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien ,
They have done as worldlings do,
56 Taken praise that should he thine,
Little, humble Celandine
Prophet of delight and uiirth,
Ill-requited upon earth ,
Herald of a mighty band,
60 Of a joyous tiain ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that aie no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in piaise of what I lo\ef
TO THE SAME FLOWEE
180K 1807
Pleasures newly found are sweet
When they he about oui feet
February last, my heait
First at sight of thee was ulnd ,
6 All unheard of as thou art,
Thou miu«t needs, I think, ha\e had,
Celandine ' and long ago,
Praise of which 1 nothing know
I have not a doubt but be,
10 Whosoe'ei the man might be.
Who the first with pointed rajs
(Workman worthy to be sainted)
Set the eign-boaul m a blaze,
When the nsinu sun lie painted,
15 Took the fancy from a glance
At thy ulitteiing countenance.
Soon as gentle bieezes bring
News oi winter's \anishing,
And the children build then boweis,
*0 Sticking 'kerchiei-plots1 of mould
All about with full-bit AMI tioweis,
Thick n« sheep in shepherd's fold'
With the pinudesl thou ait there.
Mantling in the tiny squaie.
26 Often lm\e I sighed to meawuo
By myself a loncl> pleasm?.
Sighed to think I i end a book
Only iea<l, peihaps, by me,
Yet I hum could merlook
80 Thy blight (-emmet and thee.
And thv mrli and \\ih ways.
And thy Moic- ot othei praise
Blithe of heart, fiom week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek .
86 While the pntient primrose sits
i Plots of thr sire of a handkerchief
Like n beggar in the cold,
Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
Slip'st into thy sheltenng hold;
Liveliest of the vernal tram
40 When ye all are out again
Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm of sight or smell,
Does the dim-eyed curious bee,
Laboiing for her waxen cells,
45 Fondly settle upon thee
Prized above all buds and bells
Opening daily at thy side,
By the season multiplied 1
Thou ait not beyond the moon,
60 But a thing "beneath oui shoon."1
Let the bold discoveiei thud
In his bark the polai sea ,
Reai ^vho will a pyramid ,
Praise it is enough for me,
55 If there be but thiee or foui
Who will love my little Flower
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE
J80£ 1807
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The tain came heauly and fell in floods,
But IHW the sun is rising calm and blight ,
The buds ate singing in the distant woods,
5 Ovei his nutn sweet \oice the stock-dote
broods ,
The jay makes ans\iei us the magpie
chatters.
And all the air is filled with pleasant
noise of wateis
All things that love the sun are out of
doois.
The skv iejoicc.>s in the inoi mug's birth .
10 The mass is bright with i am -drops,— on
the nioois
The lime is lunmng laces in her mirth,
And with hei feet she fiom the plash \
earth
Kaises a mist, that, glittering in the sun
Runs with her all the way, where\ei sin-
doth run
16 I ^as n hatellei then upon the moor.
I saw the haie that laced about with jo> ,
I heard the woods and distant waters mar.
Or heard them not, as happv as a boy
The pleasant season did my heart employ
20 My old remembrances \\ent from nu»
wholly ;
And all the ways of men, so vain and
melancholy.
(Roc Comv*, G34 )
284
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIBTS
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the
might
Of joy in minds that can no further go.
As high as we have mounted in delight
25 In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so,
And fears and fancies thick upon me came ;
Dim sadness— and blind thoughts, 1 knou
not, nor could name.
I heard the skylark warbling m the bky ,
30 And I bethought me of the playful hare
Even such a happy child of earth am I ,
Even as these blissful creatures do I faie,
Far from the world I walk, and from all
care;
But there may come another day to me—
35 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and
poverty.
My whole life I have lived in pleasant
thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood ,
As if all needful things would conic un-
sought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good,
40 But how can he expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, /and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no
heed at all?
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous
Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his
pnde;
46 Of him who walked in glory and m joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-
side .l
By our oun spnits are we deified*
We poets in oui youth begin in gladness,
But thereof come in the "end despondency
and madness.
50 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had
striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
56 1 saw a man before me unawares .
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore
gray hairs
As a buge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
60 By what means it could thither come, and
whence;
1 Burni
So that it seems a thing endued with sense :
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a
shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth. there to sun
itself;
Such seemed this man, not all alive nor
dead,
66 Nor all asleep— in his extreme old age.
HIB body was bent double, feet and head
Coining together in life's pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness ielt by him in times long past,
70 A moie than human weight upon his fiaiue
had cast
Himself he piopped, limbs, bod}, and pale
tace,
Upon a long gray staff of sha\en wood*
And, still as 1 diew neai \uth gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that inooiish1 flood
75 Motionless as a cloud the old man stood,
That heareth not the loud \\uids \\hen
they call ,
And moveth all togethei, iJ it mou* at all
At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
S til red \\ith his staff, and ffoedh did look
80 Upon the muddy water, \\hich he conned,
As if he had been i eading in a book .
And now a stranger's pii\ile#e I took,
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
4 'This morning gnes us promise of a glo-
rious day "
85 A gentle answer did the old man make.
In courteous speech which forth he slowly
drew:
And him with further woids 1 thus be-
spake,
4 'What occupation do you there pursue Y
This is a lonesome place for one like you "
90 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Bioke from the sable orbs of his yet-vnid
His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
Rut each in solemn ordei followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance
drest-
9b Choice word and measured phrase, above
the reach
Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ;
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man
their dues.
1 marshy
W1LUAM WORDSWORTH
286
He told, that to these waters he had come
100 TO gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome !
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor
to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice
or chance,
105 And in this way lie gained an honest
maintenance.
The old man still stood talking by my side,
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard ; nor word from word could
I divide,
And the whole body of the man did seem
110 Like one whom I had met with in a dream ,
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt ad-
monishment.
My fonnei thoughts letumed the fear
that kills,
And ho|>e that ib unwilling to be fed ,
116 Cold, pain, and laboi, and all fleshly alls,
And mighty poets in their misery dead
—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
"How is it that you live, and what is it
you dot"
i20 He with a smile did then his words repeat ,
And said that, gatheung leeches, far and
wide
He tiaxelled, stnring thus about his feet
The wateis of the pools where they abide
"Once I could meet with them on every
side;
125 But they ha^e dwindled lone: bv slow
decay,
Yet still I perseveie, and find them uheie
I may "
While he was talking thus the lonely
place,
The old man's shape, and speech— all
troubled me*
In niy mind's eye 1 seemed to see linn JMW
iso About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently
While I these thoughts within mjself pin-
sued,
He, having made a pause, the same dis-
course renewed
And soon with this he other matter
blended,
IN Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind.
But stately in the main; and, when he
ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to
find
In that decrepit man so firm a mind.
"God," said I, "be my help and stay
secure;
40 I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the
lonely moor !"
I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE
180* 1802
I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest
mood
Of that Man's mind— what can it bet
what food
Fed his first hopes 1 what knowledge could
ftegainf
B 'Tis not in battles that from youth we
tram
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the steinness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as woman-
hood
Wisdom doth live with childien lound her
10 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the
talk
Man holds with \ieek-day man m the
hourly walk
Of the mind's business these are the
degrees
By which true Sway doth mount, this is
the stalk
True Power doth glow on , and her rights
are these
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER
BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802
1803 1807
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty: ..
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
6 The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and tem-
ples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless
air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
10 In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill,
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river ghdeth at his own sweet will .
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
286
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR
CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802
4803 1807
Fair Stai of evening, Splendoi of the
west,
Star of my Country1— on 'the horizon's
brink
Thou hangest, looping, as might seem, to
sink
On England's bosom, yet \\o\\ pleased to
rest,
5 Meanwhile, and be to liei n glorious
crest
Conspicuous to the Nations Thou, 1
think
Shouldst be my Country's emblem, and
shouldst wink,
Bright Stai' with laughter on her ban-
ners, drest
In thy fiesh beauty There! that dusky
spot
10 Beneath thee, that is England; there she
lies
Blessings be on you both ' one hope, one
lot,
One life, one nlory!— 1, with main «
fear
For my dear Country, many heaitfelt
sighs,
Among men who do not love her. lm»ei
heie
IT TR A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM
AND FREE
78/JS 1807
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Hi eat bless with adoration, the bioad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ,
5 The gentleness of heaven broodt* o'er the
Sea
Listen v the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder— everlastingly.
Dear Child fl deai Oirl , that walkest with
me heic,2
10 If thou appear untouched by solemn
thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine
Thou liest in Abraham '•< bo««im' all the
year,
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner
shrine,
Ood being with thee when we know it
not '
1 Wordsworth's ulster Dorothy
•On Calais Beach.
• In the presence of flod Roe Lvlc, 16 22
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENE
TIAN REPUBLIC?
1809 1807
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in
fee,
And was the sateguaid of the West the
worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
6 She was a maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate,
And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea 2
And what if she had seen those glories
'fade,
10 Those titles vanish, and that strength
decay,
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final *
day
Men aie we, and must gne\e \vhen ex»u
the Shade
Of that which once was great is passed
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE
180* 1803
Toussnint, the most unhappy im,n of
men f
Whethei the whistling rustic tend hi*
plough
Within thy hearing, 01 thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon '* earless
den,—
6 O miserable chieftain ! where and when
Wilt thou find patience! Yet die not, do
thou
Weai lathei in th\ bonds a cheerful
biow.
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort Thou hast left
behind
10 Powers that will uoik foi thee, an, earth,
and skies ,
There's not a breathing of the common
wind
That will forget thee; thou hast gieat
allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man 's unconquerable mind.
1 Venice was an Independent republic, with ex-
tensive possessions In the Bunt, from tbe ninth
century until conquered In Napoleon. In 1707
* In 1177, tbe Venetian* defeated tbe Germane in
a naval battle In defence of Pope Alexander
III. wbo gave the Doge a ilng and bade him
wed the Adriatic with it, as a sign of dominion
over the sea Vn annual ceremony was ob-
served in which a ring was thrown into tbe
Adriatic in token of this espousal.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
287
COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR
DOVEB, ON THE DAY OP LANDING'
180* 1807
Here, on our native soil, we breathe once
more.
The cock that crows, the smoke that cuils,
that sound
Of belle, —those boys who in yon meadow-
ground
In white-slee\ed shirts tuo playing, and
the roai
5 Of the waves bieakmg on the chalk}
shore;—
All, all are English. Oft hn\e I looked
round
With joy in Kent 's »ieen \ules. hut ne\ei
found
Myself so satisfied in heart befoic
Euiope IB yet in bond*,- but let that pa^s
10 Thought foi another moment Thou nit
hec,
My (*oiinti> f and 'ti<- j«y enough and pride
FoV one horn's peit'ect bliss to head the
glass
Of England mice u^ain, and hear and see.
With such .1 dent companion ni in\ vide
NKAK DOYEK, 8KPTEMBER, 1S02
J8<>> 1H07
Inland, \\ithin a hollow \ale, I ^tood.
And sn\\, \\hilr M-II wns mini and an \\as
cleai.
The coast oi Finiiie— the mast oJ Fiance
how nein '
l)ia\\n almost into Inuhtiul neighboihood
"J L sin unk. tm \i«nl> t he ban if i flood
Was like a lake, 01 uvei bright and fair,
A span of \\nlcis, \et what powei istheie'
Whnt mightiness lor e\il and for good1
K\en so doth (Sod piotect us it' we be
10 \ntuous and wise Winds b!o\\, and
wateis ioll,
St length to the braAe, and Powei, and
Deity,
Yet in themselves are nothing f One deciee
Spake laws to ffcrw, and said that by the
soul
Onlv. the Nations shall be gieat and fiee
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER,
1802
2809 1807
0 friend f8 I know not which way T must
look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
1 Wordsworth and hi* Muter Dorothy returned
from Calala. France, on Augurt 50, 1*02
- That 1«. to Napoleon, who had forced the Peace
of \mlen« In Marrh, 1802
( 'nlerldge
To think that no\v our hie is only drest
For show; mean handiwork of craftsman,
cook,
r> Oi irioom!— We must inn ghtteiinu like
a biook
In the open sunshine, 01 we are unblest
The wealthiest man among us is the best
No grandeui now in nature 01 in book
Delights us Kupmc, avarice, expense,
10 This is idolatry; and these we adoie-
Plain living and high thinking are no
moie
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone, oui peace, our fearful innocence.
And puie religion breathing household
Inws
LONDON, 1802
1807
Miltop! thon shouldst be living at this
honr •
England hath need oi thee she is a fen
Of stagnant waters* nltar, sword, and pen,
Fueside, the heioie wealth of hall and
bowei,1
"' Ha\e f 01 feited then ancient English dowei
Of mv ai d happiness We are selfish men ,
Oh' raise us up, return to us ogam,
And *>ne us manners, MI tuo, fieedoni.
jxiwet
Th> soul \\as like <i stai, and dwelt apait
10 Thou ha rlst a \nice \\bose sound \\as like
the sea
Pine as the naked hea\ens, majestic, fi*ee.
So didst thou tia\el on life'h connnon \*ay.
In cheeiful godlmesh, and yet thy heait
The lowliest duties on herelf did lay
OHEAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG UP
180% 1807
Great men have been among us, hands
that penned
And tongues that utteied wisdom— bettei
none
The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,
Young Vane, and others who called Milton
f i lend
5 These moralists could act and compiehend
They knew how genuine glory was put on ,
Taught UR how rightly a nation shone
In splendor what strength was that
would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness France,
'tis strange,
10 Hath brought forth no such souls as we
had then.
1 The hall wan the public duelling of the Ten
tonic chieftain, and the bower the prhate
apartment**, ecpeclallv of the women
288
NINETEENTH OENTUBT BOMANTIGI8T8
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change I
No single volume paramount, no code,
No master spirit, no determined road;
But equally a want of books and men!
IT 18 NOT TO BE THOUGHT OP THAT
THE FLOOD
180* 1603
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, un-
withstood,"1
6 Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and
sands
Should pensh ; and to evil and to good
Be lost forevei In our halls is hung
10 Armory of the invincible Knights of old
We must be free or die, who speak the
tongue
That Shakspeare spake; the faith and
morals hold
Which Mzlton held —In everything we are
sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles mani-
fold
WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY
1802 1803
When I have borne in memory what has
tamed
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts
depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and
desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears
unnamed
6 I had, my Country— am I to be blamed f
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou
art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed
For dearly must we prize thee , we who find
10 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ,
And I by my affection wan beguiled •
What wonder if a poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child.
TO H.C*
SIX YIAR8 OLD
180* 1807
0 thou! whose fancies from afar are
brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock
apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self -born
carol,
5 Thou faery voyager! that dost float
In such clear water, that thy boat
May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly
stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
10 Where earth and heaven do make one
imagery;
0 blessed vision ! happy child !
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
1 think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years
16 I thought of times when Pain might be
thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And Onef, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of thee.
O too industrious folly!
20 O vain and causeless melancholy !
Nature will either end thee quite ;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-
grown flocks.
25 What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of tomorrow T
Thou art a dewdrop, which the morn
brings forth,
111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ,
30 A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives,
But, at the touch of wrong, without a stale
Slips in a moment out of life
TO THE DAISY
180* 1807
In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
6 But now my own delights I make,—
My thirst at e\ery nil can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake
Of thee, Bweet Daisy*
Thee, Winter in the garland wears
10 That thinly decks his few gray hairs ;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs.
That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy wight!
is Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
289
In shoals atrf bands, ft morrice train,1
Thou greet 'at the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again;
20 Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
25 Be violets in their secret mews1
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearlmg,
Thou hv'st with less ambitious aim,
80 Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bnght day of Apnl sky,
85 Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
And weanly at length should fare;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art1— a friend at hand, to scare
40 Hi* melancholy
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I ha\e lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension ,
45 Some steady love , some brief dehght ;
Some memory that had taken flight ;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ;
Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
50 And one chance look to thee should turn,
I dnnk out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure,
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds;
66 A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flowei f my spirits play
«0 With kindred gladnetw •
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.
iA train of MorrlH rtaocew A Morrii i WM a
kind of ruBtic dance, which originated with
** And all day long-I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing,
An instinct call it, a blind sense;
70 A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.
Child of the Tear I that round dost run
Thy pleasant course,— when day's begun
75 As ready to salute the sun
A« lark or leveret,1
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time;— thou not in vain
80 Art Nature's favorite.
TO THE SAME FLOWER
1802 1807
With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy i again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy,
6 Thou unassuming Commonplace
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace
Which love makes for thee!
•enclnmire Ultprall? a coop or ntrollar place for
moulting Mrdft)
Oft on the dappled turf at <
10 I sit, and play with similes,
Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising:
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame,
15 As is the humor of the game.
While I am gazing.
A nun demure of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court.
In thy simplicity the sport
20 Of all temptations ;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest ; ' '
Are all, as aeems to suit thee befit,
Thy appellations.
25 A little Cyclops with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next— and instantly
The freak fa over,
The shape wil\ vanish— and behold *
so A silver shield' with boss of gold,
That spreads itself , some faery bold
In fight to cover!
» young hare
290
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
I fee thee glittering from afar—
And then thou art a pretty star;
35 Not quite so fair as many are
In heaven above thee I
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thon seem'st to rest;—
May peace come never to his nest,
40 Who shall reprove thee *
Bright Flower/ for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent creature !
46 That breath 'st with me in sun and air,
Do thon, as thon art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature '
TO THE DAISY
180* 1807
Bright Flower! whose home is every-
where,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,
And, all the long year through, the heir
Of joy tond sorrow;
' Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough !
Is it that Man is soon deprestf
10 A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,
Or on his reason,
And thon wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
15 A hope fortunes that are unkind
And every season f
Thou wander 'st the wide world about,
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friends to greet thee, or without,
20 Yet pleased and willing;
Meek, yielding to the occasion 's call,
And all things suffering: from all,
Thy function apostolical
In peace fulfilling.
THE OBEEN LINNET
1803 1807
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
5 In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
" In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion !
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here today,
15 Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion
While birds, land butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thon, ranging up and down the bowers,
20 Art sole in thy employment •
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
26 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover ,
There f where the flutter of his wings
80 Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him nil over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves ;
18 Then flits, and from the cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes,
As if by that exulting strain
lie mocked and treated with diadem
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
40 While fluttering in the bushes
YEW TREES
1803 1815
There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale.
Which to this day stand* single, in tho
midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of VOIP
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands
6 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths, or those thnt
crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azin-
cour.
Perhaps at earlier Crccy, or Poictiers
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
10 This solitary Tree! a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of
note
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
16 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a
growth
WILLIAM WORD8WOBTH
291
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately1 convolved ,
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks
20 That threaten the profane; a pillared
shade,
Upon/ whose grassless floor of red-brown
hue,
By bheddings from the pining8 umbrage
Perennially—beneath whore sable roof
Of boughs, as if foi festal puipose, decked
25 With unrejoicmg ben ieh— ghostly Shapes
May meet at noontide, Fenr and trem-
bling Hope,
Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow.— there to cele-
brate,
As in a natural temple scattcied o'er
80 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship , or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmunnir fiom Glainmara'b inmost
caves.
AT THE GBAVE OF BURNS
SEVEN TEARS A.FTFR HIS DEATH
1803 1845
I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now Iwhold -
As vapors breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasme dead,
r> So sadness comes ft om out the mould
Wheic Hums is laid
And have T then thy bones BO neai,
And thou f 01 bidden to appeal ?
As if it wore thvself that's here
10 I shiink with pain;
And both my wishes and mv fear
Alike are vain
Off weight— noi pros on weight '—a^av
Dark thoughts*— they came, but not to
stav,
15 With chastened feelings would I paj
The tnhiite due
To him, and aus»lit that hides his cla\
Fiom nioiinl Mew
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
20 He sang, his genius "glinted"1 forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its bumble birth
With matchless beams.
ihv \lrhjpofoldbibit
•dpcavlng
s TV* a VoirnMfM Da1*v, IB (p 104)
25 The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now 1—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
80 And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, bnt as one
More deeply grieved, for he was gone
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
And showed my youth
35 How Verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.
Alas! where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,—
Huge Cnffel's hoary top ascends
40 By Skiddaw seen,—
Neighbors we weie. and loving friends
We might have been ;
Tiue fnends though diversely inclined;
Hut heart with heart and mind with mind,
4f> Wheie the mam fibres are entwined,
Thiough Natuie's skill,
Ma> even b.\ contiaries be joined
More closely still
The tear will start, and let it flow;
&0 Thou "poor Inhabitant below,"1
At this dread moment— e^ en so—
Might we together
Have bate and talked where go wans2 blow, J
Or on wild heather.
r>5 What tieasures would have then been
placed
Within my reach , of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast I
But why go onf—
Ohf spate to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-giown.
60
There, too, a son, his jov and pride,
(Not thiee weeks past the stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his father's side,
Soul-moving sight !
65 Yet one to \ihich is not denied
Some sad delight.
For lie is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harbored where none can be misled,
70 Wronged, or distrest ;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.
1 Barn*, 4 R at <t '»
£/>/topft.19 (p 191).
1 bloom
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOIST8
And oh for thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He, who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid,
Receive thy spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed !l
I turned away; but ere
80 Night fell I heaid, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.
TO A HIGHLAND GIBL
AT INVIRSNETDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND
1803 1807
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years ha\e shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head
5 And these giay rock*>, that household
lawn;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake,
This little bay, a quiet road
10 That holds in shelter thy abode—
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream ,
Such Forms as fiom their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep !
16 But, 0 fair creature ' in the light
Of common day, so hen \enly bright,
I bless thee, vision as thou art,
T bless thee with a human heart ,
God shield thee to thy latest years!
20 Thee, neither know I, not thy peers,
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away :
For never saw I mien, or face,
25 In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need,
80 The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear 'at upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread !
** Soft smiles, by human kindness bred !
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
To fftffe, nt 2
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
40 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech :
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
41 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
0 happy pleasure ! here to dwell
50 Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
A shepherd, thon a shepherdess '
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality :
55 Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea ; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighborhood.
What joy to heai thee, and to see '
«° Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father—anything to thee'
Now thanks to Heaven ' that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place
Joy have I had , and going hence
*"' I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
1 feel this place was made for her ,
70 To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life bhall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
715 As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the Spirit of them all f
STEPPING WESTWARD
1803 1807
"What, you me stepping westwardf"—
"Yea."
— 'Twould be a widish destiny,
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange land, and far from home,
6 Were in this place the guests of Chance:
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him onf
The dewy ground was dark and cold ;
" Behind, all gloomy to behold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
WILLIAM WORD8WOBTH
298
A kind of heavenly destiny :
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound;
16 And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bnght.
The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native lake :
The salutation had to me
20 The very sound of courtesy •
Itb power was felt , and while my e>e
Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the \uiee en wi ought
A human sweetness with the thought
25 Of travelling through the wot Id that lay
Before me in my end let* way
THE SOLITARY REAPER
1803 1807
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass*
Reaping and singing by herself ,
Stop here, or gently pass1
3 Alone she cuts and binds the giain,
And snips a melancholy strain,
0 listen1 I'm the Mile pioiound
Is o\ erflo\\ mg \\ith the sound.
No nightingale did evei rhaunt
10 Moie welcome notes to weary bunds
Of tiavellers in some shady haunt.
Among Arabian sands
A \oice so thrilling ne'ei was heaid
In spungtmie from the cuckoo-bud,
15 Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebiides
Will no one tell me what she sings T—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things
20 And battles long ago,
Or is it some more humble la> .
Familiar matter of today T
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain.
That has been, and may be again 1
25 Whatever the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could ha\e no ending,
1 saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending,—
I listened, motionless and still ;
*° And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
YARROW UNVISITED
1803 1807
From Stirling castle we1 had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay.
» Wordsworth and his Bister Dorothy
And with tye Tweed had travelled;
6 And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome marrow,"1
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow. ' '=
"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
10 Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ,
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons -ieed,
Hares couch, aiid labbitb buriow*
15 But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor tuni aside to Yarrow.
' 'There's Oalla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us,
And Dryborough, where with chiming
Tweed
20 The lint whites'* sing in choiiih.
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow .
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow f
28 "What's Yarrow but a river baie,
That glides the daik hills under f
Theie aie a thousand such elsewheie
As worthy of your wonder."
—Strange woids they seemed of slight
and scorn ,
J0 My ti ue-love sighed for sorrow,
And looked me in the face, to think
1 thus could speak of Yariou f
"Oh! gieen," said I, "aie Yarrow's
holms,4
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Vl Fair bangs the apple fiae the rock,6
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open strath/1
We'll wander Scotland thorough.
But, though so near, we will not tuin
40 Into the dale of Yarrow
"Let beeves and home-bied kine partake
The sweets of Bum-mill meadow j
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
45 We will not see them ; will not go,
Today, nor yet tomoiiow.
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
•Hamilton, The Brae*
of Yarrow, 51 2 The
apple it probably the
red berry of tbe
mountain-alb
•A valley through
which a river flown
*!.
of the
iver Yarrow
1 linnets
« lowlands
294
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
"Be Yairow stream unseen, unknown!
50 It must, or we shall rue it :
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo itf
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome marrow!
* For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow !
"If Care with freezing years should come.
And wandering seem hut folly,—
Should we he loth to stir from home;
•° And yet be melancholy ,
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our soirow,
That earth hath something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow ' ' '
OCTOBER, 1803
1803 1807
When, looking on the present face of
thing**,
I bee one man,1 of men the meanest too f
Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo.
With mighty Nations for hw underlings,
5 The gieat event* with which old story lings
Seem vain and liollcm , I find notlnny
gieat
Nothing is left winch I can ivnerato.
So that a doubt almost within me spnn»s
Of Piovidcnce, such emptiness at length
10 Seems at the heart of all things But.
great Oodf
I measure back the steps which T ha AC
hod,
And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the
strength
Of such poor Instruments with thoughts
sublime
I tremble at the soirow of the time
TO THE MEN OP KENT
1803 1807
Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent,
Ye children of a Soil that doth advance2
Her haughty brow against the coast of
Prance,
Now is the time to pio\e your hardiment !
5 To France be words of im itation bent '
They from their fields can see the coun-
tenance
Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering
lance,
And hear you shouting forth your brave
intent.
Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore,
*-Napo1eon
* lift np
10 Did from the Norman win a gallant
wreath;1
Confirmed the charters that were yours
before;—
No parleying now. In Britain is one
breath;
We all are with you now from shore to
shore,—
Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death !
ANTICIPATION, OCTOBEB, 1803
180! 1803
Shout, for a mighty victory is won !
On Bntudi ground the nnaders are laid
lou ,
The bieath oi Heaven has drifted them
like smw,
And left them lying lu the bilent sun,
5 Ne\er to use again1— the work is done.
Come forth, ye old men, now m peaceful
*how
And greet yom boiib! diuuis beat and
ti umpets blowf
Make meri>, wives' \e little dnldien,
' stun
Youi grandame'h ears with pleasme ot
vom noise1
10 Clap, ml ants, clap yom hands1 Divine
must be
That timniph, when the \eiy womt, the
pain.
And e\en the piospect of our brethren
slam,
Hath something in it which the heait
enjoys —
In glorv will they deep and endless sanc-
tity
TO THE CUCKOO
1804 1807
0 blithe Newcomer' I hair heard,
1 heai thee and lejoice
O Cuckoo i shall I call thee Bird.
Or but a wandering Voice f
5 While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
Fiom hill to hill it seem* to pass
At once far off, and near
Though babbling only to the Vale,
10 Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours
»The men of the southern part of Kent were
never subdued in the Nornum InvaMon, and
when they mrrendercd the? had their charter*
COD firmed
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
295
Thrice welcome, darling of th* Spring 1
Even yet thou art to me
15 No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my schoolboy dayb
I listened to, that Cry
Which made me look a thousand wayb
20 In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woodb and on the green ,
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never
26 And I can listen to thee yet,
Can he upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
0 blebb&d Bud' the earth we pace
80 Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home foi thee'
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT
1807
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lo\riy apparition, sent
To be a moment's oinament,
5 Her eyes as stais of twilight fan ,
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
Fiom May time and the cheerful dawn,
A dancing shape, an image gay,
1° To haunt, to staitle, and waylay.
I saw her upon ncaier Mew,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And hteps of virgin liberty,
15 A countenance in which did meet
Sweet lecords, promises as sweet;
A creatuie not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
20 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and
smiles
And now I see with eve serene
The very pulse of the machine;1
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
** The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
'body
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
30 With something of angelic light
I WANDEBED LONELY AS A CLOUD
180+ 1807
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
5 Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Waj,
They stretched in never-ending line
10 Along the margin of a bay
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee •
15 A poet could not but be gay,
Tn such a jocund company:
1 gazed— and gazed— but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
Foi oft, when on my couch I lie
20 In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which ib the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
THE AFFLICTION OF MABGABET
1804 1807
Where art thou, my beloved son,
Where art thou, worse to me than deadf
Oh find me, prosperous or undone '
Or, if the gra\e be now thy bed,
6 Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest, and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name!
Seven yean, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;
10 To have despaired, ha\e hoped, believed.
And been for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this!
15 He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
20 As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face
206
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
Ah I little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
26 Heard by his mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess;
Tears to a mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the leas.
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
SO From that ill thought; and, being blind,
Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:" and that is true,
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
15 Weeping for him when no one knew.
My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honor and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain :
40 I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas ' the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight,
*5 They mount— how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight !
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
60 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inherited the lion 's den ;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
55 Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
] look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me- 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
60 Between the living and the dead ;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds;
66 I dread the nut line: of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass :
I question things and do not find
One that will answer to my mind ,
70 And all thi world appears unkind.
V • -
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
75 Then come to me, my son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend!
ODE TO DUTY
1805 1807
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
0 Duty' if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the emng, and reprove;
5 Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe ;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail
humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
10 Be on them ; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth :
Glad Hearts f without reproach or blot ,
Who do thy work, and know it not •
15 Oh ! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Powei,
around them cast
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
80 And joy its own security. %
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed ,
Yet seek thy firm support, according to
their need.
26 I, loving freedom, fcnd untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet beme to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust :
And oft, when in my heart was heard
80 Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would sene more strictly,
if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
86 I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought :
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
1 feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
4° 1 long for a repose that ever is the samp.
Stern L|Wfclvef 1 yet thou dost wear
The Gndhtftd's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH
297
As is the smile upon thy face :
45 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads,
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through
Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
r'° 1 call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self -sacrifice;
56 The confidence of reason give ;
And in the light of truth thy bondman
let me live I
TO A SKYLARK
1805 1807
Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,
6 With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me, till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind !
I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And today my heart is weary ;
10 Had 1 now the wings of a Faerj,
Up to thee would I fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy
divine
In that song of thine;
Lift me, guide me, high and high
15 To thy banqueting place in the sky.
Joyous as morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy
• rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
20 Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,
15 Joy and jollity be with us both !
Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dustj way* must
wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
*° 1, with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures, when life's
day id done.
ELEGIAC STANZAS
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PElLE CAtfTLE, IN
A 8TOEM, PAINTED BT BIB GEORGE BEAUMONT
1805 1807
I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile 1
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of
thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
6 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was
there;
It trembled, but it never passed away.
How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no
sleep;
10 No mood, which season takes away, or
brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things
Ah! then, if mine had been the painter's
hand,
To express what then I saw; and add the
gleam,
16 The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the poet's dream;
I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,
Amid a world how different from this!1
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
20 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-
house divine
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of
heaven,—
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
The very sweetest had to thee been given.
26 A picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
80 Such picture would I at that time have
made:
And seen the soul of truth in every part,
A steadfast peace that might not be be-
trayed.
So once it would have been,— 'tis so no
more;
I La\e submitted to a new control:
* That IB. the world of the picture
NINETEENTH CENTURY HOMANT1C18T8
w A power is gone, which nothing can re-
store;.
A deep distress hath humanized my souL
Not for a moment could I now behold
A smiling sea, and be what I have been :
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old,
*• This, which I know, I speak with nnnd
serene
Then, Beaumont, friend! who would have
been the friend,
If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,1
This work of thine I blame not, but com-
mend;
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
« O 'tis a passionate Work*— yet wise and
well,
Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
That Hulk which labors in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear*
And this huge Castle, standing here sub-
lime,
60 I love to see the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time,
The lightning, the fierce wind, and tramp-
ling waves.
Farewell, farewell the heart that lives
alone,
Housed in a dream, at distance from the
Kind!'
66 Such happiness, wherever it be known,
Is to be pitied , for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne f
Such sights, or worse, as are before me
here.—
60 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn
TO A YOUNG LADY*
WHO HAD BXEN REPROACHED FOE TAKING
LONG WALKS IK THE COUNTRY
1805 1807
Dear child of Nature, let them rail!
—There is a nest in a green dale,
A harbor and a hold ;
Where thon, a wife and fnend, shalt see
5 Thy own heart-stirring days, and be
A fight to young and old.
There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
And treading among flowers of joy
tWordiworth'i brother. Capt John Words-
worth, who wo drowned Feb. 5, 1805.
•Tbt human race
•Wor
rorOnrorth'B ilittr Dorothy
Which at no season fade,
10 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,
Shalt show us how divine a thing
A woman may be made.
Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh
16 A melancholy slave;
But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOI
1806 1807
Who is the happy warrior 1 Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be'
—It is the generous Spirit, who, whei
brought
Among the tasks of leal life, hat!
wrought
5 Upon the plan that pleased his boyisl
thought
Whose high endeavors are an inwaid hgh
That makes the path before him ahvay
bright
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligen
to learn,
10 Abides by this resohe, and Rtops not then
But makes hut moral being his prime oaie
Who, doomed to go in company with Pan
And Feai, and Bloodshed, miserable train
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ,
15 In face of these doth exercise a powei
Which is our human nature's highe*
dower*
Controls them and subdues, transmute
bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their goo
receives-
By objects, which might force the soul t
abate
20 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate
Is placable— because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice,
More skilful in self -knowledge, e\en moi
pure,
As tempted more, more able to endure,
25 As more exposed to suffering and distress
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness
— 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depend
Upon that law as on the best of fnends
Whence, in a state where men are tempt*
still
80 To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labors good on good to fix, and owe
To virtue every triumph that he knows :
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
299
86 —Who, if he lib* to station, uf command,
Rises by open means, and there will stand
On honorable terms, or else retire.
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends hip trust, and to the
same
40 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ,
And theiefore does not stoop, noi he in
wait
Foi wealth, 01 honois, 01 foi woildly
state,
Whom they must iollou r on whose head
must fall,
Like showeis of manna, if thej conic at
all:
46 Whose powei* shed round him m the com-
mon stnf'e,
Oi mild conccins of ordinary life,
A constant influence, u peculiar giace,
But \vho, it he bo called upon to face
Some awful moment to which IIea\en has
joined
50 Oieat issues, «ooil 01 bad foi human
kind.
Is happy as a lo\ci , and attired
With sudden brightness, like n man in-
spired,
And, through the heat oi conflict, keeps
the law
In calmness made. :md sees wlut lie loie-
saw,
G:I <)i it an unexpected call succeed,
('ome \\hen it AM II, is ecjual to the need
— lie who, though thus endued <is \\ith a
sense
And i acuity ioi storm and tuibulence,
lb jet a Soul \\hose master -bias leans
M To homefelt pleasuies and to gentle
scenes,
Sweet images* which, whetesoe'ei he lie,
Are at his heait, and such fidelity
It is his dailiim pftssion to appio\e,
Moie bia\e foi this, that he hath much
to loAe —
« 'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous obiecl m a nation's e\c.
Or left uiithouQht-nf in obscunty,—
Who, with a t o\\ aid or untowaid lot.
Prospeious 01 adxerse, to Ins wish 01 not —
™ Plays, m the many games of life, that one
Where \\hat he most doth >alue must be
won
Whom neithei shape of danger can dis-
may,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ,
Who. not content that foimer worth stand
fast,
™ Looks forward, persevering to the last,
Prom well to better, daily self-surpast .
Who, whether praise of him must walk the
earth
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without bis fame,
80 And leave a dead unprofitable name-
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause,
And, while the mortal mist is gathering,
draws
His breath m confidence of Heaven's
applause
This is the happy wanior, this is he
83 That e\eiy man in aims should wish to be
POWER OF MUSIC
J806 1807
An Orpheus' an Orpheus! yes, Faith may
grow bold,
And take to heiself all the wonders of
old;-
Keai the1 stately Pantheon you'll meet
vi uh the same
In the stieet that fiom Oxford hath boi-
romed its name
r> His station 18 thcie, and he works on the
oiowd,
lie s\\avs them with harmony meny and
loud ,
He fills with his po\\ei all their heaits to
the. bum—
Was auyht evei heaid like his fiddle and
him ?
What an ea^ei assembly f what an empno
is this*
10 The woaiy h«u» life, and the hiingiy ha\e
bliss,
The mouiner is cheered, and the anxious
haAe rest,
And the guilt-hurthcned soul i*. no longer
opprest
As the Moon biightens mund hei the
clouds of the night,
So he, \\heic he stands, is .1 (entie of
light,
15 It gleams on the face, theic, nt dusky-
browed Jack,
On the pale-visaged bakei 's, A\uh basket
on back
That er i and -bound 'prentice was passing
in haste—
What mattei1 he's caught— and his time
nms to waste;
The newsman is stopped, though he stops
on the fret;
20 And the half -breathless lamplighter— he's
m the net!
800
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
The porter sits down on the weight which
he bore;
The lass with her barrow wheels hither
her store;—
If a thief could be here he might pilfer
at ease,
She sees the musician, 'tis all that she
88 He stands, backed by the wall ,— he abates
not his din ;
His hat gives him vigor, with boons drop-
ping in,
From the old and the young, from the
poorest, and there I
The one-pennied boy has his penny to
spare.
0 blest are the hearers, and proud be the
hand
80 Of the pleasuie it spreads through so
thankful a band;
1 am glad for him, blind as he is1— all the
while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they
praise with a smile
That tall man, a giant in bulk and in
height,
Not an inch of his body is free from
delight;
35 Can he keep himself still, if he would?
oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through
a tree
Mark that cripple who leans on his
crutch; like a tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour
after hour!—
That mother, whose spirit in fetter* is
bound,
40 While she dandles the babe m her arms
to the sound
Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like
a stream ;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in
a dream,
They are deaf to your murmurs— they
care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye
pursue!
YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO
J80C 1807
Yes, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound !
* Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent;
Lake her ordinary cry,
Like— but oh, how different !
Hears not also mortal Life!
10 Hear not we, unthinking creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, or strife—
Voices of two different natures Y
Have not we toot— yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
15 Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognized intelligence '
Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar—
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
20 For of God,— of God they are
NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CON-
VENT'S NARROW ROOM
1806 1807
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow
room;
And hermits are contented with their cells ;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
6 Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for
bloom,
Hugh as the highest Peak of Fnrness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
10 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be
bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of
ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there
needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much
liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have
found.
PERSONAL TALK
1806 1807
I am not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,—
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight :
5 And, for my chance acquaintance, ladies
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the
stalk,
These all wear out of me, like forms with
chalk
WILLIAM WOBDBWOBTH
801
Painted on rich men's floors,1 for one
feast-night
Better than such discourse doth silence
long,
10 Long, barren silence, square with my
desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering itb faint under-bong.
II
« "Yet life," you say, "is life, we \ia\c
seen and bee,
And with a living pleasui e we describe ,
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity
Sound sense, and love itself, and ninth
and glee
20 Aie fostered by the comment and the
gibe"
E\en be it bo yet still among your tube.
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank
not me'
Childien are blest, and powerful, their
world lies
Moie justly balanced, paitly at their feet
25 And part fai from them —sweetest mel-
odies
Aie those that aie by distance made moie
sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of Ins own
eyes,
He ib a sla\e, the meanebt we can meet!
ill
Wings have we,— and as far as ue can go
30 We may find pleasure, wilderness and
wood,
Blank ocean and more sky, suppoit that
mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the km
Dreams, books, aie each a world, and
books, we know,
Aie a substantial world, both puie and
good:
35 Round these, with tendiils strong as flesh
and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will gio\\.
Theie find I personal themes, a plenteous
store,
Matter wherein nght voluble I am.
To which I listen with a leady ear,
40 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,—
The gentle Lady1 manned to the Moor,
And heavenly Una with her milk-white
Lamb.8
• To rnlde th* dancers
• Dcademona, *lfe of Othello
*7/ie rnrrlr QMC*?, 1, 1. 4 B
rv
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live
remote
45 From evil speaking ; rancor, never sought.
Comes to me not, malignant truth, or he.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and
joyous thought.
And thus from day to day my little boat
50 Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably
Blessings be with them— and eternal
praise,
Who gave us noblei loves, and nobler
cares—
The poets, who on earth have made us hens
Of tiuth and pine delight by heavenly
lays!
55 Ohf might my name be numbeied among
tli ens,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
ADMONITION
1806 ISO-
Well nuy'st thou halt— and gaze with
bngh tenmg eye1
The lovely Cottage in the guaidian nook
Hath stiried thee deepl>; with its own
dear biook,
Its o\\n small past me, almost its own sky!
'» Rut co\et not the Abode,— foibeai to sigh,
As many do, repining while they look,
Intiudeis— who \umld teai fioni Nature's
book-
Tins piecious leal, with haish impiet}
Think what the Home must be if it \\eie
thine,
10 E\en thine, though few thy wants1—
Roof, window, dooi,
The vei> flowers are sacied to the Poor,
The loses to the porch which they en-
twine
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from
the day
On which it should be touched, would
melt away
HOW 8WEET IT IS. WHEN MOTHER
FANCY BOCKS
1806 1807
How sweet it is, when Mother Fancy rocks
The wayward biam, to saunter through a
wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbors, and ground-
flowers in flocks;
5 And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn
stocks,
302
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICIBT8
Lake a bold girl, who plays her agile pranks
At wakes and fairs with wandering
mountebanks.—
When she stands cresting the down's
head, and mocks
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
10 Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world: thoughts,
link by link,
Enter through ears and e>esight, with
such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the deluyous stream.
COMPOSED BT THE BIDE OF
GBA8MEBE LAKE
1806 1820 ,
Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
Through the gray west, and lo! these
ma tens, steeled
By breezeless an to smoothest polish, yield
A vi\id repetition of the stais,
5 Jo\e, Venus, and the ruddy crest ot Mars
Amid his fellows beaiiteously levealed
At happy distance from eaith's groaning
field,
Where ruthless moitals wage incessant
wars
Is it a mirror f — or the nether sphere
10 Opening to view the abyss in which she
feeds
Her own calm fires ?— But list f a voice is
near,
Great Pan himself low-whispei ing thiough
the reeds,
" Be thankful, thou, for, if unholy deed*
Ravage the world, tianqinllit\ is line'"
THE WOHLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US,
LATE AND SOON
18V6 1807
The world is too much with us; late and
soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our
powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours,
We have given our hearts awav, a sordid
boon!
5 This sea that bares her bosom to the
moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping
flowers;
Fpr this, for everything, we are out of
tune;
It moves us not.— Great God ! Fd rather be
10 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me leas
forlorn ;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ,
Or hear old Tnton blow his wreathed horn
TO SLEEP
J606 1807
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one, the sound 01 lain, and
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and
seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and
pure sky;
6 I have thought of all by turns, and yet
do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small buds'
melodies
Must hear, first uttcml fiom my oichaid
trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights moie,
I lay
10 And could not win the?, Sleep* b\ anv
stealth.
So do not let me ueai tonight away .
Without thee what is all the rooming's
wealth f
Come, blessed barnei between day <ind
day,
l)eai mother of fiesh thoughts and joyous
health *
NOVEMBER, 1806
IS 06 1807
Another year'— another deadly blow!
Anothei empty Empne o\eithiownfl
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to- struggle with the foe
5 'Tis well f from this day forward we shall
know
That in ouiselxes om safety must be
sought ,
That by out own right hand*» it must be
wi ought,
That we must stand un propped, or be
laid low
O dastard whom such foietaste doth not
cheer »
10 We shall exult, if they who uile the land
Be men who hold its many blessings deal,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they
fear,
And honor which they do not understand
* \ reference to the French victorlpfl over the
German*, October and November, 1806.
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH
ODE
INTIMATIONS OP IMMORTALITY FROM BBCOL-
LXCTION8 OF XARLT CHILDHOOD
1803-6 1807
"The ChlM in father of the Man ,
And 1 couM wish my daji to be
Bound each to each by natural piety'1
There was a time when meadow, grove,
and stieam,
The earth, and every common bight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream
It is not now as it hath been of yore,—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can
bee no more
II
10 The Rainbow comeb and goes,
And lovely is the Ruse,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
15 Are beautiful and fair,
The sunshine is a glorious birth ,
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from
the eaith
HI
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous
song,
3° And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's bound,
To me alone theie came a thought of griei .
A timely utterance ga\e that thought relief
And I again am stiong
26 The cataracts blow their trumpets from
the steep,
No more shall grief of mine the season
wrong;
1 hear the Echoes through the mountains
throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of
30
And all the earth is gay ,
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy ahouts
thon happy Shepherd-boy*
1 Wordsworth, Vy ttmrt Leap* Vfl, 7-10 (p 2MM
XV 4 *
Ye blewW Creature., I have h*nfd the eall
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your
jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
40 My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel— I feel
it all.
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
46 And the children are culling
On every side.
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines
warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his mother's
arm:—
50 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear !
—But there's a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,-
Both of them speak of something that is
gooe
The Pansy at my feet
55 Doth the same tale repeat .
Whither is fled the visionary gleam f
Where is it now, the glory and the dream t
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting •
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
*° Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakednesb,
But trailing clouds of gloiy do we come
65 From God, who is our home
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it
flows,
70 He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's pneM,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ,
75 At length the Man perceives it die awa\.
And fade into the light of common day
vr
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her
own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural
kind,
And, even with something of a mother's
mind,
304 NINETEENTH OENTUBY EOMANTICI8TS
*° And no unworthy aim, Why with such earnest pains dost thou
The homely nurse doth all she can provoke
To make her Foster-child, her inmate Man, The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Forget the glories he hath known, «6 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife!
And that imperial palace whence he came. Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly
freight,
YH And custom he upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
85 Behold the Child among his new-born
blisses, n
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he 0 joy! that in our embers
lies, Is something that doth live,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 13° That nature yet remembers
With light upon him from his father's What was so fugitive!
eyes! The thought of our past years in me doth
90 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, breed
Some fragment from his dream of human Perpetual benediction : not indeed
life, For that which is most worthy to be
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art , blest ,
A wedding or a festival, 135 Delight and liberty, the simple creed
A mourning or a funeral, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
96 And this hath now his heart, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in
And unto this he frames his song- his breast —
Then will he fit his tongue Not for these 1 raise
To dialogues of business, love, or strife, 14° The song of thanks and praise,
But it will not be long But for those obstinate questionings
100 Ere this be thrown aside. Of sense and outwaid things,
And with new joy and pnde Fallings fiora us, vanishmgs;
The little Actor cons another part , Blank misgivings of a Creature
Filling from time to time bis "humorous 145 Moving about in worlds not leahzed,
stage"1 High instincts before which our mortal
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, nature
105 That Life brings with her in her equipage, Did tiemble like a guilty thing surprised
As if his whole vocation But foi those first affections,
Were endless imitation. Those shadowy recollections,
«o Which, be they what they may,
V1II - Are jet the fountain-light of all mil
day,
Thou, whose extenpr semblance doth belie Are yet a master-light of all our seeing,
Thy soul's immensity, Uphold us, cherish, and have power
no Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep to make
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. Our iioisy years seem moments in the being
That, deaf and silent, read'st the Eternal "* Of the Eternal Silence truths that wake,
Deep, * To perish never .
Haunted forever by the Eternal Mind,— Which neither listlessncss, nor mad en-
Mighty prophet! seer"blestf deavoi,
115 On whom those truths do rest, Nor man nor boy,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave, 16° Can utterly abolish 01 dertioy'
Thou, over whom thy Immortality Hence m a season of calm weather
Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, Though inland far we be,
180 A Presence which is not to be put by; Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Which brought us hither,
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 1W Can in a moment travel thither,
height, And see the children sport upon the
shore,
1 %£ to'dofi&S 'm<U: l39 ff ffnmorom9 And hear the mighty waters rolling ever-
• Deep mytterlen of eternity more.
WILLIAM WORD8WOBTH
305
180
186
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous
song!
And let the young Lambs bound
"° As to the tabor's sound I
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your health to-
day
Feel the gladness of the May1
176 What though the radiance which was
once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the
hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the
flower.
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the pnmal sympathy
Which having been must ever be ,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering ,
In the faith that looks through
death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind
XI
And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills,
and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves f
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your
might ,
190 I only have relinquished one delight
To lne beneath youi more habitual
swa>
I love the Brookb which down their chan-
nels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lighth
ab they ,
The innocent brightness of a new-born
Day
iw Is lovely yet ,
The Clouds that gather round the setting
bun
Do take a sobei colonng from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mor-
tality,
Another race hath been, and other palms
are won.
800 Thanks to the human heait by which we
live,
Thanks to its tenderness, itb joys, and
fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can
give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for
tears
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUB-
JUGATION OF SWITZERLANDi
2807 1807
Two Voices are there; one is ot the sea,2
One of the mountains;8 each a mighty
Voice-
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty !
5 There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou f ought 'st against him, but hast
vainly striven
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art
driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by
thee
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been
bereft
10 Then cleave, 0 cleave to that which still
is left,
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would
it be
That mountain Floods should thunder as
befoie,
And Ocean hello* from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee f
CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD
THREE YEARS OLD*
J81J 1815
Lo\ing she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,
And feats of cunning, and the pretty
round
5 Ot trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in
play
And, as a faggot spaikles on the hearth.
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered
lound
10 And take delight in its activity ,
Even so this happy creature of herself
Is all-sufficient , solitude to her
N blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
15 Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's
Foith-startled from the fern where she
lay couched ,
rnthonght-ot, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-
flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
20 The many-colored images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.
> Hwltierland wag con- • England ^
Sered bj the French n flwTtierland
1798. By 1807, «Wo r d • worth's
Napoleon had made daughter Catharine
hlmnelf master ot
Europe
NINETEENTH GENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
HEBE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS AT
LEAST THIS PRAISE
1811 1815
Hen pause: the poet claims at least this
praise.
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink
from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days ,
6 From hope, the paramount duty that
Heaven lays,
For its own honor, on man's suffering
heart
Never may irom our souls one truth de-
part-
That an accuised thing it is to gaze
On prosperous lyianth itith a dazzled
eye,
10 Nor— touched with due abhorrence of
their guilt
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood
is spilt,
And justice labors in extiemity—
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny v
LAODAMIA
1814 1813
"With sacrifice before the rising morn
Vous have I made by fruitless hope in-
spired,
And from the infernal gods, rmid shades
forlorn
Of night, my slaughteied lord ha\e I
required-
6 Celestial pity I again implore,—
Restore him to my sight— gieat Jo\e. ie-
store'"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts
her hands,
While, like the sun emeiging fioni a
cloud,
1° Her countenance brightens— and her eye
expands,
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature
glows,
And she expects the issue in repose
O terror1 what hath she peieei\edf-()
What doth she look on t— whom doth she
behold?
H Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy f
His vital presence f his corporeal mould t
It is— if sense deceive her not— 'tis he !
And a gnd leads him, winged Mercury v
Mild Hermes spake— and touched her with
his wand
20 That calms all fear; "Such grace hath
crowned thy prayer,
Lapdamial that at Jove's command
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air :
He comes to tarry with thee three hours'
space;
Accept the gift, behold him face to face I ' '
26 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her
* lord to clasp;
Again that consummation she essayed ;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The Phantom parts— but parts to reunite,
so And i eassume his place beioi e her sight
"Protesil&us, lo* thy guide is gone1
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice
This i8 0111 palace,— yonder is thy throne
Speak, and the floor thou tread 'st on will
rejoice
85 Not to appal me ha\e the gods bestowed
This piecious boon, and blest a sad
abode "
"Great Jo\e, Laodaiaia1 doth not leave
His gifts imperfect —Spectre though I be,
1 am not sent to scaie thee or deceive.
40 But in icwaid ot thy fidelity
And something also did my worth obtain .
For feailess virtue bnngeth boundless
Ram
"Thou knowest, the Delphic oiacle fore-
told
Tlmt the fiist Gieek who touched the
Trojan strand
45 Should die, but me the thieal could nut
withhold
A geneious cause a victim did demand ,
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ;
A self -devoted chief— by Hector slain ''
"Supieme of heioes— bravest, noblest,
best'
50 Thy matchless courage I bewail no moie,
Which then, when tens of thousands were
deprest
H\ doubt, propelled thee to the fatal
shore;
Thou found 'st— and I forgive thee— here
thou art—
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart
" "But thou, though capable of steinesl
deed,
Wert kind as repojute, and good as bia\c,
WILLIAM WOBDSWOBTH 907
And he, whose power restores thee, hath "Butif thougoest, I follow-" ''Peace!19
decreed he said,—
Thou shouldst elude the malice of the She looked upon him and was calmed and
grave: cheered;
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair The ghastly color from his lips had fled ;
<° As when their breath ennched Thessahan In his deportment, shape, and mien, ap-
air. peared
95 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,
"No spectre greets me,— no vain shadow Brought from a pensive though a happy
this, place
Come, blooming hero, place thee by my
side! He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel
Qive, on this well-known couch, one imp- In worlds whose course is equable and
tialkiss pure,
To me, this day, a second time thy bnde » " No fears to beat away— no strife to heal—
65 Jove frowned in heaven* the conscious 10° The past unsigned for, and the future sure ,
Pare® threw Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. Revived, with finer harmony pursued;
"This visage tells thee that my doom i« Of all that is most beauteous— imaged there
past In happier beauty , more pellucid streams,
Noi should the change be mourned, e\en 105 An ampler ether, a diviner air,
if the joys And fields invested with purpureal gleams ,
Of **nse ueie able to ietum as tdst Chines which the sun, who sheds the bnght-
70 And suiely as they vanish Earth destroys est day
Those ruptuies duly— Kiebus disdains Eaith knows, is all unworthy to survey.
Calm pleasuies tbeie abide— majestic
Jjlinfe Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath
coined
"Be taught, 0 faithful consort, to control «° That privilege by virtue —"111," said he,
Rebellion^ passion foi the gods appioxc "The end of man's existence I discerned,
75 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul , Who fiom ignoble games and revelry
A ienent, not ungo\emable, lo\e Could draw, when we had parted, vain
Thy transpuits model ate, and meekly delight
mouni While tears were thy best pastime, day
When I depai t, for bi ief is m> sojourn — ' ' and night ;
"Ah wherefore?— Did not Hercules by ns " And while my youthful peers before my
force eyes
80 Wiest from the guaidian Monstei of the (Each hero following his peculiar bent)
tomb1 Prepared themselves foi glorious entei-
Alcestis, a reanimated corse, prise
Gncn back to dwell on earth in \erual By martial sports,— or, seated in the tent,
bloom V Chieftains and kings in council were de-
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of tamed,
years, 12° What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
And /Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful
peers.* "The wished-for wind was given —I then
ie\olved
W "The gods to us aie merciful— and they The oiacle, upon the silent sea ,
Yet further may relent: for mightier fai And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
Than strength of nerve and smew, 01 the That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
sway 125 The foiemost prow in pressing to the
Of magic potent o\er sun and stai, strand,—
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, Mine the first blood that tinged the Tiojan
90 And though his favonte seat be feeble sand.
woman's breast.
* Cerbcnu, the guard at the entrance to Hadn "Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
• Bee Kurlpld«W|p«i tto and Browning Baton* ^^ of thy logg j thought, beloved Wife '
Ovid's VrtnmoipftotM. 7, 1C9 ir On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
808
NINETEENTH GENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
180 And on the j<
The paths which we had trod— these foun-
tains, flowers;
My new-planned cities, and unfinished
towers.
,"Bnt should suspense permit the foe to
cry,
'Behold they tremble!— haughty their
array,
135 Yet of their number no one dares to die!'
In soul I swept the indignity away .
Old frailties then recurred:— but lofty
thought,
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
"And thou, though strong in love, art all
too weak
140 IQ reason, in self-government too slow ,
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our blest reunion in the shades below
The invisible world with thee hath sym-
pathized,
Be thy affections raised and solemnized.
145 "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend—
Seeking a higher object Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that
end;
For this the passion to excess was driven—
That self might be annulled her bondage
prove
150 The fetters of a dream opposed to love."
Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes te-
appears!
Round the dear Shade bhe would ha>e
clung— 'tis vain :
The hours are past— too brief had they
been years,
And him no mortal effoit can detain •
356 Swift, toward the lealms that know not
earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse
she lay.
Thus, all in \ain exhorted and reproved,
She perished, and, as for a wilful crime,
160 By the just gods whom no weak pity
moved,
Wab doomed to wear out her appointed
time,
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather
flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid .unfading bowers
— Tet tears to human suffering are due ;
166 And mortal hopes defeated find o'er-
thrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man
alone,
As fondly he believes.— Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was enter-
tained)
A knot of spiry trees1 for ages grew
170 From out the tomb of him for whom she
died;
And ever, when such stature they had
gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their
view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the
sight;
A constant interchange of growth and
blight!
YAHBOW VISITED
SEPTEMBER, 1814
181* 1815
And is this— Yarrow f— Tfcfr the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dreamt
An image that hath peiishedt
6 O that some minstrel's harp were neai,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heait with sadness!
Yet whyf— a silvery current flowb
10 With uncontrolled roeanderings ;
Nor ha\e these eyes by greener hillb
Been soothed, in all my wanderings
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's
Lake
Is visibly delighted ,
16 For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted
A blue sky bends o'er Yairow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
20 A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn or promise ! that excludes
All profitless dejection ;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection
25 Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleedingt*
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding'
And haply from this crystal pool,
' Bee Pllny'a Nttunl Hitter*. 1C, 44
1 The Flower of Yarrow wag Jf arj Scott of Dn
hope: but Wordiworth !• probably following
Logan'! Bract of F«m>ie, In which the ladt
mourn* over the lover whom «he cull* "the
flower of Yarrow "
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
309
so NOW peaceful as tbe morning,
The water-wraith1 ascended thrice—
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious IB the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,
35 The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers
And Pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow.
The unconquerable strength of love ;
" Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation .
4r> Meek loveliness w round thee spread,
A softnebs btill and holy;
The grace of forest chaims decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds
50 Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature,
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a liuin hoary J
65 The bbatteied front of NewaikV Towers,
Renowned in Bolder story
Fan scenes for childhood's opening bloom.
For sport i\e youth to stray in
For manhood to enjoy his strength ,
80 And age to wear away in '
Yon cottage seems a bowei of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts, that nestle there—
The brood of chaste affection
66 How sweet, on this autumnal day.
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on ray True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather9
And what if I enwreathed my own !
70 'Twere no offence to reason ,
The sober Hills thus deck their brown
To meet the wintry season.
I see— but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
75 A ray of fancy still survives—
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
80 Accordant to the measure.
1 A spirit thoof ht to preside over waters. Lines
81-32 en teira from Logan'! poem.
The vapors linger round the height*,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
v One hour is theirs, noi more is mine—
Sad thought, which I would banish,
86 But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow I
Will dwell with me— to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow
HAST THOU SEEN, WITH FLASH
INCESSANT
1818 1820
Hast thou seen, with flash incessant,
Bubbles gliding undei ice,
Bodied forth and e\anebceut,
No one knows by what device f
5 Such are thoughts!— A wind-swept
meadow
Mimicking a troubled sea,
Such is life , and death a shadow
From the rock eternity f
COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OP
EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR
AND BEAUTY
1818 1820
Had this effulgence disappeared
With flying haste, I might have sent,
Among the speech less clouds, a look
Of blank astonishment;
R But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail Mortality may see—-
What ist— ah no, but what can be!
Time was when field and watery cove
10 With modulated echoes rang,
While choirs of fenent angels sang
Their vespers in the prove,
Or, crowning, star-like, each some sov-
ereign height,
Warbled, from heaven above and earth
below,
15 Strains suitable to both —Such holy rite,
Methinks, if audibly repeated now
From hill or valley, could not move
Subhmer transport, purer love,
Than doth this silent spectacle— the
gleam—
20 The shadow— and the peace supreme7
No sound is uttered,— but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
*5 Far-distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues
Whatever it strikes with gem-like hues!
310
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICIBTS
In vision exquisitely clear,
20 Herds range along the mountain side;
And glistening antlers are descried;
And gilded flock* appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
36 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine 1
—From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won ,
An intermingling of Heaven 'b pomp if>
spread
40 On ground which Briti&h shepherds tread f
And if there be whom broken ties
Afflict, or injuries assail,
Yon hazy lidges to their eyes
Present a glorious scale,
45 Climbing suffused with sunny air,
To stop— no record hath told where!
And tempting Fancy to ascend,
And with immortal spirits blend !
—Wings at iny shoulders seem to play,
50 But, rooted here, I stand and gaze
On those biipht steps that lieavenwaid raise
Their practicable way *
Come forth, ye (hooping old men, look
abroad,
And see to what fair countries ye aie
bound f
56 And if some traveller, weary of his road.
Hath slept since noon-tide on the gia**y
ground,
Ye Genii' to his co\eit speed,
And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
*° Bestowed on this transcendent hour'
Such hues from their celestial urn
Were wont to stream before mine eye,
Where'er it wandered in the morn
Of blissful infancy
66 This glimpse of glory, why renewed?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude;
For, if a vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams
Dread Power' whom peace and calmness
serve
70 No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,
From thee if I would swerve;
Oh, let thy giace remind me of the light
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored;
75 Which, at this moment, on my waking sight
Appears to shine, by miracle restored ,
My soul, though yet confined to earth,
Rejoices in a second birth !
— Tis past, the visionary splendor fades;
80 And night approaches with her shades.
* A ladder that may be climbed.
TO A 8NOWDBOP
, 1819 1819
Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows, and
•white as they
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
Thy foiehead as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest Though day by
day
5 Stoims, sallying- horn the mountain-tops,
waylay
The using sun, and on the plains descend,
Yet ait thou welcome, welcome as a friend
Whose zeal outruns his promise 1 Blue-
eyed May
Shall soon behold this bolder thickly set
10 With bright jonquils, their odors lavishing
On the soft west -wind and his fiohc
peeis,
Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,
Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of
Spnng,
And pensne monitor of fleeting years!
THERE 18 A LITTLE UNPRETENDING
RILL
1820 1820
There is a little unpretending nil
Of limpid \\ater, humbler far than aught
That e\ci among men or naiads sought
Notice 01 name f— It quivers down the hill,
5 Fm i owing its shallow way with dubious
will,
Yet to my mind this scanty stream is
bi ought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a
thought
Of pnvate recollection sweet and still!
Months perish with their moons; year
treads on year,
10 But, faithful Emma ri thou with me canst
say
That, while ten thousand pleasures dis-
appear,
And flies their memory fast almost as
they,
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that nil, in vision clear
BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE
18*0 1822
What lovelier home could gentle Fancy
choose f
Is this the stream, whose cities, heights,
and plains,
War's favorite playground, are with crim-
son stains
Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dewsf
6 The Morn, that now, along the silver
Meuse,
1 A name liven to Wordsworth's riiter Dorothy
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
311
Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the
swains
To tend their silent boats and ringing
wains,
Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit
bestrews
The ripening coin beneath it As mine
eyes
Turn from the fortified and ihieatemiu;
hill,
How sweet the prospect of yon wateiy
glade,
With its gray rocks clustenng in pensive
shade—
That, shaped like old monastic turiets, use
Prom the smooth meadow-ground, serene
and still '
COMPOSED IN ONE OP THE CATHOLIC
CANTONS
1820 1822
Doomed ns we aie our native dust
To \\ct with many a hitlei slmuei,
It ill befits u« to disdain
The altai, to deride the fane,
Wlieie simple suffereis bend, in trust
To win a happiei horn
c, \\heie spmids the tillage lawn,
Tpon some knee-vuun cell to gaie
Hail to the film nmunvingciom,
10 Aloft, \iheie pines then biunches tos^f
And to the chapel fai withdrawn,
Thai lurks hv lonely wa>«!
Wheie'er we roam— along the brink
Of Rhine— or by the sweeping Po,
15 Through Alpine vale, or champaign wide,
Whate 'er we look on, at our Ride /
Be Charity '—to bid us think,
And feel, if wo would know
Prom THE RIVER DFDDON
1820 1820
SOLE LISTENER, DUDDON
Role listener, Duddon f to the breeze that
played
With thy clear voice, I cnuirht the fitful
sound
Wafted o'er sullen imw and craggy
mound—
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to up-
braid
5 The sun in heaven !— but now, to form a
shade
For thee, green alders have together wound
Their foliage; ashes flung their arms
around ;
And birch trees risen in silver colonnade.
And thon hast also tempted here to rise,
10 'Mid sheltering pines, this cottage rude
and gray,
Whose ruddy children, by the mother *b
eyes
Carelessly watched, bport thiough the
summer day,
Thy pleased associates —light a*, endless
May
On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies
AFTER-THOUGHT
I thought of thee, my partner and my
guide,
As being past away —Vain sympathies'
Foi, backward, Duddon* as I cast my
eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
3 Still glides the Sheam, and shall forever
glide,
The Foini lemains the Function never
dies,
While ue, the bia\e, the mighty, and the
wise,
We Men, who ni our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish,— be it so!
10 Enough, if something from our hands
have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour,
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's
transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know l
Prom ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS
18*1 1822
MUTABILITY
From low to high doth dissolution climb.
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not
fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
5 Which they can hear who meddle not with
onmc,
Nor avarice, nor oAer-anxious care
Truth fails not ; but her outward forms
that beat
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
10 And is no more; drop like the tower
sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even
sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
« A* Panrtffftf Lout. ft. 2*2
312
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
INSIDE OF KINO 'a GOLUBK CHAPEL,
CAMBRIDGE
Tax not the royal saint1 with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the architect who
planned—
Albeit laboring for a scanty band
Of white-robed scholars only— this im-
mense s
5 And glorious work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst , high Heaven rejects
the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more,
So deemed the man who fashioned for the
sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching
roof
10 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thou-
sand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music
dwells
Lingering— and wandering on as loth to
die;
Like thoughts whose ^ery sweetness yield-
eth proof
That they were born for immortality
TO A SKYLABK
1825 1827
Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky !
Dofft thou despise the earth where cares
abound!
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and
eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground t
6 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that
music still !
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ;
A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a
flood
10 Of harmony, with instinct more divine ,
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ,
True to the kindred points of Heaven and
Home!
SCORN NOT THE SONNET
1827 1827
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you haw
frowned,
Mindless of its just honors; with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; themelodv
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's
wound;*
B A thousand times this pipe did Taaso
sound;
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief;1
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf2
Amid the cypress with which Dante
crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
10 It cheered mild Spenser, called from
Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and
when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he
blew
Soul-animating strains— alas, too few !
TO THE CUCKOO
J807 1827
Not the whole uarbhng grove in concert
heard
When sunshine follows shower, the breast
can thrill
Like the first summons, Cuckoo ! of thy bill,
With its twin notes inseparably paired
6 The captive 'mid damp vaults unsunned,
unaired,
Measuring the periods of his lonely doom,
That cry can reach ; and to the sick man 's
room
Sends gladness, by no languid smile de-
clared
The lordly eagle-race through hostile search
10 May perish , time may come when never
more
The wilderness shall hear the hon roar;
But, long as cock shall crow from house-
hold perch
To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed
thy wing,
And thy erratic1 voice be faithful to the
spring!
YARROW REVISITED
1831 1835
The gallant youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks a "winsome marrow,"4
Was but an infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow ,B
B Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border !«
i Camoena wan banished from Llibon partly be-
After her death, he lamented0 her ^ hU
- -nnbol of love; the cjrprem,
A^ reference to Dante/i love
vf»« comeay. * *ow' in« ** '
* wandering
«eomtiaDlan (Bee Hamilton*! The Brae* of For-
hit tonneta
•Bcott (a
Bcottiih
WILLIAM WOEDSWOBTH
313
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet
day,
10 Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine
gleamed—
The forest to embolden ;
15 Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool
20 For quiet contemplation .
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.
30
25 Brisk Youth appealed, the Morn of
Youth,
With freaks of graceful folly,—
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve,
Her Night not melancholy ,
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far,
By cordial love invited
And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging,
86 Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing,
If, then, some natural shadows spread
Our inward prospect over.
The soul's deep valley was not slow
40 Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse,
And her divine employment !
The blameless Muse, who trains her sons
For hope and calm enjoyment ,
45 Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
Has o'er their pillow brooded;
And Care waylays their steps— a sprite
Not easily eluded
For thee, 0 Scott 1 compelled to change
60 Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesnvio's vine-clad slopes,
And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot
For mild Sorento's breezy waves;
May classic Fancy, linking
« With native Fancy her fresh aid.
Preserve thy heart from sinking!
Oh! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age,
60 With Strength, her venturous brother,
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagmed beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory '
66 For thou, upon a hundred stream*,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,
Hast shed the power of Yarrow,
And streams unknown, hillb yet unseen,
70 Wherever they invite thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,
With gladness must requite thee
A gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of lo\e and honor
71 As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Beheld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
80 The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer!
85 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self I
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within ust
Nor deem that localized Romance
90 Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears— made sport
For fanciful dejections
Ah, no ! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
95 Life as she is— our changeful Life,
With fnends and kindled dealing
Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch
100 of mouldering Newark entered ,
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted
By the "last Minstrel1'1 (not the last!)
Ere he his tale recounted.
106 Flow on forever, Yarrow Stream!
Fulfil thy pensive duty.
Well pleased that future bards should
chimt
For simple hearts thy beauty;
814
NINETEENTH OENTUBT BOMANTIOI8TS
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
110 Dear to toe common sunshine.
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
ON THE DEPABTUBE OF SIB WALTER
SCOTT FBOM ABBOT8FOBD,
FOB NAPLES
Jtf&l 1836
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple
height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, 'com-
plain
5 For kindred Power, departing from their
sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a
blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the
might
Of the whole world's good wishes with
him goes,
10 Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror
knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,1
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope '
THE TBOSACH8
1551 1885
There's not a nook within this solemn Pass
But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn
gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
* Withered at eve. From scenes of art
which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watch-
ful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Bocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear
than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon Thrice
happy quest,
10 If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest '
IF THOU INDEED DEBIVE THY LIGHT
FBOM HEAVEN
1*51 19S6
If them indeed derive thy light from
Heaven,
i The Mediterranean.
Then, to the measure of that heaven-born
light,
Shine, Poett in thy place, and be con-
tent :-
The stars pre-eminent in magnitude,
5 And they that from the zenith dart their
beams,
(Visible though they be to half the earth,
Though half a sphere be conscious of
their brightness)
Are yet of no diviner origin,
No purci essence, than the one that burnt»f
10 Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge
Of some dark mountain; or than those
which seem
Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter
lamps,
Among the blanches of the leafless trees,
All are the undying offspring of one sire
15 Then, to the measure of the light vouch-
safed,
Shine, Poet, m thy place, and be content.
IF THIS GBEAT WOBLD OF JOY AND
PAIN
1883 1835
If this great world of joy and pain
Revolve in one sure track;
If freedom, set, will rise again,
And virtue, flown, come back;
6 Woe to the purblind crefe who fill
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear, and to forbear!
"THEBE»" SAID A STRIPLING,
POINTING WITH MEET PBIDE
1855 1885
''There!" said a tripling, pointing with
meet pride
Towards a low roof with green trees half
concealed,
"Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very
field
Where Burns ploughed up the daisy."
Far and wide
5 A plain below stretched seaward, while,
descried
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran
rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified
Beneath "the random bield1 of clod or
stone"
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in
flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural
hour
* ibeltcr (Horns, TV a JToviifafii Data*, 21. p
WILLIAM WOBDSWOBTH
815
Have passed away; less happy than the
Ooe
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died
to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.
HOST SWEET IT ISWITH UN-
UPLIFTED EYES
1S3S 1885
Host sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or
none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon ,
5 Pleased rattier with some soft ideal scene.
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beautv gone
If Thought and Love desert u*. from that
day
10 Let us break off all oomnieicc with the
Huse:
With Thought and Lo\e companions of
our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her
dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
TO A
WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM
1835
Small service is true service while it lasts*
Of humblest friends, bright creature f
scorn not one:
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects "the lingering dewdrop from the
EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE
DEATH OF JAMES HOGG
1835 1836
When first, descending from the moor-
lands,
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide
Along a hare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd8 was my guide
* When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
Hy steps the Border-minstrel1 led
goddaughter. Rotha QiUlllnan
ted In IRSn A reference to
[ tonr In Scotland In 1814 See
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
10 'Hid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes1 of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes:
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its steadfast course,
15 Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source;
The rapt One, of the godlike forehead,*
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in
earth:
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
20 Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-
summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land !
25 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
"Who next will drop and disappear f"
Our haughty life is crowned with dark-
ness,
80 Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, 0 Crabbe! forth-
looking,
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath.
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too art gone before; but why,
3"> O'er ripe fruit, reasonably gathered,8
Should frail survivors heave a sight
Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep;
For hei< who, either summer faded,
40 Has sunk into a breathless sleep.
No more of old romantic sorrows,*
For slaughtered youth or love-lorn
maid!
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet
dead.
* Wordsworth'*
"MM&
_ _J*:f«*asrl"iWfe
row
> banks
•Coleridge,
it* Firit
(p. 812).
who died In 1884 Bee Hailltt'a
with Poctt (p. 1029.
1 Crabbe died In 1832, at the an* of 78.
« Felicia Hemanii. who died In 1885, at the age
1 A reference to the ballads of Yarrow, bv Hamil-
ton, Logan, and others.
816
If JLW JBJTJSU&N Z XL
CENTT7BT ROMANTICISTS
HARK! TIS THE THRUSH
1838 1888
Haiti 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, on-
deprest,
By twilight premature of cloud and nun;
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his
strain
Who carols thinking of his Love and nest,
6 And seems, as more incited, still more
blest
Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside
Prisoner's chain,
That to this mountain-dairy's self were
known
5 The beauty of its star-shaped shadow,
thrown
On the smooth surface of this naked
stone!
And what if hence a bold desire should
mount
High as the Sun, that he could take
account
Of all that issues from his glorious fount !
Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain, 10 Bo might he ken how ^ his govereign aid
And in a moment charmed my cares to These delicate companionships are made:
rest- - And how he rules the pomp of light and
Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! and front
the blast,
10 That we may sing together, if thou wilt,
So loud, so clear, my Partner through
life's day,
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-
built
Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons
led by 'loose snatches of the social Lay
Thrill
A POET!— HE HATH PUT HIS HEABT
TO SCHOOL
18*9 1842
A Poet'— He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the
staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand-
must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
* Thy Art be Nature , the live current quaff.
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and
cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his
epitaph.
How does the meadow flower its bloom
unfoldT
10 Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom,
bold;
And so the grandeur of the forest tree
Gomes not by casting in a formal mould.
But from its own divine vitality
80 FAIR* SO SWEET,^ WITHAL SO
VE
SITI
1844
1845
So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,
Would that the little Flowers were born
to live,
Conscious of half the pleasure which they
shade;
And were the Sister-power that shines by
night
So privileged, what a countenance of de-
light
" Would through the clouds break forth on
human sight !
Fond fancies! wheresoever shall turn thine
eye
On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sk>,
Converse with Nature in pure sympathy,
All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled,
20 Be thou to love and praise alike impelled,
Whatever boon is granted or withheld.
THE UNBEFITTING VOICE OF
NIGHTLY STREAMS
1846 1850
The unremitting voice of nightly streams
That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful
powers,
If neither soothing to the worm that
gleams
Through dewy grass, nor small birds
hushed in bowers,
6 Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy
flowers,-—
That voice of unpretending harmony
(For who what is shall measure by what
seems
To be, or not to be,
Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?)
10 Wants not a healing influence that can
creep
Into the human breast, and mix with sleep
To regulate the motion of our dreams
For kindly issues— as through every clime
Was felt near murmuring brooks in
earliest time;
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH
317
As, at this day, the rudest swains who
dwell
Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling
knell
Of water-breaks1 with grateful heart could
tell
PREFACE
TO THE BIOOND EDITION OF SEVERAL OF THE
FOREGOING POEMS, PUBLISHED, WITH AN
ADDITIONAL VOLUME, UNDER THE TITLE
OF "LYRICAL BALLADS''
1800 1800
The first volume of these poems has
already been submitted to general perusal
It was published as an experiment, which,
I hoped, might be of some use to -ascertain,
how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement
a selection of the real language of men in
a state of vivid sensation, that sort of
pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may
be imparted, which a poet may rationally
endeavor to impart
I had formed no very inaccurate estimate
of the probable effect of those poems I
flattered myself that they who should be
pleased with them would read them with
more than common pleasure; and, on the
other hand, I was well aware, that bv tho«e
who should dislike them, they would be read
with more than common dislike. The result
has differed from my expectation in this
only, that a greater number hav§ been
pleased than I ventured to hope I should
please.
Several of my friends are anxious for
the success of these poems from a belief
that, if the views with which they were com-
posed were indeed realized, a class of poetry
would be produced well adapted to interest
mankind permanently, and not unimportant
in the quality and in the multiplicity of its
moral relations- and on this account they
have advised me to add a systematic de-
fense of the theory upon which the poems
were written. But I was unwilling to under-
take the task, because I knew that on this
occasion the reader would look coldly upon
my arguments, since I might be suspected
cif having been principally influenced bv
the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning
him into an approbation of these particular
poems: And I was still more unwilling to
undertake the task, because, adequately to
display my opinions, and fully to enforce
my arguments, would require a space wholly
disproportionate to a preface. For to treat
the subject with the clearness and coherence
of which it is susceptible, it would be neces-
sary to give a full account of the present
state of the public taste in this country, and
to determine how far this taste is healthy
5 or depraved, which, again, could not be
determined, without pointing out, in what
manner language and the human mind act
and react on each other, and without re-
tracing the revolutions, not of literature
10 alone, but likewise of society itself. I have
therefore altogether declined to enter regu-
larly upon this defense; yet I am sensible
that there would be some impropriety in
abruptly obtruding upon the public, with-
15 out a few words of introduction, poems BO
materially different from those upon which
general approbation is at present bestowed.
It is supposed that by the act of writing
in verse an author makes a formal engage-
20 ment that he will gratify certain known
habits of association; that he not only thus
apprises the reader that certain classes of
ideas and expressions will be found in his
book, but that others will be carefully ex-
25 eluded This exponent or symbol held forth
by metrical language must in different eras
of literature have excited very different
expectations* for example, in the age of
Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius, and that
so of Statius or Claudian; and in our own
country, in the age of Shakspeare and Beau-
mont and Fletcher, and that of Donne and
Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope I will not
take upon me to determine the exact import
as of the promise which by the act of writing
in verse an author, in the present day,
makes to his reader; but it will undoubt-
edly appear to many persons that I have
not fulfilled the terms of an engagement
40 thus voluntarily contracted They who have
been accustomed to the gaudmess and inane
phraseology of many modern writers, if
they persist in reading this book to its con-
clusion, will, no doubt, frequently have to
45 struggle with feelings of strangeness and
awkwardness they will look round for
poetry, and will be induced to inquire by
what species of courtesy these attempts can
be permitted to assume that title. I hope,
so therefore, the reader will not censure me for
attempting to state what I have proposed
to myself to perform; and also (as far as
the limits of a preface will permit) to ex-
plain some of the chief reasons which ha\e
SB determined me in the choice of my purpose •
that at least he may be spared any unpleas-
ant feeling of disappointment, and that I
myself may be protected from one of the
most dishonorable accusation* which can be
318
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
brought against an author; namely, that
of an indolence which prevents him from
endeavoring to ascertain what is his doty,
or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents
him from performing it. 6
The principal object, then, proposed in
these poems was to choose incidents and
situations from common bfe, and to relate
or describe them throughout, as far as was
possible, in a selection of language really 10
used by men, and, at the same time, to
throw over them a certain coloring of imag-
ination, whereby ordinary things should be
presented to the mind in an unusual aspect;
and, further, and above all, to make these u
incident* and situations interesting by trac-
ing in them, truly though not ostenta-
tiously, the primary laws of our nature:
chiefly, ab far as regards the manner in
which we associate ideas in a state of »
excitement. Humble and rustic life was
generally chosen, because, in that condition,
the essential passions of the heart find a
better soil in which they can attain their
maturity, are less under restraint, and speak 95
a plainer and more emphatic language; be-
cause in that condition of life our elemen-
tary feelings coexist in a state of greater
simplicity, and, consequently, may be more
accurately contemplated, and more forcibly SO
communicated, because the manners of
rural life germinate from those elementary
feelings, and, fiom the necessary character
of rural occupation, are more easily com-
prehended, and are more durable; and, »
lastly, because in that condition the passions
of men are incorporated with the beautiful
and permanent forms of nature The lan-
guage, too, of these men has been adopted
(purified indeed from what appear to be 40
its real defects, from all lasting and rational
causes of dislike or disgust) because such
men hourly communicate with the best ob-
jects from which the best part of language
is originally derived, and because, from 46
their rank in society and the sameness and
narrow circle of their intercourse, being less
under the influence of social vanity, they
convey their feelings and notions in simple
and unelaborated expressions Accordingly, 00
such a language, arising out of repeated
experience and regular feelings, is a more
permanent, and a far more philosophical
language, than that which is frequently sub-
stituted for it by poets, who think that they w
are conferring honor upon themselves and
their art, in proportion as they separate
themselves from the sympathies of men,
and indulge in arbitrary and capricious
habits of expression, in order to furnish
food for fickle tastes and fickle appetites
of their own creation.
I cannot, however, be insensible to the
present outcry against the triviality and
meanness, both of thought and language,
which some of my contemporaries1 have
occasionally introduced into their metrical
compositions; and I acknowledge that this
defect, where it exists, is more dishonorable
to the writer's own cliaracter than false
refinement or arbitrary innovation, though
I should contend at the same time, that it
ife far less pernicious in the sum of its
consequences. From such verses the poems
in these volumes will be found distinguished
fct least by one mark of difference, that
each of them has a worthy purpose. Not
that I always began to wnte with a distinct
purpose formally conceived; but habits of
meditation have, I trust, so prompted and
regulated my feelings, that my descriptions
of such objects as strongly excite those feel-
ings, will be found to carty along with
them a purpose. If this opinion be eiro-
neous, I can have little right to the name
of a poet. For all good poetry is the spon-
taneous overflow of powerful feelings and
though this be tiue, poems to which any
value can be attached were never produced
on any vanety of subjects but by a man
who, being possessed of more than usual
organi* sensibility, had also thought long
and deeply. For our continued influxes of
feeling are modified and directed by our
thoughts, which are indeed the representa-
tives of all our past feelings, and as by
contemplating the relation of these general
representatives to each other, we discover
what is really important to men, so, by the
repetition and continuance of this act, our
feelings will be connected with important
subjects, till at length, if we be originally
possessed of much sensibility, such habits
of mind will be produced that, by obeying
blindly and mechanically the impulses of
those habits, we shall describe objects, and
utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in
such connection with each other, that the
understanding of the reader must necessar-
ily be in some degree enlightened, and his
affections strengthened and purified.
It has been said that each of these poems
has a purpose. Another circumstance must
be mentioned which distinguishes these
poems from the popular poetry of the day;
it is this, that the feeling therein developed
* Wortworth nmr rrfw to Souther and Orabbe.
WILLIAM WOBD8WORTH
319
gives importance to the action and situa-
tion, and not the action and situation to the
feeling.
A sense of false modesty shall not pre-
vent me from asserting that the reader's
attention is pointed to this maik of dib-
tinction far less for the sake of these par-
ticular poems than from the general impor-
tance of the subject The subject is indeed
important ! For the human mind is capable
of being excited without the application of
gross and violent stimulants; and he must
have a very faint perception of its beauty
and dignity who does not know this, and
who does not further know that one being
is elevated above another, in proportion as
he possesses this capability. It has there-
fore appeared to me that to endeavor to
produce or en huge this capability is one of
the best services in which, at any period,
a writer can be engaged, but this service,
excellent at all times, IB especially so at
the present day For a multitude of causes,
unknown to former times, are now acting
with a combined force to blunt the discrimi-
nating poweis of the mind, and, unfitting
it for all voluntary exeition, to reduce it
to a state of almost sa\age torpor. The
most effective of these causes are the great
national events winch are daily taking
place,1 and the iiirie.iMn<; accuinul.it ion of
men in cities, wheie the uniformity of their
occupations produces a cia> ing for extraor-
dinary incident, \vhich the rapid com-
munication of intelligence houily gratifies.
To this tendency of life and manners the
literature and theatrical exhibitions of the
country have conformed themselves. The
invaluable works of our elder writers,! had
almost said the works of Shakspeare and
Milton, are dnven into neglect by frantic
novels,2 sickly and stupid German tragedies.8
and deluges of idle and extravagant storied
in verse.4 When I think upon this degrad-
ing thirst after outrageous stimulation, I
am almost ashamed to have spoken of the
feeble endeavor made in these volumes to
counteract it , and, reflecting upon the mag-
nitude of the general evil, I should be op-
pressed with no dishonorable melancholy,
» 1'cwsibly a relerence to the *m with France, tbe
Irish Rebellion, the passage, of labor laws,
ftf
• Burn" as T9if Cattle of Otranto, Vathek. The I/**-
trries uf IMofpfcu, aud other Gothic romance*
' Such a- RoUebie'n Miaanthroptt and Repentance,
known In England an The Miaiti/cr.
* Wordsworth mav refer to «urh noeniN as Clifford 8
t/ffttatf and Bariad , Landort kcbh . ?nd Bcott <
translations of Bilrsjer « Lcnnn anil The WtM
had I not a deep impression of certain in-
herent and indestructible qualities of the
human mind, and likewise of certain
powers in the great and permanent objects
6 that act upon it, which aze equally inherent
and indestructible; and were there not
added to this impression a belief, that the
time is approaching when the evil will be
systematically opposed by men of greater
10 powers, and with far more distinguished
success.
Having dwelt thus long on the subjects
and aim of these poems, I shall request the
reader's permission to apprise him of a
15 few circumstances relating to their style, in
order, among other reasons, that he may
not censure me for not having performed
what I never attempted. The reader will
find that personifications of abstract ideas
20 larely occur in these volumes; and are
utterly rejected, as an ordinary device to
elevate the style and raise it above prose.
My purpose was to imitate, and, as far as is
possible, to adopt the very language of men ,
« and assuredly such personifications do not
make any nahunl or regular part of that
language. They are, indeed, a figure of
speech occasionally prompted by passion,
and I have made use of them as such; but
ft) have endeavored utterly to reject them as
a mechanical device of style, or as a fanul>
language which writers in metre seem to lay
claim to by prescription. I have wished
to keep the reader in the company of flesh
K and blood, peisuaded that by so doing I
shall interest him. Others who pursue a
different track will interest him likewise,
I do not interfere with their claim, but wish
to prefer a claim of my own. There will
40 also be found in these volumes little of
what is usually called poetic diction; as
much pains has been taken to avoid it as is
ordinarily taken to produce it; this has
been done for the reason already alleged, to
46 bring my language near to the language of
men; and further, because the pleasure
which I have proposed to myself to impart,
is of a kind very different from that which
is supposed by many persons to be the
BO proper object of poetry. Without being
culpably particular, I do not know how to
give my reader a more exact notion of the
style in which it was my wish and intention
to write, than by informing him that I
as have at all times endeavored to look stead-
ily at my subject; consequently, there is,
I hope, in these poems little falsehood of
description, and my ideas are expressed in
language fitted to their respective impor-
320
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIBTS
tanee. Something most have been gained
by this practice, 'as it k friendly to one
property of all gbott poetry, namely, good
sense: but it haft necessarily cut me off
from a large portion of phrases and fig- 5
ures of speech which from father to son
have long been regarded as the common in-
heritance of poets. I have also thought it
expedient to restrict myself still further,
having abstained from the use of many 10
expressions, in themselves proper and beau-
tiful, but which have been foolishly re-
peated by bad poets, till such feelings of
disgust are connected with them as it is
scarcely possible by any art of association IB
to overpower.
If m a poem there should be found a
series of lines, or even a single line, in
which the language, though naturally ar-
ranged, and according to the strict laws of 20
metre, does not differ from that of piosc,
there is a numerous class of critics, who,
when they stumble upon these prosaixms,
as they call them, imagine that they ha\e
made a notable discovery, and exult over is
the poet as over a man ignorant of his own
profession. Now these men would estab-
lish a canon of criticism which the reader
will conclude he must utterly reject, if he
wishes to be pleased with these volumes. 80
And it would be a most easy task to prove
to bun that not only the language of a
large portion of every good poem, even of
the most elevated character, must neces-
sarily, except with reference to the metre, as
in no respect differ from that of good
prose, but likewise that some of the most
interesting parts of the best poems will be
found to be strictly the language of prose
when prose is well written The truth of 40
this assertion might be demonstrated by
innumerable passages from almost all the
poetical writings, even of Milton himself.
To illustrate the subject in a general man-
ner, I will here adduce a short composition 4S
of Gray, who was at the head of those who,
by their reasonings, have attempted to
widen the space of separation betwixt prose
and metrical composition, and was more
than any other man curiously elaborate in 60
the structure of his own poetic diction.
To
M their little lores tbe birds complain,
t mourn to Mm that emnnot freer,
*ib0 .. »- • i— — •— *
And weep the more became I weep in vain.
It will easily be perceived that the only
part of this sonnet which is of any value
is the lines printed in italics, it is equally
obvious that, except in the rhyme, and in
the use of the single word "fruitless"
for "fruitlessly," which is so far a defect,
the language of these lines does in no re-
bpect differ from that of prose.
By the foregoing quotation it has been
shown that the language of prose may yet
be well adapted to poetry; and it was pre-
viously asserted, that a large portion of
the language of every good poem can in
no respect differ from that of good prose.
We will go further. It may be safely
affirmed, that there neither is nor can be
an> essential difference between the lan-
guage of prose and metrical composition
We are fond of tracing the resemblance
between poetry and painting, land, accord-
ingly, we call them sisters: but where shall
we find bonds of connection sufficiently
strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical
and prose composition t They both speak
by and to the same organs, the bodies in
which both of them are clothed may be
said to be of the same substance, their
affections are kindred and almost identical,
not necessarily differing e\en in degree,
poetry sheds no tears "such as angels
weep/1 but natural and human tears; she
can boast of no celestial ichor1 that dis-
tinguishes her vital juices from those of
prose; the same human blood circulates
through the veins of them both.
If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical
arrangement of themselves constitute a
distinction which overturns what has just
been said on the stnct affinity of metrical
language with that of prose, and paves the
way for other artificial distinctions which
the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that
the language of such poetry as is here rec-
ommended is, as far as is possible, a selec-
tion of the language really spoken by men ;
that this selection, wherever it is made with
true taste and feeling, will of itself fonn
a distinction far greater than would at first
be imagined, and will entirely separate the
composition from the vulgarity and mean-
ness of ordinary life; and, if metre be
superadded thereto, I believe that a dip-
similitude will be produced altogether suffi-
cient for tbe gratification of a rational
mind. What other distinction would we
i fluid tbat flowed In tbe reins of tbt *ods
WILLIAM* WORD8WOBTH
821
have! Whence is it to comet And where
is it to exist f Not, burely, where the poet
speaks through the mouths of his charac-
ters: it cannot be necessary here, either
for elevation oil btyle, or any of its sup-
posed ornaments; for, if the poet's subject
be judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and
upon fit occabion, lead nun to passions, the
language of which, if selected truly and
judiciously, mubt necessarily be dignified
and variegated, and alive with metaphors
and figures 1 forbear to speak of an in-
congruity which would shock the intelligent
reader, should the poet interweave any for-
eign splendor of his own 'with that which
the passion naturally suggests it is suffi-
cient to say that such addition is unnecev
sary. And, surely, it is more ^probable
that those pabsages, which with propriety
abound with metaphors and figures, will
have their due effect, if, upon other occa-
sions wlieie the patrons ate of a milder
chaiacter, the style also be subdued and
temperate.
But, as the pleasure which I hope to grve
by the poems now piesented to the reader
must depend entirely on just notions upon
this subject, and, as it is in itself of high
impoitance to our taste and moral feelings,
I cannot content myself with these detached
remaiks. And if, in what I am about to
say, it shall appear to some that my labor
ib unnecebsuiy, and that 1 am like a man
fighting a buttle without enemies, such pei-
sons may be reminded that, whatever be
the language outwardly holden by men, a
practical faith in the opinions which 1 am
wishing to establish is almost unknown. If
my conclusions aie admitted, and earned as
far as they must be earned if admitted at
all, our judgments concerning the works of
the greatest poets, both ancient and modern,
will be far different from what they are at
present, both when we praise and when we
censure : and our moral feelings influencing
and influenced by these judgments will, I
believe, be corrected and purified.
Taking up the subject, then, upon gen-
eral grounds, let me a»k, what is meant b>
the word poett What is a poett To whom
does he address himself! And what lan-
guage is to be expected from hunt— He ib
a man speaking to men; a man, it is true,
endowed with more lively sensibility, more
enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a
greater knowledge of human nature, and
a more comprehensive soul, than are sup-
posed to be common among mankind, a
man pleased with hw own pawrions and
volitions, and who rejoices more than othei
men in the spirit oi life that is m him,
delighting to contemplate similar volitions
and passions as manifested m the goings-on
6 oi the universe, and habitually impelled to
create them where he does not find them
To these qualities he has added a disposi-
tion to be affected more than other men by
absent things as if they were present, an
10 ability of conjuring up in himself passions,
which are indeed far from being the same
as those produced by real events, yet (es-
pecially in those parts of the general sym-
pathy which aie pleasing and delightful)
IB do more nearly resemble the passions pro-
duced by real events than anything which,
from the motions of their own minds
merely, other men are accustomed to feel
in themselves —whence, and from practice,
20 he has acquired a greater readiness and
power in expressing what he thinks and
feels, and especially those thoughts and
feelings which, by his own choice, or from
the struct uie ot his own mind, arise in
a» him without immediate external excitement
But whatever portion of this faculty we
may suppose even the gieatest poet to
possess, theie cannot be a doubt that the
language which it will suggest to him, must
80 often, in liveliness and truth, fall short of
that which is uttered by men m real life,
under the actual pi ensure of those passions,
ceitam shadows of which the poet thus
pioduces, 01 feels to be produced, in him-
36 sell
However exalted a notion we would wish
to cherish of the character of a poet, it is
obvious that, while he desciibeb and imitates
passions, his employment is in some degree
40 mechanical, compaied with the freedom and
power of real and substantial action and
suffering. So that it will be the wish of
the poet to bring his feelings near to those
of the persons whose feelings be describes,
46 nay, for short spaces of tune, perhaps, to
let himself slip into an entire delusion, and
even confound and identity his own feel-
ings with thens, modifying only the
language which is thus suggested to him
GO by a consideration that he describes for a
particular purpose, that of giving pleasure.
Here, then, he will apply the principle of
selection which has been already insisted
upon He will depend upon this for re-
56 moving what would otherwise be painful
or disgusting in the passion, he will feel
that there is no necessity to tnck out or
to elevate nature, and, the more mdus-
ttiously he applies this principle, the deeper
NINETEENTH CENTUEY BOMANTICISTS
will be his faith that no words, which ku
fancy or imagination can suggest, will be
to be compared with those which are the
emanations of reality and truth.
But it may be said by those who do not
object to the general spirit of these re-
marks, that, as it is impossible for th
poet to produce upon all occasions language
as exquisitely fitted for the passion as that
which the real passion itself suggests, it is
proper that he should consider himself as
111 the situation of a translator, who does
not scruple to substitute excellencies of
another kind for those which are unattain-
able by him, and endeavors occasionally to
surpass his original, in order to make some
amends for the general inferiority to which
he feels that he must submit But this
would be to encourage idleness and un-
manly despair. Further, it is the language
of men who speak of what they do not
understand, who talk of poetry, as of a
matter of amusement and idle pleasure,
who will converse with us as gravely about
a taste for poetry, as they express it, as
if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste
for rope-dancing, or Fiontiniac or Sherry l
Aristotle, I have been told, has said that
poetry is the most philosophic of all writ-
ing*2 it is so' its object is truth, not mdi-
vidual and local, but general and operative ,
not standing upon external testimony, but
carried alive into the heart by passion,
truth which is its own testimony, which
gives competence and confidence to the
tribunal to which it appeals, and receives
them from the same tribunal. Poetry is
the unage of man and nature The ob-
stacles which stand in the way of the fidelity
of the biographer and historian, and of
'their consequent utility, are incalculably
greater than those which are to be encoun-
tered by the poet who comprehends the
dignity of his art. The poet writes under
one restriction only, namely, the necessity
of giving immediate pleasure to a human
being possessed of that information which
may be expected from him, not as a lawyer,
a physician, a manner, an astronomer, or
a natural philosopher, but as a man. Ex-
cept this one restriction, there is no object
standing between the poet and the image
of things; between this, and the biographer
and historian, there are a thousand.
Nor let this necessity of producing imme-
diate pleasure be considered as a degrada-
1Klndi of wine
•Jtoeffet, 9 8— "Poetry IH mort philosophical
and more serlon* thin history "
tion of the poet's art It IB far otherwise.
It is an acknowledgment of the beauty of
the universe, an acknowledgment the more
sincere because not formal, but indirect; it
6 is a task light and easy to him who looks
at the world in the spirit of love : further,
it is a homage paid to the native and naked
dignity of man, to the grand elementary
principle of pleasure, by which he knows,
10 and feels, and lives, and moves. We have
no sympathy but what is propagated by
pleasure: I would not be misunderstood;
but wherever we sympathize with pain, it
will be found {hat the sympathy is pro-
is duced and earned on by subtle combina-
tions with pleasure. We have no knowl-
edge, that is, no general principles drawn
from the contemplation of particular facts,
but what has been built up by pleasure, and
so exists m us by pleasure alone The man
of science, the chemist and mathematician,
whatever difficulties and disgusts they may
have had to struggle with, know and feel
this However painful may be the objects
K with which the anatomist's knowledge is
connected, he feels that his knowledge is
pleasure ; and where he has no pleasure he
has no knowledge What then does the
poetf He considers man and the objects
80 that surround him as acting and reacting
upon each other, so as to produce an infinite
complexity of pain and pleasure, he con-
siders man in his own nature and in his
own ordinary life as contemplating this with
85 a certain quantity of immediate knowledge,
with certain convictions, intuitions, and de-
ductions, which from habit acquire the qual-
ity of intuitions; he considers him as look-
ing upon this complex scene of ideas and
M sensations, and finding everywhere objects
that immediately excite in him sympathies
'which, from the necessities of his nature,
are accompanied by an overbalance of en-
joyment.
45 To this knowledge which all men carry
about with them, and to these sympathies
in which, without any other discipline than
that of our daily life, we are fitted to take
delight, the poet principally directs his
co attention. He considers man and nature as
essentially adapted to each other, and the
mind of man as naturally the mirror of
the fairest and most interesting properties
of nature. And thus the poet, prompted
56 by this feeling of pleasure, which accom-
panies him through the whole course of his
studies, convenes with general nature, with
affections akin to those which, through
labor and length of time, the man of
WILLIAM WOBDBWOBTH
328
science has raised up in himself, by con-
versing with those particular parts of
nature which aie the objects of his studies.
The knowledge both of the poet and the
man of science is pleasure, but the knowl-
edge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary
part of our existence, our natural and un-
ahenable inheritance; the other is a per-
sonal and individual acquisition, slow to
come to us, and by no habitual and direct
sympathy connecting us with our fellow-
beings. The man of science seeks truth as
a remote and unknown benefactor; he cher-
ishes and loves it in his solitude the poet,
singing a song in which all human beings
join with him, rejoices in the presence of
truth as our visible friend and hourly com-
panion. Poetry is the breath and finer
spirit of all knowledge; it is the impas-
sioned expression which is in the counte-
nance of all science. Emphatically may it
be said of the poet, as Shakspeare hath said
of man, "that he looks before and after '"
He is the rock of defense for human
nature; an upholder and preserver, carry-
ing everyv\lieie with him relationship and
love. In spite of difference of soil and
climate, of language and manners, of laws
and customs in spite of things silently
gone out of mind, and things violently de-
stroyed , the poet binds together by passion
and knowledge the vast empire of human
society, as it is spread over the whole earth,
and over all time The objects of the poet's
thought are everywhere; though the eyes
and senses of man are, it is true, his favor-
ite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever
he can find an atmosphere of sensation in
which to mo\e his wmps Poetry is the
fin»t and last of all knowledge— it is as
immortal as the heart of man If the labors
of men of science should ever create any
material revolution, direct 01 indirect, in
our condition, and in the impressions which
we habitually receive, the poet will sleep
then no more than at present, he will be
ready to follow the steps of the man of
science, not only in those general indirect
effects, but he will be at his side, carrying
sensation into the midst of the objects of
the science itself. The remotest discoveries
of the chemist, the botanist, or mineralogist,
will be as proper objects of the poet's art
as any upon which it can be employed, if
the time should ever come when these things
shall be familiar to us, and the relations
under which they are contemplated by the
followers of these respective sciences shall
« Tlatnlrt. TV, 4, 37
be manifestly and palpably material to us
as enjoying and suffering beings. If the
tune should ever come when what is now
called science, t-hw familiarized to men
6 shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form
of flesh and blood, the poet will lend his
divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and
will welcome the being thus produced,, as
a dear and genuine inmate of the household
10 of man. It is not, then, to be supposed
that any one who holds that sublime notion
of poetry which I have attempted to convey,
will break in upon the sanctity and truth
of his pictures by transitory and accidental
1ft ornaments, and endeavor to excite admira-
tion of himself by arts, the necebsity qf
which must manifestly depend upon the
assumed meanness of his subject.
What has been thus far said applies to
x> poetry in general, but especially to those
parts of composition where the poet speaks
through the mouths of his characters, and
upon this point it appears to authorize
tbe conclusion that there are few persons
25 of good sense who would not allow that
the dramatic parts of composition are de-
fective, in proportion as they deviate from
the real language of nature, and are col-
ored by a diction of the poet's own, either
SO peculiar to him as an individual poet or
belonging simply to poets in general; to
a body of men who, from the circumstance
of their compositions being in metre, it is
expected will employ a particular language
85 It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of
composition that we look for this distinc-
tion of language , but still it may be proper
and necessary where the poet speaks to us
in his own person land character To this
40 I answer by referring the reader to the
description before given of a poet Among
the qualities there enumerated as prin-
cipally conducing to form a poet, is implied
nothing differing- in kind from other men,
45 but only in degree. The sum of what was
said is, that the poet is chiefly distinguished
from other men by a greater promptness
to think and feel without immediate exter-
nal excitement, and a greater power in ex-
50 pressing such thoughts and feelings as are
produced in him in that manner. But these
passions and thoughts and feelings are the
general passions and thoughts and feelings
of men. And with what are they con-
55 nectedf Undoubtedly with our moral senti-
ments and animal sensations, and with the
pauses which excite these; with the opera-
tions of the elements, and the appearances
of the visible universe; with storm and
324
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
sunshine, with the revolutions of the
sons, with cold and heat, with loss of
friends and kindred, with injuries and re-
sentments, gratitude and hope, with fear
and sorrow. These, and the like, are the *
sensations and objects which the poet de-
scribes, as they are the sensations of other
men, and the objects which interest them.
The poet thinks and feels in the spirit of
human passions. How, then, can his Ian- 10
guage differ in any material degree from
that of all other men who feel vividly and
see clearly f It might be proved that it is
impossible. But supposing that this were
not the case, the poet might then be allowed 15
to use a peculiar language when expressing,
his feelings for his own gratification, or
that of men like himself. But poets do
not wnte for poets alone, but for men.
Unless, therefore, we are advocates for that »
admiration which subsists upon ignorance,
and that pleasure which arises from hear-
ing what we do not understand, the poet
must descend from this supposed height;
and, in order to excite rational sympathy, 26
he must express himself as other men ex-
press themselves. To this it may be added
that while he is only selecting from the
real language of men, or, which amounts to
the same thing, composing accurately in the 80
spirit of such selection, he is treading upon
safe ground, and we know what we are to
expect from him. Our feelings are the
same with regpeet to metre; for, as it may
be proper to remind the reader, the distinc- 8fi
tion of metre is regular and uniform, and
not, like that which is produced by what
is usually called poetic diction, arbitrary,
and subject to infinite caprices upon which
no calculation whatever can be made. In 40
the one case, the reader is utterly at the
mercy of the poet, respecting what imagery
or diction he may choose to connect with
the passion; whereas, in the other, the
metre obeys certain laws, to which the poet «
and reader both willingly submit beoaune
they are certain, and because no inter-
ference is made by them with the passion
but Ruch as the concurring testimony of
ages has shown to heighten and improve 00
the pleasure which co-exists with it.
It will now be proper to answer an ob-
vious question, namely, Why, professing
these opinions, have I written in verse f To
this, in addition to such answer as is in- iff
eluded in what has been already said, I
reply, in the first place, because, however
I may have restricted myself, there is still
left open to me what confessedly constitutes
the most valuable object of all
whether in prose or verse; the great
universal passions of men, the most gen-
eral and interesting of their occupations,
and the entire world of nature before me—
to supply endless combinations of forms
and imagery. Now, supposing for a mo*
ment that whatever is interesting in these
objects may be as vividly described in
prose, why should I be condemned for
attempting to superadd to such description
the charm which, by the consent of all
nations, is acknowledged to exist in metrical
language t To this, by such as are yet
unconvinced, it may be answered that a
very small part of the pleasure given by
poetry depends upon the metre, and that
it is injudicious to wnte m metre, unless
it be accompanied with the other artificial
distinctions of style with which metre is
usually accompanied, and that, by such de-
viation, more will be lost from the shock
which will thereby be given to the reader's
associations than will be counterbalanced
by any pleasure which he can derive from
the general power of numbers.1 In answer
to those who still contend for the necessity
of accompanying metre with certain appro-
priate colors of style in order to the ac-
complishment of its appropriate end, and
who also, in my opinion, greatly under-
rate the power of metre in itself, it might,
perhaps, as far as relates to thehe volumes,
ha\e been almost sufficient to observe that
poems are extant, written upon more humble
subjects, and in a still moie naked and
simple style, which have continued to give
pleasure from generation to generation.
Now, if nakedness and simplicity be a de-
fect, the fact here mentioned affoids a
strong presumption that poems somewhat
less naked and simple are capable of afford-
ing pleasure at the present day ; and, what
I wished chiefly to attempt, at present, was
to justify myself for hating written under
the impression of this belief
But various causes might be pointed out
why, when the style is manly, and the
subjects of some importance, words metri-
cally arranged will long continue to impait
such a pleasure to mankind as he who
proves the extent of that pleasure will be
desirous to impart. The end of poetry is
to produce excitement in co-existence with
an overbalance of pleasure; but, by the
supposition, excitement is an unusual and
irregular state of the mind; ideas and feel-
» That 10, the mechanic* of wte; or, terse Itatlf.
WILLIAM WORDBWOBTH
325
ings do not, in that state, succeed each other
in accustomed order. If the words, how-
ever, by which this excitement is produced
be in themselves powerful, or the images
and feelings have an undue proportion of
pain connected with them, there is some
danger that the excitement may be earned
beyond ite proper bounds. Now the co-
presence of something regular, something
to which the mind has been accustomed
in various moods and in a lei* excited state,
cannot but have great efficacy m tempeiing
and restraining the passion by an intei-
t&ture of ordinary feeling, and of feeling
not strictly and necessarily connected with
the passion. This is unquestionably true;
and hence, though the opinion will at first
appear paradoxical, from the tendency of
nictie to divest language, in a certain de-
pi ee, of its reality, and thus to throw a sort
of half-consciousness of unsubstantial exist-
ence over the whole composition, there can
be little doubt but that more pathetic situ-
ations and sentiments, that is, those which
have a greater proportion of pain connected
with them, may be endured in metrical
composition, especially in ihyme, than in
prose. The metie ot the old ballads is \eiy
artless; yet they contain many passages
which would illustrate this opinion, and, I
hope, if the following poems be attentively
pei used, similar instances will be found in
them This opinion may be further illus-
tiated by appealing to the reader's own
expei icnce of the reluctance with which
he comes to the le-peinsal of the distiens-
ful parts of r/anwra Harlowe, or The
Gamealer; while Shakspeare's writings, in
the most pathetic scenes, nevei act upon MB,
as pathetic, beyond the bounds of pleasuie
—an effect which, in a much greatei degree
than might at ftist be imagined, is to be
asciibed to small, but continual and legn-
lar impulses of pleasuiable surprise from
the inetncal airangemeut —On the other
hand (what it must be allowed will much
more frequently happen) if the poet's
words should be incommensurate with the
passion, and inadequate to raise the reader
to a height of desirable excitement, then
(unless the poet's choice of his metre has
been grossly injudicious) in the feelings of
pleasure which the reader has been accus-
tomed to connect with metre in general, and
in the feeling, whether cheerful or melan-
choly, which he has been accustomed to
connect with that particular movement of
metre, there will be found something which
will greatly contribute to impart passion
to the words, and to effect the complex end
which the poet proposes to himself.
If I had undertaken a systematic defense
of the theory here maintained, it would
• have been my duty to develop the various
causes upon which the pleasure received
from metrical language depends. Among
the chief of these causes is to be reckoned
a principle which must be well known to
10 those who have made any of the arts the
object of accurate reflection, namely, the
pleasuie which the mind derives from the
perception of similitude m dissimilitude.
This principle is the great spring of the
16 activity ot our minds, and their chief
feedei. Fiom this principle the direction
of the sexual appetite, and all the passions
connected with it, take their origin: it is
the life of our ordinary conversation , and
ao upon the accuiacy with which similitude
in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in simili-
tude are perceived, depend our taste and
our moral feelings It would not be a use-
less employment to apply this principle
25 to the consideiation of metre, and to show
that met ic is hence enabled to afford much
pleasure, and to point out in what manner
that pleasure is produced. But my limits
\vill not permit me to enter upon this sub-
80 ject, and 1 must content myself with a
geneial summary.
I ha\e said that poetry is the spontaneous
overflow of powerful feelings; it takes its
origin from emotion recollected in tran-
35 quilhty, the emotion is contemplated till,
by a species of reaction, the tranquillity
giadually disappears, and an emotion, kin-
died to thai which was before the subject
of contemplation, is gradually produced,
40 and does itself actually exist in the mind
In this mood successful composition gener-
ally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is
camed on, but the emotion, of whatever
kind, and in whate\ei degree, from vanous
45 causes, is qualified by \arious pleasures, so
that in describing any passions whatsoever
which are voluntarily described, the mind
will, upon the whole, be in a state of enjoy-
ment. If Nature be thus cautious to pre-
50 serve in a state of enjoyment a being so
employed, the poet ought to profit by the
lesson held forth to him, and ought espe-
cially to take care that, whatever passions
he communicates to his reader, those pas-
66 sipns, if his reader's mind be sound and
vigorous, should always be accompanied
with an overbalance of pleasure. Now the
music of harmonious metrical language, the
sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind
826
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIST8
association of pleasure which has been pre-
viously received from works of rhyme or
metre of the same or similar construction,
an indistinct perception perpetually re-
newed of language closely resembling that 5
of real life, and yet, in the ciicurastance of
metre, differing fiom it so widely— all these
imperceptibly make up a complex feeling
of delight, which is of the most important
use in tempering the painful feeling always 10
found mtei mingled with powerful descrip-
tions of the deeper passions. This effect is
always produced in pathetic and impas-
sioned poetry, while, m lighter composi-
tions, the ease and gracefulness with which is
the poet manages his numbers are them-
selves confessedly a principal source of the
gratification of the leadei. All that it is
necessary 1o say, however, upon this sub-
ject, may be effected by affirming, what few 80
persons will deny, that oi4 two descriptions,
either of passions, manners, or characters,
each of them equally well executed, the
one in piose and the othei in verse, the verse
will be read a hundred times where the 26
prose is lead once.
Having thus explained a few of my rea-
sons for writing- in verse, and why I have
chosen subjects from common life, and en-
deavored to bring my language near to the *°
real language of men, if I have been too
minute in pleading my own cause, I have
at the same time been treating a subject
of general interest; and for this reason a
few words shall be added with reference 85
solely to these particular poems, and to
some defects which will probably be found
in them I am sensible that my associations
must have sometimes been particular instead
of general, and that, consequently, giving *
to things a false importance, I may have
sometimes written upon unworthy sub-
jects; but I am less apprehensive on this
account, than that my language may fre-
quently have suffered from those arbitrary 46
connections of feelings and ideas with par-
ticular words and phrases, from which no
man can altogether protect himself. Hence
T have no doubt that, in some instances,
feelings, even of the ludicrous, may be 80
given to my readers by expressions which
appeared to me tender and pathetic. Such
faulty expressions, were I convinced they
were faulty at present, and that they must
necessarily continue to be so, I would will- B
ingly take all reasonable pains to correct
But it is dangerous to make these altera-
tions on the simple authority of a few
individuals, or even of certain classes of
men, for where the understanding of an
author is not convinced, or his feelings
altered, this cannot be done without great
injury to himself: for his own feelings are
his stay and support; and, if he set them
aside m one instance, he may be induced
to repeat this act till his mind shall lose
all confidence in itself, and become utterly
debilitated. To this it may be added, that
the leader ought never to forget that he is
himself exposed to the same errors as the
poet, and, perhaps, in a much greater de-
gree for there can be no presumption in
saying of most readers that it is not prob-
able they will be so well acquainted with
the various stages of meaning through
which words have passed, or with the fickle-
ness or stability of the relations of particu-
lar ideas to each other; and, above all, since
they are so much less interested in the sub-
ject, they may decide lightly and caielessly
Long as the reader has been detained, I
hope he will permit me to caution him
against a mode of false criticism which has
been applied to poetiy, in which the lan-
guage closely resembles that of life and
nature Such \erses ha\e been triumphed
over in parodies, of which Dr Johnson's
stanza is a fair specimen :—
I put my bnt upon im head
And wafkod Into the Strand,
And there I met another man
Whoa? hat was in bin hand
Immediately under these lines I will place
one of the most justly-admired stanzas of
The Babes in the Wood.
Them* proftv baboR with hand In hand
Went wandering up and down ,
Rnt never more they saw the Man
Approaching from the Town
In both these stanzas the woids, and the
order of the words, in no respect differ
from the most unim passioned conversation.
There are words in both, for example, "the
Strand, " and "the Town," connected with
none but the most familiar ideas; yet
the one stanza we admit as admiiablc, and
the other as a fair example of the super-
latively contemptible. Whence arises this
difference t Not from the metre, not from
the language, not from the order of the
words; but the matter expressed in Dr
Johnson's stanza is contemptible The
proper method of treating trivial and simple
verges, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza
would be a fair parallelism, is not to say,
This is a bad kind of poetry, or, This is
not poetry; but, This wants sense; it is
neither interesting in itself, nor can bad
WILLIAM WOBDSWOETH
827
to anything interesting; the images neither
originate in that sane state of feeling which
arises out of thought, nor can excite thought
or feeling in the reader. This is the only
sensible manner of dealing with such 5
verses. Why trouble yourself about the
species till you have previously decided
upon the genus f Why take pains to prove
that an ape is not a Newton, when it is
self-evident that he is not a manf 10
I must make one request of my reader,
which is, that in judging these poems he
would decide by Ins own feelings genuinely,
and not by reflection upon what will prob-
ably be the judgment of others. How com- 15
mon is it to hear a person say, "I myself
do not object to this style of composition,
or this or that expression, but to such
and such classes of people, it will appear
mean or Judicious!" This mode of cnti- 20
cism, so destructive of all sound unadul-
terated judgment, is almost universal let
the reader then abide independently by his
own feelings, and if he finds himself
affected, let him not suffer such conjectures »
to interfere with his pleasure
If an author, by any single composition,
has impressed us with respect for his tal-
ents, it is useful to consider this as affoid-
ing a presumption, that on other occa- 80
sions where we havr been displeased, he,
nevertheless, may not have written ill or
absurdly, and, further, to give him so
much credit for this one composition as
may induce us to review what has displeased 86
us, with more caie than we should othei-
wise have bestowed upon it This is not
only an act of justice, but, in our decisions
upon poetry especially, may conduce, in a
high degree, to the impro\ement of our own *o
taste- for an accurate taste in poetry, and
in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Rey-
nolds has observed, is an acquired talent,
which can onlv be produced by thought
and a long-continued intercourse with the 46
best models of composition. This is men-
tioned, not with so ridiculous a purpose as
to pi event the most inexperienced leader
from judging for himself (I have alreadv
said that I wish him to judge for himself), GO
but merely to temper *he rashness of de-
rision, and to suggest that, if poetrv be a
subject on which much time has not been
bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous;
and that, in many cases, it necessarily will 66
be so.
Nothing would, I know, have so effec-
tually contributed to further the end which
I have in view, as to have shown of what
kind the pleasure is, and how that pleasure
is produced, which is confessedly produced
by metrical composition essentially differ-
ent from that which I have here endeavored
to recommend, for the reader will say that
he has been pleased by such composition,
and what more can be done for mint The
power of any art is limited, and he will
suspect that, if it be proposed to furnish
him with new friends, that can be only
upon condition of his abandoning his old
friends. Besides, as 1 have said, the reader
is himself conscious of the pleasuie which
he has received from such composition,
composition to which he has peculiarly at-
tached the endearing name of poetry; and
all men feel an habitual gratitude, and
something of an honorable bigotry for the
objects which have long continued to please
them; we not only wish to be pleased,
but to be pleased in that particular way in
which we have been accustomed to be
pleased There is in these feelings enough
to lesist a host of arguments, and I should
as I am willing to allow that, in order
entirely to enjoy the poetry which I am
recommending, it would be necessary to give
up much of what is ordinarily enjoyed.
But, would my limits ha\e permitted me to
point out how this pleasure is produced,
many obstacles might have beeu removed,
and the reader assisted in perceiving that
the powers of language are not so limited
as he may suppose, and that it is possible
for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a
purer, more lasting, and more exquisite na-
tuie This pait of the subject has not been
altogether neglected; but it has not been so
much my present aim to prove, that the
interest excited by some other kinds of
poetry is less vivid, and less worthy of the
nobler powers of the mmd, as to offer rea-
sons for presuming that, if my purpose
were fulfilled, a species of poetry would be
produced, which is genuine poetry, in its
nature well adapted to interest mankind
permanently, and likewise important in the
multiplicity and quality of its moral rela-
tions
From what has been said, and from a
perusal of the poems, the reader will be
able clearly to perceive the object which
I had in view, he will determine how far it
has been attained, and, what is a much
more important question, whether it be
worth attaining; and upon the decision of
these two questions will rest my claim to
the approbation of the public.
NINETEENTH GENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(1772-1834)
LIFE
1789
18*4
As late I journey M o 'er the extensive plain
Where native Otter sports his scanty
stream.
Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain.
The glorious prospect woke me from
the dream.
5 At eveiy step it widen 'd to my sight—
Wood, meadow, verdant hill, and dreary
steep,
Following in quick succession of delight,—
Till all— at once— did my eye ravish 'd
sweep !
May this (I cned) my course through
life portray f
10 New scenes of wisdom may each step
display,
And knowledge open as my days ad-
vance'
Till what time Death shall pour the un-
darken'd ray,
My eye shall dait thro' infinite ex-
panse,
And thought suspended lie in rapture's
blissful trance
PANTISOCBACYi
17*4 1840
No more my visionary soul shall dwell
On joys that were; no more endure to
weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day,
Wisely forgetful' O'er the ocean swell
5 Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottag'd
dell
Where Virtue calm with careless step
may stray,
And dancing to the moonlight roundelay,
The wizard Passions weave an holy spell
Eyes that have ach'd with sorrow' Ye
shall weep
10 Tears of doubt-mingled joy, like theirs
who start
From precipices of distemper 'd sleep,
On which the fierce-eyed fiends their
revels keep,
And see the rising sun, and feel it dart
New rays of pleasance trembling to the
heart
*The name
Phe name given to a scheme
inanity which Coleridge and
In 1794 to establish tn Amei
for an ideal com-
Soutbey planned
America.
TO A YOUNG ASS
ITS MOTHER BUNG TITHKRID NEAR IT
1794 1794
Pool little foal of an oppressed iacef
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thj
head.
5 But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay 'd,
That never thou dost sport along the glade f
And (most unlike the natuie of things
young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is
hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
10 Meek child of Misery' thy future fatef
The starving meal, and all the thousand
aches
"Which patient merit of the unworthy
takes"!'
Or is thy sad heart thrilPd with filial pain
To see thy wretched mothei'b shorten 'd
chain f
15 And truly, very piteous is her lot—
Chain 'd to a lop within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten prase is scarcely
seen,
While sweet aiound her waves the tempt-
ing green !
Poor ARRV thy master should have learnt
to show
20 Pity-best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that he lives like thee,
Half famish 'd in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its f oosteps hither bend !
It seems to say, "And have I then one
frieudl"
26 Innocent foal9 thou poor despisM for-
lorn1
I hail thee brother— spite of the fool's
scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the
Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health
his bride,
*o And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wonldst toss thy heels in game-
some play,
And fnsk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Teal and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
** Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant
breast!
* Hamlet, III, 1, 74.
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLERIDGE
329
LAFAYETTE
179* 1794
As when far off the warbled strains are
heard
That soar on Morning's wing the vales
among;
Within his cage the imprison 'd matin
bird'
Swells the full chorus with a generous
song*
5 He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No father's joy, no lover's bliss he
shares,
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his
sight-
His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's
cam, '
Thou, Fayette' who didst wake with
startling voice
10 Life's better sun from that long wintry
night,
Thus in thy Country's tiiumphs sbalt
rejoice
And mock with raptures high the dun-
geon '*» might-
For lot the moining struggles into day,
And Slaveiy's spectres shriek and vanish
fium the iayr
KOSKIU8KO
1794 1794
0 what a loud and fearful shriek was
there,
As though a thousand souls one death-
groan pour'd'
Ah me' they saw beneath a hireling's
sword
Their Koskiusko fall ' Through the swart
un
* (As pauses the tir'd Cossac's barbarous
yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight
gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dinye of murder M Hope' while Free-
dom pale
Bends in such anguish o'er her destin'd
bier,
» As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
Had gather 'd in a mystic urn each tear
That ever on a patriot's furrow 'd cheek
1 The lark
Fit channel found; and she had drain 'd
the bowl
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair
of soul!
TO THE EEVEEEND W. L BOWLES
179* 1794
My heart has thank 'd thee, Bowles! for
those soft strains
Whose madness soothes me, like the
murmuring
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of
spnng !
For hence not callous to the mourner's
pains
6 Through Youth's gay prime and thorn-
less paths I went
And when the mightier Throes of mind
began,
And dro\e me forth, a th ought-be wil-
der'd man,
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang con-
sign 'd
10 To slumber, though the big tear it
renew 'd,
Bidding a strange mystenous Pleasuie
brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Mov'd on the darkness ut the unform'd
deep1
THE EOLIAN HARP
COMPOSED AT CLEVKDON, SOMERSETSHIRE
179 > 179U
My pensive Sara '2 thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown
With white-flower 'd jasmin, and the
broad-leav'd myrtle,
5 (Meet emblems they of innocence and
love')
And watch the clouds, that late were nch
with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star
of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite ' How exquisite the scents
10 Snatch 'd from yon bean-field1 and the
world so hush 'd I
The stilly murmur of the distant sea
Tells us of silence.
• Sara Frlcker. whom Coleridge married, in Octo-
ber, 1795. before taking up his reafaeace at
rievedon
NINETEENTH
jttiuiiLJ*iJ.ui.D.i.o
And that simplest lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping case-
ment; hark '
How by the desultory breeze caress 'd,
16 Like some coy maid half yielding to her
lover,
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must
needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now,
its strings
Boldher swept, the long sequacious1 notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
20 Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping
flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
25 Nor pause, nor perch, hovenng on
untam'd wnigf
0! the one life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its
soul,
A light in sound, a bound-like power in
light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every
where—
80 Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so fill'd,
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute
still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.
And thus, my love* as on the midway
slope
85 Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,
Whilst through my half-clos'd eye-lids I
behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on
the main,
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncalled and unde-
tam'd,
40 And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell and flutter on this subject lute '
And what if all of animated nature
46 Be but organic harps diversely fram'd,
That tremble into thought, as o'er them
sweeps
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the soul of each, and God of allt
But thv more serious eye a mild reproof
BO Darts, 0 beloved woman ! nor such thoughts
Dim land unhallow'd dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek daughter in the family of Christ1
Well hast thou said and hohly dispraib'd
65 These shapings of the unregenerate mind;
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of him,
The Incomprehensible f save when with awe
60 I praise him, and with faith that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercieb heal£d me,
A sinful and most miserable man,
Wilder 'd and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-
honor 'd maid'
REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A
PLAGE OF RETIREMENT!
1795 1796
Low was our pretty cot* our tallest rose
Peep'd at the chamber- window We
could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea's faint murmur In the open air
6 Our myrtles blossom 'd, and across the
porch
Thick jasmins twined* the little land-
scape round
Was gzeen and woody, and refresh 'd the
eye
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion » Once I saw
10 (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Rristowa's citizen methought, it calm'd
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser leehngs for he paus'd, and
look'd
16 With a pleas 'd sadness, and gaz'd all
around,
Then eyed our cottage, and gaz'd round
again,
And sigh'd, and said, it was a blessed
place.
And we were bless 'd Oft with patient ear
Jjong-hstemn? to the viewless sky-lark's
note
20 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wings) in whisper 'd
tones
I've said to my belovM, "Such, sweet
girl'
The inobtnisive song of happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy I then only heard
25 When the soul seeks to hear; when all is
hush'd,
And the heart listens'"
> Cltredon, near Bristol R<* The Kollon ffarp,
and note 2 (p 12ft)
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLERIDGE
331
But the time, when first
From that low dell, steep up the stony
mount
I climb 'd with perilous toil and reach 'd
the top,
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak
mount,
80 The bare bleak mountain speckled thin
with sheep,
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the
sunny fields,
And river, now with bushy rocks o'er-
brow'd,
Now winding bnght and full, with naked
banks,
And seats, and lawns, the abbey and the
wood,
86 And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-
spire;
The Channel there, the Islands and white
sails,
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shore-
less Ocean—
It seeui'd like Omnipresence' Ood, me-
thought,
Had built Ilnn there a temple* the whole
world
40 Seem'd imag'd m its vast circumfeience
No wish pro fan 'd ray overwhelmed heart
Blest lioiirj It was a luxury,— to bef
AhY quiet dellf dear cot, and mount
sublime '
I was constrain 'd to quit yon Was it
45 While my umiumber'd biethien toilM
and bled,
That 1 should dream away the entiusted
houis
On lose-leaf beds, pampering the cowaid
heart
With feelings all too delicate foi use!
Sweet is the tear that fiom some Howard's
eye
60 Diops on the cheek of one he lifts from
earth
And he that woiks me pood with un-
mov'd face.
Does it but half he chills me while he aids,
My benef actor, not my bi other man f
Yet e\en this, this cold beneficence
65 Praise, piaise it, 0 my Soul1 oft as thou
scann 'st
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the
wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympa-
thies!
60 I therefore go, and join head, heart, and
hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless
fight
Of science, freedom, and the truth in
Christ
Yet oft when after honorable toil
Rests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to
dieam,
65 My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot!
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
And 1 shall sigh fond wishes— sweet
abode '
Ah!— had none greater f And that all
had such!
70 It might be so— but the time is not yet
Speed it, 0 Fathei ' Let thy Kingdom
come !
SONNET
TO A FRIEND' WHO ASKED HOW I FELT WHEN
THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY
INFANT TO ME
1796 1707
Charles1 my slow heart was only sad,
when first
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spmt buist
All I had been, and all my child might
be*
5 But when I saw it on iU mother's arm,
And hanging at her bosom (she the
while
Bent o'ei its ieatuies with a tearful
smile)
Then I was thrill 'd and melted, and most
warm
Impress 'd a father's kiss: and all
beguil'd
10 Of daik remembrance and presageful
fear,
I seem 'd to see an angel-form appear—
'Twos even thine, beloved woman mild!
So for the mother's sake the child was
deai,
And dearer was the mother for the child
ODE ON THE DEPARTING YEAB
1796 1790
I
Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of
Tune!
It is most hard, with an untroubled ear
Thy dark inwoven harmonies to heart
1 Charles Lamb
,332
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Yet, mine eye fiz'd on Heaven's unchang-
ing clime
5 Long had I listen 'd, free fiom mortal
fear.
With inward stillness, and a bowe*d
mind;
When lo! its folds far waving on the
wind,
I saw the train of the Departing Year!
Starting from my silent sadness
10 Then with no unholy madness,
Ere yet the enter 'd cloud foreclosed my
sight,
I rais'd the impetuous song, and solem-
nir-'d his flight.
Hither, from the recent tomb,
From the prison's direr gloom,
15 Fiom Distemper 'H midnight anguish;
And thence, wheie Poverty doth waste
and languish,
Or where, his two bright torches
blending,
Love illumines Manhood's maze;
Or where o'er cradled infants bend-
ing,
20 Hope has flx'd her wishful gaze;
Hither, in perplex&l dance,
Ye Woes' ye young-eyed Joys' ad-
vance !
By Tune's wild harp, and by the hand
Whose indefatigable sweep
25 Raises its fateful stringb from
sleep,
I bid you haste, a mix'd tumultuous
band'
From every private bower,
And each domestic hearth,
Haste for one solemn hour;
M • And with a loud and yet a louder
voice,
O'er Nature struggling in portentous
birth,
Weep and rejoice!
Still echoes the dread Name1 that o'er the
earth
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of
§ Hell:
M And now advance in saintly Jubilee
Justice and Truth ! They too have heard
thy spell,
They too obey thy name, divines!
Liberty!
> "Tbe name of Liberty, which at the commence-
ment of the French Revolution was both the
occasion and the pretext of unnumbered
crime* and horror* "--Colertdf*
UI
I mark'd Ambition in his war-array!
I heard the mailed Monarch's troub-
lous cry—
"Ah! wherefore does the Northern Con-
quei
stay!
Groans not her chanot on its onward
way!"
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly!
Stunn'd by Death's twice mortal
No more on Murder's lund face
45 The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken
eye!
Manes of the unnumber'd slain I
Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain!2
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,8
When human rum choked the streams,
*° Fell in Conquest's glutted hour,
Mid women 's shrieks and infants' screams '
Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain,
Sudden blasts of tnumph swelling,
Oft, at night, in misty train,
55 Rush around her narrow dwelling'
The exterminating fiend is fled—
(Foul her life, and dark her doom)
Mighty armies of the dead
Dance, like death-flres, round her tomb r
60 Then with prophetic song relate,
Each some Tyrant-Murderer's iatef
Departing Year* 'twas on no earthly
hlioie
My soul beheld thy Vision14 Whfie
alone,
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy
throne,
66 Aye Memory sits thy robe mscnb'd with
gore,
With many an unimaginable groan
Thou storied 'st thy sad hours' Silence
ensued,
Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude,
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths
with glories shone.
70 Then, his eye wild ardors glancing,
From the choired gods advancing,
The Spirit of the Earth made reverence
metf,
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy
seat.
i The BmpmB of Rnnla
•In the wan for Polish independence, 1772-95
• Orer 40,000 omonfi were killed in the Rumlan
Mete of the Turkish stronghold at Iimall. In
• 'Thy Image in a vision "— Colerldffe
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEB1DGE
333
Throughout the blissful throng,
75 Hush 'd were harp and song
Till wheeling round the throne the Lain-
padb1 seven,
(The mystic Words of Heaven)
Permissive signal make
The fervent Spint bow'd, then spread bis
wings and spake v
80 "Thou in stormy blackness throning
Love and uncreated Light,
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning,
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might f
By Peace with proffer fd insult scared,
86 Masked Hate and envying Scorn f
By years of Ha\ oc yet unborn f
And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds
bared!
But chief by Afnc's wrongs,
Strange, horrible, and foul f
90 By what deep guilt belongs
To the deaf Synod, 'full of gifts and
By Wealth's insensate laugh f by Tor-
ture's howP
A\enger, rise1
Foicver shall the thankless Island scowl,
95 Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow f
Speak* fioin thy stoi in-black Heaven, 0
speak aloud T
And on the darkling foe
Open thine eye of fiie from some uncer-
tain cloud1
0 da it the flash ' () use and deal the
blow»
100 The Past to ihee. to thee the Futuic cues'
Haik ! ho\v wide Natuie joins her gioans
belou '
Rise, God of Natuie, use1"
VI
The toiec had ceas'd, the Vision fled;
Yet still I pasp'd and leel'd with diead
106 And ever, when the dream of night
Renews the phantom to my sight,
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs;
My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ;
My brain with horrid tumult swims,
no Wild is the tempest of my heart ;
And my thick and struggling breath
Imitates the toil of death !
No stranger agony confounds
The soldier on the war-field spread,
11* When all foredone with toil and wounds,
Death-like he dozes among heaps of
dead!
Mtrapt; cindlentickK (Keren 1< a sacred number
Bee Revelation, 4 B )
(The stiife is o'er, the day-light fled,
And the night-wind clamors hoarse!
See! the starting wretch's head
1 20 Lies pillow 'd on a brother 's corse ! )
ra
Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,
O Albion ! 0 my mother Isle '
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers
Glitter green with sunny showers,
126 Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells
Echo to the bleat of flocks;
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells
Proudly ramparted with rocks)
And Ocean mid his uproar wild
130 Speaks safety to his Island-child ! •
Hence for many a fearless age
Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore,
Nor ever proud Invader's rage
Or sack'd thy toweis, or stain 'd thy fields
with gore.
vra
185 Abandon 'd of Heaven I1 mad Avarice thy
guide,
At cowaidly distance, yet kindling with
pnde—
Mid thy herds and thy coin-fields secuie
thou hast stood.
And jom'd the wild yelling of Famine
and Blood »
The nations curse thee ' They with eager
wondering
140 Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture,
sci earn'
Stiange-eyed Destruction! who with
many a dream
Of central fires through nether seas up-
tliiindeiing
Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies
By livid fount, or red \olcanic stream,
145 If e\er to her lid I ess dragon-eyes,
0 Albion ! thy predestin 'd ruins rise,
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth
leap,
Muttering distempei 'd triumph in her
charmed sleep.
IX
Away, my soul, away!
150 In vain, in \am the buds of warning
sing—
And hark! I hear the famish 'd brood of
prey
* "Of the 107 last jean, 50 have been years of
war." — Coleridge The year 1796 was a period
of great dlatreas Cor the people of England
834 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning Now, i
wind ! Beneath the wide, wide Heaven— and view
Away, my soul, away ! again
I unpartaking of the evil thing, The many-steepled tract magnificent
155 \Vitli daily prayer and daily toil Of hilly fields and meadows, and the bea,
Soliciting for food my scanty boil, With some fair bark, perhaps, whose bails
Have wail'd my country with a loud light up
lament. 2B The blip of smooth clear blue betwixt two
Now I recentre my immortal mind isles
In the deep Sabbath of meek self- Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
content ; In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most
iso Cleans M from the vaporous passions that glad,
bedim My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim 1 pined
And hungei 'd after Natuie, many a ycai,
THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PBISON 80 ln tne £ieat ^ltv Pent> wmi"ng thy way
With sad yet patient soul, through e\il
ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE and pain
INDIA HOUSE, LONDON And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink
2797 isoo Behind the western ndge, thou glorious
Well, they are gone, and here must I Shine i slant beams of the sinking oib,
This hnie*™' bower my prison' 1 have * Ye pu^heath-flowers ! nchlier burn, ye
Beautind f.hngs, such as would h.e ^^
Must sweet to my remembtance exen when 8t™*h]jJlBt2y 3°y *** **"*' " T
6 Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness' Silent with^swimming sense, yea, ga/nitf
more may meet 4°'°» «»* '""^'I*' *™ "ll «" *"««
To itaFrtdl roaring dell, «f which I Spirits percen e his presence
A delight
10 The roaring dell, o'erwoodcd, narrow, Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad
<kep» 45 AS I myself were there' Nor m this bowei ,
And only speckled by the mid-day sun; This little lime-tree bower, have I not
Where its «thm trunk the ash from rock to mark'd
™* Much that has sooth M me. Pale beneath
Flings arching like a bndge ,— that branch- the blaze
less ash. Hung the transparent foliage, and I
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor watch 'd
yellow leaves Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to
15 Ne er tremble in the gale, yet tremble g^
, f^"1 , . * „ , 50 Thc shadow of the leaf and stem above
Faun M by the wateifall' and there my Dappling its sunshine ! And that walnut-
fi lends tree
Behold the daik gieen file of long, lank Was richly tlnfcU and a decp radiance lay
n*** / * * * i- i * »x ^ul1 on tne anclent ^7> which usurps
Of the blfc clay^tone.
andthonph
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLEBIDGE
335
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow
twitters,
Yet still the solitary humble-bee
Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I
shall know
60 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and
pure;
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
No waste so vacant, but may well employ
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heait
Awake to Love and Beauty ? and sometimes
65 'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good,
That we may lift the soul, and contem-
plate
With lively joy the joy* wo cannot share
My gentle-heaTted fbarles* when the last
look
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
70 Homewaids, I blebt it* deeming itb black
wing
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light )
Had cross 'd the mighty oib's dilated glory,
While thou stood 'ht gazing, or, when all
was still,
Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a
cliai m
75 Foi thee, my gentle-hearted t'hailcs, to
whom
No sound is dissonant ulucli tells of life
THE DUNGKON
7737 1708
And this place our forefathers made ioi
man f
This is the pioccss of our love and wisdom.
To each poor biothei who offends against
us-
Most innocent, pei haps — and what it
guilty?
5 1* tins the only cmeT Meiciful Godf
Each pore and natural outlet shnvell 'd up
By Ignoiance and patching Poverty,
His energies loll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt, till chang'd to
poison,
10 They break out on him. like a loathsome
plague-spot ,
Then we call in our pamper 'd mounte-
banks—
And this is their best cure! uricomfoited
And friendless solitude, groaning and
tears,
And savage faces, at (he clan km tr hour,
16 Seen through the steams and vapors of his
dungeon,
Ity the lamp's dismal twilight1 So he lies
Cucled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform 'd
By sights of ever more deformity !
20 With other ministrations thou, 0 Nature !
Healest thy wandering and distemper 'd
child.
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breath-
ing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and
waters,
25 Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy,
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit heal'd and haimoniz'd
30 By the benignant touch of Love and
Beauty
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT
MARINER
IN SEVEN PARTS
1707-98 1798
ARGUMENT
How 11 Mill* having |»iss«d the Line wasdilven
liy stmms to the (old Cuuutiv to* a ids the South
1'oh and how fiom thence HOP made her course
Id the tiopical Latitude of the Great Pacific
Ocean , and of the btrange thlnm that befell .
ind in what manner the \nnent Marine re came
to his cwn Country
PARTI
It i*. an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of thiee
"By thy long gray beard and glittering
eve,
Now wherefoie btopp'st thou met
15 The Bridegroom 's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guefcts are met, the feast is set
May'st hear the merry din."
lie holdb him with Ins skinny hand,
10 « There was a ship," quoth he
' ' Hold off f unhand me, gray-beaid loon T ' '
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
lie holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
15 And listens like a three years' child •
The Mariner hath his will
The Wedding-Guest sat on a Rtone •
lie cannot choose but hear; ^
And thus spake on that ancient man,
*0 The bright-eyed Mariner
1-12 An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gal-
lants bidden to a wedding feast, and detained!
°niT21 The Wedding-Oucat IB npell-bound b?
the etc of the old seafaring man, and constrained
to hear his tale.
336
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICIBT8
"The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kiik, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
25 The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he f
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
80 Till over the mast at noon— "
The Wedding-Guest here beat his brea&t,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is sbe,
35 Nodding their heacK before her goes
The merry minstrelsy
The Wedding-Guewt he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but heai ,
And thus spake on that ancient man,
40 The bright-eyed Manner
"And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong
He struck with his overtaking wings,
And chased us south along
46 With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who puisned with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
B<> And southward aye we fled
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As £*reen as emerald
65 And through the drifts the snowy chfts
Did send a dismal sheen
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between
The ice was here, the ice was there,
60 The ice was all around
It cracked and growled, and roared and
howled,
Like noises in a swound ! 1
21 an. The Mariner tellft how the «h!p nailed
Routhward with t Mod wind and fair weatbei.
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came,
66 As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ,
70 The helmsman steered us through 1
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariners' hollo!
76 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine ,
While* all the night, through fog-smoke
white,
Ghmmeied the white moon-shine."
"God ha\e thce, ancient Mariner!
80 From the fiends, that plague thee thus'—
Why look'st thou •of"—" With my cross-
bow
I shot the Albatross*19
PART II
"The Sun now rose upon the right
Out of the sea came he,
85 Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
And the good south wind still blew behind.
But no sweet bird did follow,
Noi any day for food or play
90 Came to the manners' hollo!
And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe
For all a\en«l, I had killed the bud
That made the breeze to blow
u> 'Ah wretch" said they, 'the bud to slay,
That made the breeze to blow ' '
Nor dim nor red, like God 's own head,
The glonous Sun uprist .
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
100 That brought the fog and mist.
' 'Twas right, ' said they, ' such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist '
63-70. Till a groat Mea-hird called the Alba
trow, came through the snow-fog, and was ro
"ISrtJP1? F?ttt. *°
71-78 A
marie, bat the Mariner continueth hU tale
41-50 The ship driven by a •torn toward the
The land of Ice, and of fearful aonndi,
where no living thin* was to be teen
i swoon ,
heareth the bridal turned northward tb
1o' the Albatrow proVeth a hird
— ' '-" ^he Hhlp at It re
and floating Ice
of good omen, and followeth the whip M It re
'rncd northward through fog and floating let
70-82 The ancient Mariner Inhospitably kill
eth the plonj blid of good omen
88-90 HU whip
clent Mariner,
97-103 Bnt „
justify the name, and 1
compncea in the crime.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
337
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks
The furrow followed free; 14° Had I from old and young '
106 We were the fhst that ever buist Instead of the ciut*, the Aibatn**
Into that silent bea. About my neck was hung
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt
down,
'Twas sad as sad could be,
And we did speak only to break
"0 The silence of the sea!
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
116 Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, 1101 breath nor motion ,
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean
Water, water, everywhere,
120 And all the boards did shrink;
Watei, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to dnnk
The very deep did rot 0 Christ !
Thnt ever this should be!
125 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon tbe bhmy tea
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires1 danced at night ,
The water, like a u itch's oils,
130 Buint green, and blue, and white
And home in dreams a«wnr6d were
Of the Spmt that plagued us so,
Nino lathom deep ho had followed us
the land of mist and snow
PART III
"There passed a weary time Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye
145 A weary jtime ! a weary time f
How glazed each weary eye,
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky
At first it seemed a little speck,
150 And then it seemed a mist,
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain bhape, I wist.1
A bpeck, a mist, a shape, I wist f
And still it neaied and neared :
155 Ab if it dodged a water-bpnte,
It plunged and tacked and veered.
With throats unslaked, with black lips
baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail ,
Tlnough utter di ought all dumb we stood !
100 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cued, A sail1 a sail'
With throatb unslaked, with black lips
baked,
Agape they heaid me call-
Gramcrcy !a they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.
165
170
And e\eiy tongue, through utter drought,
Was witlieied at the root,
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot
10,1-106 The fair breew continues, the ship
enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward,
even till It reaches the Line
107-118 Tbe ship hath been suddenly be-
r*nS?l.iO And the AlbatrcMm begin* to be
l * A Spirit had followed thorn , one of
the InrlMlhle Inhabitant*, of thifc planet, neither
departed soul* nor angel*, luncernlng whom
the learned Jew, Josephu* mid the Platonic
ronatwtlnopolltan, Micnael J'sellus, »av be con-
suited They are very nnmerong, and there Is
no climate or element without one or more
» phosphorescent lights (supposed to forebode
See! see1 (I cried) she taoks no more1
Hither to woik ub weal,
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel '
The western wave was all a-flame
The day was well nigh done f
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bnght Sun ,
' When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun
130 142 The shipmates. In their sore, distress,
would fain throw tbe whole guilt on the ancient
Marlnci , in sign whereof they bang the dead
sea-ui rd round nfe neck.
1 4*1-1 r»« The ancient Mariner heholdeth a sign
in the element afar off
157-Htt At Its nearer approach. It seemeth
him to be a ship and at a dear ransom he freeth
hi* speech from the bonds of thirst
164 KM. A flash of Jo*
167 170 And horror follows For can it be a
ship that comes onward without wind or tide?
* thought, knew
» fret t thanks
838
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
hn
broad and burning face.
And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
(Heaven's Mothei send us grace!) They dropped down one by one.
he pecred 22° The •*• did f rom their "» fl*-
Tbey fled to bhBg Qr woe,
Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) And every soul, it passed me by,
How fast she nears and nears ' Like the whizz of my cross-bow I ' '
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres f l
_
1V
those her nbs through-whach the Sun 225
and
Is that a Death t and aie there twot
Is Death that woman's matef
,.n „ , , , , , j,
'90 Her hps were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold •
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-m-Death was she,
Who thicks man 's blood with cold.
196 The naked hulk alongside came,
I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown."—
230 "Fearnot, feai not,thou Wedding-Guest I
Thw bod d t not down
* r
Alone, alone, all, all alone, *
Alone on a wide, wide sea !
And never a saint took pity on
285 My soul in agony
Quoth she, and whistl* thrice.
The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out :
-oo At one stride comes the dark ,
With far-heard wm^er o'er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark
We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
205 My hfe-blood seemed to sip »
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman 's face by bis lamp gleamed
From tSils the dew did drip-
Till clomb above the eastern bar
210 The hornM Moon, with one bright star
Within the nethei tip.
1
One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
o,R ?a<? tnn!Sa hw f "re^lth a
-15 And cursed me with his eye.
Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
Lued on , and so did I
240 j lookcd llpon the ^tims sea,
And dww^y eycs away,
j looked upon thc rottmg deck,
And there the dead
I looked to heaven, and tned to pray;
245 But or ever a piayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heait as dry at» dust.
It seemcth him but the skeleton of «
8 *" **** " **" On ** *"*
177-186
hhlp. Ant
187-194 The Hpectre- Woman and her Death
mate, and no other on board the skeleton-ship
Like vessel, like crew '
195 198 Death and Life-ln-Death have diced
for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) win net h
the ancient Mariner
199-202 No twilight within the courts of the
°203-223 At the rising of the Moon, one after
another hip shipmates drop down dead But
Llfe-ln-Deatb begins her work on the ancient
Mariner
1 flne spider-webs
"7"*™*
„ ^1Js I^e pulses beat ;
2°° For thf. sky and ** "^ and the sea and
T , the *kv,
Lay like a load on my \veary eye,
And the dead ueie at my feet
The cold feweat meltpd f ft , ^
Nor rot nor reek did they :
2B6 The look Wlth whlch the^ looked ^ mc
Had never passed away
An orphan 'b curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh ! more hornblc ^an that
26° Is the cuise in a dead man's eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.
AA . A0_ ...........
. 224-235 The Weddlng-Oneri feareth that a
Spirit Is talking to i him ."hut the ancient Mariner
assnreth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth
to relate his horrible penance
286-252 He desplseth the
1*11 fhat
r_ — creatures of the
„ ^ ^ they should live, and w
uiany lie dead
258-262 But the curse Ihreth for him In the
eye of the dead men.
SAMUEL TATLOfi COLERIDGE
The moving moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide:
866 Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside—
Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
Like Apnl hoar-frost spread ,
But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
270 The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.
Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes •
They moved in trackb of shining white,
275 And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
Within the shadow of the ship
T watched their nch attire •
Blue, globsy green, and velvet black
280 They coiled and swam, and every tiack
Was a flash of golden fire.
0 happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare.
A spung of lo\e pushed fiom my heart,
285 And I blessed them unaware
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I bletted them unaware
The self-same moment I could pray,
And from my neck so free
2»o The Albatiot* fell off, and sank
Lake lead into the sea
PART V
"Oh deep! it i» a gentle thing,
Belmcd fitmi pole to pole!
To Maiy Queen the piaise be gi\en '
2*>6 Rhe heii't the gentle sleep fiom Heaven,
That slul into my wml.
The silly1 buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
1 dreamt that they were filled with dew,
300 And when 1 awoke, it rained
2M-2T1 In his loneliness and I fixedness he
vearneth towards the Journeying; Moon, and the
stars that still sojourn, yet btlll move onward,
and ^everywhere tie blue sky belong to them,
and IK their appointed rest, and their name
"untn and thVlr o*n natural Homes which
they enter unannounced an lords that are cor
Sfnly expected, and yet there IH a silent Joy at
th272*2rRl *By the light of the Moon he behold
eth God's creatures of the great calm ,
282-288. Their beauty and their happiness
284 287 He blesseth them In his heart
&3-291 The spell beirfnsto break
292-ROR Bv grace of the holy Mother, the
ancient 'Mariner la refreHhed with rain
* Innocent (or, possibly, useless)
305
My bps were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken m my dreamt,
And still my body drank.
i moved, and could not feel my limbs
I was so light— almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.
And soon I heard a roaring wind
110 It did not come anear,
But with its bound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.
The upper air burst into life !
And a bundled fire-flags sheen,1
316 To and fio they were burned about f
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between
And the coming wind did loar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge ,
320 And the rain poured down from one black
cloud ,
The Moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its bide
Like water shot from some high crag,
325 The lightning fell with never a jag,
A rner steep and wide
The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on i
Beneath the lightning and the Moon
330 The dead men ga\e a groan
They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Noi spake, 1101 moved then eyes,
It had been stiange, e\en in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise
33") The helmsman steeied, the ship moved on,
Yet nevei a breeze up-blew;
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
Wheie they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—
340 We were a ghastly crew
409 326 He heareth sounds and seeth «trange
sights and commotions in the skv and the ele
327-376 The bodies of the ship's crew are in-
spired, and the bhlp moves on , hnt not by the
<K>uls of the men, nor by demons of earth or
middle air, but b? a blessed troop of anfelic
spirits, sent down by the invocation of the
guardian saint
i bright
840
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIOIBT8
The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee.
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me."—
846 «i fear thee, ancient Mannei I"
"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
Which to their corses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest :
860 ]por when it dawned— they dropped their
arms,
And clustered round the mast.
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their
months,
And from their bodies passed
Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
K* Then darted to the Sun ;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.
Sometimes a-droppmg from the sky
I heard the skylark sing;
*'° Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargomng!
And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute,
H6 And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute
It ceased , yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
870 In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.
Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe
375 Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Moved onward from beneath.
Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid : and it was he
880 That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.
The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean •
886 But in a minute she 'gan stir,
877-882 Tbe loneaome Spirit from the soutli-
pole carries on the ship ai far as the Line, in
ohedience to the angelic troop, bat still nqulreth
vengeance.
With a short uneasy motion-
Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.
Then like a pawing horse let go,
890 she made a sudden bound :
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.
How long in that same fit I lay,
1 have not1 to declare;
395 But ere my living life returned,
T heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.
'Is it he V quoth one, 'Is this the manf
By him who died on cross,
«"> With his cruel bow he laid full low
Tbe harmless Albatross.
The spuit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
405 Who shot him with his bow.'
The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew :
Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.9
PART VI
FIRST void
41° '"But tell me, tell me' speak again,
Thy soft response renewing—
What makes that ship dnve on so fasti
What is the ocean doing f '
SECOND VOICE
. 'Still as a slave before his lord,
415 The ocean hath no blast;
Hib great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast—
If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim
420 See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.'
.393-400. The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the
invisible inhabitant* of the element, tike part In
hit wrong; and two of them relate one to the
other, that penance long and heavy for the an-
cient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar
Spirit who returneth southward.
410429. The Mariner bath been eaat into a
trance ; for the angelic power causeth the vessel
to drive northward faster than human life could
endure
1 have not the power
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
341
rntsr VOICE
,,. .. 4 , . - -
why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind!
SIOOND VOICE
Oh ' dream of joy ' is thib indeed
465 The light-house top 1 see?
ig^is the kirk!
mine own
'The air is cut away before,
42s And closes from behind.
480
Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high9
Or we shall be belated .
For slow and slow that ship will go, •
When the Manner's trance is abated '
i woke, and we were sailing on
As m a gentle weather-
Twas night, calm night, the moon was
high;
The dead men stood together
All stood together on the deck,
435 por a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter
The pang, the curse, with which they died,
AM ? ^ever P/886* away . L
4<o I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray
And now this spell ™ snapt : once more
A vi ? i, i * w? ..f^' I-*.
445 n?d ^ ud/ai *°^' yet htU
445 Of what had else been seen-
We drifted o'er the harbor-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
470 o let me be awake, my God '
Or let me sleep alway
The harbor-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn !
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
47* And the shadow of the Moon
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock •
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.
480 And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows weie,
In crimson colors came
A little distance from the prow
1 Those crimson shadows were
I turned my eyes upon the deck-
Ob, Christ! what saw I '
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more hm head ,
4W Because he knows, a f ngfatf ul fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
486 In rfPPle or in ihad8
It ra^ed my ha.r, f fanned ,ny cheek
Ea(?h oorge lay flfltf hfelefig and flat
And' by the holv
A man a11
^ evciy eo^ there
l nH
land'
Thig Mraph_band, each WQVcd ^ hflnd>
But soon I heart the dash of oare,
Yet it felt like a welcoming;
.!..«,
and
B05 ^ heard them coming fast •
Dear Lwd m HeaTe"' ll wa" ft
On me alone it blew. 444 479 And the tncient Mirlnw beholdeth
bit native country
480-441 The unpepnttoral motion Is retarded ; 480-409 The angelic iplrlti leave the demd
theMariner iwikeV ™d nil T pentnw bpffin^ bodies and appear In their own forma of lifht.
448-468 The cnrw la finally expUted
842
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
I saw a third— I heard his voice.
It is the Hermit good '
510 He smgeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood
He'll shneve my soul, he'll wash away
The Albatross's blood.
PART VII
"This Hermit good lives in that wood
515 Which slopes down to the sea
How loudly his sweet voice he i ears'
He loves to talk with marmeies
That come from a far countree
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—
D2° He hath a cushion plump
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump
The skiff-boat neaied I heard them talk,
'Why this is strange, I trow'
525 Where are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but now?'
'Strange, by my faith '* the Hermit snul—
'And thev answered not our cheer'
The planks look warped1 and see those
sails,
wo How thin they aie and sere'
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along,
G36 When the ivy-tod1 is hea\y with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf's young '
'Dear Lord' it hath a fiendish look'—
(The Pilot made reply)
6*0 <i am a-ieared'— 'Push on, push on'*
Said the Hermit cheenly
The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred,
The boat came close beneath the ship,
6*6 And straight a sound was heard.
Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread
It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.
wo Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote,
613-545 The Hermit of the Wood tpproaeheth
the ahip with wonder.
546-549 The ahip attddenly alnketb
ilvy-bnab
Like one that hath been seven days drowned
My body lay afloat,
But swift as dreams, myself I found
665 Within the Pilot's boat.
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round ,
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound
BW T moved mv lips— the Pilot shrieked
* And fell down m a fit,
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit
I took the oars- the Pilot's boy,
565 Who now doth crazy go,
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro
'Ha! ha'1 quoth he, M'nll plain I see,
The IJeul knows lum to row '
r>7° And now, all in my own countree,
1 si ood on the film land!
The Heiinil stepped forth from the boat,
And scaicely he could stand
'Oh shneve me, shrieve me, holy man ''
57"> The Hermit crossed his brow l
'Rav quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee sny—
What ninimei of man ait thouf
Forthwith this frame of mine was wienched
With a woi ul agony,
5so Which foiced me to begin my title,
And then it leit me free
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony ret u ins.
And till my ghastly tale is told,
B8C This heait within me burns.
I pass, like night, from land to land,
1 ha\e strange power of speech,
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must heat me
E*»° To him my tale I teach
What loud uproar bursts from that doort
The wedding-guests are there
But in the garden-bowei the bride
V»0-!S7» The ancient Mariner in MI\IH| ID tht»
Pilot n boat
r>74-581 The ancient Mariner earnertlv on
treateth the Hermit to shrleve him. and tho
penance of life falls on him
(182-025 And ever and anon throughout hi*
future life an agony conRtraineth him to travel
from land to land and to teach, by hli own exam
pic, love and reverence to all thing* that God
made ana loveth
1 made the sign of the croaa on hii forehead
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLERIDGE
843
And bride-maids singing are •
t" And hark the little vesper bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer f
0 Wedding-Guest1 this soul hath
Alone on a wide, wide sea
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
600 Scarce seemed there to be.
0 sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company*—
606 To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his gieat Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends
And youths and maidens gaj '
«o Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest '
He prayeth well, who loxeth well
Both man and bird and beast
He prayeth best, who loveth best
616 All things both jrreat and small,
For the dear God who Imelh us,
He made and loveth all "
The Mariner, whose e>e is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoai,
€20 I8 gone and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned fiom the budegioom's dooi
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn '
A saddei and a wiser man,
«25 He rose the morrow morn.
CHBI8TABEL
1797 1800 1810
PART I
1797 1810
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing
cock,
Tu-whit I Tu-whoo •
And hark, again ! the crowing cock,
* How drowsily it crew
Sir Leohne, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
i* Four for the quarters, and twelve for the
hour;
* deprived
E^e^ and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud,
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark!
16 The night is chilly, but not dark
The thin gray cloud is spiead on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full ,
And yet she looks both small and dull
20 The night is chill, the cloud is gray .
'Tis a month before the- month of May,
And the Spnng comes slowly up this way
•
The lovely lady, Chnstabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
26 What makes her in the wood so late,
A fin long from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight,
And phe in the midnight wood will pi ay
30 Foi the weal of her lover that's tar am ay
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sig;lis she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss aud rarest mistletoe:
35 She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence piayeth she
The lady spiang up suddenly,
The loveh lady, Chnstabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
40 But what it is she cannot tell —
On the other side it seems to be,
Oi the huge, broad-bieasted, old oak tiee.
The night is chill, the forest bare.
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak f
46 Theie is not wind enough in the air
To mo\e away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek—
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
50 That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the
sky.
Hush, beating heart of Chnstabel !
Jesu, Maria, shield her well !
66 She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
60 That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
844
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Her stately neck, and arms were bare,
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were,
And wildly glittered here and there
66 The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she-
Beautiful exceedingly1
"Mary Mother, save me now!"
™ Said Christabel; "and who art thout"
The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet —
"Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
76 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no
fear!"
Said Christabel, "How earnest thou
heref"
And the lady, whose voice was faint and
sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet.—
"My sire is of a noble line,
80 And my name is Geraldme:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn :
They choked my cries with force and
fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white
86 The pal f ley was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind
They spurred amain, their steeds were
white :
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
90 I have no thought what men they be,
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
•5 A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with hasfe;
Whither they went I cannot tell—
100 i thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell
Stretch forth thy hand "-thus ended
she—
"And help a wretched maid to flee "
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
106 And comforted fair Geraldine •
"0 well, bright dame* may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly onr stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
no TO guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall."
She rose : and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
115 And thus spake on sweet Christabel
"All our household are at lest,
The hall is silent as the cell,
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
120 But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me."
They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
125 A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and with-
out,
Where an army in battle array had
marched out
The lady sank, belike through pain,1
130 And Christabel with might and mam
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again.
And moved, as she were not in pain
118 So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they
were.
And Chnstabel devoutly cried
To the lady by her side,
"Praise we the Virgin all divine
140 Who hath rescued thee from thy dis-
tress!"
"Alas, alas!'; said Geraldme,
"I cannot speak for weariness."
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court right glad they
were.
"' Outside her kennel, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make !
And what can ail the mastiff bitch T
"0 Never till now she uttered yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it IB the owlet's scritch •
For what can ail the mastiff bitch 1*
* Gertldtne win an evil spirit And WAI unable
without Aid to croM the tbmbold, which had
been bletted to keep evil tpirlti away
• Animals were rappMed to know when raper-
beea blewed to keep evil cpirita A
Animals were nipponed to know
natural being* were near.
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLEBIDGE
345
They pawned the hall, that echoes still,
166 Pass as lightly as you will!
The brands were flat, the brands were
Amid their own white ashes lying,
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame,
160 And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline
tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the
wall.
"O softly tread," said Christabel,
165 "My father seldom sleepeth well"
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And jealous of the listening air
They steal their way from stair to staii,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
170 And now they pass the Baron's loom,
As still as death, with stifled breath *
And now have reached her chamber door ,
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.
175 The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber caned so cunously,
Carved with figures stiange and sweet,
180 All made out of the carver's biain,
For a lady's chamber meet .
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel's feet
The silver lamp bums dead and dun,
l86 But Chnstabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While (ieialdme, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
190 <«o \vcaiy lady, Geraldine,
I pi ay you, dunk this cordial wine1
It is a wine of urtuous powers,
My mother made it of wild flowers."
"And will >cmr mother pity me,
195 Who am a maiden most forlorn!"
Christabel answered: "Woe is mel
She died the hour that T was bom
T have heard the gray-haired friar tell
How on her death-bed she did say,
200 That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day
0 mother denr' that thou wert here!"
"I would," said Geraldine, "she were!"
But soon with altered voice, said she
205 < < off, wandering mother ' Peak and pine !
I have power to bid thee flee."
Alas! what ails poor Geraldme 1
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy Y
210 And why with hollow voice ones she,
"Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me"l
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
215 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—
"Alas!" said she, "this ghastly nde-
Dear lady! it hath wildered you'"
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, " 'Tis over now'"
220 Again the wild-flower wine she drank
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright •
She was most beautiful to see,
225 lake a lady of a far countrfe.
And thus the lofty lady spake
"All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Chnstabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
230 And for the good which me befel,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I he."
235 QUoth Christabel, "So let it be!"
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness
But through her brain of weal and woe
240 So many thoughts moved to and fio,
That vain it were her lids to close ,
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.
245 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around ,
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast •
260 Her silken robe, and inner vest,
T)ropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold ! her bosom and half her side
A sight to dream of, not to tell !
0 shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
846 NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIC18T8
265 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; A star hath set, a star hath risen,
Ah! what a stricken look was hers! 0 Geraldine! since arms of thine
Deep from within she seems half-way Have been the lovely lady's prison.
To lift some weight with sick assay, 305 0 Geraldine ! one hour was thine—
And eyes the maid and seeks delay; Thon'st had thy will! By tairn and nil,
260 Then suddenly, as one defied, The night-birds all that hour were still.
Collects herself m scorn and pride, But now they are jubilant anew.
And lay down by the maiden's side!— From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu—
And in her arms the maid she took, whoo f
Ah wel-a-day! *10 Tu— whoo! tu— whoo! from wood and
266 And with low voice and doleful look fell!
These words did say •
"In the touch of this bosom Iheic woiketh And see* the lady Chribtabel
a spell, Gathers herself from out her trance,
Which is lord of thy utterance, ('In is- Her limbb relax, her countenance
tabel t Gnms sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids
Thou kmroest tonight, and wilt know to- 31B Close o'er her eyes, and tears she sheds—
moriow, Large teais that leave the lashes bright!
270 This mark of my shame, this seal of nij And oft the while she seems to smile
sorrow, As infants at a sudden light!
But A amly Ihou warrest, Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
For this is alone in 32° Like a youthful liermitess,
Thy powei to declaie, Beauteous in a wilderness,
That in the dim forest Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
275 Them heard 'st a low moaning. And, if «he mo>e nnquietly,
And found Vt a blight lady, MII passingly Peichance, 'tis but the blood so fiee
fair, 3-B Comes back and tingles in her feet.
And didst brine: her home with tliee in No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
love and in chanty, What if her guardian spirit 'twere.
To shield her and shelter her from the What if she knew her mother near?
damp air " But this she knows, in joys and woes,
330 Thai saints mil aid if men will call:
THE CONCLUSION TO PAUT i Fo1 the blue ^ ^nd* OVCr all !
It was a lovely sight to sec PART IT
280 The lady Christabel, when she 1800 181C
Was pravmg at the old oak hee. Kach matin bell, the Baron saith,
Amid the jagg&d shadows Knells us back to a world of death
Of mossy leafless boughs, These voids Sir Leohne first said,
Kneeling1 in the moonlight, 385 When he rose and found his lady dead
285 To make her gentle VOWB, These words Sir Leohne will say
Her slender palms together prest, Many a morn to his dying day !
Heaving sometimes on her breast,
And hence the custom and law began
Her face resigned to bliss or bale— That still at dawn the sacristan,
Her face, oh, call it fair not pale, 3*° Who duly pnlls the heavy bell,
290 And both blue eyes more bnght than cleai, Five and forty beads must tell
Each about to have a tear. Between each stroke— a warning knell,
Which not a soul ran choose but hear
With open eyes (ah, woe w me') From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
Asleep, and "dreaming fearfully, . ...
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wJs, ™ Saith Biacy the bard, "So let it knell '
*** Dreaming that alone, which is- And let the drowsy sacristan
0 sorrow and shame! Can this be she, Still count as slowly as he can!"
The lady, who knelt at the old oak treeT There is no lack of such, I ween,
And lo ! the worker of these harms, As well Jill °^ mM brtmoi. .
That holds the maiden in her arms, *50 In J-nrf* P*e\™* ™f ^fr'
800 Seems to slumber still and mild, And Dungeon-ghyll* so foully rent,
As a mother with her child. 'peak 'valley
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
347
With ropes of rock and bells of an
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give hack, one after t'other,
356 The death-note to their living brothei ,
And oft too, by the knell offended.
Just as their one1 two' three* is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borodale.
t00 The air is still ' through mist and cloud
That meiry peal comes imguig loud,
And Geialdme shakos off her diead,
And rises lightly from the bed,
Puts on her silken vestments white,
b"> And tucks hei hair in lovely plight,1
And nothing doubting of her spell
Awakens the lady Christ ahel.
"Sleep you, s\veet lady rhristabclf
I liubt that you ha\e rested well."
370 And Chnstahel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by hei side —
() lather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tieef
Nay, faitei vet f and yet moie fan '
•i7r> Foi she belike hath diuiiken deep
Of all the blessedness ot sleep!
And while she spake, hei looks, hei an
Such gentle thankfulness derlaic,
That (so it seemed) her girded \ests
jso Grew tight beneath her heaving hi easts
"Sure I have smn'd1" said Chnstabel,
"Now heaven be praised if all be well'"
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet.
Did she the lofty lady gieet
•J8B With such petplexity of mind
Ab di earns too lively leave behind
So quickly she lose, and quickly arrayed
Uei maiden limbs, and having pia>ed
That lie, \\lio on the cioss did gioan,
.vto Might wash away hei sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldme
To meet her sire. Sir Leoline.
The lovely maid and the lady tall
Ai<» pacing both into the hall,
J93 And pacing on through page and gioom,
Entci the Baton's presence-loom.
The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughtei to his breast,
With cheerful wondei in his eves
400 The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame !
But when he heard the lady's tale,
And when she told her father's name,
i manner
405 Why waxed Sir Leolme so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermame 7
Alas ' they had been friends in youth ,
But whispering tongues can poison truth ,
410 And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain,
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth woik like madness m the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
*u With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother*
They paited— ne'ei to meet again!
But nevei either found anothei
420 TO free the hollow heart fioni paining—
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dieary sea now flows between ,—
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
4-B Shall wholly do awav, T ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
Sn Ix?oline, a moment 's **paee,
Slood gazing on the damsel's lace:
And the youthful Loid of Tryeimame
430 Cauie back upon his heait again.
0 then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heait swelled high with rage,
He swore by the wounds in .lesn's side
He would pioclaim it fai and wide,
435 With turnip and solemn heraldry,
That thev , who thus had wronged the dame,
Weie base as spotted infamy!
"And if they daie deny the same,
M} hei a Id shall appoint a week,
440 And let the recreant traitois seek
My tourney court— that there and then
1 may dislodge their reptile souls
Fioui the bodies and 1'oiiiib of menr"
He spake his eye in lightning rolls '
44ri p\>r the lady \\as nithlessly seized, and
he kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his
friend '
And now the tears weie on his face,
And fondly in his aims he took
Fair Geraldine, who mot the embrace,
lAO pioloiiging it with jovous look.
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Chnstahel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain !
She bhiunk and shuddered, and saw
again—
4r'5 (Ah, woe is me* Was it f or thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to seef)
848
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
And drew in her breath with
sound*
*ftO Whereat the Knight turned wildly round.
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maul
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed
The touch, the sight, had parsed awaj,
And in its stead that vision blest,
465 Which comfoited her after-rest
While in the lady's arm* she lay,
Had put a lapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o'er her eyes
Spread smiles like light f
With new suipusc1,
«™ "What ails then my beloved child!"
The Baron said —His daughtei mild
Made answer, "All will yet be well1"
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else so mighty was the spell
476 Yet he, who saw this Geraldme,
Had deemed hei sine a thing divine.
Such soi row with such giace she blended.
As if she feaiecl she had offended
Sweet Chiistabcl, that gentle maid'
480 And \\ith such Unary tones she pra>cd
She might be sent without delay
Home to her fat hoi 's mansion.
"Nay'
Nay, by my soulf" said Lcohne
' ' Ho i Bracy the bai d, the chai ge be thine f
483 Go thou, with music sweet and loud,
And take two steeds with tiappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lov'st tost
To bear thy haip, and learn thy son;*,
Ai.d clothe you both m solemn vest,
4yo And o\ei the mountains haste along,
Lest wandeiing folk, that are abioad,
Detain you 011 the valley load
"And when he has ciossed the Jrihinir
flood,
My moiry baicl* ho hastes, he hastes
495 Up Knorren Mooi, through Halegaith
Wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's
wastes
Sii Leolme greets tliee thus through me!
r>o5 He bidfe thee come without delay
hissing With all thy numerous array
And take thy lovely daughter home :
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array
.110 White with their panting palfreys' foam .
And, by mine honor! I will say,
That 1 repent me of the day
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!—
315 —For since that evil hour hath flown,
"Baid Biary! baid
ate fleet.
Biacy1 your horses
Many a summer's sun hath shone,
Vet ne'er found I a ftiend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermainc "
The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
320 Her face upraised, her eyes o'crflowmg,
And Biacy replied, with faltering \oice,
His gracious Hail on all bestowing'—
"Thy words, thou sue of Chnstabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
'23 Yet might I gam a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So stiange a dieam hath eome to me,
That I liH(i \owed \\ith music loud
To elcai yon wood fiom thing unblest,
•"|JO Wai ned by a MSIOH m my iest?
Foi m my sleep 1 saw that dove,
That gentle bird, uhom thou dost loic,
And call'st by thy own daughter's name-
Sir Leolme r I saw the same
"'r» Fluttcnng, and uttering fearful moan,
Among the gieen herbs in the forest alone.
Which when T saw and when I heard,
I wonder 'd what might ail the bird,
For nothing neai it could I see,
540 Save the grass and gieen herbs uiidei-
neath the old tiee
"And in my dieam niethought 1 went
To seal eh out what might there be found ,
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
r>-n £ went and peered, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry;
But yet for her dear lady's sake
I stooped, met bought, the dove to take,
When lo! I saw a bright green snake
C5° Coiled around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couched,
rinse by the dove's its head it crouched,
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Ye must nde up the hall, your music so Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
sweet, 5B:> I woke ; it was the midnight hour,
r'°° More loud than your horses' echoing feet! The clock was echoing in the tower,
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, But though my slumber was gone by,
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall f This dream it would not pass away—
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free— It seems to live upon my eye!
SAMUEL TATLOB COLERIDGE
349
660 And thence I vowed this self-same day
With music strong and saintly song
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there "
Thus Bracy said the Baron, the while,
r>ftr> Half -listening heard him with a smile,
Then turned to Lady GeraJdine,
His eyes made up oi wondei and love,
And said m courtly accents fine .
"Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous
dove,
570 With arms more strong than harp 01 song.
Thy sire and 1 will crush the snake f ' '
He kissed her forehead a* he spake,
And Gerald me in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
Hr. \\Tilh blushing cheek and couitesy line
She turned her from Sir Leohne,
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her light aim fell again,
And folded her arms across hei chest,
580 And couched her head upon her hi east,
And looked askance at Christabel
Jesu, Maria, shield hei well!
A snake's small eye bliuks dull and sh> ,
And the lady's eyes the> slnunk in hoi
head,
685 Each shrunk up to a serpent V eye,
And with somewhat of malice, and moie
of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance1—
One moment— and the sight was fled1
But Christabel in di/zy trance
6W) Stumbling cm the unsteady giound
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound.
And Oeialdme again tunied louiid,
And like a thing, that sought lehef,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
695 She lolled hei large blight eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leohne.
The maid, alas' her thoughts aic gone.
She nothing sees— no sight but one1
The maid, deuml oi guile and sin,
600 I know not how, in fearful inne,
So deeply had she drunken m
That look, those shrunken seipent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in hei mind
605 And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate '
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
<" Full before her father's view
As far as such a look could be
In eyes so innocent and blue'
And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly prayed
815 Then falling at the Baron's feet,
"By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away1"
She said, and moie she could not say
For what she knew she could not tell,
620 O'ei -mastered bv the mighty spell
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leohne f Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pnde,
So fan, so innocent, so mild,
62:' The same, for whom thy lady died'
(), by the pangs of her dear uiothei
Think thou no evil of thy child <
Foi her, and thee, and foi no other,
She prayed the moment ere she died'
(no praved that the babe for whom she died,
Might piove hei dear lord's joy and
pi ide !
That pi ayei her deadly panys beguiled,
Sn Leohne '
And wouldst thou wiong thy only child,
€r' lift child and thine9
Within the Baron's heart and biain
H thdufthts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his lage and pain.
And did but uoik confusion there
fi40 His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes wen* wild,
Dishonoied thus in his old age,
Dishonoied by his only child,
And all his hospitality
Gr> To the w longed daughtei Of hm iWml
By more than woman's jealousy
Hi ought thus to a disgraceful end—
He rolled his eye with stern regpud
I p«n the gentle minstrel bard,
™ And said in tones abrupt, austeie— •
"Whv, Bracv' dost thou loitei heie?
T bade thee hence ? ' ' The bard obeyed ,
And turning from his oun sweet maid,
The age*d knight, Sn Leohne,
<•** Led forth the lady Geraldme'
THE CONCLUSION TO PMIT TI
A little child, a limber elf,
•Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks.
That always finds, and never seeks,
U6° Makes such a MSIOII to the sight
As fills a f athei 's eyes with light ,
And pleasures flout in so thick and fnsl
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs expiess his love's excess
665 ^fth words of unmeant bitterness
850
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other,
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
670 Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this he true !)
676 Such giddiness of heart and brain
Tomes seldom save from lage and pain,
So talks as i< *s most used to do.
FROST AT MIDNIGHT
27*8
1798
The frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind The owlet's cry
Came loud— and bark, again f loud as
before
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
5 Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser imfsmf»s- save that at my side
My cradle infant Clumbers peacefully
'Tis calm indeed ' so calm, that it distuibs
And \e\es meditation uith its strange
10 And extreme silentne&s Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous \illage' Sea, and" hill, and
wood,
With all the numberless gnintr*-on of life,
Inaudible as di earns1 the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt Are, and qimers not ,
15 Only that film, which fluttered on the
grate,1
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing
Methinks, its motion in this hush of natuie
(lives it dun sympathies with me who h\e,
Making it a companionable form,
20 Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling
spint
By its own moods interprets, everywhere
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of thought.
But 0' how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing
mind,
25 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering strangei T and as
oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of ray sweet birth-place, and the old
church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music,
rang
10 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted
me
1 "In all parti of the kingdom, tbese Him* are
called Grangers and fiuppoiwd to portend the
arrival of some absent friend " — Coleridge
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to
come'
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I
dreamt,
35 Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged
my dreams '
And so I brooded all the following mom.
Awed by the stein preceptoi 's face, mint*
eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming
book
Save it' the door half opened, and I
snatched
40 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped
up.
For still 1 hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, en sistei morebelo\ed.
My play-mute when we both weie clothed
alike!
Dear babe, that slwpeM rind led bjr m\
side,
4r> Whose gentle breathing, heard in this
deep calm,
Fill up the inteispersed Minnicies
And momentary pauses of the thought f
My babe MI beautiful f it thulls my limit
With tender gladness, thus to look at I hoe,
r>0 And think that thou shalt learn far other
lore,
And in far other scenes » For I was reai e<l
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisteis dun.
And saw nought lovely but the sky and
stars1
But thou, my babe* shalt wander like a
bree/e
r>5 By lakes anil sandy shores, beneath the
ciags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the
clouds
Which image in their bulk both lakes and
shores
And mountain crags so shalt thou free
and hear
The lovely shapes and rounds intelligible
60 Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself
Great universal Teacher f he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
86 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to
thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general
earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and
sing
i ft* Wordflworth'H The Prrlude. 8, 433-37 (p.
2"i6)
SAMUEL TAYLOR CQLEBIDGE
351
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bate
branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
70 Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the
eave-diops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang: them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
FRANCE AN ODE
1708 1798
Te Cloud* f thai far above me float and
pause,
Whose pathless inarch no mortal may
control !
Ye Ocean-Waves' that, wheresoc'er ve
roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
5 Ye Woods* that listen to the night-birds
Midway the smooth and peulous s]n|»e
reclined,
Save when >our own impious blanches
Have made a solemn music of the \vnul'
Wlieie, like a man beloved of God,
10 Th tough n loo n is, which nexei uoodman
trod,
How ott, pursuing fancies holy,
My moonlight uay o'er flowering weeds I
wound,
Inspired, beyond the guess of lolly,
By each Hide shape and wild unconquer-
able sound!
16 (> ye loud Waves! and O ve Foiests \\iq\\l
And () ye Clouds that iai abo\e me
soared f
Thou rising Sun1 tltou blue lejoirini;
Sk>'
Yea, exerythmg that is and will lie
fice»
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,
20 With what deej> worship 1 have still
adoied
The spint of divmest Libeity.
When France in wrath her eunt-limhs
up i eared,
And with that oath, which smote air,
eaith, and sea,
Stamped her strong foot and said she
would be free,
25 Bear witness for me, how I hoped and
feared!
With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I Rani?, amid a slavish band •
And when to whelm the disenchanted
nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's
wand,
w The Monarchs marched in evil day,
And Bntain joined the dire array,1
Though dear her shores and circling
ocean,
Though many friendships, many youth-
ful loves
Had swoln the patriot emotion
85 And flung a magic light o'ei all her hills
and gioves;
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat
To all that bra\ed the tyrant -quelling
lance,
And shame too long delayed and vain
retreat f
For ne'er, O Liberty* with partial aim
40 I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy
flame,
But blessed the paeans of delivered
France,
And hung my head and wept at Bntain V
name
"And what," I said, "though Blas-
phemy's loud scieani
With that sueet IIIUMC of deliveiance
stiove1
45 Though all the fierce and diunki'n
passions wo\e
A dance moie wild than e'ei was maniac's
<heam!-
Ye stoims, that round the dawning
East assembled,
The Sun* was using, though je hid Ins
And when, to soothe my soul, that
hoped and tieinbled,
50 Tlie dissonance ceased, and all seemed
calm and blight ,
When Fiance hei iiont deep-scat iM
and gory
Concealed \\ith clustering \\ieaths of
When, insupportably advancing,
Her ami made mockery of the war-
norfs lamp,4
Br» While timid looks of fui> glancing,
Domestic tieaaon, cuished beneath her
fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his
gore;
Then I reproached my fears that would
not flee,
» France declared war BA reference to the
upon Prussia and excea*en of t h e
\natria In 1792. French Revolution
and upon Holland • Liberty.
and England In * net or advancing In
1793 warlike ponture
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
"And BOOD," I said, "shall Wisdom
teach her lore
60 In the low huts of them that toil and
groan!
And, conquering by her happiness alone,
Shall France compel the nations to be
free.
Till Love and Joy look round, and call
the Earth their own."
Forgive me, Freedom1 0 forgive those
dreams !
65 i hear thy voice, I hear thy loud
lament,
From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern *
sent—
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained
streams1
Heroes, that for your peaceful country
perished,
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-
snows
70 With bleeding wounds, foigive me,
that I cherished
One thought that ever blessed your cruel
foes!-
To scatter rage, and tiaitorous guilt,
Where Peace hei jealous home had
built,
A patriot-race to disinherit
75 Of all that made their stormy wilds so
dear,
And with inexpiable spirit
To taint the bloodless freedom of the
mountaineer—
() Fiance, (hat mockest Heaven, adulter-
ous, blind,
And patriot only in pernicious toils!
80 Are these thy boasts, Champion of human
kind!
To mix with Kings in the low lust of
sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous
prey,
To insult the shnne of Liberty with spoils
From freemen torn, to tempt and to
betray f
85 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in
vain,
Slaves by their own compulsion f In
mad game
They burst their manacles and wear the
name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier
chain !
0 Liberty ! with profitless endeavor
•° Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour:
But thou nor swell 'st the victor's
strain, nor ever
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of hu-
man power.
Alike from all, howe'ei they praise
thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delavH
thee)
95 Alike from Priestcraft's harpy min-
ions,
And factious Blasphemy's obncener
slaves,
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,
The guide of homeless winds, and play-
mate of the waves!
And there I felt thee1— on that sea-
cliff's verge,
100 Whose pines, scaice travelled by the
breeze above,
Had made one murmur with the distant
singe
Yes, while [ stood and gazed, my temples
bate,
And shot my being tluough eaith, sea,
and an,
Possessing all things with mtensest love,
105 0 Libeit} ' my spirit felt thee there.
LEWTT
OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE CHANT
1798 171)8
At midnight by the stieani I loved,
To f 01 get the t'onu 1 lo\eil
Image of Lewtif from nrv mind
Depait, ior Lewh is not kind
5 The moon was high, the moonlight gleam
And the shadow of a star
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream,
But the rock shone brightei iar,
The rock half sheltered from my \iew
10 By pendent boughs of tressy yew.—
So shines my Ijewti's forehead fun,
( ! learning tlnouqli her sable han,
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depait; for Ixwti is not kind
lr> I saw a cloud of palest hue,
Onward to the moon it passed;
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colors not a lew,
Till it reach M the moon at last
20 Then the cloud was wholly bright,
With a rich and amber light !
And so with many a hope I seek
And with such joy I find my Lewti;
And even so my pale wan cheek
26 Drinks m as deep a flush of beauty!
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
358
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind,
If Lewti never will be kind
The little cloud— it floats away,
1 Away it goes, away so soon !
80 Alas! it has no power to stay
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray-
Away it passes from the moon !
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
IB To joyless regions of the sky—
And now 'tis whiter than before*
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti r on my couch 1 lie,
A dying man for love of thee
40 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—
And yet, thou didst not look unkind.
I saw a vapor in the sky,
Thin, and white, and very high ;
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud:
45 Perhaps the breezes that can fly
Now below and now above,
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud
Of Lady fair— that died for love
For maids, as well as youths, have perished
60 Prom fruitless love too fondly chenshed
Nay, tieacherous image T leave my mind—
For Lewti ne\er will be kind
Hush i my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks forever .
66 Like echoes to a distant thunder,
They plunge into the gentle nver
The nvei -swans have heard my tread,
And startle from their reedy bed
0 beauteous birds! methmks ye measure
60 Your movements to some heavenly tune !
0 beauteous birds ' 'tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon,
1 would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.
65 1 know the place where Lewti lies,
When bilent night has closed her eyes-
It IB a breezy jasmine-bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head •
Voice of the Night ' had I the power
70 That leafy labyrinth to thread,
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to my sight,
As these two swans together heave
76 On the gently-swelling wave.
Oh ' that she saw me in a dream,
And dreamt that I had died for care;
All pale and wasted T would seem,
Yet fair withal, as spirits are'
*o I'd die indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me '
Soothe, gentle image ' soothe my mind !
Tomorrow Lewti may be kind
FEARS IN SOLITUDE
WMTT1N IN APBIL, 1798. DUB J NO THE ALARM
OF AN INVASION!
J708 1708
A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
A small and bilent dell ' O'er stiller place
No singing bkylark ever poised himself
The hills are heathy, sa\e that swelling
slope,
5 Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering
on,
All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely but
the dell,
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn-field,8 or the unripe flax,
10 When, through its half-transparent stalks,
at eve,
The level sunshine ghmmeis with green
light.
Oh f 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook f
Which all, methinks, would love; but
chiefly he,
The humble man, who, in his youthful
years,
15 Knew just so much of folly, as had made
His early manhood more securely wise1
Here he might he on fern or withered
heath,
While from the singing lark (that ungs
unseen
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),
20 And from the sun, and from the breezy
air,
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
And he, with many feelings, many
thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of Na-
ture!
25 And so, his senses gradually wrapt
In a half sleep, he dreams of better
worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O Ringing
lark,
That smgest like an angel in the clouds r
My God * it is a melancholy thing
80 For such a man, who would full fain
preserve
* The French planned to Invade both Knf land
tod Ireland parly In 1798.
•wheat-field
854
NINETEENTH CENTURY BQMANTICISTO
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must
feel
For all his human brethren— 0 my God'
It weighs upon the heart, that he must
think
What uproar and what strife may now
be stirring
35 This way or that way o'er these silent
hills-
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout,
And all the crash of onset , fear and rage,
And undetermined conflict— even now,
Even now, perchance, and m his native
isle
40 Carnage and groans beneath this blessed
sun*
We have offended, Oh f my countrymen f
We have offended very grievously,
And been most tyrannous. From east to
west
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven !
46 The wretched plead against us, multitudes
Countless and vehement, the sons of God,
Our brethren' Like a cloud that tiavels
on,
Steamed up from Cano's swamps of pes-
tilence,
Even so, my countrymen! have we gone
forth
60 And borne to distant tribes slavery and
pangs,
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep
taint
With slow perdition murders the whole
man,
His body and his soulf Meanwhile, at
home,
All individual dignity and power
56 Engulfed m Courts, Committees, Institu-
tions,
Associations and Societies,
A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting
Guild,
One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery,
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
60 Pollutions from the brimming cup of
wealth;
Contemptuous of all honorable rule,
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man 's
life
For gold, as at a market ' The sweet words
Of Christian promise, words that even yet
66 Might stem destruction, were they wisely
preached,
Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones
proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their
trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods or to know their
truth.
70 Oh! blasphemous 1 the Book of Life is
made
A superstitious instrument, on which
We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to
break;
For all must swear— all and m every place,
College and wharf, council and justice-
court;
™ All, all must swear, the briber and the
bribed,
Merchant and lawyei, senator and priest,
The uch, the poor, the old man and the
young,
All, all make up one scheme of perjury,
That faith doth reel ; the very name of God
80 Sounds like a juggler's charm, and, bold
with joy,
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-
place,
(Portentous sight1) the owlet Atheism,
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds
them close,
85 And hooting at the gloiious sun in
Heaven,
Cries out, "Where is ill"
Thankless too for peace,
(Peace long preseived by fleets and per-
ilous seas)
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for
war'
90 Alas f for ages ignorant of all
Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue
plague,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry
snows,)
We, this whole people, have been clam-
orous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
»5 The which we pay for as a thing we talk of,
Spectators and not combatants1 No guess
Anticipative of a wrong nnfelt,
No speculation on contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and
dim
100 TO yield a justifying cause; and forth,
(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy
names,
And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)
We send our mandates for the certain
death
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys
and girls,
105 And women, that would groan to see a
child
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 355
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, And let them toss as idly on its waves
The best amusement for our morning meal ' As the vile sea-weed, which some moun-
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only tain-blast
prayers 15° Swept from our shores' And oh' may
From curses, who knows scarcely words we return
enough Not with a drunken tiiumph, but with fear,
110 To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Kepentmg of the wrongs with which we
Father, stung
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute So fierce a ioe to fieuzyf
And technical in victones and defeats,
And all our dainty terms ioi fiatucide, I have (old,
Terms which we trundle smoothly u'ei our 0 Bntons, 0 my bietlnen1 1 ha\e told
tongues 1<r>r' Most bitter truth, but without bit lei ness
11G Like meie abstractions, empty sounds to Noi deem my zenl 01 iactiotis 01 nii^-
which timed ,
We join no feeling and attach no form! Foi never can tine coinage dwell \vitli
As if the soldier died without a wound, them,
As if the fibres of this godlike fiame Who, pln>iug tucks \\ith conscience, (line
Weie goied without a pang, as if the not look
wietch, At then own \ices We liave been loo long
120 Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 1GO Dupes of a deep delusion ' Some, belike.
Pawed off to Hea\en, tianslated and not (Sioaning with restless enmity, expect
killed, All change fiom change of constituted
As though he had no wife to pine for him, po\\er ,
No God to judge him ' Therefore, e\il days As if a gmeinnieiit had been a rube,
Aie coming on us, O inv countrymen1 On which 0111 \ice and wietehedness weie
126 And ^hut if all-avenging Providence, tagged
Stionir and lotnbutne, should make us lfr' Like fancy-points and fringes, with the
know * lobe
The meaning of our words, force us to feel Pulled off at pleasme Fondly these attach
The desolation and the agonx A ladical causation to a fe\\
Of our licice doings? Pooi drudges of chastising Proudence,
Who borrow all then hues and qualities
Spare us yet awhile, 17° Fiom our own folly and rank wickedness,
180 Father and God' Oh1 spa re us yet awhile' Which cra\e them birth and nursed them
Oh ' let not English women drag their flight Otheis, meanwhile,
Fainting beneath the bin then oi then Dote with a mad idolatry, and all
babes, Who will not tall before their images,
Of the sweet infants, that but yesteiday And yield them worship, they aie enemies
Laughed at the bieast' Sons, biotheis. Even of their conn In '
husbands, all
1311 Who ever gazed with fondness on the 175 Such have T been deemed —
forms But, 0 dear Biitam' 0 my Mothei lsle!
Which giew up with you round the same Needs must thou pio\e a name most deai
lire-side, and holy
And all who e\er heard the Sabbath-bells To me, a son, a hi other, and a fiiend,
Without the infidel's sooin make your- A husband, and a fathei ' who ie>eie
selves puie1 18° AH bonds of natural lo\e, and find them nil
Stand forth1 be men' repel an impious foe. Within the limits of thy loekv shoies
140 Impious and false, a lisht yet ciuel lace, 0 native Britain' 0 my Mothei Isle1
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth How shouldst thou piove aught else but
With deeds of murder, and still promising dear and holy
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. To me, who fiom thy lakes and mountain-
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart hills,
H* Of faith and quiet hope, and all that 18B Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks
soothes, and seas,
And all that lifts the spirit' Stand we Have drunk in all mv intellectual life,
forth, All sweet sensations, all ennobling
Render them back upon the insulted ocean, thoughts,
356
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIOI8TC
All adoration of the God in nature.
All lovely and all honorable things,
390 Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being t
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrowed from my country' 0 divine
And beauteous Island ! thou hast been my
sole
196 And most magnificent temple, in the which
I walk with iwe, and sing my stately songs.
Loving the God that made mef—
May my fears,
My filial fears, be vainf an4 may the
vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
200 Pass like the gust, that roared and died
away
In the distant tree which heard, and only
heard
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate
grass.
But now the gentle dew-fall sends
abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze
206 The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
Aslant the ivied beacon Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, 0 soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy
hill,
210 Homeward I wind my way , and lo ! recalled
From bodmgs that have well-nigh weaned
me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounded nook,
215 This burst of prospect, here the shadowy
main,
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of nch
And elmy fields, seems like society--
Conversing; with the mind, and giving it
220 A livelier impulse and a dance of thought !
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four
huge elms
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my
friend,1
And close behind them, hidden from my
view,
225 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
And my babe's mother dwell in peace!
With light
And quickened footsteps thitherward I
tend,
Poole.
Remembering thee, 0 green and silent
dell!
And grateful, that by nature's quietness
280 And solitary musings, all my heart
Is softened, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for
human kind
THE NIGHTINGALE
1798 179S
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure ti enabling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy
bndge '
6 You see the glimmer of the stream be-
neath,
But hear no murmuring* it flows silently,
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night ' and though the stars be
dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
10 That gladden the green eaith, and we shall
find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stais
And hark * the Nightingale begins its song,
"Most musical, most melancholy"1 hiul1
A melancholy bndt Oh1 idle thought '
15 In Nature theie is nothing melancholy
But some night- wandei ing man whose
heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous
wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch r filled all things
with himself,
20 And made all gentle sounds tell back the
tale
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy
strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit,
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
25 When he had better far hn\e stretched his
limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting ele-
ments
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
80 And of his fame forgetful ' so his fame
Should share in Nature's immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ;
88 And youths and maidens moat poetical,
1 II PniMrofto, 61
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
357
Who lose the deepening twilights of the
spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their
sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
40 My friend, and thou, our sistei I1 we have
leaint
A different loie we may not thus piofane
Natuie's sweet voices, always full ot lo\e
And joyanee1 'Tib the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and huriies, and precipitates
45 With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he weic feaiful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter foitli
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music '
And I know a prrwe
50 Of large extent, hard by a eastle huge,
Which the gieat lord inhabits not, and so
Tins grove is wild with tangling under-
wood,
And the turn walks ate bioken up, and
glass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the
paths.
55 But ne\er elsewhere in one place I knew
So many night ingales, and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide gro\ev
They answer and provoke each other's
SOUR,
With skirmish and cupneious passagmgs,
60 And murmius musical and swift jug jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet
than all—
Stirring the air with such a harmonv,
That should you close your eyes, you
might almost
Forget it was not dayf On moonlight
bushes,
«6 Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed,
You may pel chance behold them on the
twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both
bright and full.
Glistening, while many a giow-woim in
the shade
Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle maid,
™ Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the
grove)
Glides through the pathways; she knows
all their notes,
> Wordiwortb and bis sister Dorothy
75 That gentle maid! and oft, a moment's
space,
What time the moon* was lost behind a
cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the
moon
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful
buds
80 Ha\e all buist foith in choial minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundied airy harps! And she hath
watched
Many a nightingale peich giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the
breeze,
85 And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing
head
Faiewell, O Wai bier* till tomorrow eve,
And >ou, my fi lends! farewell, a short
iaiewelP
We lun e been loitering long and pleasantly,
110 And now for our dear homes — That
stiam again !*
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his
eai,
y'' His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen f And 1 deem it wise
To make him Nature's play-mate. He
knows well
The evening-star; and once, when he
awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward
pain
100 Had made up that strange thing, an in-
fant's dream—)
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at
once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with un-
dropped tears,
106 Did glitter m the yellow moon-beam!
WelP-
It is a father's tale* But if that Heaven
Should give me life, Ins childhood shall
grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the
night
He may associate joy —Once more, fare-
well,
no Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends !
farewell.
' See Twelfth Nloht, 1, 1, 1-T.
358
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIST8
THE BALLAD OF THE DARE LADIE
A FRAGMENT
1798
1834
Beneath yon birch with silver bark,
And boughs so pendulous and fair.
The brook falls scatter 'd down the rock:
And all is mossy there f
*' And there upon the moss she sits,
The Dark Ladie* in silent pain ;
The heavy tear is in her eye.
And drops and swells again
Three times she sends her little page
10 Up the castled mountain's breast,
If he might find the Knight that wears
The Griffin for his crest
The sun was sloping down the sky,
And she had linger 'd there all day,
15 Counting moments, dreaming fears—
Oh wherefore can he stay?
She hears a rustling o'er the brook,
She sees far off a swinging bough f
" 'Tis he » 'Tis my betrothed Knight !
20 Lord Falkland, it is thou»"
She springs, she clasps him round the neck,
She sobs a thousand hopes and fears,
Her kisses glowing on his cheeks
She quenches with her tears
25 "My friends with rude ungentle words
They scoff and bid me fly to thee!
0 give me shelter in thy breast !
0 shield and shelter me '
"My Henry, I have given thee much,
so I gave what I can ne'er recall,
1 gave my heart, I gave my peace,
0 Heaven! I gave thee all "
The Knight made answer to the maid,
While to his heart he held her hand,
86 "Nine castles hath my noble sire,
None statelier in the land
"The fairest one shall be my love's,
The fairest castle of the nine !
Wait only till the stars peep out,
40 The fairest shall be thine •
"Wait only till the hand of eve
Hath wholly closed yon western bars,
And through the dark we two will steal
Beneath the twinkling stanl"-
« The darkf the dark! No! not the dark!
The twinkling stars t How, Henry) Howl
0 Ood ! 'twas in the eye of noon
He pledged his sacred vow !
"And in the eye of noon my love
60 Shall lead me from my mother's door,
Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white
Strewing flowers before:
"But first the nodding minstrels go
With music meet for lordly bowers,
55 The children next in snow-white vests,
Strewing buds and flowers I
"And then my love and I shall pace,
My jet black hair in pearly braids,
Between our comely bachelors
And blushing bndal maids "
KUBLAKHAN
1798 1816
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caveins measureless to man
5 Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there weie gardens bright with sin-
uous nils,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing
tree;
10 And here were forests ancient as the
hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which
slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedam
cover!
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
15 As e'er beneath a waning moon was
haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless tur-
moil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were
breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
zo Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding
hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's
flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and
ever
SAMUEL TATLOB GOLEBIDGE
It flung up momently the sacred nver.
** Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river
ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to
man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from
far
30 Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves,
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
85 It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
40 And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
45 That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ire '
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware1
60 His flashing eyes, his floating hair*
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise
LINES
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN
THE HARTZ FOREST
1799 1709
1 stood on Brocken's sovran height, and
saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over
hills,
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
6 Downward I dragged through fir groves
evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepul-
chral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom
heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow
sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
10 Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet-
stones
The dingy ladling with its tinkling bell
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat
16 Sat, his white beard slow waving. I
moved on
In low and languid mood : for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still re-
ceive
Their finer influence from the life with-
in;—
Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import
vague
20 Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country ! 0 them Queen,
26 Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
0 dear, dear England! how my longing
eye
Turned westward, shaping in the steady
clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs I
My native land !
Filled with the thought of thee this heart
was proud,
30 Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all
the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody
hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I pro-
fane,
56 With hasty judgment or injurious doubt.
That man 's snbhmer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere! the God who
framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the world our
home
LOVE
S799 1709
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
6 Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
10 Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my jay,
My own dear Genevieve!
360
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
She leant against the arm£d man,
The statue of the arm&L knight;
15 She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
20 The songs that make her gnevc.
I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That rum wild and hoary
25 She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace,
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face
I told her of the Knight that wore
30 Upon his shield a burning brand ,
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.
T told her how he pined and ah f
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
85 With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own
She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed
40 Too fondly on her face !
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;
46 That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,—
There came and looked him in the face
50 An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable Knight !
And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
56 And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land !
And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain—
And ever strove to expiate
M The scorn that crazed his brain ;—
And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay;—
86 His dying words— but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and senbe
70 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
75 And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long '
She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and vngin-bhaine,
And like the muimur of a dream,
*° I heard her breathe my name
Her bosom heaved— she stepped nside,
As conscious of my look she stepped—
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.
85 She half enclosed me with hei amis.
She pressed me with a meek embrace ,
And bending back hei head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face
'Twas paitly love, and paitly feai,
™ And paitly 'twas a bashful art,
Thflt T might rather feel, than sec,
The swelling of her heart.
T calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride,
96 And BO I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride
DEJECTION-
1802
AN ODE
1802
Late, late yestn-on I gaw the now Moon.
With the old Moon In her aim*
And I fear, I fear, mv Maater dear '
We shall have a deadly ntorm
Ballad of Mr Patrick S pence
Well t If the bard was weather-wise, who
made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick
S pence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go
hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLERIDGE
361
6 Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and
rakes
Upon the sLiingb of this uEohan lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo ' the New-moon winter-bright !
10 And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'er-
spread
But rimmed and circled by a silver
thread)
I see the old Moon m her lap, foretelling
The commg-on of rain and squally blast.
15 And ohf that even now the gust were
swelling.
And the slant night-shower driving loud
and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me,
whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse
give,
20 Might startle this dull pain, and make it
move and h\e!
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and
dieai,
A stifled, drowsy, un mi passioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or teai —
2r* O Lady f in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo M,
All this long e\e, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
Atid its peculiar tint of yellow green .
™ And still 1 ga/e— and with how blank an
eye'
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and
bars,
That £i\e away their motion to the stars,
Those stars, that glide behind them or
between.
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always
seen
&r» Yon cre¢ Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, staileps lake of blue;
1 see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful thev are f
My genial spirits fail ;
40 A lid what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off mv
breast Y
It were a vain endeavor,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west :
46 I mav not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains
are within
O Lady ' we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live.
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her
shroud !
60 And would we aught behold, of higher
worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue f 01 th
A light, a glory, a fair luminous eloud
M Enveloping the earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own
birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element '
O pure of heart f thou necd'st not ask of
me
60 What this strong music in the soul may
bef
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous
mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady f Joy that ne 'er \\ as
given,
65 Save to the pure, and in their purest houi.
Life, and life's effluence, eloud at once
and shower,
Joy, Lady1 is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dowei
A new earth and new heaven,
70 Undreamt of by the sensual and the
proud-
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous
cloud—
We in ourselves rejoice !
And thence flows all that charms or ear
or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
75 All colors a suffusion from that light.
There was a time when, though my path
was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of
happiness*
80 For hope grew round me, like the twining
vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own,
seemed mine
But now afflictions bow me down to earth :
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh f each visitation
86 Suspends what nature gave me at my
birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can,
NINETEENTH CENTUB7 BOMANTJOI8T8
And haply by abstruse research to steal
90 From my own nature all the natural
man —
This was my sole resource, my only
plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the
whole.
And now is almost grown the habit of my
soul
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around
my mind}
95 Reality 's dark dream !
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed What
a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth* Thou Wind, that
rav'st without,
100 Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted
tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never
clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches'
home,
Miethinks were fitter instruments for
thee,
Mad lutanist! who in this month of
showers,
106 Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping
flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than win-
try song,
The blossoms, buds and timorous leaves
among
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds '
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzv bold'
110 What tell 'st thou now about f
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with
smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain, and shud-
der with the cold '
But hush' there is a pause of deepest
silence'
115 And all that noise, as of a rushing
crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shuddering—
all is over-
It tells another tale, with sounds less
deep and loud !
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
120 As Ot way's self had framed the tender
lay,-
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her
way
And now moans low in bitter grief and
fear,
125 And now screams loud, and hopes to make
her mother hear.1
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I
of sleep :
Full seldom may my friend such vigils
keep'
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of
healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-
birth,
180 May all the stars hang bnght above her
dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleep-
ing earth !
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spint, joy attune her voice;
185 To her may all things live, from pole to
pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul '
0 simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady ' friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE
VALE OP CHAMOUNI
180* 1802
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course f So long he seems to
pause
On thy bald awful head, 0 sovran Blanc,
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
5 Rave ceaselessly, but thou, most awful
Form'
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently' Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass* methinks thou piercest it,
10 As with a wedge' But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal
shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity '
0 dread and silent Mount' I gazed upon
thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
15 Didst vanish from my thought • entranced
in prayer
1 worshipped the Invisible alone
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening
to it,
1 A reference to Wordsworth's Luev Gray In
the tint version of the poem. "William V* ap
peartd in L 120 limtead of "6twtyV
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with Who made you glorious as the gates of
my thought, Heaven
80 Yea, with my life and life 'sown secret joy 55 Beneath the keen full moou! Who bade
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, the sun
Into the mighty vision passing— there Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with
As in her natural form, swelled vast to living flowers
Heaven ! Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your
feett—
Awake, my soul ' not only passive praise God f let the torrents, like a shout of
25 Thou owest f not alone these swelling tears, nations,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy f Awake, * Answer1 and let the ice-plains echo, God1
Voice of sweet songf Awake, my heart, 60 (lodf sing ye meadow-streams with glad-
awake ' some voice '
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-
hymn like sounds '
And they too have a voice, yon piles of
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of snow,
the Vale ' And in their perilous fall shall thunder,
30 0 struggling with the darkness all the Godf
night,
And visited all night by troops of stars, Ye living fldwers that skirt the eternal
Or when they climb the sky 01 when they frost f
sink 6ri Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, nestf
Thyself Earth's rosy stui, and oi the Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-
dawn storm f
85 Co-herald- wake, O wake, and utter praise' Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the
Who sank Ihv sunless pillais dee]) in clouds r
Earth* Ye signs and wondeis of the element f
Who filled thy countenance with rosy I tter forth God, and fill the hills with
light t praise f
Who made thee parent of perpetual
streams! 70 Thou too, hoar Mount1 \\ith thy sky-
pointing peaks,
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely Oft fiom whose feet the a\alariche, un-
glad1 ' heaid,
40 Who called you forth fiom nierht and Shoots downward, glittering through the
utter death, pure serene
From dark and icy caverns called you Into the depth of clouds, that veil tin
forth, " breast -
Down those precipitous, black, jagged Thou too again, stupendous Mountain1
rocks, thou
Foievei shatteied and the same fore\ert r' That as I raise my head, awhile bowed
Who gave you your invulnerable life, low
45 Your stiength, >our speed, your fury, and In adoration, upwaid from thy base
youi joy", Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused
Unceasing thunder and eternal foamt with teais,
And who commanded (and the silence Solemnly seemest, like a \apoiy cloud,
came), To rise before me— Rise, O e^e^ rise,
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest t 80 Rise like a cloud of incense flora the
Eaith!
Ye ice-falls' ye that from the moun- Thou kingly Spirit throned among the
tain's brow hills,
60 Adown enormous ravines slope amain— Thou dread ambassador from Earth to
Torrents, methmks, that heard a mighty Heaven,
voice, Great Hierarch f tell thou the silent sky,
And stopped at once amid then maddest And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun
plunge! 8G Earth, with her thousand voices, piaises
Motionless torrents' silent cataracts ' God
364
NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A
HEATH
1801 1802
This sycamore, oft musical with bees,
Such tents the patriarchs loved. 0 long
unharmed
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting
stone
c Keeps pure from falling leaves. Long
may the spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse; nor ever
cease
Ton tiny cone of sand its soundless
dance,
10 Which at the bottom, like a fairy's
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the
fount
Here twilight is, and coolness; here is
moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
16 Thou may'st toil far and find no second
tree
Dnnk, pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! And if
thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou re-
fresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring
bees.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION
280* 1802
Do you ask what the birds sayf The
Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and
Hove'11
In the winter they're silent— the wind is
so strong;
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a
loud song.
6 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny
warm weather,
And singing, and loving— all come back
together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness
and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky
above,
That he sings, and he sings; and forever
sings he—
10 "I Jove my Love, and my Love loves
me''r
THE PAINS OF SLEEP
1805 1816
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
But silently, by slow degrees,
6 My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
With reverential resignation,
No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
Only a sense of supplication ;
10 A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, everywhere
Eternal Strength and Wisdom are
But yester-night I prayed aloud
15 In anguish and in agony,
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me
A lund light, a trampling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,
20 And whom I scorned, those only strong!
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Still baffled, and yet burning still f
Desire with loathing strangely mixed
On wild or hateful objects fixed.
25 Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl !
And shame and terror over all !
Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which all confused I could not know
Whether I suffered, or I did:
80 For all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe,
My own or other still the same
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
So two nights passed • the night 's dis-
may
Saddened and stunned the coming day
36 Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me
Distemper's worst calamity.
The third night, when my own loud
scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
Overcome with sufferings strange and
wild,
«° I wept as I had been a child;
And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due
To natures deepliest stained with sin,—
45 For aye entempesting anew
The unfathomable hell within.
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
Such griefs with such men well agree,
60 But wherefore, wherefore fall on met
To be beloved is all I need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
365
TO A GENTLEMAN*
COMPOSED ON THK NIGHT AFTER HIS RECI-
TATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH
OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND
1806 1817
Friend of the wise! and teacher of the
good!
Into my heart have I received that lay
More than historic, that prophetic lay
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung
aright)
6 Of the foundations and the building up
Of a human spirit thou hast dared to tell
What may be told, to the understanding
mind
Revealable, and what within the mind
By vital breathings secret as the soul
10 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words'2—
Theme hard as high '
Of smileb spontaneous, and mysterious
fears
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-
birth),
Of tides obedient to extet nal force,
15 And currents sell-determined, as might
seem,
Or by some inner Power, oi moments
awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When power sti earned fioni thee, and thy
soul received
The light reflected, as a light bestowed—
20 Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean8 murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens
Native or outland, lakes and famous lulls f
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stais
25 Were IIRHIGT, or by secret mountain-
streams.
The guides and the companions of thy
way!
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and man beloved as man,
Where France in all her towns lav vibrating
W Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst
Of Heaven 's immediate thunder, when no
cloud
IH visible, or shadow on the main.
For thou wert there, thine own brows gar-
landed,
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
85 Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
1 Wordsworth Th* poem referred to in the sub-
title !• The Prelvde
•Bee Wordsworth'! Ode Intimation* of Im-
mortality, 200-4 (P. 805)
•smooth ; sweet (Hyblt was an ancient town of
Sicily famous for Its honey )
When from the general heart of human
kind
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity !
Of that dear Hope afflicted and
struck down,
So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm
and sure
40 From the dread watch-tower of man's
absolute self,
With light unwanmg on her eyes, to look
Far on— herself a glory to behold,
The Angel of the vision! Then (last
strain)
Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,
45 Action and joy !— An Orphic1 song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate
thoughts
To their own music chanted!
0 great bard !
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the
choir
60 Of ever-enduring men. The truly great
Have all one age, and from one visible
space
Shed influence ! They, both in power and
act,
Aie permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it
65 Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old,
And to be placed, as they, with gradual
fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a hnkexl lay of Truth,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
60 Not learnt, but native, her own natural
notes'
All f as I listened with a heart forlorn,
The pulses of my being beat anew :
And e\en as life returns upon the
drowned,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of
pains—
• Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
And fears self-willed, that shunned the
eye of Hope;
And Hope that scarce would know itself
from Fear,
Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come
in vain,
70 And Genius given, and Knowledge won
in vain ;
And all which I had culled in wood-walks
wild,
And all which patient toil had reared, and
all,
1 entrancing, like the music ascribed to Orpheus
366
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Commune with thee had opened out— but
floweib
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my
bier
75 In the same coffin, for the self-same grave !
That way no moie! and ill beseems it
me,
Who came a welcome) in bei aid 's guise,
Singing of Glory, and Futmity,
To wandei back on such un healthful road,
so Plucking the poisons of self-harm ' And ill
Such in tei twine beseems tnumphal wieaths
Strew M before thy advancing!
Nor do thou,
Sage baid f impan the mernoiy oi that hour
()t thy com mu n ion with un nobler mind
8& By pity 01 fiiiet, aliead> Iclt too long1
Noi let my words impoit more blame than
needs
The tumult rose and ceased, ioi Peace is
nigh
Wheie Wisdom's \oice has found a listen-
ing heart
A in id the howl oi moie than winiiy
storms.
90 The halcyon1 hears the voice ol venial
hours
A heady on the wing
E\c following eve,
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense
of home
Is sweetest f moments for then own sake
hailed
And more debited, moie piecious, foi thy
song,
% In silence listening, like a devout child,
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain
Dnven as in surges now beneath the stars,
With momentary stars of my own birth,
Fair constellated foam, still darting off
100 Into the darkness, now a tranquil sea,
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the
moon
•
And when— 0 fnend! my comforter and
guide f
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give
strength f —
Thy long sustained song finally closed,
105 And thy deep voice had ceased— yet thou
thyself
Wert still before my eyes, and round us
both
1 A bird which WBB fabled to nost at nea about
the time of the winter golatloe
That happy vision of belov&l faces-
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its
close
I sate, my being blended in one thought
110 (Thought \vas itf 01 aspiration t 01 10-
solve!)
Absoibed, yet hanging still upon the
sound—
And when I lose,
prayer.
I found myself in
TIME REAL AND IMAGINARY
AX ALLEGORY
J82JC) 1817
On the wide level of a mountain 's head,
(I knew not wheie, but 'twas some faeiy
place)
Then pinions, ostiich-kke, for sails out-
spiead.
Two lo\ely childicn inn an endless iacc,
c A sisiei and a biothei f
This fai outstupt the other.
Yet e>ei inns she with ie\eitcd face,
Arid looks and listens for the boy behind •
Foi he, alas ' is blind r
10 O'ei lough and smooth with even step he
passed,
And knows not whether he be first or last.
From REMORSE
HEAR, SWEET SPIRIT, HEAR THE SPELL
1812 1813
Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker chai m compel !
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long-lingering knell.
5 And nt evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shoie,
Shall the chanters sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chant for thee,
10 MweicrcDomine'1
Haik' the cadence dies away
On the quiet moonlight sea *
The boatmen rest their oars and say,
Klwercre Dominel
Act III, 1, 60-82.
From ZAPOLYA
A SUNNY SHAFT BID I BEHOLD
1815 1817
A sunny shaft did I behold,
From sky to earth it slanted :
And poised therein a bird so bold-
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted !
1 Lord, have mercy
SAMUEL TAYLOR OOLEBIDGE
367
* He sank, he rate, he twinkled, he trolled
Within that shaft of sunny mist;
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,
All else of amethyst!
And thus he sang: "Adieu! adieu!
*° Love's dreams prove seldom true.
The blossoms they make no delay.
The sparkling: dew-diops will not btay.
Sweet month of May,
We must away ;
i* Far, far away f
Today! today!"
Act II, 1, 65-80
THE KNIGHT '8 TOMB
1817 (f) 1834
Where is the grave of 811 Arthur
O'Kellynt
Wheie may the gia\e of that good man
bel-
By the bide ot a spring, on the bieast oi
Hehellyn,
Under the twigs oi a young bneh tieef
5 The oak that in summei \ias sueet to hear,
And nistled itb lea\es in the fall of the
year,
And whistled and roaied in the winter
alone,
Js gone,— and the hneh in its stead is
grown —
The Knight's bones are dust,
10 And his good sword rust,—
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
TO NATURE
18*00 1836
It may indeed be phantasy, when I
Essay to draw from all created things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely
clings ,
And trace in leaves and floweis that round
me he
6 Lessons of love and earnest piety
So let it be; and if the wide world
rings
In mock of this belief, it bnngs
Nor fear, nor grief , nor vain perplexity
So will I build my altar in the fields,
10 And the blue sky my fretted dome
shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild
flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God! and Thou shalt not de-
spise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.
YOUTH AND AGE
18*3-3* 1828-32
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms i
Where Hope clung feeding, like" a
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope and Poesy,
5 Wheii I was young1
When I was young t— Ah, woful When '
Ah ' for the change 'twixt Now and Then f
This breathing house not built with hands,1
This body that does me grievous wrong,
10 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along-—
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
15 That fear no spite of wind or tide !
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived m't together.
Flmveis are lovely, love is flower-like,
Fi lend si iip IH a sheltering tree,
20 OT the joys, that came down showev
like,
Of friendship, love, and liberty,
Ere I was old f
1 was old? Ah, woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer heie1
21 O Youth' for yeais so many and sweet,
'Tis known that thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that thou art gone1
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd.—
30 And thou \teit aye a maskei bold'
What btiange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gonef
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size .
36 But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes'
Life is but thought : so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still
Dew-diops are the gems of morning,
40 But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
45 With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay 'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
» Bee * Corinthian*, 5 1.
368
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANT1GI8T8
WOBK WITHOUT HOPE
1825 1828
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave
their lair—
The bees are stirring— birds are on the
wing—
And Winter Numbering in the open air,
Weais on his smiling face a dream of
Spiing'
5 And T the while, the bole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, noi pan, nor build, nor
sing.
Yet well T ken the banks wheie ama-
ranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of
nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom
ye may,
10 For me ye bloom not ' Glide, rich streams,
away!
With lips unbiightcned, wreathless brow,
I stroll.
And would you learn the spells that
drowse my son!?
Work without Hope diaus nectar in a
And Hope without an object cannot live
THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO
18*8 1820
Of late, in one of- those most weary hours,
When life seems emptied oi all genial
powers,
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has
known
May bless his happy lot, I Hate alone;
5 And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or
grief.
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee,
I sate and cow Vd o'er my own vacancy'
And as I watch 'd the dull continuous
ache,
1° Which, all else slumbering, seemed alone to
wake;
() friend I1 long wont to notice yet conceal,
And soothe by silence what words cannot
heal,
T but half saw that quiet hand of thine
Place on my desk this exquisite design *
16 Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,
The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry!
An idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,
Framed in the silent poesy of form
* Urn Gillman Coleridge spent the later years
of hit life at the home of the Gillmans.
• Stotbard's engraving, The Garden of Boccaccio
Like flocks adown a newly-bathld steep
20 Emerging irom a mist, or like a stream
Of music soft thai not dispels the sleep,
But casts in happier moulds the slum-
berer's dream,
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might
The picture stole upon my inward sight
25 A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er
my chest,
As though an infant's finger touch 'd my
breast
And one bv one (I know not whence)
weie bi ought
All spirits of power that most had stin ?d
my thought
In selfless boyhood, on a new wnild tost
30 Of wondei, and in its nun fancies lost,
Or charm 'd my youth, that, kindled from
above,
Loved eie it loved, and sought a foiin for
love;
Oi lent a lustie to the eauiest scan
Of manhood, musing what and whence is
man f
35 Wild strain of scalds,1 that in the sea-
worn caves
Hehearscd their wai -spell to the winds
and WBAOS,
Or fateful hvmn of those piophetic
mauls, J
That call'd on Ilertha in deep finest
glades,
Or minstrel lay, that cheer 'd the hamn'h
feast;
40 Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and
pnest,
Judge, may oi, and many a guild in long-
array,
To high-church pacing on the gieat saint 's
da.\
And many a verse which to myself I saiijn,
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pan?
45 Of hopes, which in lamenting I lenewM
And last, a matron now, of sober mien,
Yet radiant still and with no eaithlv sheen,
Whom as a faery child my childhood *<>o'd
Even in my dawn of thought— Philosophy ,
50 Though then unconscious of herselt,
pardie,8
She bore no other name than Poesy,
And, like a gift from Heaven, in lifeful
glee,
That had but newly left a mother's kneo,
Prattled and play'd with bird and flower,
and stone,
6K An if with elfin playfellows well known,
And life reveal 'd to innocence alone.
1 None singers of heroic songs
1 The Scandinavian norns, or Bisters of Destiny
1 certainly (originally an oath, par Dtou, by Got)
HAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE 369
Thanks, gentle artist1 now 1 can defect y Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the
Thy fan creation with a inastenng eye, dawn,—
And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze Thine all delights, and e\eiy mube ib
btand, thine ,
60 Now wander thiough the Eden oi thy And nioie than all, the embrace and
hand, intertwine
Praibe the gieeii archeb, on the fountain ""' Oi all with all in gay and twinkling
cleai dance '
Sec fragment shadowb oi the ciobbing Mid godb oi Greece and warnors of ro-
deer , mance,
And with that serviceable nymph 1 stoop. See' Boccace hits, unfolding on his knees
The ciysta!, fiom its restless pool, to The new-found i oil of old Micoiiides,1
scoop Hut t mm his mantle's fold, and near the
65 I boo no longci ? I myself am thoic, heait,
Sit on the niound-swaid, and the banquet 10° Peeih ChiclV Holy Book of Love's sweet
hhaip bmait?J
Tis T. that s \\eej) that lute's hue-echoing
stunts, O all-enjoy ing and all-blending sage,
And gaze uiion the maid who gazing Long be it mine to con thy inazy page,
Miigs Where, half conceal M, the eye oi fancy
Or paubc and hstcn to the tinkling bell* views
70 Fiom the high lowci. and think that theie Fauns, nymphs, and wmpred saintb, all
she duells giacious to thy must1'
With ol«l Boccaccio's soul T stand po^sest,
And bicatlic an an like lite, that bwells 106 Still in thy garden let mo \\ateh their
mv chest punks,
The hi lightness of the wen hi. O Hum once And see in Diau's \est between the lanks
In*1* Of the trim vines, some maid that hali
And always tan, iaie land of coiutes\ ' believes
7r» O Floience' with the Tuscan fields and The vestal fires, of \\hich hei lover grieve*,
1»HS With that sly satyr peei>mg thiough the
And famous Aino, fed with all their leaves'
nils,
Thou 1) lightest stai of stni-biight Italy f
Rich, innate, ])opulnus,— all treasures PHANTOM OR FACT
thine,
The golden coin, the olive, and the vine A IM*LOGUF IN ™s*
80 Fan cities, a;alluiit mansions, castles old, J83° J834
And forests, where t>eside his leaf\ hold AUTHOR
The sullen boai hath heard the distant »,,* Ai 4tj i_j
]lnlll A lovely form there sate beside my bed,
And whets 'his tusks against the pnarled And "V* a feedm* ^^ lts
t hoi n bhed>
Palladian1 palace with itb stoned halls, £1t??er lo']T 88°4?UI? from ea[thly
w Fountains, wheie Love lies listening to R That 1 imnethe» the fancy might contiol,
their falls Tn\as my own spint newly come fiom
Haidens, where flint^s the bridge its airv „_ ne^veu,
' n ' Wooing its gentle way into my boul T
And Nature makes hor happv home with Bwt ahf *he change-It had not htm 'd,
man- and yet~
Where manv a *or*eo,m flower is duly AIas! that change how fain would I for-
fed " " £e*
With its own rill, on its own spangled That shrinking back, like one that had
bed mistook '
»0 And wreathes the marble nm, or leans itR 10 T»«* warv» ^andmnR. disavowing look*
head, i "Boccaccio clalmod fop blmaelf the rfonr of
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn having flrtit introduced the work** of Homer
to hlR countrymen "—Coleridge
i pertaining to wisdom (from Pallas Athena, 'The 4 more*
foddera of wisdom) • with difficulty
370
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
'Twas all another, feature, look, and
frame,
And still, methought, I knew, it was the
same!
FRIEND
Tins riddlin&r tale, to what does it belong!
Is't history? vision! or an idle song!
16 Or rather say at once, within what space
Of time this wild dibabtrous change took
place!
AUTHOR
Call it a moment 'b work (and such it
seems)
This talc's a fragment from the life of
dicama,
But bay, that years matur'd the silent
stnfe,
20 And 'tib a record from the dream of life.
EPITAPH
18JJ Ift.i4
Stop, Christian passer-by1— Stop, child
of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this
sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he.
O, lift one thought in prayer f or S T C ;
5 That he who many a year with toil of
breath
Found death in life, may here find life in
death '
Mercv for praise— to bo forgiven for fame
He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ Do
thou the same f
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN
1708 1R28
•CANTO II
"A little further, 0 my father, yet a little
furthei, and we shall come into the open
moonlight " Their road was through a
forest of fir-trees, at its entrance the trees
stood at distances from each other, and the
path was broad, and the moonlight and the
moonlight shadows reposed upon it, and
appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude.
But soon the path winded and became nar-
row, the sun at high noon sometimes
speckled, but never illumined it, and now
it was dark as a cavern
"It is dark, 0 my father'" said Enos,
"but the path under our feet is smooth
and soft, and we shall soon come out into
the open moonlight. "
"Lead on, my child!" Raid Gain, "guide
me, little child!91 And the innocent little
child clasped a finger of the hand which
had murdered the ughteous Abel, and he
guided his father. "The fir branches diip
B upon thee, my son.'9 "Tea, pleasantly,
father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring
thee the pitcher and the cake, and my body
is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels
are that feed on these fir-trees' they leap
10 from bough to bough, and the old squir-
rels play round their young ones in the
nest I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O
my fathei, that I might play with them,
but they leaped away from the branches,
16 even to the slender twigs did they leap,
and in a moment I beheld them on another
tree. Why, 0 my father, would they not
play with me! I would be good to them
as thou ait good to me* and I groaned to
so them even as thou groanebt when thou
givest me to eat, and when thou coverest
me at evening, and as often as I stand at
thy knee and thine eyes look at me M
Then Cam stopped, and stifling his groans
SB he sank to the earth, and the child Enos
btood in the darkness beside him.
And Cam lifted up Ins voice and cned
bitterly, and said, "The Mighty One that
persecuteth me is on this side and on that ,
ao he pursiieth my soul like the wind, like the
sand-blast he passe th thiough me, he is
around me even as the an f 0 that I might
be utteily no more! I desire to die— yea,
the things that never had life, neither move
SB they upon the earth— behold f they seem
precious to mine eyes 0 that a man might
five without the breath of his nostrils So
1 might abide in daikness, and blackness,
and an empty space T Yea, I would lie
40 down, I would not nse, neither would I
stir my limbs till I became as the rock in
the den of the lion, on which the young lion
reateth his head whilst he sleepeth. For
the torrent that roareth far off hath a
46 voice* and the clouds in heaven look ter-
ribly on me; the Mighty One who is against
me speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove ,
and in silence am I dried up 99 Then Enos
spake to his father, "Arise, my father,
BO arise; we are but a kttle way from the place
where I found the cake and the pitcher 99
And Cam said, "How knowest thout"
and the child answered— "Behold the bare
rocks are a few of thy strides distant from
66 the forest; and while even now thou wert
lifting up thy voice, I heard the echo.99
Then the child took hold of his father, as
if he wouldx raise him : and Cain being
faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLEBIDGE
371
and pressed himself, against the trunk of
a fir, and stood upright and followed the
child.
The path was dark till within three
strides9 length of its termination, when it
turned suddenly; the thick black trees
formed a low arch, and the moonlight ap-
peared for a moment like a dazzling por-
tal. Enos ran before and stood in the
open air, and when Cam, his father,
emerged from the darkness, the child was
affrighted For the mighty limbs of Cam
were wasted as by fire, hib hair was as the
matted cuils on the bison's forehead, and
so glared his fierce and sullen eye beneath :
and the black abundant locks on either
side, a rank and tangled mass, were btained
and scorched, as though the grasp of a burn-
ing iron hand had striven to rend them;
and hib countenance told in a btrange and
ternble language of agonies that had been,
and weie, and weie still to continue to be.
The scene around was desolate, as far
as the eye could reach it was desolate the
baie locks laced each other, and left a
long and wide interval of thin white sand.
You might wander on and look round and
round, and peep into the devices of the
rocks and discover nothing that acknowl-
edged the influence of the seasons. There
was no spnng, no summer, no autumn
and the winter's snow, that would ha\e been
lovely, tell not on these hot rocks and
scorching sands Never morning lark had
poised himself over this desert, but the
huge seipent often hissed there beneath
the talons of the vulture, and the vulture
sci earned, his wings imprisoned within the
coils of the serpent. The pointed and shat-
tered summits of the ridges of the rocks
made a rude mimicry of human concerns,
and seemed to prophesy mutely of things
that then were not; steeples, and battle-
ments, and ships with naked masts As
far from the wood as a boy might sling a
pebble of the brook, there was one rock
by itself at a small distance from the mam
ridge It had been precipitated there per-
haps by the groan which the Earth uttered
when our first father fell. Before you ap-
proached, it appeared to he flat on the
ground, but its base slanted from its point,
and between its point and the sands a tall
man might stand upright It was here that
Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and
to this place he led his father. But ere
they had reached the rock they beheld a
human shape • his back was towards them,
and they were advancing unperceived, when
they heard him smite his breast and cry
aloud, "Woe is me! woe is me! I must
never die again, and yet I am perishing
with thirst and hunger."
6 Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted
lightning on the heavy-sailing night-cloud,
became the face of Cam; but the child
Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his
father's lobe, and raised his eyes to his
10 father, and listening whispeied, "Ere yet
I could speak, I am suie, 0 my iathoi,
that I heard that voice Have not I often
said that I remembered a sweet voice f O
my father! this is it " and Cam ti em bled
is exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed,
but it was thin and querulous, like that of
a feeble slave in misery, who despans
altogether, yet cannot refiain himself from
weeping and lamentation. And, behold!
20 Euos glided forwaid, and creeping softly
round the base of the rock, stood befoie
the stranger, and looked up into his face.
And the Shape shucked, and turned inuncl,
and Cam behold him, that his limbs and his
86 iace nveie those of his brother Abel whom
he had killed1 And Cain stood like one
who struggles m his sleep because of the
exceeding tembleness ot a dieam
Thus as he stood in silence and daikness
M of soul, the Shape fell at his feet, and em-
braced his knees, and cried out with a bitter
outcry, "Thou eldest born of Adam, whom
Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to
torment me! I was feeding my flocks in
86 green pastilles by the side of quiet rivers,1
and thou killedst me, and now I am in
misery " Then Cain closed his eyes, and
hid them with his hands; and again he
opened his eyes, and looked aiound him,
40 and said to Enos, "What beholdest thouf
Didst thou hear a voice, my son'" "Yes
my father, I beheld a man in unclean gar-
ments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of
lamentation " Then Cam raised up the
46 Shape that *as like Abel, and said "The
Creator of our father, who had respect unto
thee, and unto thy offering, wherefore hath
he forsaken theef" Then the Shape
shrieked a second time, and rent his gar-
60 ment, and his naked skin was like the white
sands beneath their feet, and he shrieked
yet a third time, and threw himself on his
face upon the sand that was black with
the shadow of the rock, and Cam and Enos
66 sate beside him ; the child by his right hand,
and Cam by his left They were all three
under the rock, and within the shadow.
The Shape that was like Abel raised him-
P*alma, 23 2
872
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8TS
self up, and spake to the child, "I know
where the cold waters are, but I may not
drink, wherefore didst them then take away
my pit chert" But Cain said, "Didst thou
not find favor in the sight of the Lord thy 5
Qodf " The Shape answered, "The Lord
is God of the living only, the dead have
mother God." Then the child Enos lifted
up his eyes and prayed ; but Cam rejoiced
secretly in his heart "Wretched shall they 10
be all the days of their mortal life," ex-
claimed the Shape, "who sacrifice worthy
and acceptable sacrifices to the God of the
dead; but after death their toil ceaseth
Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the 15
God of the living, and cruel weii thou, O
my brother, who didst snatch me away from
his power and his dominion." Having ut-
tered these words, he rose suddenly, land
fled over the sands* and Cain said in his »
heart, "The curse of the Lord IB on me;
but who is the God of the dead!" and he
ran after the Shape, and the Shape fled
shrieking over the sands, and the sands
rose like white 'mists behind the steps of »
Cam, but the feet of him that was like
Abel disturbed not the sands He greatly
outrun Cam, and turning short, he wheeled
round, and came again to the rock where
they had been sitting, and where Enos still 80
stood; and the child caught hold of his
garment as he passed by, and he fell upon
the ground And Cain stopped, and be-
holding him not, said, "He has passed into
the dark woods," and he walked slowly 85
back to the rocks, and when he reached it
the child told him that he had caught hold
of his garment as he passed by, and that
the man had fallen upon the ground and
Cam once more sate beside him, and said, 40
"Abel, my brother, I would lament for
thee, but that the spirit within me is with-
ered, and burnt up with extreme agonv
Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy
pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou 45
lovedst, that thou tell me all that thou
knoweat Who is the God of the dead!
where doth he make his dwelling t what sac-
rifices are acceptable unto him t for I have
offered, but have not been received ; I have 60
prayed, and have not been heard , and how
can I be afflicted more than I already amt "
The Shape arose and answered, "0 that
thou hadst had pity on me as I will have
pity on thee. Follow me, Son of Adam I 65
and bring thy child with thee'"
And they three passed over the white
sands between the rocks, silent as the shad-
ows.
From BIOGBAPHIA LITEBABIA
1815-16 ' 1817
CHAPTER XIV
Occasion of the Lyrical Ballads, and the object!
originally proponed — Preface to the pocond edi-
tion—The ensuing controversy, ita rauacB and
acrimony — Philosophic definitions of a Poem
and Poetry with scholia
During the first year that Mr. Words-
worth and I were neighbors,1 our conversa-
tions turned frequently on the two cardinal
points of poetry, the power of exciting the
sympathy of the reader by a faithful ad-
herence to the truth of nature, and the
power of Riving the interest of novelty by
the modifying colors of imagination The
sudden charm, which accidents of light and
bhade, which moonlight or sunset diffused
over a known land familiar landscape, ap-
peared to represent the practicability of
combining both. These are the poetry of
nature. The thought suggested itself (to
which of us I do not recollect) that a scnes
of poems might be composed of two sorts
Tn the one, the incidents and agents were
to be, in pait at lea&t, supernal inal, and
the excellence aimed at was to con&ist in
the interesting of the affections by the dia-
matic truth of such emotions, as would
naturally accompany such situations, sup-
posing them real. And real m this sense
they have been to every human being who,
from whatever source of delusion, has at
any time believed himself under supernat-
ural agency. For the second class, subjects
were to be chosen from ordinary life; the
characters and incidents were to be wich
as will be found in every village and its
\icinity, where there is a meditative and
feeling mind to seek after them, or to
notice them, when they present themselves.
In this idea originated the plan of the
Lyrical Ballads; in which it was agreed,
that my endeavors should be directed to
persons and characters supernatural, or at
least romantic; yet so as to transfer from
our inward nature a human interest and a
semblance of truth sufficient to procure for
these shadows of imagination that willing
suspension of disbelief for the moment,
which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Words-
worth, on the other hand, was to propose
to himself as his object, to give the charm
of novelty to things of every day, and to
excite a feeling analogous to the super-
natural, by awakening the mind's attention
to the lethargy of custom, and directing it
to the loveliness and the wonders of the
* 1797.
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLERIDGE
373
world before us; an inexhaustible treas-
ure, but for which, in consequence of the
film of familial ity and selfish solicitude,
we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not,
and hearts that neither feel nor understand.1
With this view I wrote The Ancient
Manner, and was preparing, among other
poems, The Dark Ladie, and the Chnstabel,
in which I should have more nearly realized
my ideal, than T had done in my first at-
tempt But Mr Wordsworth's industry
had proved so much more successful, and
the number of his poems so much greater,
that my compositions, instead of forming
a balance, appeared rather an interpolation
of heterogeneous matter. Mr. Wordsworth
added two or three poems written in his
own character, in the impassioned, lofty,
and sustained diction, which is character-
istic of his genius In this form the Lyrical
Ballads were published , and were presented
by him, as an experiment, whether subjects,
which from their nature rejected the usual
ornaments and extia-colloquial style of
poems in geneial, might not be RO managed
in the language of ordinary life as to pro-
duce the pleasurable interest, which it is the
peculiar business of poetry to impart. To
the second edition he added a preface of
considerable length, in which, notwithstand-
ing some passages of apparently a contrary
import, he was understood to contend for
the extension of this style to poetiy of all
kinds, and to reject as vicious and inde-
fensible all phrases and forms of speech
that were not included in what he (unfor-
tunately, I think, adopting an equivocal
expression) called the language of real life
From this pieface, prefixed to poems in
which it was impossible to deny the presence
of original genius, however mistaken its
direction might be deemed, arose the whole
long-continued contio\ersy.* For from the
conjunction of perceived power with sup-
posed heresy, I explain the inveteracy and
in some instances, I grieve to say, the acri-
monious passions, with which the contro-
versy has been conducted by the assailants
Had Mr Wordsworth's poems been the
silly, the childish things, which they were
for a long time described as being, had
they been really distinguished from the
compositions ' of other poets merely by
meanness of language and inanity of
thought; had they indeed contained noth-
ing more than what is found in the parodies
1 Bee iMlafc, 6 9 10
• Orer Woraiwortb'B theory and practice of poetic
art
and pretended imitations of them, they
must have sunk at once, a dead weight, into
the slough of oblivion, and have dragged
the preface along with them But year
5 after year increased the number of Mr
Wordsworth's admireis They were found,
too, not in the lower classes of the reading
public, but chiefly among young men of
strong sensibility and meditative minds;
10 and their admiration (inflamed perhaps in
some degree by opposition) was distin-
guished by its intensity, I might almost say,
by its religious feivor These facts, and
the intellectual energy of the author, which
IB was more or less consciously felt, where
it was outwaidly and even boisterously
denied, meeting with sentiments of aversion
to his opinions, and of alarm at their con-
sequences, produced an eddy of criticism,
» which would of itself have borne up the
poems by the violence with which it whirled
them round and round. With many parts
of this preface in the sense attributed to
them and which the words undoubtedly seem
SB to authorize, I ne\er concurred, but on the
control y objected to them as erroneous in
principle, and as contiadictory (m appear-
ance at least) both to othei parts of the
same preface, and to the author's own
so practice in the greater part of the poems
themselves Mr Wordsworth in his recent
collection has, I find, degraded this prefa-
tory disquisition to the end of his second
volume, to be read or not at the reader's
86 choice But he has not, as far as I can
discover, announced any change in his
poetic creed. At all events, considering it
as the source of a controversy, in which 1
have been honored more than* I deserve by
40 the frequent conjunction of my name with
his, I think it expedient to declare once foi
all, in what points I coincide with the
opinions supported in that preface, and in
what points I altogether differ But in
45 order to render myself intelligible I must
previously, in as few words as possible,
explain my ideas, fiist, of a poem; and
secondly, of poetry itself, in kind and in
essence.
80 The office of philosophical disquisition
consists in just distinction , while it is the
privilege of the philosopher to preserve
himself constantly aware that distinction is
not division In order to obtain adequate
88 notions of any truth, we must intellectually
separate its distinguishable parts; and this
is the technical process of philosophy But
having 90 done, we must then restore them
in our conceptions to the unity, in which
874
NINETEENTH CENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
they actually coexist; and this is the result
of philosophy. A poem contains the same
elements as a prose composition ; the differ-
ence, therefore, must consist in a different
combination of them, in consequence of a 6
different object being proposed. According:
to the difference of the object will be the
difference of the combination. It is pos-
sible that the object may be merely to facil-
itate the recollection of any given facts or 10
observations by artificial arrangement; and
the composition will be a poem, merely be-
cause it is distinguished from prose by
metre, or by rhyme, or by both conjointly.
In this, the lowest sense, a man might at- is
tribute the name of a poem to the well-
known enumeration of the days in the
se\eral months1
Thirty dnva hath September,
April, June, and November. Ac.
20
and others of the same class and purpose
And as a particular pleasure is found in
anticipating the recurrence of sounds and
quantities, all compositions that have this 25
charm superadded, whatever be their eon-
tents, may be entitled poems.
So much for the superficial form. A
difference of object and contents supplies
an additional ground of distinction. The 30
immediate purpose may be the communica-
tion of truths, either of truth absolute and
demonstrable, as m works of science, or of
facts experienced and recorded, as in his-
tory. Pleasure, and that of the highest and 35
most permanent kind, may result from the
attainment of the end, but it is not itself
the immediate end In other works the com-
munication of pleasure may be the imme-
diate purpose; and though truth, either "40
noral or intellectual, ought to be the ulti-
mate end, yet this will distinguish the char-
acter of the author, not the class to which
the work belongs Blest indeed is that state
of society, in which the immediate purpose 46
would be baffled by the perversion of the'
proper ultimate end, in which no charm
of diction or imagery could exempt the
Bathyllus even of an Anacreon, or the
Alexis of Virgil, from disgust and aversion I BO
But the communication of pleasure may
be the immediate object of a work not met-
rically composed ; and that object may have
been in a high degree attained, as in novels
and romances. Would then the mere super- 66
addition of metre, with or without rhyme,
entitle these to the name of poems f The
answer is, that nothing can permanently
please, which does not contain in itself the
reason why it is so, and not otherwise. If
metre be superadded, all other parts must
be made consonant with it. They must be
such as to justify the perpetual and dis-
tinct attention to each part, which an exact
correspondent recurrence of accent and
sound are calculated to excite. The final
definition then, so deduced, may be thus
worded. A poem is that species of compo-
sition, which is opposed to works of science,
by proposing for its immediate object pleas-
ure, not truth , and from all other species
(having this object in common with it) it is
discriminated by proposing to itself such
delight from the whole, as is compatible
with a distinct gratification from each com-
ponent part.
Controversy is not seldom excited in con-
sequence of the disputants attaching each a
different meaning to the same word; and
in few instances has this been more sink-
ing, than in disputes concerning the present
subject. If a man chooses to call every
composition a poem, which is rhyme, or
measure, or both, I must leave his opinion
un controverted. The distinction is at least
competent to characterize the writer's in-
tention. If it were subjoined, that the whole
is likewise entertaining or affecting, as a
tale, or as a series of interesting reflections,
I of course admit this as another fit ingie-
dient of a poem, and an additional met it
But if the definition sought for be that of
a legitimate poem, I answer, it must be one
the parts of which mutually support and
explain each other; all in their proportion
harmonizing1 with, and supporting the pur-
pose and known influences of metrical
arrangement. The philosophic critics of all
ages coincide with the ultimate judgment
of all countries, in equally denying the
praises of a just poem, on the one hand,
to a series of striking lines or distiches,
each of which, absorbing the whole atten-
tion of the reader to itself, disjoins it from
its context, and makes it a separate whole,
instead of a harmonizing part; and on the
other hand, to an unsustained composition,
from which the reader collects rapidly the
general result unattracted by the component
parts. The reader should be earned for-
ward, not merely or chiefly by the mechan-
ical impulse of curiosity, or by a restless
desire to arrive at the final solution; but
by the pleamiiable activity of mind excited
by the attractions of the journey itself.
Like the motion of a serpent, which the
Egyptians made the emblem of intellectual
power; or like the path of sound through
SAMUEL TAYLOE COLEBIDGE
375
the air; at every step he pauses and half
recedes, and from the retrogressive move
ment collects the force which again carries
him onward. Pracipttandus eat liber spin-
tus,1 says Petronius Ai biter most happily. 5
The epithet, liber, here balances the preced-
ing verb; and it is not easy to conceive
more meaning condensed in fewer words
But if this should be admitted as a satis-
factory character of a poem, we have still 10
to seek for a definition of poetry The writ-
ings of Plato, and Bishop Taylor, land the
Theona Sacra of Burnet, furnish undeni-
able proofs that poetry of the highest kind
may exist without metre, and even without 15
the contradistinguishing objects of a poem
The first chapter of Isaiah (indeed a very
large portion of the whole book) is poetry
in the most emphatic sense , yet it would be
not less irrational than strange to assert, »
that pleasure, and not truth, was the imme-
diate object of the prophet In short, what-
ever specific import we attach to the word,
poetry, there will be found involved in it.
as a necessary consequence, that a poem of K
any length neither can be, nor ought to be,
all poetry 2 Yet if an harmonious whole is
to be produced, the remaining parts must
be preserved in keeping with the poetiy,
and this can be no othciwise effected than 80
by such a studied selection and artificial
arrangement as \\ill paitake of one, though
not a peculiar propeity of poetry And
this again can be no other than the propei t v
of exciting a more continuous and equal 85
attention than the language of prose aims
at, whether colloquial or wntten
My own conclusions on the nature of
poetiy, in the stnctest use of the word,
ha\e been in pait anticipated in the pre- 40
ceding disquisition on the fancy and imagi-
nation " What is poetry? is so nearly the
same question with, What is a poet* that
the answer to the one is involved in the
solution of the other For it is a distinc- «
tion resulting from the poetic genius itself,
which sustains and modifies the images,
thoughts, and emotions of the poet'b own
mind
The poet, described in ideal perfec- »
tion, brings the whole soul of roan into
activity, with the subordination of its facul-
ties to each other according to their relative
worth and dignity He diffuses a tone and
66
"The free ^>lrlt ought to be urged onward
•BMt!£'ill>fc0 Po'tto Principle, in which U set
forth the doctrine that there la no Huch thing
• MofftapSftfuffrarla, 4
spirit of unity, that blends, and (as it were)
fuses, each into each, by that synthetic and
magical power, to which I would exclusively
appropriate the name of imagination. This
power, first put in action by the will and
understanding, and retained under their
irremissive, though gentle and unnoticed,
control (laxis effertur haberns1) reveals it-
self in the balance or reconcilement of oppo-
site or discordant qualities of sameness,
with difference, of the general, with the
concrete, the idea, with the image, the
individual, with the representative, the
sense of novelty and freshness, with old
and familiar objects; a more than usual
state of emotion, with more than usual
order, judgment e\er awake and steady
self-possession, with enthusiasm and feeling
profound or vehement , and while it blends
and harmonizes the natural and the arti-
ficial, still subordinates art to nature; the
manner to the matter; and our admiration
of the poet to our sympathy with the
poetry. "Doubtless," as Sir John Davies
observes of the soul2 (and his words may
with slight alteration be applied, and even
more appi opnately, to the poetic imagina-
tion),—
Doubtless this could not lx», but that she turns
Bodies to spirit by sublimation strange,
As Hie eon ve its to fire the tblngs It burns
\a we oui food Into 0111 nature change
From their gross matter khe abstracts their forms.
And dravt** a kind of qulntesRcme from things
\\hich to her piopei nntuie sh<> tinnsfoims
To bear them light on her u>lt»Mial «ings
Thus doen she, *hen from individual states
She doth abstract the universal kinds
Which tlu'ii re clothed In divers names and fates
Hteal access through the senses to our mindb
Finally, good sense is the body of poetic
ireniUR, fancy its drapeiy. motion its life,
and imagination the soul that is eveiy where,
and in each , and forms all into one grace-
ful and intelligent whole.
CHAPTER XVII
Examination of the tenets peculiar to Mr Words
worth — Rustic life (above all, tow and rustic
life) especially unfavorable to the formation of
a human diction — The liest parts of language
the product of philosophers, not of clowns or
da— Poetry essentially Ideal and generic
language of Milton as much the language
of leal life, vea, incomparably more so than that
of the cottager
As far, then, as Mr. Wordsworth in his
preface contended, and most ably contended,
for a reformation in our poetic diction; as
1 Is borne along with loose reins
» In his poem, Of the tiwl of Man, 4, 45 B6.
876
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
far as he has evinced the truth of passion,
and the dramatic propriety of those figures
and metaphors in the original poets, which,
stripped of their justifying reasons and
converted into mere artifices of connection
or ornament, constitute the characteristic
falsity in the poetic style of the moderns,
and as far as he has, with equal acuteness
and clearness, pointed out the process by
which this change was effected, and the
resemblances between that state into which
the reader's mind is thrown by the pleasur-
able confusion of thought from an unaccus-
tomed tram of words and images, and that
state which is induced by the natural lan-
guage of impassioned feeling; he under-
took a useful task, and deserves all praise,
both for the attempt and for the execution.
The provocations to this remonstrance in
behalf of truth and nature were still of
perpetual recurrence before and after the
publication of this preface. I cannot like-
wise but add, that the comparison of such
poems of merit, as have been given to the
public within the last ten or twelve years,
with the majority of those produced pre-
viously to the appearance of that preface,
leave no doubt on my mind, that Mr
Wordsworth is fully justified in believing
his efforts to have been by no means in-
effectual Not only in the verses of those
who have professed their admiration of hi<»
genius, but even of those who have distin-
guished themselves by hostility to his theory,
and depreciation of his writings, are the
impressions of his principles plainly vis-
ible. It is possible that with these prin-
ciples others may have been blended, which
are not equally evident, and some which
are unsteady and subvertible from the
narrowness or imperfection of their basis
But it is more than possible that these
errors of defect or exaggeration, by kin-
dling and feeding the controversy, may
have conduced not only to the wider propa-
gation of the accompanying truths, but that,
by their frequent presentation to the mind
in an excited state, they may have won for
them a more permanent and practical result.
A man will borrow a part from his oppo-
nent the more easily, if he feels himself
justified in continuing to reject a part
While there remain important points in
which he can still feel himself in the right,
in which he still finds firm footing for con-
tinued resistance, he will gradually adopt
those opinions, which were the least remote
from his own convictions, as not less con-
gruous with his own theory than with that
which he reprobates. In like manner with
a kind of instinctive prudence, he will aban-
don by little and bttle his weakest posts,
till at length he seems to forget that they
5 had ever belonged to him, or affects to con-
sider them at most as accidental and "petty
annexments," the removal of which leaves
the citadel unhurt and unendangered.
My own differences from certain sup-
10 posed parts of Mr. Wordsworth's theory
ground themselves on the assumption that
his words had been rightly interpreted, as
purporting that the proper diction for
poetry in general consists altogether in a
16 language taken, with due exceptions, from
the mouths of men in real life, a language
which actually constitutes the natural con-
versation of men under the influence of nat-
ural feelings My objection is, first, that in
ao any sense this rule is applicable only to
certain classes of poetry, secondly, that
even to these classes it is not applicable,
except in such a sense, as hath never by
any one (as far as 1 know or ha\e lead)
26 been denied or doubted , and lastly, that as
far as, and in that degree in which it is
practicable, it is yet, as a rule, useless, if
not injurious, and, therefore, either need
not or ought not to be practised The poet
80 informs his reader that he had generally
chosen low and rustic life; but not as low
and rustic, or in order to repeat that pleas-
ure of doubtful moral effect, which persons
of elevated rank and of superior refinement
86 oftentimes derive from a happy imitation
of the rude unpolished manners and dis-
course of their inferiors. For the pleasuie
so denved may bo traced to three exciting
causes The first is the naturalness, in fact,
40 of the things represented. The second is
the apparent naturalness of the representa-
tion, as raised and qualified by an imper-
ceptible infusion of the author's own
knowledge and talent, which infusion does,
46 indeed, constitute it an imitation as distin-
guished from a mere copy The third cause
may be found in the reader's conscious
feeling of his superioiity, awakened by the
contrast presented to him, even as for the
60 same purpose the kings and great barons
of yore retained sometimes actual clowns
and fools but more frequently shrewd and
witty fellows in that character. These, how-
ever, were not Mr Wordsworth's objects
66 He chose low and rustic life, "because in
that condition the essential passions of the
heart find a better soil, in which they can
attain their maturity, are less under re-
straint, and speak a plainer and more em-
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
377
phatic language; because in that condition
of life our elementary feelings coexist in a
state of greater simplicity, and consequently
may be more accurately contemplated, and
more forcibly communicated; because the B
manners of rural life germinate from those
elementary feelings ; and from the necessary
character of ruial occupations are more
oawly comprehended, and are more durable;
land, lastly, because in that condition the 10
passions of men are incorporated with the
beautiful and permanent forms of nature "
Now it is clear to me that in the most
interesting of the poems, in which the
author is more or less dramatic, as The 16
Brothers, Michael, Euth, The Mad Mother,1
etc , the persons introduced are by no means
taken from low or rustic life in the common
acceptation of those words, and it is not
less clear that the sentiments and language, 20
as far as they can be conceived to have been
really transteired from the minds and con-
verbation of such persons, are attributable
to causes and circumstances not necessarily
connected with "their occupations and 16
abode " The thoughts, feelings, language,
and manners of the shepherd-farmers in the
vales of Cumberland and Westmoreland, as
far as they are actually adopted in those
poems, may be accounted for from causes, 80
which will and do pioduce the same results
in every state of life, whether in town or
count ry As the two principal I rank that
independence which raises ft man above
servitude, or dailv toil for the profit of 86
others, yet not above the necessity of in-
dustry and a frugal simplicity of domestic
life,* and the accompanying unambitious,
but solid and religious, education which has
rendered lew books familiar but the Bible 40
and the liturgy or hymn book To this
latter cause, indeed, which is so fai acci-
dental that it is the blessing of particulai
countries and a particular age, not the
product of particular places or employ- 46
ments, the poet owes the show of prob-
ability, that his personages mi^ht really
feel, think, and talk with any tolerable re-
semblance to his representation It is an
excellent remark of Dr. Henry More's, that 60
"a man of confined education, but of good
parts, by constant reading of the Bible,
will naturally form a more winning and
commanding rhetoric than those that are
learned, the intermixture of tongues and of 66
artificial phrases debasing their blyle "•*
It is, moreover, to be considered that to
i In later edition* entitled Her Bye* ore Wild
* Enthutia**** Tnumphatu*, sec. 86.
the formation of healthy feelings, and a
reflecting mind, negations involve impedi-
menta not less formidable than sophistica-
tion and vicious intermixture I am con-
vinced that for the human soul to prosper
in rustic life a certain vantage-ground is
prerequisite. It is not every man that is
likely to be improved by a country life or
by country labors Education, or original
sensibility, or both, must pre-exist, if the
changes, forms, and incidents of nature are
to prove a sufficient stimulant And where
these are not sufficient, the mind contracts
and hardens by want of stimulants, and
the man becomes selfish, sensual, gross, and
hard-hearted Let the management of the
Poor Laws in Liverpool, Manchester, or
Bristol be compared with the ordinary dis-
pensation of the poor rates1 in agricultural
villages, where the farmers are the over-
seers and guardians of the poor If mv
own experience have not been particularly
unfortunate, as well as that of the many
i expectable country clergymen with whom 1
have conversed on the subject, the result
would engender more than skepticism con-
cerning the desirable influences of low and
rustic life in and for itself Whatever may
be concluded on the other side, from the
stronger local attachments and enterprising
spirit of the Swiss, and other mountaineers,
applies to a particular mode of pastoral
life, under forms of property that permit
and beget manners truly republican, not to
rustic life m general, or to the absence of
artificial cultivation On the contrary, the
mountaineers, whose manners have been so
often eulogized, are in general better edu-
cated and greater readers than men of equal
rank elsewheie But where this is not the
case, as among the peasantry of North
Wales, the ancient mountains, with all their
terrors and all their glories, are pictures to
the blind, and music to the deaf.
I should not have entered so much into
detail upon this passage, but here seems to
be the point to which all the lines of differ-
ence converge as to their source and centre—
1 mean, as far as, and in whatever respect,
my poetic creed does differ from the doc-
trines promulgated in this preface I adopt
with full faith the principle of Aristotle,
that poetry, as poetry, is essentially ideal,2
that it avoids and excludes all accident,
that its apparent individualities of rank,
character, or occupation must be represent-
ative of a class; and that the persons of
* Tarn levied for the relief of the poor.
1 See Poetics, 9, 1-4.
378
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
poetry must be clothed with generic attri-
butes, with the common attributes of the'
class; not with such as one gifted individual
might possibly possess, but such as from hib
situation it is most probable before-hand
that he would possess. If my premises are
right and my deductions legitimate, it fol-
lows that there can be no poetic medium
between the swams of Theocritus and those
of an imaginary golden age 1
The characters of the vicar and the
shepherd-manner in the poem of The
Brothers, and that of the shepherd of
Green-head Ghyil2 in the Michael, have all
the verisimilitude and representative quality
that the purposes of poetry can require
They are persons of a known and abiding
class, and their manners and sentiments the
natural product of circumstances common
to the class. Take Michael for instance .
An old man, stout of heart and strong of limb.
HiR bodih frame had been from vouth to age
Of an unusual (strength his mind WEB keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And In his shepherd a calling be wat. prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men
Hence he had learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blantB of eveiv tono and oftentimes
When others heeded not. he heard the South
Make subten aneous music, like the noise
Of bnaplpers on dibtant Highland hills
The hhepherd, at such warning, of hb» flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would sar.
"The winds aie now devising work for me '"
And trulj, at all times, the storm, that dilves
The ti livelier to n shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains he had been alone
Amid the heait of many thousand mists,
That came to him and left him on the heights,
So lived he, until his eightieth year was past
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the gieen valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the nhepherd's thoughts
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air , the hills, which he so oft
Had climbed with vigorous steps , which had Im
pressed
So manv incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage. Joy or fear
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he bad saved.
Had fed onsbplfered. linking to such arts.
So grateful in themselves, the certaintv
Of honorable gain these fields, these hills
Which were his living Being, even more
Than his own blood — what could they less4 had
laid
Strong bold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there Is In life itself*
On the other hand, in the poems which
are pitched in a lower key, as the Harry
GiU, and The Idiot Boy, etc., the feelings
are those of human nature in general;
though the poet has judiciously laid the
scene in the country, in order to place him-
self in the vicinity of interesting images,
without the necessity of ascribing a senti-
*The swains of The- * valley
ocrltns were taken *11 42-77
from real life
mental perception of their beauty to the
persons of his drama. In The Idiot Boy,
indeed, the mother's character is not so
much the real and native product of a
5 "situation where the essential passions of
the heart find a better soil, in which they
can attain their maturity and speak a
plainer and more emphatic language," as
it is an impersonation of an instinct aban-
10 doned by judgment. Hence the two follow-
ing- charges seems to me not wholly ground-
lesb, at least, they are the only plausible
objections which 1 have heard to that fine
poem. The one is, that the author has not,
15 in the poem itself, taken sufficient care to
preclude from the reader's fancy the dis-
gusting images of oidmary, morbid idiocy,
which yet it was by no means his intention
to represent. He was even by the "bun,
20 burr, burr,"1 uncounteractcd by any preced-
ing description of the boy's beauty, assisted
in recalling them The other is, that the
idiocy of the boy is so evenly balanced by
the folly of the mother, as to present to the
tf general reader rather a laughable burlesque
on the blindness of anile2 dotage, than an
analytic display of maternal affection in its
ordinary workings
In The Thorn, the poet himself acknowl-
10 edges in a note the necessity of an intro-
ductoiy poem, in which he should have
portrayed the charactei of the person from
whom the wordb of the poem are supposed
to proceed a superstitious man moderatelv
86 imaginative, of slow faculties and deep
feelings, "a captain of a small trading
vessel, for example, who, being past the
middle age of life, had retired upon an
annuity, or small independent income, to
40 some village or country town of which he
was not a native, or in which he had not
been accustomed to live Such men having
nothing to do become credulous and talka-
tive from indolence." But in a poem, still
46 more in a lyric poem (and the Nurse in
Romeo and Juliet alone prevents me from
extendmg the remark even to dramatic
poetry, if indeed even the Nurse can be
deemed altogether a case in point) it is not
00 possible to imitate truly a dull and garru-
lous discourser, without repeating the effects
of dullness and garrulity. However this
may be, I dare assert that the parts (and
these form the far larger portion of the
66 whole) which might as well or still better
have proceeded from the poet's own iraagi-
» Johnnie, the Idiot
boy, ipoke with a
DJIT,— 4 e. « trill-
ed pronunciation of
the letter r See
Tkg Idiot Boy, 97.
1 old-womanlib
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
379
nation, and • have been spoken m bis own
character, are those which have given, and
which will continue to give, universal de-
light, and that the passages exclusively
appropriate to the supposed narrator, such
as the last couplet of the third stanza, the
seven last lines of the tenth, and the five
following stanzas, with the exception of the
four admirable hues at the commencement
of the fourteenth, are felt by many un-
prejudiced and unsophisticated hearts, as
sudden and unpleasant sinkings from the
height to which the poet had previously
lifted them, and to which he again re-
elevates both himself and his reader
If then I am compelled to doubt the
theory, by which the choice oi characters
vi as to be directed, not only a pnon, from
grounds of reason, but both from the few
instances in which the poet himself need be
supposed to ha\e been governed by it, and
from the comparative inferiority of these
instances , still more must I hesitate in my
assent to the sentence which immediately
follows the foimer citation, and which I
can neither admit las particular fact, nor as
geneial rule "The language, too, of these
men has been adopted (purified indeed from
TV hat appeal to be its real defects, from all
lasting and lational causes of dislike ot dis-
gust) because such men houily communi-
cate with the best objects fiom which the
best pait of language is originally denved,
and because, from their rank in society and
the sameness and narrow circlet of their
intercourse, being less under the action of
social vanity, they convey their feelings and
notions in simple and unelaborated expres-
sions " To this T ieplv that a rustic's
language, purified fiom all provincialism
and gios&ness, and so far reconstructed as
to be made consistent with the rules of
grammar (\\lnch are in essence no other
than the laws of universal logic, applied to
psychological niatenals) will not differ from
the language of any other man of common
sense, however learned or refined he may be,
except as far as the notions, which the
rustic has to convey, are fewer and more
indiscriminate This will become still clearer,
if we add the consideration (equally impor-
tant though less obvious) that the rustic,
from the more imperfect development of
his faculties, and from the lower state of
their cultivation, aims almost solely to con-
vey insulated facts, either those of his
scanty experience or his traditional belief;
while the educated man chiefly seeks to dis-
cover and express those connections of
things, or those relative bearings of fact to
fact, from which some more or less general
law is deducible. For facts aie valuable to
a wise man, chiefly as they lead to the dis-
6 covery of the indwelling law, which IB the
true being of things, the sole solution of their
modes of existence, and in the knowledge of
which consists our dignity and our powei
As little can I agree with the asscr-
10 tion that from the objects with which tli«'
rustic hourly communicates, the best pait
of language ic formed. For first, if to
communicate with an object implies such
an acquaintance with it as renders it
IB capable of being discnmmately reflected on,
the distinct knowledge of an uneducated
rustic would furnish a very scanty vocabu-
lary. The few thmgs and modes of action
lequisite for his bodily conveniences would
» alone be individualized, while all the rest
of natuie would be expressed by a small
number of confused general terms Sec-
ondly, 1 deny that the words and combina-
tions of words denxed from the objects
ff with which the rustic is familiar, whether
with distinct or confused knowledge, can
be justly said to form the best pait of
language. It is moic than probable that
many classes of the biute cieation possess
SO discriminating sounds, b> ^hich they can
convey to each othei notices of such objects
as concern then food, sheltei, 01 safety
Yet we hesitate to call the aggiegate of such
sounds a language, otherwise than meta-
86 phoncally The best part of human lan-
guage, properly so called, is denved from
reflection on the acts of the mind itself
It is formed by a voluntary appropriation
of fixed symbols to internal acts, to proc-
40 esses and results of imagination, the greatei
part of which ha\e no place in the con-
sciousness of uneducated man, though in
civilized society, by imitation and passm*
lemenibiance of whet they heai from then
tf religious instructors and other superiors,
the most uneducated shaie in the hardest
which they neither sowed nor reaped If
the history of the phrases in hourly cur-
rency among our peasants were traced, a
» person not previously aware of the fact
would be surprised at finding so large a
number which three 01 four centuries ago
were the exclusive property of the univer-
sities and the schools, and at the commence-
86 ment of the Reformation had been trans-
ferred from the school to the pulpit, and
thus gradually passed into common life.
The extreme difficulty, and often the im-
possibility, of finding words for the sim-
880
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
plest moral and intellectual processes of the
languages of uncivilized tribes has proved
perhaps the weightiest obstacle to the prog-
ress of our most zealous and adroit mission-
aries. Yet these tribes are surrounded by
the same nature as our peasants are, but
in still more impressive forms; and they
are, moreover, obliged to particularize many
more of them. When, therefore, Mr. Words-
worth adds, "accordingly, such a language"
(meaning, as before, the language of rustic
life purified from provincialism) "arising
out of repeated experience and regular feel-
ings, is a more permanent, and a far more
philosophical language, than that which is
frequently substituted for it by poets, who
think that they are conferring honor upon
themselves and their art in proportion as
they indulge in arbitrary and capricious
habits of expiesbion," it may be answered
that the language which he has in view can
be attributed to rustics with no greater
right than the style of Hooker or Bacon
to Tom Brown or Sir Roger L'Ebtrange.1
Doubtless, if what is peculiar to each were
omitted in each, the result must needs be
the same. Further, that the poet who u&es
an illogical diction, or a style fitted to ex-
cite only the low and changeable pleafeuie
of wonder by means of groundless novelty,
substitutes a language of folly and vanity,
not for that of the rustic, but for that of
good sense and natural feeling
Here let me be permitted to remind the
reader that the positions which I contro-
vert are contained in the sentence*— "a
selection of the real language of men;"—
"the language of these men" (that is, men
in low and rustic life) "has been adopted;
I have proposed to myself to imitate, and,
as far as is possible, to adopt the very
language of men." "Between the language
of prose and that of metrical composition,
there neither is nor can be any essential
difference." It is against these exclusively
that my opposition is directed.
I object, in the very first instance, to an
equivocation in the use of the word "real."
Every man's language vanes according to
the extent of his kndwledge, the activity of
his faculties, and the depth or quicknesb
of his feelings. Every man's language has,
first, its individualities; secondly, the com-
mon properties of the class to which he
belongs; and thirdly, words and phrases of
universal use. The language of Hooker,
1 Brown's writings are almost entirely valueless
Imitations of the ancient writer** ; I/Estrange'fi
writings are noted for their vulgarity.
Bacon, Bishop Taylor, and Burke differs
from the common language of the learned
class only by the superior number and nov-
elty of the thoughts and relations which
5 they had to convey. The language of
Algernon Sidney differs not at all from
that which every well-educated gentleman
would wish to write, and (with due allow-
ances for the undehberateness, and less
10 connected train, of thinking natural and
proper to conveisation) such as he would
wish to talk. Neither one nor the other
differ half as much from the general lan-
guage of cultivated society, as the language
15 of Mr. Wordsworth's homeliest composition
differs from that of a common peasant.
For "real," therefore, we must substitute
ordinary, or lingua communis. And this,
we havp proved, is no more to be found in
BO the phraseology of low and rustic life than
in that of any other class. Omit the pecu-
liarities of each, and the result of course
must be common to all And assuredly the
omissions and changes to be made in the
V language of lustics, before it could be trans-
ferred to any species of poem, except the
drama or other professed imitation, are at
least as numeioub and weighty as would be
required in adapting to the same purpose
so the oidmary language of tradesmen or
manufacturers. Not to mention that the
language so highly extolled by Mr. Words-
worth vaneb in every county, nay, in e\ery
Milage, accoidmg to the accidental character
85 of the Clergyman, the existence or non-
existence of schools, or even, perhaps, as
the exciseman, publican, and barber happen
to be, or not to be, zealous politicians and
readers of the weekly newspaper pro bono
40 pubhco. Antenor to cultivation the lingua
communis of every country, as Dante has
well observed,1 exists everywhere in parts,
and nowhere as a whole.
Neither is the case rendered at all more
IB tennble by the addition of the words, "in
a state of excitement. " For the nature of a
man's words, where he in strongly affected
by Jov> gnef, or anger, must necessarily
depend on the number and quality of the
10 general truths, conceptions, and images, and
of the words expressing them, with which
his mind had been previously stored. For
the property of passion is not to create,
but to net in increased activity. At least,
B whatever new connections of thoughts or
images, or (which is, equally, if not more
than equally, the appropriate effect of
» See De Vulpari Eloquentta (Voneentno 7erwot>
lor Speech), lv IB.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
381
strong excitement) whatever generalizations
of truth or experience the heat of passion
may produce, yet the terms of their convey-
ance must have pre-existed in his former
conversations, and are only collected and 5
crowded together by the unusual stimula-
tion. It is indeed very possible to adopt in
a poem the unmeaning repetitions, habitual
phrases, and other blank counters, which
an unfurnished or confused understanding 10
interposes at short intervals, in order to
keep hold of his subject, which is still
slipping from him, and to gne him time
for recollection ; or, in mere aid of vacancy,
as in the scanty companies of a country 16
stage the same player pops backwards and
forwards, in order to prevent the appear-
ance of empty spaces, in the processions of
Macbeth, or Henry VIII. But what assist-
ance to the poet, or ornament to the poem, »
these can supply, I am at a loss to conjec-
ture. Nothing assuredly can differ either in
origin or in mode more widely fioni the
apparent tautologies of intense and tuibu-
lent feeling, in which the pashion is gt eater 25
and of longer endurance than to be ex-
hausted or satisfied by a single repi emula-
tion of the image or incident exciting it
Such repetitions 1 admit to be a beauty of
the highest kind, as illustrated by Mr. 80
Wordsworth himself from the song of
Deborah. "At lie* feet he bowed, he fell,
he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell'
where he bowed, there he fell down dead."1
85
From CHAPTER XVIII
• •••••
I conclude, therefore, that the attempt is
impracticable, and that, weie it not mi-
practicable, it would still be useless For «
the \eiy power of making the selection
implies 'the previous possession of the lan-
guage selected Or where can the poet have
Inedf And by what rules could he direct
his choice, which would not have enabled «
him to select and anange his woids by the
light of his own judgment T We do not
adopt the language of a class by the mere
adoption of such words exclusively as thai
class would use, or at least understand ; but BO
likewise by following the order in which
the words of such men aie wont to succeed
each other. Now this older, in the intei-
course of uneducated men, is distinguished
from the diction of their superiors in a
knowledge and power, by the greater dis-
junction and separation in the component
parts of that, whatever it be, which they
wish to communicate. There is a want of
that prospectiveness of mind, that surview,
which enables a man to foresee the whole of
what he is to convey, appertaining to any
one point , and by this means so to subordi-
nate and arrange the different parts accord-
ing to their relative importance, as to convey
it at once, and as an organized whole.
Now I will take the first stanza, on which
I have chanced to open, in the Lyrical
Ballads. It is one of the most simple And
the least peculiar in its language
In distant countries have I been.
And vet I have not often HOOD
A healthy man, a man full giown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
Hut such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, 1 met ,
Along the broad highway he came,
Ills cheeks with tears weie wet
Hturdv he neemed, though he wah sad ,
And In his arms a lamb he had *
The words heie aie doubtless such as are
cuirent in all ranks of life, and of course
not less so in the hamlet and cottage than in
the shop, manufactory, college, 01 palace.
But is this the order in which the rustic
would have placed the words? 1 am griev-
ously deceived, if the following leas compact
mode of commencing the same tale be not a
far more faithful copy. "I have been in a
manv parts, far and near, and I don't know
that I ever saw before a man crying b>
himself in the public road , a grown man I
mean, that was neither sick nor hurt," etc ,
etc. But when I tuni to the following
stanza in The Thorn •
At all times of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes ,
And she is known to ever} star,
And every wind that blown
And theie, beside the thorn, she aits.
When the blue day-light's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind** on the hill,
Or frostv ail is keen and still.
And to herself she cries,
"Oh misery ' Oh misery '
Oh woe is me * Ob misery fff
and compare this with the language of ordi-
nary men, or with that which I can conceive
at all likely to proceed, in real life, from
such a narrator as is supposed in the nate
to the poem— compare it either in the suc-
cession of the images or of the sentences— I
am reminded of the sublime prayer and
hymn of praise which Milton, in opposition
to an established liturgy, presents as a fair
specimen of common extempoiary devotion,
and such as we might expect to hear from
e\ery self -inspired minister of a conventicle!2
* Tfte La*t of the Flocfr, Mft.
•See Paradite Lost, B, 152-208, a No, XHono-
Uatles, 16
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8TS
And I reflect with delight, how little a mere
theory, though of his own workmanship,
interferes with the processes of genuine
imagination in a man of true poetic genius,
who possesses, as Mr. Wordsworth, if ever 5
man did, most assuredly does possess,
The Vision and tbe Faculty divine1
CHAPTER XXII
The characteristic defects of Wordsworth*!
poetry, with the principles from which the Judg-
ment that they are defects, in deduced — Their
proportion to the beauties — For the greatest part
characterise of his theory only.
If Mr Wordsworth have set forth prin-
ciples of poetry which his arguments are 10
insufficient to support, let him and those
who have adopted his sentiments be set right
by the confutation of those arguments, and
by the substitution of more philosophical
principles And still let the due credit be is
given to the portion and importance of the
truths which are blended with his theory;
truths, the too exclusive attention to which
had occasioned its errors by tempting him
to carry those truths beyond their proper eo
limits "if his mistaken theory have at all
influenced his poetic compositions, let the
effects be pointed out, and the instances
given. But let it likewise be shown, how far
the influence has acted , whether diffusively, 25
or only by starts; whether the number and
importance of the poems and passages thus
infected be great or trifling1 compared with
the sound portion , and lastly, whether they
are inwoven into the texture of his works, 80
or are loose and separable. The result of
such a trial would evince beyond a doubt,
what it is high time to announce decisively
and aloud, that the supposed characteristics
of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry, whether ad- «
mired or reprobated , whether they are sim-
plicity or Rimpleuesfe , faithful adherence to
essential nature, or wilful selections from
human nature of its meanest forms and
under the leant attractive associations; are 40
os little the real characteristics of his poetry
at large, as of his genius and the constitution
of his mind.
In a comparatively small number of
poems, he chose to try an experiment; and 45
this experiment we will suppose to have
failed. Yet even in these poems it is impos-
sible not to perceive that the natural tend-
ency of the poet's mind is to great objects
and elevated conceptions. The poem entitled BO
Fidelity is for the greater part written in
language as unraised and naked as any per-
1 The KirrvrnioH, I, 79
haps in the two volumes. Yet take the
following stanza and compare it with the
preceding stanzas of the same poem.
There sometimes doth a leaping flab
i a lonely <
Send through the tarn L „
The crags repeat the raven'a croak,
In symphony austere ,
Thither the rainbow cornea — the cloud —
And mlata that spread the flying shroud ,
And sun-beams , and the sounding blast.
That. If It could, would hurry past ;
But that enormous harrier holuH It fait
Or compare the four last lines of the con-
cluding stanza with the former half
Yes9 proof was plain that, since the day
On which the traveller thus had died,
The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his manter's side
How itourlftA'd thfrc through such long time
Ht frfiowA, fr/io pate that lore ftubltme
And- gave that Htretipth of letting, great
Above all human fHtimatr!
Can any candid and intelligent mind hesi-
tate in determining which of these best
represents the tendency and native character
of the poet's genius? Will be not decide
that the one was wntten because the poet
would HO wnte, and the other because he
could not so entirely repress the force and
giandeur of his mind, but that he must in
wmie part or other of every composition
wnte otherwise! In short, that his only dis-
ease is the being out of his element , like the
swan, that, having amused himself, for a
while, with crushing the weeds on the n\ei 's
bank, soon returns to his own majestic mo\e-
inents on its reflecting and sustaining sur-
face Let it be observed that I am heie
supposing the imagined judge, to whom I
appeal, to have already decided against the
poet's theory, as far as it is different from
the principles of the art, generally acknowl-
edged.
I cannot here enter into a detailed exami-
nation of Mr Wordsworth's works; but I
will attempt to give the mam results of my
own judgment, after an acquaintance of
many years, and repeated perusals And
though to appreciate the defects of a great
mind it is necessary to understand previously
its characteristic excellences, yet T have al-
ready expressed myself with sufficient ful-
ness to preclude most of the ill effects that
might arise from my pursuing a contrary
arrangement I will therefoie commence
with what I deem the prominent defects of
his poems hitherto published.
The first characteristic, though only occa-
sional defect, which I appear to myself tn
find in these poems is the inconstancy of the
style. Under this name I refer to the sudden
and unprepared transitions from linen or
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
sentences of peculiar felicity (at all events
striking and original) to a style, not only un-
impassioned but undistinguished. He sinks
too often and too abruptly to that style
which I should place in the second division 5
of language, dividing- it into the three spe-
cies; first, that which is peculiar to poetry,
second, that which is only proper in prose ,
and third, the neutral or common to both
There have been works, wich as Cowley's 10
Essay on Cromwell, in which prose and verse
are intermixed (not as in the Consolation of
Boetius, or the Argents of Barclay, by the
insertion of poems supposed to have been
spoken or composed on occasions previously is
related in prose, but) the poet passing fiom
one to the other, as the nature of the
thoughts or his own feelings dictated Yet
this mode of composition does not satisfy a
cultivated taste There is something un- 20
pleasant in the being thus obliged to altei-
nate states of feeling so dissimilar, and this
too in a species of writing, the pleasure from
which is in part derived from the piepara-
tion and previous expectation of the readei 25
A portion of that awkwardness is felt which
hangs upon the introduction of songs in our
modern comic opeias, and to prevent which
the judicious Metastasio (as to whose exqui-
site taste there can be no hesitation, what- g)
ever doubts may be entertained as to his
poetic genius) uniformly placed the aria1
at the end of the scene, at the same time that
he almost always raises and impassions the
style of the recitative immediately preced- 35
ing. Even in real life, the difference is great
and evident between words used as the arbi-
trary marks of thought, our smooth market-
corn of intercourse, with the image and
superscription worn out by currency, and 40
those which convey pictures either borrowed
from one outward object to enliven and par-
ticularize some other, or used allegoncally
to body forth the inwuid state of the person
speaking; or such as are at least the expo- 45
nents of his peculiar tum and unusual extent
of faculty. So much so indeed, that in the
social circles of pnvate life we often find a
striking use of the latter put a stop to the
general flow of conversation, and by the ex- BO
citement arising from concentered attention
produce a sort of damp and interruption for
some minutes after. But in the perusal of
works of literary art, we prepare ourselves
for such language , and the business of the 6S
writer, like that of a painter whose subject
requires unusual splendor and prominence,
is so to raise the lower and neutral tints, that
» An elaborate melody rang bj a single voice.
what in a different style would be the com-
manding colors, are here used as the means
of that gentle degradation requisite in order
to produce the effect of a whole Where this
is not achieved in a poem, the metre merely
reminds the reader of his claims in order to
disappoint them , and where this defect oc-
curs frequently, his feelings are alternately
staitled by anticlimax and hyperchmax
I refer the reader to the exquisite stanzas
cited for -another purpose1 from The Blind
Highland Boy, and then annex, as being in
my opinion instances of this (tmhaimony in
style, the two following
And one. the rarest, wan a shell
Which he, poor child, had studied well
The Hhell of a green turtle, thin
And hollow , — you might sit therein.
It was ho wide, and 6>ep
Our Highland Boy oft visited
The house which held this price , and, led
Ily choice or chance, did thither come
One day, when no one was at home,
And found the door uiibarted
Or page 172, vol I 2
'Tis gone — forgotten — let »»r do
JSj/ be*t There was a smile cir two —
I can remember them, I se<»
The smiles worth all the world to me
Dear Baby, I must lav thee down
Thou troubles! me with strange alarms ,
Hmiles hast thou, sweet ones of thine own ;
I < annot keep thoe in my arms ,
For the* confound me oft it i*.
1 have forgot those smiles of his '
Or page 260, vol I*
Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest,
And though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken lark ' thou would st be loth
To be such a traveller as 1
Happy, happy liver *
With a soul an strong an a mountain nvrr
Pouring out pnii*e to th' Almighty Gircr,
Joy and Jollity be with us both '
Hearing thee or else home, other,
As merry a brother
I on the earth will go plodding on
By myself cheerfully till the day is done
The incongruity which I appear to find in
this passage, is that of the two noble lines in
italics with the preceding and following. So
vol II, page 30 4
Close by a pond upon the further side,
He stood alone , a minute's space I guess,
I watch'd him, he continuing motionless
To the pool s further margin then I drew ,
He being all the while before me full in view. *
Compare this with the repetition of the
same image, in the next stanza but two
1 To illustrate Wordsworth's style and diction in
simple narratUe — Biogiaphfo Utcraria, 20.
1 The Emigrant Mother
' To a Ftkylarl (p 297)
• Resolution and Independence (p 28.1)
884
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And still Ml drew near with jrentle pace,
Beilde the little pond or moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call ,
And moveth altogether, if it move at all
Or lastly, the second of the thiee following
stanzas, compared both with the first and the
third.
My former thoughts returned , the fear that kill* ,
And hope that la unwilling to be fed ,
Cold, pain, and labor, amf all fleshly ilia,
And mighty poets in their misery dead
But now. perplex'd by what the old man had said.
-- erlydldl renew,
V uuevuuu ca,Bci4j uiu « irc-ucw,
low is it that you live, and what is it you do? '
Re with a imile did then his words repeat :
And said, that gathering leeches far and wide
He travelFd , attiring thus about his feet
The waters of the ponds where they abide
"Once I could meet with them on every Ride.
But they have dwindled long by slow decay
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."
While he waa talking thus', the lonely place.
The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled me •
In my mind's eye I neemed to see him pace
\bout the weary moors continually.
Wandering about alone and silently
Indeed this fine poem is especially charac-
teristic of the author. There is scarce a de-
fect or excellence in his writing* of which it
would not present fe specimen. But it would
be unjust not to repeat that this defect is
only occasional. From a careful reperusal
of the two volumes of poems, I doubt
whether the objectionable passages would
amount in the whole to one hundred lines,
not the eighth part of the number of pages
In The Excursion the feeling of incongruity
is seldom excited by the diction of any pas-
sage considered in itself, but by the sudden
superiority of some other passage forming
the context.
The second defect I can generalize with
tolerable accuracy, if the reader will pardon
an uncouth and new-coined word There is,
I should say, not seldom a matter-of-factnesv
in certain poems. This may be divided into,
first, a laborious minuteness and fidelity in
the representation of objects, and their posi-
tions, as they appeared to the poet himself;
secondly, the insertion of accidental circum-
stances, in order to the full explanation of
his living characters, their dispositions and
actions, which circumstances might be nec-
essary to establish the probability of a state-
ment in real life, where nothing is taken for
granted by the hearer, but appear super-
fluous in poetry, where the reader is willing
to believe for his own sake To this aectden-
tality I object, as contravening the essence
of poetry, which Aristotle pronounces to be
Kal 0<Xoff004raroi' TeVot,1 the
>The most aerions and most philosophical kind
(Poettrt. 9. 3)
most intense, weighty and philosophical
product of human art, adding, as the rea-
son, that it is the most catholic and abstract
The following passage from Da ven ant's
B prefatory letter to Hobbes well expresses
this truth. "When I considered the actions
which I meant to describe (those inferring
the pet-sons), 1 was again persuaded rather
to choose those of a former age, than the
10 present, and in a century so fai removed,
ab might preserve me from their improper
examinations, who know not the requisites
of a poem, nor how much pleasure they lose
(and even the pleasures of heroic poesy are
IB not unprofitable) who take away the liberty
of a poet, and fetter his feet in the shackles
of an histonan For why should a poet
doubt in story to mend the intrigues of for-
tune by more delightful conveyances of
20 probable fictions, because austere historians
have entered into bond to truth f An obli-
gation, which were in poets as foolish and
unnecessary, as is the bondage of false mar-
tyrs, who he in chains for a mistaken
opinion But bi/ this I would imply that
truth, narrative and past, is the idol of his-
torians (who worship a dead thing), and
truth operative, and bi/ effects continually
alive, is the mistress of poets, who hath not
her existence in matter, but in reason "
For this minute accuracy in the painting
of local imagerv, the lines in The Excursion,
pp. 96, 97, and 98,1 may be taken, if not as
a striking instance, yet as an illustration of
my meaning It must be Rome strong motive
(as, for instance, that the description was
necessary to the intelligibility of the tale)
which could induce me to describe in a num-
ber of verses what a draughtsman could pre-
sent to the eye with incomparably greater
satisfaction bv half a dozen strokes of his
pencil, or the painter with as many touches
of his brush Such descriptions too often
occasion m the mind of a reader, who is de-
termined to understand his author, a feeling
of labor not very dissimilar to that with
which he would construct a diagram, line by
line, for a long geometrical proposition. Tt
seems to be like taking the pieces of a dis-
sected map out of its box We first look at
one part, and then at another, then join and
dovetail them ; and when the successive act"
of attention have been completed, there is a
retrogressive effort of mind to behold It as
a whole The poet should paint to the imag-
ination, not to the fancy; and I know no
happier case to exemplify the distinction
between thro two faculties. Masterpieces of
i Book 8, BOff.
SAMUEL TAYLOR GOLEBIDGE
385
the former mode of poetic painting abound
in the writings of Milton, for example:
Tbe fig-tree , not that kind for fruit renownM,
But §nch as at thin day, to Indians known,
In Malabar or Docan aproada her arms 5
Branching so broad and long, that in the ground
The bended twIgH take root, and daughter* grow
About the mottur tree, a pillar d shade
Hiffh ovcr-arch'4 and ECIIOIMJ WALKB BFTWEEI^
There oft the Indian Jierdtmam, nhvnnin^ heat,
Shelters tit c«o/t and if mitt hi* paxtvnnff herds
.1* loopholes cut llnough tJiicLtst xhadc*
This is creation lather than painting, or
if painting, vet such, and with such co-
presence of the whole picture flashed at
once upon the eye, as the sun paints in a
cameia obscuia But the poet must likewise 16
understand and command what Bacon calls
the vestigia commnma2 of the sense*, the
latency of all in each, and more especially
as by a magical penna duplcr,* the excite-
ment of \ision by sound and the exponents 20
of sound Thus, "The echoing walks be-
tween," mav be almost said to ie\erse the
fable in tradition of the head of Memnon.
m the Egyptian statue.4 Such may be de-
servedly entitled the creative words in the 25
uorld of imagination.
The second division respects an appaient
minute adherence to matter-of-fact m chai-
acter and incidents, a biographical atten-
tion to probability, and an anxiety of expla- ao
nation and retrospect Undei this head T
shall deliver, with no feigned diffidence, the
results of my best reflection on the great
point of controversy between Mr. Words-
worth and his objectors, namely, on the as
choice of his characters I have already de-
clared and, I trust, justified, my utter dissent
from the mode of argument which his critics
have hitherto employed. To their question.
Why did you choose such a chaiaeter, or a 40
character fiom such a rank of life! the poet
might, in my opinion, fairlv retort' Wliv
with the conception oi my character did you
make wilful choice of mean or ludicrou*-
associations not furnished bv me, but sup- 45
plied from your own sicklv and fastidious
feelings t How was it, indeed, probable
that such aigiimonts could have any weight
with an author whoso plan, whose guiding
principle, and mum object it was to attack 50
and subdue that state of association which
leads UK to place the chief value on those
things on which man diffeis from man, and
to forget or disregard the high dignities,
which beloner to Human Natiuc, the sense 55
' Paradise Lout, 9. 1101 ff
1 common token*
* double feather
4 The Btatuo of Mem-
non, when ntrnrk hy
the drat rays of the
sun, wan aald to
irive forth a sound
like the Knapping ot
a mnHlral
and the feeling, which may be, and ought
to be, found in all ranks t The feelings with
which, as Christians, we contemplate a mixed
cdngregation rising or kneeling before their
common Maker, Mr. Wordsworth would
have us entertain at all times, as men, and
as readers; and by the excitement of this
lofty, yet pndeless impartiality in poetry,
he might hope to ha\e vucouiaged us con-
tinuance m real life The piaise of good
men be hisf In leal life, and, I trust, even
in my imagination, I honui a \ntuous and
wise man, without rcfcience to the presence
or absence of ai tificial advantages Whether
in the person of an aimed baron, a lauiellerl
bard, or of an old pedlar, or still older leech-
gatheier, the same qualities of head and
heart must claim the same ic\erencc And
even in poetry I am not conscious that I ha\ c
ever suffered my feelings to be disturbed 01
offended by anv thoughts 01 images which
the poet himself has not presented.
But yet I object, nevertheless, and for the
following reasons First, because the object
in view, as an immediate object, belongs to
the moral philosopher, and would be pur-
sued, not only more appropriately, but in
my opinion with far greatei probability of
success, in sermons or moinl essays, than in
an ele\ated poem It seems, indeed, to de-
stroy the main fundamental distinction, not
only between a poem and prose, but even
between philosophy and works of fiction,
inasmuch as it proposes truth for its imme-
diate object, instead of pleasure. Now till
the blessed time shall come, when truth it sell
shall be pleasure, and both shall be so united,
as to be distinguishable in words only, not
in feeling, it will remain the poet's office
to proceed upon that state of association,
which actually exists as general ; instead of
attempting first to make it what it ought to
be, and then to let the pleasure follow. But
here is unfortunately a small hyiteton-
proteron l For the communication of pleas-
ure is the introductory means bv which alone
the poet must expect to moralize hi<« lenders
Secondly though I weie to admit, foi a
moment, this argument to be grouiulloss • yet
how is the inoial effect to be produced, "by
merely attaching the name of some low pro-
fession to poweis which are least likely, and
to qualities which are assuredly not more
likely, to be found in itl The poet, speak-
ing in his own person, may at once delight
and improve us by sentiments which teach
us the independence of goodness, of wisdom,
and even of genius, on the favors of fortune.
1 An inversion of the logical order
886
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
Behind
,
Bnrns. that walk'd In
ind his plough, upon
Of Bnrns. that walk'd In glory and in
the mountain-sine,1-
O*
And having made a due reverence before the
throne of Antonine, he may bow with equal
awe before Epietetus among his fellow-
slaves—
and rejoice 5
In the plain presence of his dignity &
Who is not at once delighted and improved,
when the Poet Wordsworth himself exclaims,
O, many are the poets that are sown ,A
By Nature, men endowed *ith highest gifts, 10
The vision and the faculty divine,
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
Nor having eer, as life advanced, been led
By circumstance to take unto the height
The measure of themselves, thew favored beings,
All but a scattered few, live out their time,
Husbanding that which they possess within. IB
And go to the grave, nnthougbt of. Strongest
minds
Are often those of whom the noisy world
Hears least"
To use a colloquial phrase, such sentiments,
in such language, do one's heart good; to
though I, for my part, have not the fullest
faith in the truth of the observation. On
the contrary, I believe the instances to be
exceedingly rare ; and should feel almost as
strong an objection to introduce such a char- «
acter in a poetic fiction, as a pair of black
swans on a lake, in a fancy landscape. When
I think how many, and how much better
books than Homer, or even than Herodotus,
Pindar, or JEschylns, could have read, are »
in the power of almost every man, in a coun-
try where almost every man is instructed to
read and write; and how restless, how diffi-
cultly hidden, the powers of genius are; and
yet find even in situations the most favor- as
able, according to Mr. Wordsworth, for the
formation of a pure and poetic language—
in situations which ensure familiarity with
the grandest objects of the imagination— but
one Burns, among the shepherds of Scotland, 40
and not a single poet of humble life among
those of English lakes and mountains, I con-
clude, that Poetic Oenms is not only a very
delicate, but a very rare plant
But be this as it may; the feeling* with 46
which
I think of Chatterton. the marvellous boy,
Tbe sleepless soul, that perished in bis pride ,
60
are widely different from those with which
I should read a poem, where the author, hav-
ing occasion for the character of a poet and
a philosopher in the fable of his narration,
has chosen to make him a chimney-sweeper; •
and then, in order to remove all doubts on
- * n j , «
* Resolution and Independence, 43 ff. (p. 284).
the subject, had invented an account of his
birth, parentage, and education, with all the
strange and fortunate accidents which had
concurred in making him at once poet, phi-
losoptter, and sweep I Nothing but biogra-
phy can justify this. If it be admissible
even in a novel, it must be one in the manner
of De Foe's, that were meant to pass for
histories, not in the manner of Fielding's:
in The Life of Moll Flanders, or Colonel
Jack, not in a Tom Jones, or even a Joseph
Andrews. Much less, then, can it be legiti-
mately introduced in a poem, the characters
of which, amid the strongest individualiza-
tion, must still remain representative. The
precepts of Horace,1 on this point, are
grounded on the nature both of poetry and
of the human mind They are not more per-
emptory, than wise and prudent. For, in the
first place, a deviation from them perplexes
the reader's feelings, and all the circum-
stances which are feigned in order to make
such accidents less improbable, divide and
disquiet his faith, rather than aid and sup-
port it Spite of all attempts, the fiction will
appear, and unfortunately not as fictitious
but as false. The reader not only knows that
the sentiments and language are the poet's
own, and his own, too, in his artificial char-
acter, as poet ; but by the fruitless endeavors
to make him think the contrary, he is not
even suffered to forget it. The effect is sim-
ilar to that produced by an epie poet, when
the fable and the characters are derived from
Scripture history, as in The Messiah of
Klopstock, or in Cumberland's Calvary;
and not merely suggested by it as in the
Paradise Lost of Milton. That illusion,
contradistinguished from delusion, that neg-
ative faith, which simply permits the images
presented to work by their own force, with-
out either denial or affirmation of their real
existence by the judgment, is rendered im-
possible by their immediate neighborhood to
words and facts of known and absolute
truth. A faith which transcends even his-
toric belief must absolutely put out this
mere poetic analogon* of faith, as the sum-
mer sun is said to extinguish our household
fires, when it shines full upon them. What
would otherwise have been yielded to as
pleasing fiction, is repelled as revolting false-
hood. The effect produced in tiiis latter case
by the solemn belief of the reader, is in a
less degree brought about in the instance! to
which I have been objecting by the baffled
attempts of the author to make him believe.
* See bis An Poetic* (Poetic Art), 148 ff.
•analogue
SAMUEL TAVLOH COLERIDGE
387
Add to all the foregoing the seeming use-
teamen both of the project and of the anec-
dotes from which it is to derive support. Is
there one woid, for instance, attributed to
the pedlar in The Excursion, characteristic 5
of a pedlar 1 one sentiment that might not
more plaufaibly, even without the aid of an>
previous explanation, ha\e pioceeded from
any wise and beneficent old man, of a rank
or profession in which the language of learn- 10
ing and refinement are natural and to be
expected! Need the rank have been at all
partieulaiized, wheie nothing follows which
the knowledge of that rank is to explain 01
illustrate f when on the contrary this infor- 1C
mation renders the man 's language, ieehngs,
sentiments and infoimation a riddle, which
must itself l>e sohed by episodes of anec-
dote? Finally, wlien this, and this alone,
could lune induced a genuine poet to in- 20
weave in a poem oi the loftiest stvle, and on
subjects the loftiest and of most universal
mteiest, such minute matters of fact, (not
unlike those f mm shed for the obituary of
a magazine by the inends of some obscure »
"ornament of society Intelv deceased1' in
some obbcure town,) as
Among the hllla of \thol ho WAR born ;
There, ou a Hiuall hereditary farm.
An unproductUe Klip of rugged giound. *M
Ilia father dwelt , ana <U«fTn po\ert>
While lie, wh«M» lowh tuitune 1 ri'traw.
The ^oung<st of thm M>US, \\as \t»t a halte,
A llttlo nno --IIIH on«< IniiH of their loss
Rat ore ho had outgnmn hU Infant da\«*
llln widowed mot hot, for u wcond mate.
Rgpou*<ed the tonrher of the \lllaRi* school ,
Who on her oft spring aealoufeh behtowed 85
Needful Uwtruttion
From hi* sixth fvonr the hoy of whom I apeak,
In minimer tended (tittle ou the hills.
But, through the Int lenient and the portions dn\s
of long tod tinning winter, ht repaiied
To MR Htep-father'* school,1 etc
For all the admirable passages mtei posed
in this nan at ion, might, with trifling altera-
tions, ha\e been far moie appropriately and
with iar greater verisimilitude, told of a
poet in the chai actcr of a poet , and without 46
inclining another defect \vhich 1 shall mro
mention, and a sufficient illustration ot
which will have been here anticipated
Thud, an undue predilection foi the
dramatic form in certain poems, fiom which M
one or other of two evils result Either the
thoughts and diction aie different fiom that
of the poet, and then there arises an incon-
gruity of style, or they are the same and
indistinguishable, and then it presents a spe- »
cies of ventriloquism, where two are repre-
sented as talking, while in truth one man
only speaks.
i, 1, 10ft ff
The fourth class of defects is closely con-
nected with the former; but yet are such as
arise likewise from an intensity of feeling
disproportionate to such knowledge and
\alue of the objects descnbed, as can be
fairly anticipated of men in general, even
of the most cultivated classes, and with
\\hich theiefoie iew only, and those leu
particulaily ciicumstanced, can be supposed
to sympathize In this class, I comprise
occasional prolixity, repetition, and an eddy-
ing, instead of piogiession, of thought A*
instances, see pages 27, 28,1 and 62* of th<
Poems, Vol 1 , and the first eighty lines ol
the Sixth Book of The Exclusion
Fifth and last; thoughts and images to<>
great for the subject This is an approxi-
mation to what might be called mental bom-
bast, as distinguished from \erbal foi, as
in the latter there is a dispiopoition of the
expressions to the thoughts, so in this there
is a disproportion oi thought to the cucuiii-
stance and occasion This, b> the bye, is a
fault of which none but a man ot genius i**
capable. It is the awku ai dness and streimt li
of Hercules with the distaff of Omphale.
Jt is a well-known fact that bright color**
in motion both make and lea\e the stiongesi
impiessioos on the eye Nothing is moie
likely too, than that a vmd image 01 \isnnl
spectrum, thus originated, may become the
link of association in lecallmg the feeling
and images that had accompanied the orig-
inal impression But if \ic desciibe this in
such lines as
They ;
Which
flafth upon thnt Inward eye,
in the nils* of solitude '•
in what words shall we describe the joy of
letiospection, when the images and virtuou-
actions of a whole well-spent life pass be-
fore that conscience which is indeed the
inward eve which i« indeed "tlie bliss ol
wlitudcT" Assuredly we seem to wink most
abruptly, not to say bin lesqnely, and alnuH
as in a medley, from this couplet to—
And then HIT heart with plea rare
\nd dances with the daffodil*
Vol T, p. .120
The second instance is fiom Vol II , paire
12,4 where the poet, having gone out for a
day's torn of pleasuie, meets early in tin
mom ing with a knot of Gipsies, who had
pitched their blanket -tents and straw-beds
together with their children and asses, in
1 4nec4otr far Fatter*.
• Thin page of vol. I In blank
» / TTOHrf rrrtf Lonely U a Clovd, 21 22 (p 296).
4 CHptit*.
388
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
some field by the roadside. At the close of
the day on his return onr tourist found them
in the same place. "Twelve hours, "say she,
Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone,
while f
Have been a traveller under open sky.
Much wltnpflftlng of chance and cheer.
Yet as I left I find them here 1
Whereat the ]x>et, without seeming to re-
flect that the pooi tawny wanderers might
probably have been tramping for weeks to-
gether through road and lane, over moor and
mountain, and consequently mubt have been
right glad to rest themselves, their children
and cattle, for one whole day; and overlook-
ing the obvious truth, that such repose might
be quite as necessary for them, as a walk of
the same continuance was pleasing or health-
ful for the moie fortunate poet; expresses
his indignation in a series of lines, the dic-
tion and imagery of which would have been
rather above, than below the mark, had they
been applied to the immense empire of
China improgressive for thirty centuries:
Tho wool v Run lietook hhnsHf to reit —
— Then Issued Venprr from the fulgent west.
Outshining, like a \lxlble God,
The glorious path In which fee trod '
And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the miht> Moon ' thfe way
She lookR. an Tf at them — but thcr
Regard not her —oh, better wrong and Rtrife,
totter vain doodfl or evil than such life '
Tne flllent TTeavonH have goings on
The Htars hate* t««kH ' — But flrr«» have none* *
The last instance of this defect (for I
know ifo other than these already cited) is
from the Ode? page 351, Vol. II, whew,
speaking of a child, "a six yean9 darling
of a pigmy size," he thus addresses him
Thou bMt phllofiophri. who vet riont keep
Thy heritage f Tnou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and alien tread'Bt the eternal deep,
Haunted forever by the Eternal Mind, —
Mighty Prophet ' Seer bleat *
On whom those trntlw do rent.
Which wo are tolling all our liven to find !
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Brood*i like the day, a manter o'er a fllave.
A piOMonoe whlrh In not to bo pat by f
Now here, not to stop at the daring spirit
of metaphor which connects the epithets
"deaf and silent," with the apostrophized
eye: or (if we are to refer it to the preced-
ing woid, "philosopher") the faulty and
equivocal syntax of the passage; and with-
out examining the propriety of making a
"master biood o'er a slave/' or "the day"
brood at all; we will merely ask, What does
all this mean f In what sense is a child of
* Intimation* of Immortality (p mi)
that age A'phtiosopherf In what sense does
he read < ' the eternal deep 1 " In what sense
is he declared to be "forever haunted" by
the Supreme Bemgf or so inspired as to
6 deserve the splendid titles of a might*/
prophet f a blessed seerf By reflection f by
knowledge f by conscious intuition f or by
any form or modification of consciousness f
These would be tidings indeed; but such as
10 would presuppose an immediate revelation
to the inspired communicator, and require
miracles to authenticate his inspiration
Children at this age give us no such infor-
mation of themselves; and at what time
iff were we dipped in the Lethe, which has pro-
duced such utter oblmon of a state so god-
like f There are many of us that still possess
some remembrancer, more or less distinct,
respecting themselves at six yeais old ; pity
90 that the worthless straws only should float,
while treasures, compared with which all the
mines of Golconda and Mexico were but
straws, should be absorbed by some unknown
spilf into some unknown abyss
25 But if this be too wild and exorbitant to
be suspected as having been the poet 'R mean-
ing; if the«e mysterious gifts, faculties, and
operations, are not accompanied with con-
sciousness, who else is conscious of them'
ao or how can it be called the child, if it be no
part of the child's conscious being t For
aught I know, the thinking Spit it within me
may be substantially one with the principle
of life, and of vital operation. For aught
86 T know, it might be employed as a secondary
agent in the marvellous organization and
organic movements of my body But, surely,
it would be strange language to say that 7
construct my heart! or that 7 propel the
40 finer influences through my net veal or that
7 compress my brain, and draw the curtains
of sleep round my own eyes ' Spinoza and
Behmen were, on different systems, both
Pantheists; and among the ancients there
46 were philosophers, teachers of the EN KAI
rAN,1 who not only taught that God was
All, but that this All constituted God Tet
not even these would confound the part, as a
part, with the whole, as the whole Nay, in
fiO no system is the distinction between the indi-
vidual and God, between the modification,
and the one only substance, more sharply
drawn, than in that of Spinoza. Jacob! in-
deed relates of Lessing, that, after a conver-
86 sation with him at the house of the poet
Gleim (the Tyrtous and Anacreon of the
German Parnassus) in which conversation
Lessing had avowed privately to Jacobi his
» one and the whole f panthelwn)
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLEBIDGU3
reluctance to admit any personal existence
of the Supreme Being, or the possibility of
personality except in a finite Intellect, and
while they were sitting at table, a shower of
ram came on unexpectedly. Gleim expressed 6
his regret at the circumstance, because they
had meant to drink their wine in the garden .
upon which Leasing, in one of his half-
earnest, half-joking moods, nodded to Ja-
cobi, and said, "It is I, perhaps, that am 10
doing that," ie.} raining I— and Jacobi an-
swered, "or perhaps I;" Gleira contented
himself with staring at them both, without
asking for any explanation.
So with regard to thib passage. In what 16
sense can the magnificent attributes, above
quoted, be appropriated to a child, which
would not make them equally suitable to a
bee, or a dog, or a field of corn; or even to
a ship, or to the wind and waves that propel V
it 7 The omnipresent Spirit works equally
in them, as in the child; and the child is
equally unconscious of it as they It cannot
surely be that the four lines immediately
following are to contain the explanation f &
To whom the jgravp
IB but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
Of day or the *arm light.
A place of thought whore we in waiting lie.1
Surely, it cannot be that this wonder- 80
rousing apostrophe is but a comment on the
little poem, We are Seven f that the whole
meaning of the passage is reducible to the
assertion that a child, who, by the bye, at six
years old would l^e been better instructed 86
m most Christian families, has no othei no-
tion of death than that of lying in a daik
cold placet And still, I hope, not as in a
place of thought! not the frightful notion
of lying awake in his grave f The analogy 40
between death and sleep is too simple, too
natural, to render so horrid a belief possible
for children ; even had they not been in the
habit, as all Christian children are, of heai-
ing the latter term used to express the for- 46
mer But if the child's belief be only that
"he is not dead, hut sleepeth,"8 wheiein
does it differ fiom that of Ins father and
mother, or any other adult and instructed
person f To form an idea of a thing's be- 80
coming nothing, or of nothing becoming a
thing; is impossible to all finite beings alike,
of whatever age, and however educated or
uneducated. Thus it is with splendid para-
doxes in general. If the words are taken in 88
the common sense, they convey an absurd-
lines arc found only in the editions of
ity ; and if, in contempt of dictionaries and
custom, they are so interpreted as to avoid
the absurdity, the meaning dwindles into
some bald truism. Thus you must at once
understand the words contrary to their com-
mon import, in order to amve at any sense;
and according to their common import, if
you are to receive fiom them any feeling of
sublimity or admiration.
Though the instances of this defect in
Mr. Wordsworth's poems are so few that
for themselves it would have been scarcely
just to attract the reader's attention toward
them, yet I have dwelt on it, land perhaps
the more for this very reason. Foi beuicr w>
very few, they cannot sensibly detract from
the reputation of an author who is even
characterized by the number of profound
truths in his writings, which will stand the*
severest analysis; and yet few as they aic,
they are exactly those passages which his
blind admirers would be most likely, anil
best able, to imitate. But Wordswotth,
where he is indeed Wordsworth, may be
mimicked by copyists, he may be plundered
by plagiarists; but he cannot be imitated,
except by those who are not born to be imi-
tators. For \\itliout his depth of feelum
and his imaginative power his sense would
want its vital \varmth and peculiarity; and
without his strong sense, his mysticism would
become 0irL7y— mere fog, and dimness!
To these defects which, as appears by the
extracts, are only occasional, I may oppose,
with far less fear of encountering the dissent
of any candid and intelligent reader, the
following (for the most part correspondent)
excellencies First, an austere purity of
language both grammatically and logically ,
in short a perfect appropriateness of the
woids to the meaning. Of how high value
I deem this, and how particularly estimable
I hold the example at the present day, has
been already stated :* and in part, too, the
reasons on which I ground both the moral
and intellectual iuipoitance of habituating
ourselves to a strict accuiacy of expiession.
It is noticeable how limited an acquaintance
with the masterpieces ot art will suffice to
form a correct and even a sensitive taste,
where none but masterpieces have been seen
and admired : while, on the other hand, the
most correct notions, and the widest ac-
quaintance with the works of excellence of
all ages and countries, will not perfectly
secure us against the contagions familiarity
with the far more numerous offspring of
Liter or ta, 2
390
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
tastelessuebs or of a perverted taste. If
this be the case, as it notoriously is, with the
arts of music and painting, much more diffi-
cult will it be to avoid the infection of mul-
tiplied and daily examples in the practice of s
an art which uses words, and words only, as
its instruments. In poetry, in which eveiy
line, every phrase, may pass the oideal of
deliberation and deliberate choice, it is pos-
sible, and barely possible, to attain that 10
ultimatum which I have ventured to propose
as the infallible test of a blameless style,—
namely, its ttntranslatablencss in words of
the same language without injury to the
meaning Be it observed, however, that I iff
include in the meaning of a word not only
its correspondent object, but likewise all the
associations which it recalls. For language
is framed to convey not the object alone,
but likewise the character, mood, and inten- »
tions of the peison who is representing it
In poetry it is practicable to preserve the
diction uncoriupted by the affections and
misappropriations which promiscuous au-
thorship, and reading not promiscuous only as
because it is disproportionately most con-
versant with the compositions of the da>,
have rendered general Yet even to the
poet, composing in his own province, it is
an arduous work: and as the result and SO
pledge of a watchful good sense, of fine and
luminous distinction, and of complete self-
possession, may justly claim all the honor
which belongs to an attainment equally diffi-
cult and valuable, and the more valuable 86
for being tare. It is at all times the propei
food of the understanding; but in an age
of corrupt eloquence it is both food and
antidote
In prose I doubt whether it be even pos- 40
sible to preserve our style wholly unalloyed
by the vicious phraneology which meets us
everywhere, from the sermon to ihe news-
paper, from the harangue of the legislatoi
to the speech from the convivial chair, an- 46
nouncing a toast or sentiment. Our chain*
tattle, even while we are complaining oi
them. The poems of Boetius rise high in our
estimation when we compare them With those
of his contemporaries, as Bidonius Apol- 80
hnanus, &c They might even be referred
to a purer age, but that the prose in which
they are set, as jewels in* a crown of lead
or iron, betrays the true age of the writer.
Much, however, may be effected by educa- 86
tion. I believe not only from grounds of
reason, but from having in great measure
assured myself of the fact by actual though
limited experience, that, to a youth led from
his first boyhood to investigate the meaning
of every word and the reason of its choice
a'nd position, logic presents itself as an old
acquaintance under new names.
On some future occasion, more especially
demanding such disquisition, I shall attempt
to prove the close connection between verac-
ity and habits of mental accuracy; the bene-
ficial after-effects of verbal precision in the
preclusion of fanaticism, which masters the
feelings more especially by indistinct watch-
words; and to display the advantages which
language alone, at least which language with
incomparably greater ease and certainty
than any other means, presents to the in-
structor of impressing modes of intellec-
tual energy so constantly, so imperceptibly,
and, as it were, by such elements and atoms,
as to secuie in due time the formation of a
second nature. When we leflect that the
cultivation ot the judgment is a positive
command of the moral law, since the reason
can gi\e the pnnnple alone, and the con-
science beam witness only to the motive,
while the application and effects must de-
pend on the judgment when we cnnsidei
that the greater pait of our success and
comfort in life depends on distinguishing
the similar from the same, that which is
peculiar in each thing from that which it
has in common with others, so as still to
select the most piobable, instead of the
merely possible or positively unfit, we shall
leain to >alue earnestly and with a practical
seriousness a mean, ah end v prepared for
us by natute and society, of teaching the
\oung mind to think well and wisely by the
same un remembered process and with the
same never-foi-gotten results, as those by
which it is taught to speak and converse.
Now how much wanner the interest is, how
much more genial the feelings of reality and
practicability, and thence how much stronger
the impulses to imitation are, which a con-
temporary/ writer, and especially a contem-
porary poet, excites in youth and commenc-
ing manhood, has been treated of in the
earlier pages of these sketches 1 T have only
to add that all the piaise which is due to
the exertion of such influence for a purpose
so important, joined with that which must
be claimed for the infrequency of the same
excellence in the same perfection, belongs
in full right to Mr. Wordsworth. I am far,
however, from denying that we have poets
whose general style possesses the same ex-
cellence, as Mr. Moore, Lord Byron, Mr.
Bowles, and, in all bis later and more im-
1 In dimming the influence of Bowles —Chapter 1.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
391
portent works, our laurel-honoring Laure-
ate.1 But there are none in whose works I
do not appear to myself to find more excep-
tions than in those of Wordsworth. Quota-
tions or specimens would here be wholly put 6
of place, and must he left for the critic
who doubts and would invalidate the justice
of this eulogy so applied.
The second characteristic excellence of
Mr. Wordsworth 's work is : a correspondent 10
weight and sanity of the thoughts and sen-
timents, won, not from books, but from
the poet 'sown meditative observation. They
are fresh and have the dew upon them
His muse, at least when in her strength of 1*
wing, and when she hovers aloft in her
proper element,
Makes audible a ItnkM lav of truth,
Of truth profound a sweet continuous hn.
Mot learnt, but native, her own natural noteb « 20
Even throughout his smaller poems there
is scarcely one which is not rendered valu-
able by some just and original reflection.
See page 25, vol. II8 or the two follow-
ing passages in one of his humblest compo- «
sitions.4
O reader ' bad you in your mind
Huch stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle reader * you would find
A tale in every thing ; M
and
I've heard of heart* unkind kind deeds
With coldneiM still returning ,
Alas ' the gratitude of men
Hat oftener left me mourning ,
or in a still higher strain the six beautiful 85
quatrains, page 134.5
Thus fares It still In our decay
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes a*a>
Than what it leaves behind ^
The blackbird in the hummei tree*,
The lark upon the hill.
Let loose their carols when they pleat*,
Are quiet when they will.
But we are pressed bv heavy law* ,
And often glad no more.
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore
If there Is one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth
My days, my friend, are almost
My life has been approved,
gone,
To a Gentleman. 58-59 (p. 806)
And many love me ; but by none
Am I enough beloved ;
or the sonnet on BuonaparteV page 202,
vol. II; or finally (for a volume would
scarce suffice to exhaust the instances), the
last stanza of the poem on the withered
Celandine,1 vol. II, p. 312.
To be a prodigal's favorite— then, worse truth,
A miser's pennioner — behold our lot '
O man ' tbat from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things youth needed
not.
Both in lespect of this and of the former
excellence, Mr Wordsworth strikingly re-
sembles Samuel Daniel, one of the golden
waters of our golden Elizabethan age, no*
most causelesbly neglected Samuel Daniel,
whose diction beats no mark of time, no
distinction of age, which has been, and as
long as our language shall last, will be so
far the language ot the today and forevei,
as that it is more intelligible to us than the
tiansitory fashions of our own particulai
age A similar praise is due to his senti-
ments. No frequency of peiusal can de-
prive them of their freshness Nor though
they are brought into the tull daylight of
every reader's compiehension, yet are they
drawn up from depths which few in an}
age are privileged to visit, into which few
in any age have courage or inclination to
descend If Mr Wordsworth is not equally
with Daniel alike intelligible to all readers
of average understanding in all passages of
his works, the comparative difficulty does
not arise fiom the greater impurity of the
ore, but from the nature and uses of the
metal. A poem is not necessarily obscure
because it does not aim to be popular It is
enough if a work be perspicuous to those
for whom it is written, and
Pit audience find, though few '
To the Ode on the Intimations of Immor-
tality from Recollections of Early Child-
hood the poet might have pieflxed the lines
which Dante addresses to one of his own
60
-GoMrt.st 8-6
on Lee (p 280)
• The Fountain (p 240)
'Simon Lee (
Cansonc 1* credo, rho MI anno tndl
Color, che tua ragione intendan bene.
Tanto lor sei faticoso od alto *
O lyric song, there will be few, I think
Who may thy Import understand aright
Thou art for them so arduous and so high '
But the ode was intended for such readers
only as had been accustomed to watch the
' 7 Orieiedjor Buonaparte (p 28.1)
• The Smart Celandine.
> Paradise /*«*. 7, SI
< II Conitvlo, 2, Cansone Prims
NINETEENTH CENTtTBY ROMANTICISTS
flux and reflux of their inmost nature, to
venture at times into the twilight realms of
consciousness, and to feel a deep interest in
modes of inmost being, to which they know
that the attnbutes of time and space are
inapplicable and alien, but which yet can
not be conveyed, save in symbols of tame and
space. For such readers the sense is suffi-
ciently plain, and they will be as little dis-
posed to charge Mr. Wordsworth with be-
kevmg the Platonic pre-existence, in the
ordinary interpretation of the words, as I
am to believe that Plato himself ever meant
or taught it.
rof
frtor tori 0aptfrpaf
TO ira»
0o0o* 6 troX-
xipajrei As,
yapfarov
Aiot vpfa
Third (and wherein he soars far above
Daniel), the sinewy strength and originality
of single lines and paragraphs : the frequent
curwsa felt at as2 of his diction, of which 1
need not here give specimens, having antici-
pated them m a preceding page. This
beauty, and as eminently characteristic of
Wordsworth's poetry, his rudest assailants
have felt themselves compelled to acknowl-
edge and admire
Fourth, the perfect truth of nature in
his imapes and descriptions as taken nnme-
diatelv from nature, and proving a long and
Denial intimacy with the spirit which gives
the physiognomic expression to all the works
of nature Like a green field reflected in a
calm and perfectly transparent lake, the
image is distinguished from the reality onl>
by its greater softness and lustre Like the
moisture or the polish on a pebble, genius
neither distorts nor false-colors its objects ,
but on the contrary brings out many a vein
and many a tint, which escape the eye of
common observation, thus raising to the
rank of gems what had been often kicked
away by the hurrying foot of the traveller
on the dusty high road of custom
M have many wwift mUslles Within the quiver
under mv arm that xpeafc to those who under-
stand , but for the multitude they need Inter-
pretern Wiae u he who knows manv things b\
nature hut thoge who have learned, ravenon*
In their loquadtv, like crow* chatter Idly
aialoit the divine bird of Zeus — Pindar, Olym
pto«, Odes. 2, 91 ff (Tenbcr* ed >
'patartaklmr hftpplnew*
Let me refer to the whole description df
skating, vol. I, page 42 to 47,1 especially to
the lines
5 Bo through the darkness and the cold me He*,
And not a voice was idle with the din
Meanwhile the preciplceR rang aloud ,
The leafleHH trees and every ley crag
Tinkled like iron , while the distant hillb
Into the tumult sent an alien Hound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the atari.
Eastward were Hpnrkling clear, and in the wevt
M The orange sky of evening died away
Or to the poem on The Green Linnet, vol
I, page 244. What can be more accurate
yet more lovely than the two concluding
iff stanzas T
T'non jun tuft of hazel trees.
That twinkle to the gusty breezp
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet beemlng still to hover ,
There ' where the flutter of his wings
Upon his bark and body flings
Shadows and aunny glimmering*,
That cover him all over
While thus before my eyes he gleam*.,
A brother of the leaves lie seems ,
When in a moment forth he teems
His little song In ffubhe*
As If It pleased him to disdain
\nd mock the form which he did feign
While be was dancing with the train
Of leaver among the hushc*
Or the description of the blue-cap, and
ao of the noontide silence, page 284 ,2 or the
poem to the cuckoo, page 290 ,B or, lastly
though I might multiply the references In
ten times the number, to the poem, so com-
pletely Wordsworth's, commencing
Three j ears she grow in t»un and shower —
Fifth, a meditative pathos, a union of
deep and subtle thought with sensibility,
a sympathy with man as man , the Kvmpatln
ao indeed of a contemplator, rather than <i
fellow-sufferer or co-mate (spectator, kait'l
particeps4), but of a contemplator, from
whose view no difference of rank conceal**
the sameness of the nature; no injuries of
as wind or weather, or toil, or even of igno-
rance, wholly disguise the human face di-
vine. The superscription and the image ot
the Creator still remain legible to htm undei
the daik lines with which guilt or calamity
40 had cancelled or cross-barred it. Here the
man and the poet lose and find themselves
in each other, the one as glorified, the lattei
AS substantiated. In this mild and philo-
sophic pathos, Wordsworth appears to me
46 without a compeer. Such a<* he ts: so he
1 1nfluence of natural Object* (The Prelufr, 1,
401-63 p 248>
* The Kitten and Fallen Leftvra
' The one written in 1804 (p 204)
4 H looker-on, not a partaker
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
writes. See voL I, pages 134 to 136,1 or that
most affecting composition, The Affliction
of Margaret of , pages 165 to
168, which no mother, and, if I may judge
by my own experience, no parent can read
without a tear. Or turn to that genuine
lyric, in the former edition, entitled The
Mad Mother* pages 174 to 178, of which
I cannot refrain from quoting two of the
stanzas, both of them for their pathos, and
the former of the fine transition in the two
concluding lines of the stanza, so expressive
of that deranged state in which, from the
increased sensibility, the sufferer's atten-
tion is abruptly drawn off by every trifle,
and in the same instant plucked back again
by the one despotic thought, bringing home
with it, by the blending, fusing power of
Imagination and Passion, the alien object
to which it had been so abruptly diverted,
no longer an alien but an ally and an inmate.
Ruck, little babe, oh rock again '
It cools my blood , It cools mi brain ;
Thy line, I feel them, baby ' .
Draw from my heart the pain away
Oh * press me with thy little hand ;
It loosens Homethlng at my chest:
About that tight and deadly hand
I fool thv little fingers prest
The breeze 1 aee IB in the tree '
It comes to cool my babe and me.
Thy father cares not for my breast,
'TiH thine, sweet habj, there to rest;
TiH ull thine own-Hind if UK hue
Re changed, that wan BO fair to view.
Tin fair enough for thee. my dove !
My beauty, little child, ta flown.
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if mv poor cheek be brown ?
Tib well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be.
Last, and pre-eminently, I challenge for
this poet the gift of Imagination in the
highest and strictest beuse of the word. In
the play of fancy, Wordsworth, to my
feehngb, IB not always graceful, and some-
times recondite The likencbs is occasionally
too strange, 01 demands too peculiar a point
of view, or is such as appears the rieature
of predetermined research, rather than
spontaneous presentation. Indeed, his fancy
seldom displays itself as mere and unmod-
ified fancy. But in imaginative powei he
stands nearest of all modern writers to
Shakespeare and Milton , and yet in a kind
perfectly unborrowed land his own. To em-
ploy his own words, which are at once an
instance and an illustration, he does indeed
to all thoughts and to all objects—
I shall select a few examples as most
obviously manifesting this faculty; but if 1
should ever be fortunate enough to render
my analybie of Imagination, its origin and
6 characters, thoroughly intelligible to the
reader, he will scaicely open on a page of
this poet's works without recognizing, more
or less, the presence and the influences ot
this faculty.
10 From the poem on the Yew Trees, vol. I,
page 303, 304.
But worthier Btill of note
Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale,
S)lned in one solemn and capacious grove ,
age trunks' — and each particular trunk a
15 growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Tip-colling, and inveterately convolved, —
Not uninformed with phantasy, and looks
That threaten tbe profane , — a pillared shade,
Loon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sbeddings from the plnal umbrage tinged
20 Perennially — beneath whose sable roof
* Of boughs; as if for festal purpose, decked
With unrejoidng berr1es,ghobtly shapes
May meet at noontide Fear and trembling Hope,
Hllence and Foresight , Death, the skeleton,
And Time, the hhadow , there to celebrate,
AH in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
1 nited worship , or in mute repose
To lie. and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Olaramara'H inmost ca\en
The effect of the old man's figure in the
poem of Resolution and Independence, vol
II, page 33
While he was talking thus, the lonely pla
The old man's shape, and speech, all 1
me
In mv mind's eve I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silentl}
2f, Or the 8th,1 9th,2 19th,8 26th,4 31st,fi and
33rd,6 in the collection of "miscellaneous
sonnets— the sonnet on the subjugation <>1
Switzerland,7 page 210, or the last ode,"
from which I especially select the two fol-
30 lowing stanzas or paragraphs, pages 349
to 350.
Our birth U but a sleep and A forgetting .
The soul that rises with us. our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
n. And cometh from afar
30 Not in entire forgetful ness,
\nd not in utter nakedness,
nut trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home
Heaven lies about UR in our infancy '
Rhades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy ,
40 But be beholds the light, and whence it flown,
* He^^it in his Joy!
troubled
* IV litre Me* the Land?
A'rni a* a Dnaon'* Jffye
1 0 If oflmfain Stream.
- r rn» uv H £srvyvn " **|rc
•dd tne tTletm. •» O Ifottufam Stream.
light that never was, on sea or land, « Compote* Upon Wettminiter BrUoc (p 285)
consecration, and the poet's dream » • MetkonffM I Ban the Footstep* of a Throne
_. _ „ _, •/! to o BeaitteoiM J0ffen4ii^ Calm and Free (p.
iftf 7*kaf AoflM flaw JDfetf /or Lore (p 878) 286)
entitled Her Eye* are Wilt (p. 2220) T Thought of a Briton on the Snbfupation of
394
NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTIOISTS
The youth wbo daily farther from the Bait
Mart travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way at
At length the man
And fade i
it die away,
into the light of common day
And pages 352 to 354 of the same ode.
O Joy T that in our embers
IB something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive '
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
For that which la most worthy to be blest ;
— '--^ and .liberty, the simple creed
jdged hopeU%lir fluttering in his
breast •—
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But forthose obstinate < -"-'
Of sense and outward
FalUngs from UK, vault -
Blank misgivings of a creat
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High Instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised '
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may.
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ,
Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments In the being
Of the eternal silence ; truths that wake '
To perish never ;
Which neither llstlessness, nor mad endeavor, $
Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with Joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy '
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though Inland far we be.
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.
Can In a moment travel thither, — 10
And see the children sport upon the shore.
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
And since it would be unfair to conclude
with an extract which, though highly char-
acteristic, must yet, from the nature of the l*
thoughts and the subject, be interesting or
perhaps intelligible, to but a limited num-
ber of readers, I will add, from the poet's
last published work, a passage equally
Wordsworthian, of the beauty of which, and •>
of the imaginative power displayed therein,
there can be but one opinion, and one feel-
ing. See White Doe, page 5.
Fast the church-yard fills ; — anon K
Look again and they all are gone : "
The cluster round the porch, and the folk
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak '
And scarcely have they disappeared
re the prelusive r — - - ^ -~-
rlth one consent 1 _
llllng the church witl
i hey sing a service wh
For 'tis the sun-rise now of seal .
And faith and hope are In their prime
In great Ellsa's golden time
Amomen
And all is
For
it ends the fervent din.
hushed^ without and within;
«¥—--
Is the river murmi
When soft '—the
|BMWi»S5*tfaarp*
banftMro *w *""*
Free entrance to the church-yard ground;
And rifht across the ^rtsod.
"Jfr
Towards the v
Comes
Comes
White she is as Mly of June,
And beauteous as the silver moon .
When out of sight the clouds are driven
And she is left alone in heaven 1
Or like a ship some gentle day
tering ship that hath the plain
ocean for her own ilQ'nfl*<ii
What harmonious pensive i
Walt upon her as she ranges
Round and through this pile of state
upon ner n*f a urvaui,
i some lofty arch or wail.
As she passes underneath *
The following analogy will, I am appre-
hensive, appear dim and fantastic, but in
reading Bart ram's Travels I could not help
transcribing the following lines as a sort of
allegory, or connected simile and metaphor
of Wordsworth's intellect and genius —
"The soil is a deep, rich, dark mould, on
a deep stratum of tenacious clay; and that
on a foundation of rocks, which often
break through both strata, lifting their backs
above the surface. The trees which chiefly
grow here are the gigantic black oak, mag-
nolia grandiflora, fraximns excelsior, pla-
tane, and a few stately tulip trees.911 What
Mr. Wordsworth will produce, it is not for
me to prophesy: but I could pronounce
with the liveliest convictions what he is
capable of producing. It is the FIRST
GENUINE PHILOSOPHIC Pone.
The preceding criticism will not I am
aware, avail to overcome the prejudices of
those who have made it a business to attack
and ridicule Mr. Wordsworth 9s compositions.
Truth and prudence might be imagined as
concentric circles. The poet may perhaps
have passed beyond the latter, but he lias
confined himself far within the bounds of
the former, in designating these critics as
too petulant to be passive to a genuine poet,
land too feeble to grapple with him: ''men
of palsied imaginations, in whose minds all
healthy action is languid;— who, therefore,
feed as the many direct them, or with the
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
395
many aie greedy after vicious provoca-
tives.1'*
Let not Mr. Wordsworth be charged with
having expressed himself too indignantly,
till the wantonness and the systematic and 6
malignant perseverance of the aggressions
have been taken into fair consideration. I
myself heard the commander-in-chief* of
this manly warfare make a boast of his
private admiration of Wordsworth's genius. 10
I have heard him declare that whoever came
into his room would probably find the
Lyrical Ballads lying open on his table, and
that (speaking exclusively of those written
by Mr. Wordsworth himself) he could tt
nearly repeat the whole of them by heart
But a Review, in order to be a saleable
article, must be personal, sharp, and pointed •
and, since then, the poet has made himself,
and with him self all who were, or were sup- »
posed to be, his fnends and admirers, the
object of the critic's revenge— how f by
having spokeu of a *ork so conducted
in the terms which it deserved! I once
heard a clergyman in boots and buckskin SB
avow that he would cheat his own father in
a horse A moral system of a similar nature
seems to have been adopted by too many
anonymous critics. As we used to say at
school, in reviewing they make being rogues : 80
and he who complains is to be laughed at
for his ignorance of the game. With the
pen out of their hand they are honorable
men. They exert indeed power (which is
to that of the injured party who should 15
attempt to expose their glaring perversions
and misstatements, as twenty to one) to
write down, and (where the author's circum-
stances permit) to impoverish the man,
whose learning and genius they themselves *>
in private have repeatedly admitted. They
knowingly strive to make it impossible for
the man even to publish any future work
without exposing himself to all the wretch-
edness of debt and embarrassment But 4ft
this is all tn their vocation; and, bating what
they do in their vocation, "who can say that
black is the white of their eyet"
So much for the detractors from Words-
worth's merits. On the other hand, much so
as I might wish for their fuller sympathy,
I dare not flatter myself that the freedom
with which I have declared my opinions
concerning both his theory and his defects,
most of which are more or less connected •
with his theory, either as cause or effect,
will be satisfactory or pleasing to all the
/, Rupplrmcntarif to the Preface
poet's admirers and advocates. More indis-
criminate than mine their admiration may
be: deeper and more sincere it cannot be
But I have advanced no opinion either for
praise or censure, other than as texts intro-
ductory to the reasons which compel me to
form it. Abo\e all, 1 was fully convinced
that such a criticism was not only wanted,
but that, if executed with adequate ability,
it must conduce, in no mean degree, to Mi.
Wordsworth's reputation His fame be-
longs to another age, and can neithei be
accelerated nor retarded How small the
proportion of the defects are to the beauties,
I have repeatedly declared , and that no one
of them originates in deficiency of poetic
genius. Had they been more and greater,
I should still, as a fnend to his literary
character m the present age, consider aii
analytic display of them as pure gain; if
only it removed, as surely to all reflecting
minds even the foregoing analysis must ha\e
removed, the strange mistake, so slight 1>
grounded, yet so widely and industriously
propagated, of Mr. Woidsworth's turn for
simplicity! I am not half as much irritated
by hearing his enemies abuse him for vul-
garity of style, subject, and conception, as
I am disgusted with the gilded side of the
same meaning, as displayed by some affected
admirers, with whom he is, forsooth, a
'• sweet, simple poet!" and so natural, that
little master Charles and his younger sister
are so charmed with them, that they play
at "Goody Blake," or at "Johnny and
Betty Foy!"
Were the collection of poems, published
with these biographical sketches, important
enough (which I am not vain enough to
believe) to deserve such a distinction, even
as I have done, so would I be done unto.
CHARACTERISTICS OF 8HAK8-
PEARE'S DRAMAS
1818 1836
In lectures of which amusement forms a
large part of the object, there are some
peculiar difficulties. The architect places
his foundation out of sight, and the musi-
cian tunes his instrument before he makes
his appearance ; but the lecturer has to try
his chords in the presence of the assembly,
an operation not likely, indeed, to produce
much pleasure, but yet indispensably neces-
sary to a right understanding of the subject
to be developed.
Poetry in essence is as familiar to bar-
barous as to civilized nations. The Lap-
lander and the savage Indian are cheered by
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8T8
it as well as the inhabitants of London and
Pans; its spirit takes up and incorporates
surrounding materials, as & plant clothes
itself with soil and climate, whilst it exhib-
its the working of a vital principle within
independent of all accidental circumstances.
And to judge with fairness of an author's
works, we ought to distinguish what is in-
ward and essential from what is outward
and circumstantial. It is essential to poetry
that it be simple, and appeal to the elements
and primary laws of our nature; that it be
sensuous, and by its imagery elicit truth at
a flash; that it be impassioned, and be able
to move our feelings and awaken our affec-
tions. In comparing different poets with
each other, we should inquire which have
brought into the fullest play our imagina-
tion and our reason, or have created the
greatest excitement and produced the com-
pletest harmony. If we consider great e\-
quisiteneafl of language and sweetness of
metre alone, it is impossible to deny to Pope
the character of a delightful wnter; but
whether he be a poet, must depend upon
our definition of the word ; and, doubtless,
if every thing that pleases be poetry,
Pope's satires and epistles must be poetry
This I must say, that poetry, as distin-
guished fiom other modes of composition,
does not rest in metre, and that it is not
poetry, if it make no appeal to our passions
or our imagination. One character belongs
to all true poets, that they write from a
principle within, not originating in any
thing without; and that the true poet's
work in its form, its shapings, and its modi-
fications, is distinguished from all other
works that assume to belong to the class of
poetry, as a natural from an artificial
flower, or as the mimic garden of a child
from an enamelled meadow. In the former
the flowers are broken from their stems and
stuck into the ground; they are beautiful
to the eye and flagrant to the sense, but
their colors noon fade, and their odor is
transient a? the smile of the planter, while
the meadow may be visited again and again
with renewed delight; its beauty is innate
in the soil, and its bloom is of the freshness
of nature
The next ground of critical judgment, and
point of comparison, will be as to how far
a given poet has been influenced by acci-
dental circumstances. As a living poet must
surely write, not for the ages past, but for
that in which he lives, and those which are
to follow, it is, on the one hand, natural
that he should not violate, and on the other,
necessary that he should not depend on, the
mere manners and modes of his day. See
bow little does Shakspeare leave us to re-
gret that he was born in his particular age !
5 The great era in modern times was what is
called the Restoration of Letters, the ages
preceding it are called the dark ages; but
it would be more wise, perhaps, to call them
the ages in which we were in the dark It
10 is usually overlooked that the supposed
dark penod was not universal, but partial
and successive, or alternate; that the dark
age of England was not the dark age of
Italy, but that one country was in its light
16 and vigor, whilst another was in its gloom
and bondage. But no soonei had the Ref-
ormation sounded through Europe like the
blast of an archangel's trumpet, than from
king to peasant there arose an enthusiasm
» foi knowledge, the discovery of a manu-
script became the subject of an embassy,
Erasmus read by moonlight, because he
could not afford a torch, and begged a
penny, not for the love of chanty, but for
28 the love of learning. The three great points
of attention were religion, morals, and
taste; men of genius as well as men of
learning, who in this age need to be so
widely distinguished, then alike became
so copyists of the ancients, and this, indeed,
was the only way by which Hie taste of
mankind could be improved, or their under-
standings informed Whilst Dante imagined
himself a humble follower of Virgil, and
85 Ariosto of Homer, they were both uncon-
scious of that greater power working within
them, which in many points carried them
beyond their supposed originals All great
discoveries bear the stamp of the age in
40 which they are made; hence we perceive the
effects of the purer religion of the modems,
visible for the most part in their lives; and
in reading their works we should not con-
tent ourselves with the mere narratives of
46 e\ents long since passed, but should learn
to Apply their maxims and conduct to
ourselves
Having intimated that times and man-
ners lend their form and pressure1 to genius.
oo let me once more draw a slight parallel
between the ancient and modern stage, the
stages of Greece and of England The
Greeks were polytheists; their religion was
local ; almost the only object of their knowl-
» edge, art, and taste, was their gods; and,
accordingly, their productions were, if the
expression may be allowed, statuesque,
whilst those of the moderns are picturesque
* ImpreMlon <Bw ffamlet, III, 2, 27 )
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBIDGE
5*97
The Greeks i eared a structure which in its
parts, and as a whole, filled the mind with
the palm and elevated impression of perfect
beauty, and symmetrical proportion The
moderns also produced a whole, a more
striking whole, but it was by blending
materials and fusing the parts together
And as the Pantheon is to York Mmstei
oi AYcstnunstei Abbey, so is Sophocles coin-
pal ed with Shakspeare; m the one a com-
pleteness, a sat i sine t ion, an excellence, on
which the mind icsts with complacency, in
the other a multitude of interlaced mate-
rials, gieat and little, magnificent and mean,
accompanied, indeed, with the sense o£ a
falling short of pei lection, and yet, at the
same time, so promising of our social and
mdixidual piogiession, that we would not,
if A\e could, exchange it for that repose o£
the mind which dwells on the forms of sym-
metry in the acquiescent admiration of
urace. This genet al characteristic of the
ancient and modem diama might be illus-
tiatod by a ptnallel of the ancient and
modern nuiMC, the one consisting of melody
a using fiom n succession only of pleasing
sounds, the modem embracing harmony
also, the result of combination and the
effect of a whole
I have said, and I say it again, that great
as was the genius of Shakspeaie, his judg-
ment uas at least equal to it Of this any
one will be com meed, \\lio attentnely con-
siders those points in \\liieh the diamas of
Greece and England difTei, from the dis-
similitude of ciicumstanees by which each
was modified and influenced The Greek
stage had its oiigin in the ceremonies of a
sacrifice, such as of the goat to Bacchus,
whom we most erroneously regard as merely
the jolly god of wine, for among the an-
cients he was veneiable, as the symbol of
that pouer which acts without "oui con-
sciousness m the vital energies of nature,—
the vtnum mwm/i,1— as Apollo was that of
the conscious agency of our intellectual
being. The heioes of old under the influ-
ences of this Bacchic enthusiasm performed
more than human actions, hence tales of
the favorite champions soon passed into
dialogue On the Greek stage the chorus
was always before the audience , the curtain
was never dropped, as we should say , and
change of place being therefore, in general,
impossible, the absurd notion of condemn-
ing it merely as improbable in itself was
never entertained by any one. If we can
believe ourselves at Thebes in one act, we
* wine of the world
may believe ourselves at Athens in the next.
If a story lasts twenty-four hours or twenty-
four years, it is equally improbable. Them
seems to be no just boundary but what the
5 feelings pi escribe. But on the Greek stage
where the same persons were perpetually
before the audience, great judgment was
neeeHsaiy in venturing on any such change
The poets never, therefore, attempted to
10 impose on the senses by bunging places to
men, but they did bring men to places, as
m the well known instance in the Eumen-
itles,1 where dining an evident letirement of
the chorus from the 01 chest ra, the scene is
is changed to Athens, and Oiestes is first
introduced m the temple of Minerva, and
the chorus of Furies come in afteiwaids m
pursuit of him.
In the Greek diama there were no formal
so divisions into scenes and acts, there weie
no means, therefore, of allowing for the
necessary lapse of tune between one pait
of the dialogue and another, and unity of
time m a strict sense \tas, of course, im-
26 possible. To o\ei conic that difficulty of
accounting for time, which is effected on
the modem stage by diopping a curtain.
the judgment and gieat genius of the an-
cients supplied music and measuied motion,
» and with the lyi ic ode filled up the vacuity
In the story of the Agamemnon of 2Bs-
chylus, the captuie of Tioy is supposed to
be announced by a the lighted on the
Asiatic shore, and the tiansnnssion of thc-
86 signal by successive beacons to Mycena?
The signal is first seen at the 21st line, and
the heiald from Tioy itself enters at the
480'th, and Agamemnon himself at the 783rd
line But the piactical absurdity of this
40 was not felt bv the audience, who, in imagi-
nation sti etched minutes into hoins, while
they listened to the lofty nanatne odes of
the chorus which almost entirely filled' up
the interspace. Anothei fact desenes atten-
46 tion here, namely, that legulurly on the
Greek stage a diama, 01 acted story, con-
sisted in reality of thiee dtamas, called
together a trilogy, and pei formed consecu-
tively in the course of one day Now you
60 may conceive a tiagedy of Shakspeare 's as
a trilogy connected m one single represen-
tation. Divide Lear into three parts, and
each would be a play with the ancients.
or take the three JSschylean dramas of
K Agamemnon* and divide them into, or call
them, as many acts, and they together would
be one play. The first act would comprise
1 V, 230-239
, r*crpJio»fii and Eummidt*
398
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
the usurpation of JEgisthus, and the mur-
der of Agamemnon ; the second, the revenge
of Oiestes, and the murder of Ins mother,
and the thud, the penance and absolution
of Orestes,— occupying a period of twenty-
two years.
The stage in Shakspeare's time was a
naked loom with a blanket for a curtain;
but he made it a field for uionarchs. That
law of unity, which has its foundations, not
in the factitious necessity of custom, but in
nature itself, the unity of feeling, is every-
where and at all times observed by Shak-
speare in his plays. Read Borneo and
Juliet • all is youth and spring; youth with
its follies, its \irtues, its precipitancies;
spring with its odors, its flowers, and its
transciency It is one and the same feeling
that commences, goes through, and ends the
C. The old men, the Capulets and the
tagues, aie not common old men ; they
have an eagerness, a heartiness, a vehe-
mence, the effect of spring; with Romeo,
his change of passion, his sudden marriage,
and his rash death, are all the effects of
youth , whilst in Juliet, love has all that is
tender and melancholy in the nightingale,
all that is voluptuous in the rose, with what-
ever is sweet in the freshness of spring,
but it ends with a long deep sigh like the
last breeze of the Italian evening This
unity of feeling and character pervndes
every drama of Shakspeare.
It seems to me that his plays aie distin-
guished from those of all other diamatic
poets by the following charactei istics
1. Expectation in preference to surprise
It is like the true readme of the passage
"God said, Let there be light, and there was
hyht;" not there was light. As the feeling
with which we startle at a shooting star
compared with that of watching the sunrise
at the pre-established moment, such and so
low is surprise compared with expectation.
2. Signal adheience to the great law of
nature, that all opposites tend to attract
and temper each other Passion in Shak-
speare generally displays libertinism, but
involves morality; and if there are excep-
tions to this, they are, independently of
their intrinsic value, all of them indicative
of individual character, and, like the fare-
well admonitions of a parent, have an end
beyond the parental relation. Thus the
Countess's beautiful precepts to Bertram,
by elevating her character, raise that of
Helena her favorite, and soften down the
point in her which Shakspeare does not
mean us not to sec, but to see and to for-
gne, and at length to justify. And so it is
in Polonius, •nho is the pei sonified memory
of wisdom no longer actually possessed
This admirable chaiactei is always roisrep-
6 resented on the stage. Shakspeere never
intended to exhibit him as a buffoon; for
although it was natural that Hamlet (a
young man of fire and genius, detesting
formality, and disliking Polonius on polit-
ic ical grounds, IRS imagining that he had
assisted his uncle in his usurpation) should
express himself satiiically, yet this must
not be taken as exactly the poet's concep-
tion of him. In Polonms a certain indura-
15 tion» of character had ansen from long
habits of business; but take his advice to
Laertes, and Ophelia's leverence for his
mem6ry, and A\C shall sec that he was meant
to be represented as a statesman somewhat
» past his faculties,— hm recollections of life
all full of wisdom, and showing a knowl-
edge of human nature, whilst what imme-
diately takes place before him, and escapes
from him, ib indicative of weakness.
25 But as in Homei all the deities are in
armor, even Venus, BO in Shakspeaie all
the characters arc strong Hence real folly
and dulness aie made by him the vehicles
of wisdom. There is no difficulty for one
80 being a fool to imitate a fool, but to be.
remain, and speak like a \usc man and a
great wit, and yet so as to give a vivid
representation of a veritable foo1,—fctr
labor, hoc opus est.1 A drunken constable
85 is not uncommon, nor hard tn chaw, but
see and examine what goes to make up a
Dogberry.
3. Keeping at all times in the high road
of life. Shakspeare has no innocent adul-
40 teries, no interesting incests, no virtuous
vice; he never rendeis that amiable which
religion and reason alike teach us to detest,
or clothe impurity in the garb of virtue, like
Beaumont and Fletcher, the Kotzebues of
45 the day9 Shakspeare 's fathers are roused
by ingiatitudc, his husbands stung by un-
faithfulness; m him, in short, the affections
are wounded in those points in which all
ray, nay, must, feel Let the morality of
60 Rbakspeare be contrasted with that of the
writers of his own, or the succeeding, age,
or of those of the present day, who boast
their superiority in this respect. No one
can dispute that the result of such a com-
66 panson is altogether in favor of Shak-
1 this IB the labor, thfo IB the work (£**d, 6, 129)
•Kot.eboe (1761-1819) wai a prolific German
writer of emotional and Immoral plays, for
many venrs popular in England
SAMUEL TAYLOR GOLEBIDGE
399
Bpeare; even the letters of women oi high
rank in his age were often coarser than his
writings. If he occasionally disgusts a keen
sense of delicacy, he never injures the mind ;
he neither excites nor flatters passion in
order to degrade the subject of it; he does
not use the faulty thing for a faulty pur-
pose, nor carries on warfare against virtue,
by causing wickedness to appear as no
wickedness, through the medium of a mor-
bid sympathy with the unfortunate. In
Shakspeare vice never walks as in twilight ,
nothing is purposely out of its place, he
inverts not the order of nature and pro-
priety, does not make every magistrate a
drunkard or glutton, nor every poor man
meek, humane, and temperate; he has no
benevolent butchers, nor any sentimental
rat-catchers.
4. Independence of the dramatic interest
on the plot The interest m the plot is
always in fact on account of the characters,
not vice versa, as in almost all other writ-
ers; the plot is a mere canvass and no more
Hence arises the true justification of the
same stratagem being used in regard to
Benedict and Beatrice, the vanity in each
being alike Take away from the Much
Ado About Nothing all that which is not
indispensable to the plot, either as having:
little to do with it, or, at best, like Dog-
berry and his comrades, forced into the
service, when any other less ingeniously ab-
surd watchmen and night-constables would
have answered the mere necessities of the
action ; take away Benedict, Beatrice, Dog-
berry, and the reaction of the former on the
character of Hero, and what will remain 7
In other writers the main agent of the plot
is always the prominent character, in
Shakspeare it is so, or is not so, as the
character is in itself calculated, or not cal-
culated, to form the plot. Don John is the
main-spring of the plot of this play; but
he is merely shown and then withdrawn.
5. Independence of the interest on the
story as the ground-wolfe of the plot
Hence Shakspeare never took the tiouble
of inventing stories It was enough for
him to select from those that had been
already invented or recorded such as had
one or other, or both, of two recommenda-
tions, namely, suitableness to his particular
purpose, and their being parts of popular
tradition,— names of which we had often
heard, and of their fortunes, and as to
which all we wanted was, to see the man
himself. So it is just the man himself, the
Lear, the Shylock, the Richard, that Shak-
bpeare make* us for the nibt time acquainted
with. Omit the first scene in Lear, and yet
every thing will remain; &o the first and
second scenes in The Merchant of Venue
6 Indeed it is universally true
(j. Interfusion of the lyncal (that which
in its very ebbence is poetical) not only
with the dramatic, as in the plays of
Metastasio, wheie at the end of the scenes
10 comes the ana1 as the exit speech of the
character, but also in and through the dra-
matic Songs in Shok&peare are introduced
as songs only, just as songs are in real life,
beautifully as some of them are character-
is istic of the person who has sung or called
for them, as Desdemona's "Willow," and
Ophelia's wild snatches, and the sweet carol-
lings in As You Like It. But the whole of
the Midsummer Night's Dream is one con-
20 tinued specimen of the dramatized lyrical
And observe how exquisitely the dramatic of
Hotspur .—
Marry, and I'm glad on't with all my heart ,
I'd lather be a kitten and cry mew, Ac.
25 melts away into the lyric of Mortimer:—
I understand thv looks that pretty Welsh
Which tbou pourcst down from these swelling
heavens,
I am too perfect In. Ac
Henry IV, Part 1, Act ill, BC i
ao 7. The characters of the dramatis persona,
like those in real life, are to be inferred by
the reader, they are not told to him And
it is well worth remarking that Shakspeare 's»
characters, like those in real life, are very
86 commonly misunderstood, and almost al-
ways understood by different persons in
different ways The causes are the same in
either case. If you take only what the
friends of the character say, you may be
40 deceived, and still more so, if that which
his enemies say; nay, even the character
himself sees through the medium of his
character, and not exactly as he is Take
all together, not omitting a shrewd hint
46 from the clown, or the fool, and perhaps
your impression will be right, and you
may know whether you have in fact dis-
co\ered the poet's own idea, by all the
speeches receiving light from it, and attest-
60 mg its reality by reflecting it
Lastly, in Shakspeare the heterogeneous
is united, as it is in nature. You must not
suppose a pressure or passion always act-
ing on or m the character. Passion in
66 Shakspeare is that by which the individual
is distinguished from others, not that which
makes a different kind of him Shakspeare
1 An elaborate melody qung bv a slnglp voice In
operas, cantata*, etc
400
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIG18T3
followed the mam march of the human
affections. He entered into no analysis, of
the passions or faiths of men, but assured
himself that such and such passions and
5 faiths were grounded in our common nature,
and not in the mere accidents of ignorance
or disease This is an important considera-
tion, and constitutes our Shakspeare the
morning star, the guide and the pioneer, of
10 true philosophy.
ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843)
SONNET
CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE
1794 1793
Why dost them beat thy breast, and rend
thine hair,
And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?
Before the gale, the laden vessel flies,
The heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze
ib Ian
5 Haik to the clamois of the exulting crew f
Hark, how their cannon mock the patient
skies!
Why dost thou hhriek, and strain thy leil-
swoln eyes,
Ah the white sail is lessening from thy
view?
Go, pine in want and anguish and despau
10 There is no rneicv found in human-kind
Go, widow, to thy grave, and rest thee
there f
But may the God of justice bid the wind
Whelm that cursed bark beneath the
mountain-wave.
And bless with liberty and death the Slave f
THE BATTLE OP BLENHEIM
1798 1708
It was a hummer evening,
Old Kabpai 's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
6 And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine
She saw her brother Peterkm
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
10 In playing there had found,
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round
Old Easpar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
15 And then the old man shook his head.
And, with a natural sigh,
20
" 'Tie some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
* ' I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about,
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out '
For many a thousand men," said ho,
"Weie slam in that gieat victory "
25 "Now tell us what 'twas all about.
Young Peterkm, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks uj»
With wonder- waiting eyes,
"Now tell us all about the war,
30 And what they fought each other foi "
"It was the English," Kaspai cried,
"Who put the French to rout.
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out .
3:1 But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory
"My father Incd at Blenheim then.
Yon little stream hard by,
They burnt hits dwelling to the ground
40 And he was furred to fly ,
So with his wife and child he fled.
Nor had he where to rest his head !
"With flic and sword the country rouml
Was wasted far and wide,
45 And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died ,
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory
"They say it wan a shocking sight
50 After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here
Lav rotting in the sun ,
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory
16 "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won.
And our good Prince Eugene "
"Why 'twas a verv wicked thing1 M
Said little Wilhelmine
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
flo "It was a famous victory
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at lastl"
Quoth little Peterkin
<" "Why that I cannot tell," said he,
•'But twas a famous victory "
i fr* Jfetfft'H , * 20
BOBEBT 80UTHET
401
THE HOLLY TREE
179* 1799
0 reader! has thou ever stood to see
The Holly TreeT
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves
6 Order 'd by an intelligence so wise,
As might confound the Atheist's sophis-
tries
Below, a circling fence, its leaves uie seen
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their pnckly
round
10 Can reach to wound,
But as they grow where nothing is to feat,
Smooth and unarm 'd the pointless leaves
appear
1 love to view these things with cunous
eyes,
And moralize •
tt And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree
Can emblems see
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant
rhyme,
One which may profit in the after time
Thus, though abroad perchance T mm lit
appear
20 Harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree
85 And should my youth, as youth is apt I
know,
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should
be
80 Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree
And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they,
3n But when the bare and wintry woods we
see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly TreeT
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young and gay
*° More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
A3 the green winter of the Holly Tree
THE OLD MAN '8 COMFORTS
AND HOW HE GAFNED THEM
1799 1799
"You are old, Father William," the
young man cried,
"The few locks which are left you aie
gray;
You are hale, Father William, a heaity
old man,
Now tell me the leason, I pray "
5 "In the days of my youth," Father
William replied,
"I remembered that youth would fly
fast,
A ltd abused not my health, and my vigor
at first,
That I never might need them at last "
"You are old, Father William," the
young man cried,
10 "And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet vou lament not "the davs that a"io
gone,
Now tell me the reason, I piav "
"In the dav* of my youth," Father
William replied,
"I remembered that youth could not
last,
13 I thought of the future, whatever I did.
That I ne\er might grieve for the past "
"You are old, Father William, the
young man cried,
"And life must be hastening auay.
You are cheerful, and love to convex so
upon death,
20 Now tell me the reason, I pray "
"I am cheerful, young man," Fathei
William replied,
"Let the cause thy attention engage,
In the days of my youth I remember M
my God !
And He hath not foi Gotten mv ago "
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED
BISHOP
1799 17W)
The summer and autumn had been so wet.
That in winter the com was growing yet,
9Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.
5 Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
4Q2 NINETEENTH CENTUJY ROMANTICISTS
And all the neighborhood could tell And reach M his tower, and barr'd with
His granaries were furnish 'd well care
60 All the windows, doors, and loop-holes
10 At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day there.
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair, He laid him down and dosed his eyee;
And they should have food for the winter But soon a scream made him arise,
there. He started and saw two eyes of flame
T, ..,,,., , . , On hiR pillow from whence the screaming
Rejoiced such tidings pood to heai, came.
15 The poor folk flock'd from far and neai ,
old. '
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for
Then when he saw it could hold no more, .
Bishop Hnttn he made fast the door; ?or she *»t screaming, mad with fear
20 And while for merry on Christ they rail. At &* BTm7 of »to that were
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. near-
T 'faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!1' quoth he, For they have swum over the river so
' * And the country is greatly obliged to me, deep,
For ridding it m these times forlorn, 80 And they have climb 'd the shores so steep,
25 Of rats that only consume the corn." And up the tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were
So then to his palace returned he, sent.
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent They are not to be fold by the dozen or
nian , score,
But Bishop Hatto never slept again. By thousands foey come, and by myriads
30 JSu116 ™orninf a* £ €ntopld *eia11 „ 65 Such wtalhad never been heard of
Wheie his picture hung against the wall, before
A sweat like death all over him came, Such a judgment had never been witness'd
For the rath had eaten it out of the frame.
As he ta*U there came a man from his Down Qn hig ^ fte
He had a countenance white with alarm, And fj|fr and faSter ** ***** dld
'
As louderand louder drawing near
And theTts had eaten all your corn.- ?° The ^awm« of *- tflett he «
Another came running presently, And in at the windows and in at the door,
And he was pale as pale could be, And through the walls helter-skelter they
<o "Fly' my Lord Bishop, fly,11 quoth he, A ^ ^ Pour,
"Ten thousand rats are coming this And down from the ceiling and up through
wav — the floor,
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!" V™™ the ngtt and the left, from behind
e * * * and before,
"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," 75 From withm and without, from above land
replied he, below,
" 'Tis the safest place in Germany; And all at once to the Bishop they go.
45 The walls are high and the shores are
steep, They have whetted their teeth against the
And the stream is strong and the water stones,
deep. ' ' And now they pick the Bishop 9s bones ;
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,
Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten fd away, 80 For they were sent to do judgment on
And he crost the Rhine without delay, him '
BOBEBT SOUTHEY
403
From THE CURSE OF KEHAMA
1801-09 1810
I THE FUNERAL
Midnight, and yet no eye
Through all the Imperial City closed in
sleep f
Behold her streets a-blaze
With light thftt seems to kindle the red dcy,
6 Her myriads swarming: through the
ciowded ways!
Master and slave, old age and infancy,
All, all abroad to gaze;
House-top and balcony
(Mustered with women, who throw back
their veils
10 With unimpeded and insatiate sight
To view the funeral pomp which passes bj .
As if the momnful nte
Were but to them a scene of joyance and
delight
Vainly, ye blessed twiukleis of the night,
n Your feeble beams ye shed,
Quench 'd in the unnatural light which
might out-stare
Even the broad eye of da> ;
And thou f i om thy celestial way
Ponrest, 0 Moon, an ineffectual ra> f
:" For lol ten thousand torches flame and
flare
Upon the midnight air,
Blotting the lights of heaven
With one portentous glare
Behold the fragrant smoke in many a fold
25 Ascending, floats along the, fiery sky,
And hangeth visible on high,
A dark and waving canopy.
Haik! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath1
'Tis the dirge of death f
30 At once ten thousand drums begin.
With one long thunder-peal the eai assail-
ing;
Ten thousand voices then join in,
And with one deep and general dm
Pour their wild wailing.
35 The son? of praise is drown 'd
Amid the deafening sound ;
You hear no more the trumpet 's tone.
You hear no more the mourner 's moan,
Though the trumpet's breath, and the
dirgp of death,
40 Swell with commingled force the funeral
yell.
But rising over all in one acclaim
Is heard the echoed and re-echoed name,
From all that countless rout ;
Arvalan! Arvalan!
45 Arvalan! Arvalan!
Ten times ten thousand voices in one
shout
Call Arvalan f The overpowering sound,
From bouse to house repeated rings
about,
From tower to tower rolls round.
50 The death-procession moves along;
Tlieir bald heads shining to the toi dies'
lay,
The Biaimns lead the way,
Chanting Ihe funeral song
And now at once they shout,
C5 Arvalan1 Arvalan f
With quirk rebound of sound,
All in accordance ciyt
Arvalan1 Aivalan1
The universal multitude leply
60 In \am ye thunder on his ear the name.
Would ye awake the dead?
Borne upiight in his palankeen,1
There Arvalan is seen '
A glow is on his face, a lively ml ,
6"J It is the cumson canopy
Winch o'er his cheek n reddening shade
hath sheil,
He moves, he nods Ins head,
But the motion comes from the beaiers'
tread,
As the body, borne aloft in state,
70 Sways with the impulse of its mvn dead
weight.
Close following his dead son, Kehama
came,
Nor joining in the ritual song,
Nor railing the dear name ,
With head depresl and funeral vest,
75 And arms enfolded on his bieast,
Silent and lost in thought he moves along
King of the World, his slaves, unenvying
Behold their wretched Loid, rejoiced they
see
The mighty Rajah 's misery ;
80 That Nature in his pride hath dealt the
blow,
And taught the Master of Mankind to
know
Even lie himself is man. and not exempt
from woe
0 sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan,
Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen !
85 Their widow-robes of white,
With gold and jewels bright
, Bach like an Eastern queen.
Woe! woe! around their palankeen,
*• A conveyance borne on the *honMor* of men
404 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
As on a bridal day, They feel his breast,— no motion there;
90 With symphony, and dance, and song, They feel his lips,— no breath;
Their kindred and their friends come on. For not with feeble, nor with erring hand,
The dance of sacrifice! the funeral song! The brave avenger dealt the blow of
And next the victim slaves m long array, death.
Richly bedight to grace the fatal day, 14° Then with a doubling peal and deeper
95 Move onward to their death; blast,
The clarions' stirring breath The tambours and the trumpets sound on
Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold, high,
And swells the woven gold, And with a last and loudest cry,
That on the agitated air They call on Arvalan.
100 Flutters and glitters to the torch's glare.
Woe! woe! for Aria takes her seat
A man and maid of aspect wan and wild, 14B Upon the funeral pile!
Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, Calmly she took her seat,
came; Calmly the whole terrific pomp survey 'd,
0 wretched father! 0 unhappy child! As on her lap the while
Them were all eyes of all the throng The lifeless head of Arvalan was laid.
exploring.
«* Is this the daring man ™ Woe! woe! Nealliny,
Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan T The young Nealliny!
Is this the wretch condemn M to feel They strip her ornaments away,
Kehama'g dreadful wrath T Bracelet and anklet, ring, and chain, and
Then were all hearts of all the throng zone;1
deploring; Around her neck they leave
110 For not in that innumerable throng 166 The marriage knot alone,—
Was one who loved the dead; for who That marriage band, which when
could know Yon waning moon was young,
What aggravated wrong Around her virgin neck
Provoked the desperate Mow! With bridal joy was hung
160 Then with white flowers, the coronal of
Far, far behind, beyond aU reach of death,
sight, Her jetty locks they crown
115 In order M files the torches flow along.
One ever-lengthening line of gliding Q sight of misery!
light' You cannot hear her cnes; their sound
Far, far behind, In that wild dissonance is drown 'd;
Rolls on the ^distinguishable clamor, 1*5 But fa her face you see
Of horn, and trump, and tambour; The supplication and the agony,
i«> Incessant as the roar See in her swelling throat the desperate*
Of streams which down the wintry strength
mountain pour, That with vain effort struggles yet for
And louder than the dread commotion life;
Of breakers on a rocky shore, Her arms contracted now in fruitless
When the winds rage over the waves, strife,
125 And Ocean to the Tempest raves. 170 NOW wildly at full length
Towards the crown in vain for pity
And now toward the bank they go, spread,
Where winding on their way below, They force her on, they bind her to the
Deep and strong the waters flow. dead.
Here doth the funeral pile appear
l»o With myrrh and ambergris bestrew 'd, Then all around retire;
And built of precious sandal wood Circling the pile, the ministering Bia-
They cease their music and their outcry mfag stand,
here, 175 Each lifting in his hand a torch on fire.
Gently they rest the bier; Alone the father of the dead Advanced
They wet the face of Arvalan, And lit the funeral pyre.
186 No sign of life the sprinkled drops ex- w '
cite; * girdle
BOBKKT 8OUTHEY
405
At once on every side
The circling torches drop,
180 At once on every side
The fragrant oil is pour'd,
At once on every side
The rapid flames rush up.
Then hand m hand the victim band
185 Roll in the dance around the funeral pyre;
Their gai merits' flying folds
Float mwaid to the fire,
In clinnkeu whirl they wheel aiound,
One drops another plunges in ,
]l|° And still with overwhelming din
The tambours and the trumpets sound ;
And flap of hand, and shouts, and cries,
From all the multitude anse ,
While round and round, in giddy wheel,
><ir> Intoxicate they roll and reel,
Till one by one whirl M m they fall,
Anil the devouring flames have swallow 'd
all.
Then all was still, the drums and clarion*
censed,
The multitude \teie hushM in silent awe,
110 Only the Toniinir of the flames i%us heard
THE MAKCH TO MOSCOW
1811 1814
The Emperor Nap1 he uould set off
On n suminei excursion to Moscow.
The holds \ieie jrreen, and the sk\ was blue,
Men bleu' Paibleu*2
5 What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!
Four hunched thousand men and more
Must go with him to Moscow
There weie Marshals by the dozen,
And Dukes by the score ,
10 Pnnces a fen, and King* one 01 two,
While Hie fields aie so gieen, and the
sky so blue,
Morbleu' Parbleu'
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow •
There was Junot and Augereau,
r> Hcigh-ho foi Moscow1
Dombrowskv and Pomotowskj,
Marshal Ncy, lack-a-dayf
General Rapp and the Emperoi Nap ,
Nothing would do
20 While the fields were so green, and the
sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu'
Nothing would do
For the whole of this crew,
But they must be marching to Moscow.
i Napoleon, who Invaded Rumda with
remits to hfe armv, In 1912
1 French onthfl
~'3 The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big
That he frighten 'd Mr. Roscoe.
John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise,
Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please
To grant you }>eace upon your knees,
30 Because he is going to Moscow
He'll make all the Poles come out oi their
holes,
And beat the Russians and eat the
Pi ussians,
For the fields are green, and (lie sky is
blue,
Moibleu' Parbleu*
36 And he'll certainly match to Moscow'
And Counsellor Brougham was all in a
fume
At the thought of the niaich to Moscow
The Russians, he said, they wcic undone,
And the great Pee-Paw-Fum
40 Would presently come
With a hop, step, and jump unto London
For as for his conquering Russia,
However some pen sons nni»ht scoff it,
Do it he could, and do it he would,
45 And from doing it nothing would come
but good,
And nothing could call him off it
Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must ceitnmlv
know.
For he was the Edinburgh Pi ophct
They all of them kne\v Mr Jeffrey's
Her ic IT,
"•° Which with Holv Writ ought to be
reckon 'd
It was through thick and Him to its
party true;
Its back was buff, and its sides weie bine,1
Morbleu f Parbleu f
It served them for Law anil foi Gospel
too
56 But the Russians stoutly they tnined-lo
Upon the road to Moscow
Nap had to fight his way all through .
They could fight, though the* could not
parler-vons,2
Hut the fields were green, and the sky was
blue,
60 Morbleu* Parbleu '
And so he not to Moscow
He found the place too waim for him,
For they set fire to Moscow
To get there had cost him much ado,
65 And then no bettei course he kneiN .
1 The JfrrmdMroft /Tatar *n* tvound in buff and
blue, the colon of the Whig party
* speak French (a humomiiv
406
NINKTKKNTH CENTURA BOMANTICI6T8
While the lieldb were green, aiid the sky
was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
But to march back again from Moscow.
The Russians they stuck close to him
70 All on the road from Moscow
There was Tormazow ami Jomalow
And all the others that end in ow ,
Milarodovitch and Jaladovitoh
And KaratHchkowitoh,
75 And all the others that end in itch ,
Schamseheff, Sonchosaneff,
And Schepaleff,
And all the others that end in eff,
Wabiltsclnkoff, Kostomaroff,
«o And Tehoglokoff,
And all the others that end in off ,
Rajeffsy and Novereffsy,
And Rieffsky,
And all the others that end in eflfakj ,
86 Oscharoffhky and Rostoffsky,
And all the others that end in offsky ,
And Platoff he play'd them off,
And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off,
And Markoff he mark'd them off,
90 And Krosnoff he cross M them off,
And Tuchkoff he touch M them off,
And Boroskoff he bored them off,
And Kutouhoff he out them off,
And Parenzoff he pared them off,
95 And Worronzoff he worried them off,
And Doctoroff he doctor M them off,
And Rodionoff he flogg'd them off.
And last of all an Admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name,
100 A name which you all know by sight veiy
well;
But which no one can speak, and no one
can spell
They stuck close to Nap with all their
might,
They were on the left and on the right,
Behind and before, and by day and by
night.
106 He would rather parlez-vous than fight;
But he look'd white and he look'd blue,
Morbleu * Parbleu!
When parlez-vous no more would do,
For they remember M Moscow
110 And then came on the frost and snow
All on the road from Moscow
The wind and the weather he found in
that hour
Cared nothing for him nor for all his
power;
115 Put his trust in his fortune, and not in
his God,
Worse and worse every day the ele-
ments grew,
The fields so white and the sky so blue,
Sacrebleu! Ventrebleu!1
What a horrible journey from Moscow '
120 What then thought the Emperor Nap
Upon the road from Moscow f
Why, I ween he thought it small delight
To fight all day, and to freeze all night
And he was besides m a very great fright.
125 For a whole skin he liked to be in ;
And so, not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white and the <*k\
so blue.
Morbleu » Parbleu!
He stole away, I tell you true,
110 Upon the road from Moscow
'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind moM ,
So the De\il may take the hindmost
Too cold upon the road was he,
Too hot had he been at Moscow,
n6 Rut colder and hotter he may be,
For the grave is colder than Musco\ j
And a place there is to be kept in view
Where the fire is red and the brimstone
blue,
Morbleu » Parbleu'
140 Which he must go to,
If the Pope say true,
Tf he does not in time look about him ,
Where IIIH namesake almost
He may have for his Host,
115 He has reckon 'd too long without him,
If that host get him in Purgatory,
He won't leave him there alone with his
glory,
But there he must stay for a very long
day
For from thence there is no stealing
away
150 AS there was on the road from Moscow
ODE
WRITTEN DURING THE NEGOTIATIONS WITH
BUONAPARTE. IN JANUARY, 1814
1814 1814
Who counsels peace at this momentous
hour,
When Qod1 hath given deliverance to
the oppress 'd,
And to the injured power?2
French oatfav.
For him who, Wife Europe cwuch'd 'ASS»^SflSS^^SPS^fK
under his rod,
14, th* fulipfi made proposal* for peace
BOBEET SOUTHEY
407
Who counsels peace, when Vengeance
like a flood
1 Rolls on, no longer now to be repress M;
When innocent blood
From the fonr corners of the world
cries out
For justice upon one accursed bead,
When Freedom hath her holy banners
spread
10 Over all nations, now in one just
cause
United; when with one sublime accord*
Europe throws off the yoke abhori 'd,
And Loyalty and Faith and Ancient Law*
Follow the avenging sword!
15 Woe, woe to England1 woe and endless
shame.
If this heroic land,
False to her feelings and unspotted fame,
Hold out the olive to the tyrant's hand'
Woe to the world, if Buonaparte's throne
20 Be suffer'd still to stand !
For by what names shall nght and
wrong be known,
What new and courtly phrases must
we feign
For falsehood, murder, and all mon-
strous crimes,
If that perfidious Corsican maintain
25 Still his detested reign,
And France, who yearns even now to
break her chain,
Beneath his iron rule be left to groan f
No! by the innumerable dead
Whose blood hath for his lust of power
been shed,
80 Death only can for his foul deeds atone ,
That peace which Death and Judgment
can bestow,
That peace be Buonaparte's, that alone!
For sooner shall the Ethiop change his
skin,
Or from the leopard shall her spots
depart,1
85 Than this man change his old flagitious
heart.
Have ye not seen him in the balance
weigh 'd,
And there found wanting f8 On the
stage of blood
Foremost the resolute adventurer stood;
And when, by many a battle won,
40 He placed upon his brow the crown.
Curbing delirious France beneath his
sway,
Then, like Octavius in old time,
2S
Fair name might he have handed down,
Effacing many a stain of former crime.
46 Fool! should he cast away that
bright i en own'
Fool! the redemption proffer 'd should ho
lose'
When Heaven such pace \ouchsaiod
him that the wav
To good and e\il lay
Before him, which to choose
B0 But evil was his good,1
For all too long in blood had he been
nurst,
And ne'er was earth with verier tyrant
curst
Bold man and bad,
Remorseless, godless, full of fraud
and lies,
&:> And black with muideis and with
perjuries,
Himself in Hell'b \\hole panoply he clad,
No law but his own hcadbhong will
he knew,
Xo counsellor but his own wicked heait
From evil thus portentous strength
he drew,
r>0 And tiampled under loot all human ties
All holy IdTvs, all natuial charitios
() France' beneath this fierce barba-
rian 's sway
Disgraced thou art to all succeeding
times,
Kapme, and blood, and fiic ba^e mark'd
thy way,
65 All loathsome, all unutterable crimes
A curse is on thee, Fiance' from far
and wide
It hath gone up to Heaven All land*
have cned
Fen vengeance upon thy detested head1
All nations curse thee, France* for
wheiesoc'ei
70 In peace or wai thy bannei hath
been spread,
All forms of human woe \\a\e follow M
theie
The Jmng and the dead
fry out alike against thee ! They who bear,
Crouching1 beneath its weight, thine
iron yoke,
75 Join in the bitterness of secret prayer
The voice of that innumerable throng,
Whose slaughtei 'd spirits day and
night invoke
The Evei lasting Judge of nght and
> »«»«• rai<n1t*< Tnttt 4 10S
408
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
How long, O Lord* Holy and Just,
how long'
80 A merciless oppressor hast thou been,
Thyself remorselessly oppress 'd
meantime;
Greedy of war, when all that thou
couldst gain
Was but to dye thy POU! with deeper crime.
And rivet faster round thyself the chain
85 0 blind to honor, and to interest blind,
When thus in abject servitude resign 'd
To this barbarian upstart, thou
couldst brave
God's justice, and the heart of human
kind!
Madly thou ilioughtest to enslave the
world,
00 Thyself the while a miserable sla\e
Behold the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd'
The dreadful armies of the North
N advance ,
While England, Portugal, and Spain
combined,
Gi\ e their triumphant banners to the wind,
''"' And stand victonous in the fields of
France
One man hath been for ten long
\uetched years
The ciin^c of all this blood and all these
tears,
One man in this most awful point
of time
Diuws on thy danger, as he caused 1h>
crime.
1110 Wait not too long the e\ent,
For now whole Europe conies against thec
bent,
Ills wiles and their own strength the
nations know:
Wise fiom past wrongs, on future peace
intent,
The people and the punces, with one
mind,
1°"' From all parts move against the geneial
foe:
One act of justice, one atoning Won.
One ejtecrable head laid low.
Even vet, 0 France! averts th>
punishment.
Open thine eves ' too long hast thon been
blind;
110 Take vengeance for thyself, and for
mankind f
France! if thou lovest thine ancient
fame.
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame !
By the bones which bleach on Jaffa's
beach;
By the blood which on Domingo's shore
""' Hath clogg'd the carnon-birds with
gore;
By the flesh which gorged the wolves of
Spain,
Or stiffen 'd on the snowy plain
Of frozen Moscovy,
By the bodies which lie all open to the sky,
120 Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the
tyrant's flight;
By the widow's and the orphan's en ,
By the childless parent's misery;
By the lives which he hath shed,
By the ruin he hath spread;
12ri By the prayers which use for curses on
his head,
Redeem, 0 Fiance f thine ancient fame,
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame,
Open thine eyes ' too long hast thou been
blind;
Take vengeance for thyself, and ioi
mankind !
130 ]jy i^oae honors which the night
Witness 'd, *hen the torches9 light
To the assembled murdeieis show'd
Where the blood of Conde* flow'd,
By thy murder 'd Pichegru's fame,
rjr> By muider'd Wnght, an English name.
By muider'd Palm's atrocious doom,
By muider'd Hofer's martyrdom;
Oh ! by the virtuous blood thus \ilely spilt,
The villain's own peculiar pnvate guilt,
110 Ojien thine eyes* too long has thou been
blind!
Take vengeance for thvself mul foi
mankind f
MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD ARE
PAST
1818 1821
My days among the dead are past ,
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast.
The mighty minds of old;
"' My never-falling friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day
With them 1 take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe ,
And while I understand and feel
10 How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew 'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
EOBBBT SOUTHEY
409
My thoughts are with the dead, with
them
I live in long-past years,
16 Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the dead, anon
20 j£y place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity ,
Yet leaving here a name, I trust.
That will not perish in the dust
Prom A VISION OP JUDGMENT
18*0 1821
VII. THE BEATIFICATION
When the Spirit withdrew, the Monarch1
around the assembly
Looked, but none else came fosth, and
he heard the voice of the Angel,—
"King of England* speak for thyself,
here is none to ariaign thee."
"Father," he replied, "fiom whom no
seciets aie hidden,
fi What should I say? Thou knowest that
mine was an arduous station,
Full oi rares, and with penis beset. How
heavy the burden,
Thou alone canst tell v Short-sighted ami
frail hast Thou made us;
And Thy judgments who can abide? But,
as surely Thou knowest
The desire of my heart hath been ahvai
the good of my people,
y errors, O Lotdf and
in mercy
10 Pardon my
accept the intention
As in Thee I have trusted, so let me not
now be confounded."
Bending forward, he spake with earnest
humility. "Well done.
Good and faithful servant*" then said a
Voice from the Brightness,
"Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord "2
The ministering Spirits
15 (Mapped their pennons therewith, and
from that whole army of Angel-
Songs of thanksgiving and joy resounded,
and loud hallelujahs;
While, on the wings of Winds upraised,
the pavilion of splendor.
Where inscrutable light enveloped the
Holy of Holies,
Moved, and was borne awmy, through the
empyrean ascending.
. 25 21
20 Beautiful then on its hill appeared the
Celestial City,
Softened, like evening suns, to a mild and
bearable lustre.
Beautiful was the ether above, and the
sapplme beneath us,
Beautiful was its tone, to the dazzled bight
as refreshing
As the fields with their loveliest green at
the coming of Hummer,
25 When the mind ih at ease, and the eye
and the heart are contented.
Then methought we approached the
gate. In front of the portal,
From a rock where the standard of man 's
redemption was planted,
Issued the Well of Liic, wheie whosoe\er
would enter-
So it was written— must drink, and put
away all that is earthly
30 Earth among its gems, its creations of
art and of nature,
Offeis not aught whereto that nmi \ollous
Cross may be likened
E\eii in dun similitude, such \\as its won-
derful substance
Pure it was and diaphanous It had no
visible lustie,
Vet from it alone whole Hen \ en was
illuminate alway
•r* Day and night being none in the upper
firmament, neithei
Sun nor moon nor stais, but tiom that
Cross, as n fountain.
Flowed the Light nucleated, liirht all-
sufficing, eternal ,
Light which was, and which is, and which
will be forever and ever,1
Light of light, which, if daringly ga/ed
on, would blind an Ai change!,
40 Vet the eye of weak man may behold,
and beholding is strengthened,
Yea, while we wander below, oppressed
with our bodily burden,
And in the shadow of death, this Light is
in mercy vouchsafed us;
So we seek it with humble heait, and the
soul that receives it
Hath with it healing and strength, peace,
love, and life everlasting
4~ Thither the King diew nigh, and kneel-
ing he drank of the water
Oh, what a change was wrought T In the
semblance of age he had risen,
Sueh as at last he appeared, with the
traces of time and affliction
' See Rti clot ton, 22 !».
410
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Deep on his faded form, when the harden
of years was upon him.
Oh, what a change was wrought! For
now the conuptible put on
60 Incorruption;1 the mortal put off mortal-
ity Rising
Rejuvenescent, he stood 111 a glorified body,
obnoxious2
Never again to change, nor to evil and
trouble and sorrow,
But for eternity formed, and to bliss ever-
lasting appointed
THE CATARACT OF LODORE
DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOB THE NURSERY
1820 1823
"How doe* the water
Come down at Lodore V
My little boy ask fd me
Thus, once on a time,
6 And moieo\ei he task'd me
To tell him in thyme
Anon at the word.
There first cnmo one daughter
And then rame another,
10 To second and third
The lequest of then brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With Us rush and its roar,
16 As many a time
They had seen it before
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes T had store
And 'twas in niv vocation
W For their recreation
That so I should sing,
Because 1 was Laureate
To them and the King a
From its sources which well
25 In the tarn4 on the fell;0
From its fountains
In the mountains.
Its rills and its gilk ;n
Through moss and through brake,
80 It runs and it creeps
For awhile, till it sleep*
In its own little lake
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
36 It runs through the reeds
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
40
45
50
In ran and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry.
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.
56
60
6C
1 See 2 OorffitMcm*,
15 53.
•mibject; liable
•George IV Bontbeg
WAS appoint*] poet
laureate In 1813
« imaU lake .
•CSL
The cataract strong
Then plunges along.
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among:
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound '
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,
70 Dizzying and deafening the ear with it*
sound.
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking: and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping.
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
, And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tobsmg and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and "
And working and j<
And guggling and i
And heaving and c
And moaning and groaning;
7R
85
90
ROBERT 8OUTHEY
411
And glittering and frittering,
06 And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and Bkunying,
And thundering and floundering;
too Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrin-
kling,
And sounding and bounding and round-
ing,
106 And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tum-
bling,
And clattering and battering and shatter-
ing,
Retreating and beating and meeting and
sheeting.
Delaying and stiaying and playing and
spraying,
110 Advancing and prancing and glancing and
dancing,
Recoiling, tunnoiling and toiling and boil-
ing,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming
and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing
and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and^clapping
and slapping,
116 And curling and whirling and purling and
twirling,
And thumping and plumping And bump-
ing and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing
and clashing,
And so ne\er ending, but always descend-
ing,
Bounds and motions forever and ever are
blending,
120 All at once and all o'er, with a mighty
uproar;
And this way the water comes down at
Lodore.
From THE LIFE OF NELSON
1808-13 1813
THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR
Unremitting exertions were made to equip
the ships which he had chosen,1 .and espe-
cially to refit the Victonj, which was once
more to bear his flag. Before he left Lon-
1 That Is, which Nelson had chosen to engage the
combined fleets of France and Spain, under the
French admiral Vlllenenve.
don he called at hia upholsterer's, where the
coffin which Captain Hallowell had given
him was deposited, and desired that its
history1 might he engraven upon the lid,
6 saying it was highly probable he might
want it on his return. He seemed, indeed,
to have been impressed with an expectation
that he should fall in the battle In a let-
ter to his brother, written immediately
ID after his return,8 he had said: "We must
not talk of Sir Robert Calder's battle8 I
might not have done so much with my small
force. If I had fallen in with them, you
might probably have been a lord before I
ll wished, for I know they meant to make a
dead set at the Victory " Kelson had once
regarded the prospect of death with gloomy
satisfaction; it was when he anticipated
the npbraidings of his wife and the dis-
80 pleasure of his venerable father.4 The state
of his feelings now was expressed m his
pnvate journal in these words: "Fiiday
night (Sept. 13th), at half-past ten, I drove
from dear, dear Merton, where 1 left all
K which I hold dear in tins world, to go to
serve my king and country. May the great
God whom I adore enable me to fulfil the
expectations of my country! And if it is
His good pleasure that I should letuni,
ID my thanks will never cease being offered up
to the throne of His mercy If it is His
good providence to cut short my day* upon
earth, I bow with the greatest submission ,
relying that He will protect those so dear
86 to me, whom I may leave behind1 His
will be done! Amen! Amen! Amen1"
Early on the following momma he
reached Portsmouth; and, having des-
patched his business on shore, endeavored
40 to elude the populace by taking a b>way
to the beach; but a crowd collected m his
train, pressing forward to obtain a sight
of his face;— many were in tears, and
many knelt down before him, and blessed
46 him as he passed. England has had many
heroes, but never one who so entirely pos-
sessed the love of his fellow-countrymen as
Nelson. AH men knew that his lieart was
as humane as it was fearless; that there
•o *as not in hw nature the slightest alloy of
selfishness or cupidity, but that, with *per-
1 1t had been made from the mainmast of the
French «hip. £;On«it, destroyed by Nelson in
the Battle of the Nile, Aug. 1. 1708.
I'rom his search for the French fleet ii
•From his search
her, 1800
fleet in Beptem
•An engagement with the French and Spanish
fleets, which wa* fought wit
either side, on Jnly 22. 1805
ithout a victory for
4 On account of bib relations with Lady Hamil-
ton, a noted adventuress.
412
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
feet and entire devotion, he served bin
country with all his heart, and with all his
soul, and with all his strength;1 and, there-
lore, they loved him as truly and as fer-
vently as he loved England. They pressed
upon the parapet to gaze after him when
his barge pushed off, and he was return-
ing their cheers by waving his hat The
sentinels, who endeavored to prevent them
from trespassing upon this ground, were
wedged among the crowd; and an officer,
who, not very prudently upon such an occa-
sion, ordered them to drive the people down
with their bayonets, was compelled speedily
to retreat; for the people would not be
debarred from gazing, till the last moment,
upon the hero, the darling hero of Eng-
land* • • •
About half-past nine in the morning of
the 19th, the Mars, being the nearest to
the fleet of the ships which formed the
line of communication with the frigates in
shore, repeated the signal that the enemy
were coining out of port.-' The wind was
at this time very light, with partial freezes,
mostly from the S S W. Nelson ordered
the signal to be made for a chase in the
south-east quarter. About two, the repeat-
ing ships announced that the enemy weie
at sea. All night the British fleet contin-
ued under all sail, steering to the south-east
At daybreak8 they were in the entrance of
the Straits,4 but the enemy were not in
sight. About seven, one of the frigates
made signal that the enemy were beamier
north Upon this the Victory hove-to, and
shortly afterwards Nelson made sail again
to the northward. In the afternoon the
wind blew fresh from the south-west, and
the English began to fear that the foe
might be forced to return to port.
A little before sunset, however, Black-
wood, in the Euryalus, telegraphed that
they appeared determined to go to the west-
ward "And that," said the Admiral in
his diary, "they shall not do, if it is in the
power of Nelson and Bronte to prevent
them." Nelson had signified to Blackwocxl
that he depended upon him to keep sight
of the enemy. They were observed so well
that all their motions were made known to
him, and, as they wore twice, he inferred
that they were aiming to keep the port of
Cadiz open, and would retreat there as soon
as they saw the British fleet; for this rea-
son he was very careful not to approach
near enough to be seen by them during the
* That H
«,10-2
ttdi*.
•Get 21.1806
'That is, of Gibraltar,
night At daybreak the combined fleets
were distinctly seen from the Victory* 8
deck, formed in a close line of battle ahead,
on the starboard tack, about twelve miles
I to leeward, and standing to the south Oui
fleet consisted of twenty-seven sail of the
line1 and four frigates; theirs of thirty-
three and seven large frigates Their su-
periority was greater in size and weight of
10 metal than in numbers They had four
thousand troops on board; and the best
riflemen uho could be procured, many of
them Tyrotese, were dispersed through
the ships Little did the Tyrolese, and
IB little did the Spaniards at that day,
imagine what horrors the wicked tyrant
whom they served was preparing for their
country.2
Soon after daylight Nelson came upon
*> deck. The 21st of October was a festival
in his family, because on that day his
uncle, Captain Suckling, in the Dread-
nought, with two other line-oi'-battle ships
had beaten off a Fiench squadron of four
V sail of the line and three frigates. Nelson,
with that sort of Mijierstition from which
tew persons are entnely exempt, had nmic
than once expressed his persuasion that this
was to be the day of his battle also, and
SO lie was well pleased at seeing his piedic-
tion about to be verified. The wind was now
from the west,— light breezes, with a long
heavy swell Signal was made to beai
down upon the enemy in two lines; and the
8 fleet set all sail Collmgwood, in the Royal
Sovereign, led the lee-line of thirteen ships;
the Victory led the weather-line of fourteen
Having seen that all was as it should be,
Nelson retired to his cabin, and wrote this
« prayer:—
" May the Gieat Ood, whom I worship,
grant to my country, and for the benefit
of Europe in general, a great and glorious
victory; and may no misconduct in any one
45 tarnish it ; and may humanity after victory
be the predominant feature in the British
fleet. For myself individually, I commit
my life to Him that made me, and may His
blessing alight on my endeavors for serving
» my country faithfully! To Him I resign
myself, and the just cause which is in-
trusted to me to defend. Amen, Amen.
Amen."
*The Mil of the line carried much heavier arran
ment than did the frigates.
•When the Tyrolese were fighting for freedom
from the Bavarians In 1*00, Napoleon aided
the Bavarians In 1808. ho mnde hie brother
Joaeph king of Spain.
BOfifiBT 60UTHKV
413
Blackwood went un board the Victory
about six He found him in good spirits,
but very calm; not in that exhilaration
which he had felt upon entering into battle
at Aboukir and Copenhagen , he knew that
his own life would be particularly aimed
at, and seems to have looked for death with
almost an sure an expectation as for vic-
tory His whole attention was fixed upon
the enemy. They tacked to the northward,
and formed their line on the larboard tack ,
thus bunging the shoals of Trafalgar and
St Pedro under the lee of the British, and
keeping the port of Cadiz open for them-
selves This was judiciously done- and
Nelson, aware of all the advantages which
it crave them, made signal to prepare to
anchor
Villeneuve was a skilful seaman, worthy
of sen ing a better master and a better
cause His plan of defence was as well
concerted, and as original, as the plan of
attack He formed the fleet in a double
line, every alternate ship being about a
cable's length1 to windward of her second
ahead and astern. Nelson, certain of a tri-
umphant issue to the day, asked Blackwood
what he should consider as a victory. That
officer answered that, considering the hand-
some way in which battle was offered by the
enemy, their apparent determination for a
fair tual of strength, and the situation of
the land, he thought it would be a glorious
icsult if fourteen were captured. He re-
plied. "1 shall not be satisfied with less
than twenty." Soon afterwards he asked
him it he did not think there was a signal
wanting. Captain Blackwood made answer
that he thought the whole fleet seemed very
cleaily to understand what they were about.
These woids were scarcely spoken before
that ugnal was made which will be remem-
beied as long as the language 01 e\en the
memory of England shall endure— Nelson's
last signal. "ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY
MAN TO DO HIS DUTY'" It was received
throughout the fleet with a shout of answer-
ing acclamation, made sublime by the spirit
which it breathed and the feeling which it
expressed. "Now/9 said Lord Nelson, "I
can do no more. We must trust to the great
Disposer of all events and the justice oi
our cause. I thank God for this great op-
portunity of doing my duty.'9
He wore that day, as usual, his Admiral's
frock-coat, bearing on the left breast four
stars of the different orders with which he
was invested. Ornaments which rendered
»Wx hundred frot
him so conspicuous a mark for the enemy
were beheld with ominous apprehensions by
his officers. It was known that there were
riflemen on board the French ships, and it
0 could not be doubted but that his life would
be particularly aimed at They communi-
cated their fears to each other, and the
suigeon, Mr. Beatty, spoke to the chaplain,
Dr. Scott, and to Mr Scott, the public
10 secietary, desiring that some peisoii would
entreat him to change his diess or cover
the stars, but they knew that such a lequest
would highly displease him "in honor 1
gained them," he had said when such a
16 thing had been hinted to him formerly,
"and in honor I will die with them " Mr.
Beatty, however, would uot ha\e been de-
terred by any fear of exciting his dis-
pleasure from speakmg to him himself
10 upon a subject in which the weal of Eng-
land, as well as the life of Nelson, was con-
cerned; but he was oideied fioni the deck
before he could find an opportunity This
was a point upon which Nelson's ofliccrs
» knew that it was hopeless to remonstrate
or reason with him; but both Blackwood
and his own captain, Haidy, lepresented
to him how advantageous to the fleet it
would be for him to keep out of action as
10 long as possible, and he consented at last
to let the Lewatlia* and the Tf'mcraire,
which were sailing abreast of the Vidon/,
be ordered to pass ahead Yet even here
the last infirmity of this noble mind1 was
V indulged; for these ships could not pass
ahead if the Victory continued to carry all
her sail ; and so far was Nelson from short-
ening sail, that it was evident he took
pleasure in pressing on, and rendering it
40 impossible for them to obey his own orders.
A long swell was setting into the Bay of
Cadiz: our ships, ciowdmg all sail, moved
majestically before it, with light winds
from the south-west. The sun shone on the
46 sails of the euemy; and their well-formed
line, with their numerous three-deckers,
made an appearance which any other assail-
ants would have thought formidable; but
the British sailors only admired the beauty
BO and the splendor of the spectacle; and, in
full confidence of winning what they saw,
remarked to each other, what a fine sight
yonder ships would make at Spithead'
The French admiral, from the Bucen-
« taure, beheld the new manner in which his
enemy was advancing, Nelson and Colling-
wood each leading his line; and, pointing
them out to his officers, he is said to have
1 That In, ambition ft* Litrtdat, 71
414
NINETEENTH CENPUBY ROMANTICISTS
exclaimed that such conduct could not fail
to be successful. Yet Villeneuve had made
his own dispositions with the utmost skilly
and the fleets under his command waited
for the attack with perfect coolness. Ten
minutes before twelve they opened their
lire. Eight or nine of the ships immediately
ahead of the Victory, and across her bows,
fired single guns at her, to ascertain whether
she was yet within their range. As soon
as Nelson perceived that their shot passed
over him, he desired Blackwood and Cap-
tain Prowse, of the Sinus, to repair to their
respective frigates, and on their way to tell
all the captains of the hne-of-battle ships
that he depended on their exertions, and
that, if by the prescribed mode of attack
they found it impracticable to get into
action immediately, they might adopt what-
ever they thought best, provided it led them
quickly and closely alongside an enemy. AK
they were standing on the front of the
poop, Blackwood took him by the hand,
saying he hoped soon to return and find
him in possession of twenty prizes He
replied, "God bless you, Blackwood; I
shall never see you again "
Nelson's column was steered about two
points more to the north than Colhng-
wood'n, in order to cut off the enemy's
escape into Cadiz The lee line, therefore,
was first engaged "See," cried Nelson,
pointing to the Royal Sovereign, as she
steered right for the centre of the enemy's
line, cut through it astern of the Santa
Anna, three-decker, and engaged her at
the muzzle of her guns on the starboard
side, "pee how that noble fellow Colling-
wood carries his ship into action!" Col-
hngwood, delighted at being first in the
heat of the fire, and knowing the feelings
of his Commander and old fnend, turned
to his captain and exclaimed, "Rotherham,
what would Nelson give to be here ' " Both
these brave officers perhaps at this moment
thought of Nelson with gratitude for a
circumstance which had occurred on the pre-
ceding day. Admiral Colhngwood, with
some of the captains, having gone on board
the Victory to receive instructions, Nelson
inquired of him where his captain wan, and
was told in reply that they were not upon
good terms with each other, " Terms'*"
said Nelson, "good terms with each other' "
Immediately he sent a boat for Captain
Rotherham, led him, as soon as he arrived*,-
to Collingwood, and saying, "Look, yonder
are the enemy!" bade them shake hands
like Englishmen.
The enemy continued to fire a gun at a
time at the Victory till they saw that a shot
had passed through her main-topgallant
sail; then they opened their broadsides,
i aiming chiefly at her rigging, in the hope
of disabling her before she could close with
them. Nelson, as usual, had hoisted sev-
eral flags, lest one should be shot away
The enemy showed no colors till late in the
10 action, when they began to feel the neces-
sity of having them to strike. For this
reason the Santtsstma Trinidad— Nelson 's
old acquaintance, as he used to call her—
was distinguishable only by her four decks,
IS and to the bow of this opponent he ordered
the Victory to be steered Meantime an
incessant raking fire ^ as kept up upon the
Victory. The admiral's secretary was one
of the first who fell: he was killed by a
so cannon-shot, while conversing with Hardy
Captain Adair, of the marines, with the
help of a sailor, endeavored to remove the
body from Nelson 's sight, who had a great
regard for Mr. Scott; but he anxiously
25 asked, "Is that poor Scott that's gonel "
and being informed that it was indeed so,
exclaimed, "Poor fellow'" Presently a
double-headed shot struck a party of ma-
rines, who were drawn up on the poop,
80 and killed eight of them : upon which Nel-
son immediately desired Captain Adair to
disperse his men round the ship, that they
might not suffer so much from being to-
gether. A few minutes afterwards a shot
88 struck the forebrace bits on the quarter-
deck, and passed between Nelson and
Hardy, a splinter from the bit tearing off
Hardy's buckle and bruising his foot. Both
stopped, and looked anxiously at each
10 other, each supposing the other to be
wounded. Nelson then smiled, and said.
"This is -too warm work, Hardy, to last
99
Victory had not yet returned a single
48 gun : fifty of her men had been by this time
killed 'or wounded, and her main-topmast,
with all her studding sails and their booms,
shot away. Nelson declared that, in all
his battles, he had seen nothing which
80 surpassed the cool courage of his crew on
this occasion. At four minutes after twelve
she opened her fire from both sides of hei
deck. It was not possible to break the
enemy's line without running on board one
66 of their ships: Hardy informed him of
this, and asked which he would prefer.
Nelson replied: "Take your choice, Hardy,
it does not signify much.11 The master
was then ordered to put the helm to port,
EGBERT SOUTHEY
415
and the Victory ran on board the Redoubt-
able, just as her tiller ropes were shot away.
The French ship received her with a broad-
side, then instantly let down her lower-
deck ports for fear of being boarded ft
through them, and never afterwards fired
a great gun during the action. Her tops,
like those of all the enemy's ships, were
filled with riflemen. Nelson never placed
musketry in his tops; he had a strong die- 10
like to the practice, not merely because it
endangers setting fire to the sails, but also
because it is a murderous sort of warfare,
by which individuals may suffer, and a
commander now and then be picked off, but 16
which never can decide the fate of a general
engagement.
Captain Harvey, in the Temeraire, fell
on board the Redoubtable on the other side,
another enemy was in like manner on board 20
the Temermrc; so that these four shipfe
formed as compact a tier as if they had
been moored together, their heads all lying
the same way. The lieutenants of the Vic-
tory, seeing this, depressed their guns of 8*
the middle and lower decks and filed with
a diminished charge, lest the shot should
pass through and injure the Temfraire,
and because there was danger that the
Redoubtable might take flre from the lower- 80
deck guns, the muzzles of which touched
her side when they were run out, the fire-
man of each gun stood ready wilh a bucket
of water, which, as soon as the gun was
discharged, he dashed into the hole made 85
by the shot. An incessant fire was kept
up from the Victoii/ from both sides; her
larboard guns playing upon the Bucentaurc
and the huge Santissima Trinidad.
It had been part of Nelson 's prayer that 40
the British fleet might be distinguished by
humanity in the victory which he expected
Setting an example himself, he twice gave
orders to cease firing upon the Redoubtable,
supposing that she had struck, because her 40
great guns were silent; for, as she carried
no flag, there was no means of instantly
ascertaining the fact. From this ship, which
he had thus twice spared, he received his
death. A ball fired from her nriusen-top, »
which, in the then situation of the two ves-
sels, was not more than fifteen yards from
that part of the deck where he was
standing, struck the epaulette on his left
shoulder,— about a quarter after one, just SB
in the heat of the action. He fell upon his
face, on the spot which was covered with
his poor secretary's blood. Hardy, who
was a few steps from him, turning round,
saw three men raising him up. ' ' They have
done for me at last, Hardy," said he. "I
hope not!'1 cried Hardy. "Yes/' he re-
plied; "my back bone is shot through "
Yet even now, not for a moment losing his
presence of mind, he observed, as they were
carrying him down the laddei, that the*
tiller ropes, which had been shot away,
were not yet replaced, and ordered that
new ones should be rove immediately —
then, that he might not be seen by the crew,
he took out his handkerchief, and covered
his face and his stars.— Had he but con-
cealed these badges of honor from the
enemy, England, perhaps, would not have
had cause to receive with sorrow the news
of the battle of Trafalgar.
The cockpit was crowded with wounded
and d>ing men, over whose bodies he was
uith some difficulty conveyed, and laid
upon a pallet in the midshipmen's berth.
It was soon perceived, upon examination,
that the wound was mortal. This, however,
was concealed from all, except Captain
Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical at-
tendants. He himself being certain, from
the sensation in his back, and the gush of
blood which he felt momently within his
breast, that no human care could avail him,
insisted that the surgeon should leave him,
and attend to those to whom he might be
useful; "for," said he, "yon can do noth-
ing for me." All that could be done was to
fan him with paper, and frequently to sne
him lemonade to alleviate his intense thirst
He was in great pain, and expressed much
anxiety for the event of the action, which
now beeran to declare itself As often as
a ship struck, the crow of the Victoiy hur-
raed, and at everv Imiia a Msible expies-
sion of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked
the countenance of the dym«r hero. But he
became impatient to see Captain Hardy;
and as that oflicer, though olten sent foi,
could not leave the deck, Nelson feared that
some fatal cause prevented linn, and lepeat-
edly cried- "Will no one bnnsr Hardy to
me? He must be kiMed' He is surely
dead!" An hour and ten minutes elapsed
from Ihe time when Nelson rocened his
wound before Hauly cor Id come to him.
They shook hands in silence ; Hardy in vain
struggling to suppress the feelings of that
most painful and vet sublimest moment
"Well, Hardv." iaid Nelson, "how goes
the day with n*?"-"Very well," replied
Hardy* "ten ships have struck, but five of
the van have tacked, and show an intention
to bear down upon the Victory. I have
416
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
called two or three of our fresh ships
round, and have no doubt of giving them
a drubbing."-'1 1 hope," said Nelson,
"none of our ships have struck!" Hardy
answered. ''There was no fear of that " 6
Then, and not till then, Nelson spoke of
himself. "I am a dead man, Hardy,'*
said ho, "I am going fast; it will be all
cner Tilth me soon Come nearer to me
Let my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair ID
and all other things belonging to me f>
Hardy observed that he hoped Mr. Beam
could yet hold out some piospect of life
"Oh no'" he replied, "it is impossible,
my bark is shot through. Beatty will tell II
you so." Captain Haidy then once more
shook hands with him, and with a heart
almost bursting hastened upon deck.
By thin time all feeling below the breast
was gone; and Nelson, having made the »
surgeon ascertain this, said to him* "You
know I am gone. I know it. I feel some-
thing rising in my breast"— putting his
hand on his left side— "which tells me so "
And upon Beatty 's inquiring whether his 26
pain was very great, he replied, "So great
that he wished he was dead. Yet," said he
in a lower voice, "one would like to Inc
a little longer too f " And after a few min-
utes, in the same under-tone, he added: »
"What would become of poor Lady Ham-
ilton if she knew my situation?" Next
to his country she occupied his thought*
Captain Haidy, some fifty minutes after
he had left the cockpit, returned, and again K
taking the hand of his dying friend and
Commander, congratulated him on having
gnmed a complete victory. How many of
the enemy Mere taken he did not know, as
it was impossible to perceive them dis- 40
tmctly, but fourteen or fifteen at least
"That's well'" cned Nelson, "but I bar-
gained for twenty " And then in a stronger
voice he said' "Anchor, Hardy, anchor."
Hardy upon this hinted that Admiral Col- 46
lingwood would take upon himself the di-
rection of affairs. "Not while I live.
Hardy," said the dying Nelson, ineffec-
tually endeavoring to raise himself from
the bed. "Do you anchor." His previous »
order for preparing to anchor had shown
how clearly he foresaw the necessity of this
Presently, calling Hardy back, he said to
him, in a low voice, "Don't throw me over-
board"; and he desired that he might be B
buried by his parents, unless it should please
the king to order otherwise Then, re-
verting to private feelings: "Take care of
my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy; take care
of poor Lady Hamilton.— Kiss me, Hardy,"
said he. Hardy knelt down, and kissed his
cheek: and Nelson said, "Now I am satis*
fied. Thank God, I have done my duty."
Hardy stood over him in silence for a
moment or two, then knelt again, and kissed
his forehead. "Who IH that?" said Nel-
son; and being informed, he replied, "God
bless you, Hardy." And Hardy then left
him— forever.
Nelson now desued to lie tuincd upon his
right side, and said: "1 \\ish I had not
left the deck; for I shall soon be gone."
Death was, indeed, rapidly approaching.
He said to the chaplain • "Doctor, I have
not been a great sinner"; and, after a
short pause, "Remember that I leave Lady
Hamilton, and my daughter. Iloratia, as a
legacy to m> countiy " His articulation
now became difficult ; but he was distinctly
heard to say, "Thank God, I have done roy
duty!" These unrds he had repeated!}
pronounced, and they were the last word's
he uttered. He expired at thirty minutes
after four,— three hours and a quarter aftei
he had received his wound.
• •••••
Once, amidst his sufferings, Nelson had
expressed a wish that he were dead; but
immediately the npnit subdued the pains
of death, and he wished to live a little
longei; doubtless that he might hear the
completion of the \ictory which he had
seen so gloriously begun. That consolation
—that joy— that triumph, was afforded him
He lived to know that the victory was
decisive; and the last guns which were
iired at the flying enemy were heard a
minute or two before he expired.
• . • . .
It is almost superfluous to add that all
the honors which a grateful country could
bestow woie heaped upon the memory of
Nelson. His brother was marie an earl,
with a grant of £6,000 per year; £10,000
were voted to each of his sisters; and
£100,000 for the purchase of an estate. A
public funeral was decreed, and a public
monument. Statues and monuments also
were voted by most of our pnncipal cities
The leaden coffin, in which he was brought
home, was cut in pieces, which were dis-
tributed as relics of Saint Nelson,— so the
gunner of the Victory called them,— and
when, at his internment, his flag was about
to be lowered into the grave, the sailors
who assisted at the ceremony, with one ac-
cord rent it in pieces, that each might pre-
serve a fragment while he lived
THOMAS CAMPBELL
417
The death of Nelson was felt in Eng-
land as something more than a public
calamity: men started at the intelligence,
and turned pale, as if they had heard of
the loss of a dear fnend. An object of our
admiration and affection, of our pride and
of our hope*, was suddenly taken from us;
and it seemed as if we had never, till then,
known how deeply we loved and reverenced
him. What the country had lost in its great
naval hero— the greatest of our own, and
of all former times— was scarcely taken
into the account of grief. So perfectly,
indeed, had he performed his part, that the
maritime war, after the battle of Trafal-
gar, was considered at an end ; the fleets of
the enemy were not merely defeated, but
destroys ed; new navies mubt be built, and a
new race of seamen reared for them, be-
fore the possibility of their invading our
shoies could again be contemplated. It
was not, thctcfore, from any selfish reflec-
tion upon the magnitude of our loss that
we mourned for linn the general sorrow
was of a higher character. The people of
England grieved that funeral ceremonies,
public monuments, and posthumous ic-
wards, were all which they could now be-
stow upon him, \Uiom the king, the legib-
latuie, and the nation, would alike ha\c
delighted to honor, whom every tongue
would have blessed; whose presence in every
\illage through which he might have passed
would have wakened the church bells, have
given school-boys a hqhday, have drawn
children fiom their spoils to gaze upon him,
and "old men fiom the chimney corner,"1
to look upon Nelson ere they died The
victorv of Trafalgar was eelehiated, indeed,
with the usual fonns of irjoicmg, but they
were without joy , for such already was the
"lory of the British navy, through Nelson *s
sin passing genius, that it scarcely seemed
to receive any addition from the most signal
victory that e\er was achieved upon the
seas , "and the destruction of this mighty
fleet, by which all the maritime schemes of
France were totally frustrated, hardly ap-
peared to add to our security or strenirth;
for while Nelson was living, to watch the
combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt
ourselves as secure as now, when they
were no longer in existence.
There i*as leason to suppose, from the
appearances upon opening the body, that in
the course of nature he might have at-
tained, like his father, to a good old age.
> Hldnei, Tin Hrfentr of /»o«iy. 2S. 27 (Ath
ed.)
Tet he cannot be said to have fallen pre-
maturely whose work was done, nor ought
he to be lamented who died so full of hon-
ors and at the height of human fame. The
6 most triumphant death is that of the mar-
tyr; the most awful that of the martyred
patriot, the most splendid that of the hero
m the hour of Victory, and if the chariot
and the horses of fire had been vouch-
10 safed for Nelson's translation,1 he could
scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze
of glory. He has left us, not indeed his
mantle of inspiration,2 but a name and an
example which are at this hour inspiring
16 thousands of the youth of England— a name
which is our pride, and an example which
will continue to be our shield and our
strength. Thus it is that the spirits of the
great aid the wise continue to live and to
20 act after them, verifying in this sense the
language of the old raythologibt
Tot /itr do/Atom elfft. Atfo iuyd\ov 5iA
THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844)
THE PLEASURES OP HOPE
1796-V9 1709
From I'AKT I
At summer e^, \\hen ITea ven's etheieal
bow
Spans with bright nicli the glittering hills
heloTi f
Why to yon mountain turns the musing
Whose sun bright summit mingles with the
sk>t
* Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint
appeal
Moie sweet than all the landscape smiling
neai?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the
Mew,
And robes the mountain in its azuie hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
10 The promised joys of life's unmeasured
way,
Thus, from afar, each dim-discover 'd
scene
More pleasing seems than all the past
hath been,
And every form, that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
» An they had heen for Elijah (t JCfff?*. 2 -11-13).
•Which Elijah left for Ellsha (2 King*. 2 8, \\
85)
n Shining spirit* there are, that dwell upon earth
among mortals
Prompting illustrious dewK and fulfllllng tho
coanaolft of 7ea«
— Flwiori, The irorin and Day* 122
418 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
16 What potent spirit guides the raptured And asks the image back that Heaven
eye bestow 'd!
To pierce the shades of dim futurity 1 Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns.
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly And, as the slave departs, the man returns,
power, Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? a while,
Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man— 35° And Hope, thy sibter, ceased with thee to
20 Her dun horizon bounded to a span; smile,
Or, if she hold an image to the view, When leagued Oppression1 ponr'd to
*Tis Nature pictured too severely true. Northern wars
With thee, sweet Hope1 resides the heav- Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce
enly light, hussars,2
That pours remotest rapture on the sight Waved her dread standard to the breeze
25 Thine is the charm of life's bewilder M of morn,
way, Peal'd hei loud drum, and twang 'd hei
That calls each slumbering passion into trumpet horn ;
play. 3S6 Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band. van,
On tiptoe watehing, start at thy com- Presaging wrath to Poland— and to man!
mand, Warsaw's last champion8 from her
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them height survey M,
steer, Wide o 'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,—
30 To Pleasure's path or Glorv's bright ' ' Oh! Heaven!" he cned, "my bleeding
career country save'—
Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say. S6° Ts there no hand on high to shield the
When Man and Nature itioum'd (heir brave f
first decay, Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely
When every form of death, and everv woe, plains,
Shot from malignant stars to earth below , Rise, fellow-men I our country yet re-
85 When Murder bared her arm, and ram- mains!
pant War By that dread name, we wave the sword
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car, on high!
When Peace and Mercv, banish 'd from And swear for her to live'— with her to
the plain, die»"
Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven 3W He said, and on the rampart-heights
again; airay'd
All, all forsook the friendless, guiltv mind. His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed .
40 But Hope, the charmer, linger 'd «tfill Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they
behind * form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the
storm ^
Where barbarous hordes on Scythian jjOW murmuring sounds along their ban-
mountains roam, ner8 fly>
MO Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a Uf0 ReVenge, or*death,-the watchword and
home ; reply ;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and Then peal,d the nofeg> omnipotent to
pines, charm,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary And the iolld toc8in toll'd their last
mines, alarm f —
Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd dark- In vttinf alagl m vain> yc g^ant few!
ness there, ' Vrom ^^ f0 ranfc your volley'd thunder
And light the dreadful features of De- flew—
spair.- 37B oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
»*B Hark! the stern captive spurns hw heaw ,«,.««,.„«,,...„_.
inoj i 1n 1702 and 1794 wben Russia, Prowls, and
load> Auitrla united in watt for the partition of
Poland.
*8ee the rtorv of Pandora, from whose box all "The pandoon were membra of a regiment in
the blessings but hope escaped ; also the story the Austrian army, noted for Its courage and
of the Iron Age. in which the vices took DOS- cruelty The butters were light wivalrvroen
session of the earth after the virtue* had dc- "Thaddens Koadvsko. he wan defeated and
parted taken prisoner. Ort 10, 1704
THOMAS CAMPBELL
419
Sariuatia fell, unwept, without a crime,
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe !
Dropp'd from hei nerveless grasp the
shattei'd speai,
880 Closed her bnght eye, and curb'd her
high career,—
Hope, for a season, bade the world fare-
well,
And Freedom shiiek'd as Koscmsko fell*
The sun went down, nor ceased the
carnage theie,
Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight
air—
886 On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin
glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring- far be-
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a
way,
Bursts the wild crv of horror and dimna> f
Hark, as the smouldering piles with
thundei fall,
390 A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call '
Earth shook— red meteors flash 'd alon«r
the sky,
And conscious Nature shuddei 'd at the ci> '
Oh1 righteous Hea\en; ere Freedom
found a gnue,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to sa\e*
?96 Where was thine ^ arm, 0 Vengeance f
\thcic thy iod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God ,l
That crush 'd pi owl Amnion. when his
iron cai
Was yoked in wiath, and thundei 'd fiom
afar!2
Where was the *torm that Rlinnbei M till
the host
400 Of blood-stain yd Phaiaoh left their tiem-
bhng coast,
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their maich be-
low t»
Departed spuits of the mighty dead1
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled'
405 Friends of the world ! restore your swoids
to man,
Fight in Ins sacied cause, and lead the Mm '
Yet for Sannatia's tears of blood alone.
And make hei aim puissant as jour ownf
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause 'return
410 The patriot Tell— the Bruce of Bannock-
burn!
Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land,
shall see
» 8ce f«Ha*, 51 7-10
•See Jv4flC8t 11 8- VI , Ezrliel, 25 1-7
• &*e fixoilirit, 14
That man hath yet a soul— and dare br
free!
A little while, along thy saddening plains
The starless night of Desolation reigns,
Truth shall restore the light by Nature
given,
And, like Piometheus, bung the fire oi
Pi one to the dust Oppiession shall 1»<
hurl'd.
Her name, her nature, wither 'd from tin
world !
YE MABINEB8 OF ENGLAND
A NAVAL ODE
1799-180U 1801
Ye mariners of England,
That guard our natrte seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand yeai^
The battle and the biecze'
5 Your glouous stand aid launch again
To match another foe,1
And sweep through the deep,
While the stonm umds do blow,
While the battle iagc<. loud and long,
10 And the stoimy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall stait fiom every wave'
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their £ia\e
15 Wheie Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Yoiu manly heaits shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow ,
While the battle rages loud and long,
20 And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No toweis along the steep,
ITer n in ifh is o'er the mountain-wa\es,
Hei home is on the deep.
25 With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,
As they loar on the shoie,
When the stoimy umds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
30 And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall >et tenific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return
8B Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow
1 England had won naval victories over t o
French in the battles of Capo Bt. Vincvi.t
(1797) and of the Nile (1798)
420
NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTICIBTS
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight IB heard no more,
40 And the storm has ceased to blow.
HOHENLINDEN
1802 1802
On Linden, uhen the sun was low,
All bloodlet* lay th ' untrodden snow,
And daik a* winter *as the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
c But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery
By toich and trumpet fast array 'd,
10 Each horseman drew hw battle-blade.
And furious every charger neigh 'd,
To IOJD the dreadful re\elry.
Then shook the hills with thunder nvcn.
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
16 And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash 'd the red artillery
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
20 Of Tser, rolling rapidly
'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun.
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy
25 iThe combat deepens On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave f
Wave, Munich f all thy banners wave.
And chaige with all thy chnalry f
Few, few, shall part where many meet '
30 The snow shall be their winding-sheet.
And eveiy turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre
LOCHIEL '8 WABTONG
180t 1802
WIZARD
Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day
When the lowlands shall meet thee in
battle array t
For a field of the dead rushes red on my
sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scatter vd
in fight
6 They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom
and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them
down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the
slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod
to the plain.
But hark I through the fast-flashing light-
ning of war.
10 What steed to the desert flies frantic and
fart
'Tis thine, oh Glenullm! whose bride shall
await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at
the gate
A steed comes at morning no ridei is
there,
Hut its bridle is red with the sign oi
despair
1& Weep, Albm ' to death and captivity led '
Oh weep, but thy team cannot number
the dead
Fur a niereilens wvord on Culloden shall
wave,
Culloden' that leeks \\ith the blood of the
brave.
LOCHISL
On, preach to the couaid, thon death -
telling seei f
20 Or, if eoiy fullorien so dieadful appeal.
Draw, dotard, around thy old \\aveiinp
sight
This mantle, to COACI the phantoms of
fright
WIZARD
Haf Jaugh'st fhou, Lochiel, my vision to
scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, th> plume
shall be torn f
26 Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultm^K
forth,
From his home, in the dark, i oiling cloud*
of the noith?
I A) I the death-shot of foenien out speeding,
he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction
abroad ,
But down let him stoop from his htnoc
on high f
80 Ah! home let him s|>eed, for the spoilei
in nigh.
Why flames the far summit f Why shoot
to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firma-
ment castt
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, All dread
fully driven
THOMAS CAMPBELL
421
Prom his eyrie, that beacons the dark-
ness of heaven.
36 Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements'
height,
Kibe, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover
his flight!
'Tis finish 'd. Their thunders are hush'd
on the moors:
(2ulloden is lost, and my country deploies
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and ** But where is the iron-bound prisoner!
to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark
where it stood,
40 And a wild mother scream o'er her fam-
ishing brood
LOCHOEL
False Wizard, avanntf I have inarshall'd
my clan,
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms
aie ouef
They aie true to the last of their blood
and their bieath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of
death
r> Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to
the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave
on the rock!
But woe to Ins kindled, and woe to hi**
cause,
When Albin her claymore1 indignantly
draws,
When her bonneted chieftains to victory
crowd,
~'° Clamonald the dauntless, and Moiay the
proud,
All plaided and plumed in then tartan2
arra>
WIZARD
Lochiel, Locluel! bewaie of the day;
Fur, daik and despanniK. my sight T ma>
seal.
But man cannot co\er what God would
-••• 'Tis th^sunsW of life 8ives me mystical 8G Htall victor exult, ^or in death be laid I tow
Where t
For the red eye of battle is shut in
despair
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish 'd.
forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding
and torn?
Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ,
70 The war-drum is muffled, and black is the
bier;
His death-bell is tolling* oh! mercy,
dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell !
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering
limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony
swims.
73 Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his
feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown, eie it
ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the
gale
LOCHIEL
Down, soothlegc. insnltei ' I trust not the
tale-
For ne\er shall Albin a destiny meet,
so So black with dishonor, so foul with re-
heat.
Tlio' my perishing ranks should be
stie\v \l in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-
beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom
remains,
lore,
And cominir events cast their shadows
beioie.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy
fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of
wrath,
00 Behold, where he flies on his desolate path !
Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps
from my sight:
4^-_ _JB__J| __ . __ u m
iWCMJuKrO HwOrQ
clotb checkered with narrow banda of
i colon . the characterise drece of the
nd rhmfl
With his back to the field, and his feet to
the foe!
And leaving in battle no blot on his name.
Look proudly to Heaven fioiu the death-
bed of fame
LOBD ULLIN'8 DAUGHTER
1809
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry1
And I'll give thee a silver pound.
To row us o'er the ferry."
' ' Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy wateit"
422
NINETEENTH CENTUBY HOMANTICIBTS
"0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
10 Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would starn the heathei
"His horsemen haid behind us ude;
Should they our steps discover,
13 Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they ha\e slain her lover?"
Out spoke the haidy Highland wight,
1 ' I fll go, my chief ; I 'm ready .
It is not for your silver bright,
20 But for your winsome lady.
' ' And by my word ! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging while,
I'll row you o'er the ferry "
23 By this the storui giew loud apace,
The water wiaith1 was shrieking ,
And in the scowl of hea^en each face
drew daik ah they were speaking
But still as wilder blew the wind,
10 And as the night grew dream,
Adown the £>len rode armed men—
Their trampling sounded nearer
"O haste thec, haste!" the lady ITU*,
11 Though tempests round us gather,
M I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,—
When, oh! too btiong for human hand,
40 The tempest gathered o 'er her
And still they low'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing*
Lord Film reach 'd that fatal shore-
Hib wrath was changed to wailing
45 For sold dismay M, through storm and
shade,
Hib child he did discover-
One lovely hand she stretch M for aid,
And one was round hei lover
"Come back! come back!" he cried in
grief,
60 "Across this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"
1 spirit supposed to piwlflc nrcr the wnter*
'Twas vain;— the loud waves lash'd the
shore,
Return or aid preventing
B3 The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC
1800
Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
:> And her arms along the deep pioudly
shone,
By each gun and lighted brand,
Tn a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on,
10 Like leviathans afloat,
Lay then bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British hue,
It was ten of Apnl mom by the chime
13 As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death .
And tho boldest held his breath.
For a time
But the might of England flush M
'° To anticipate the scene,
A nd her van the fleeter rush 'd
O'er the deadly space between
"Hearts of oak!" our captain cued, when
each gun
Fiom its adamantine lips
25 Spread a death-shade lound the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of tho sun
Again f again! again1
And the havoc did not slack,
•i° Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back ,
Their shots along the deep slowly boom-
Then ceased— and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter 'd sail,
w Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom
Out spoke the Motor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave;
"Ye arc brothers' ye are men'
40 And we conquer but to save,
So peace instead of death let us bring.
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
« To our King >f-
THOMAS CAMPBELL
428
Then Denmark bleua'd our cine!,
That he gave her wounds repose,
And the boundb of joy and pi] el
Fioin lier people wildly rose,
50 As Death withdrew hib shade* fioiu the
day
While the HUH look'd biuiling blight
0 'ei a wide and wof ul sight,
Where the in eh of funeral light
Died away
3"' Now joy, old England, iaisc!
For the tidings oi thy might,
By the iestal cities' blaze,
Whilst the nine-pup blnnes in light,
And yet nuiulht tlint joy and upioar,
bu U't us think ol them that bleep,
Full nmnv a 1 at hum deep,
By thv *ild «"d si 01 my bleep,
Klsmore f
Bi ave hem is f to Bi itam 'b pi itlo
65 Once so faithful und so tiue,
On the deck ot iume that died,
With the gallant gcMid liiuu.
SoJt smh the winds oi Henum oVr then
gia\e!
While the billow iiioiunful rolls
70 And the mcimaid'h song condoles,
Singing gloiy to the souls
Of the brave"!
THE LAST MAN
1828
All worldly shape* shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die.
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
"• 1 saw a \ision in m> sleep.
That ga\e my spmt stiength to sweep
Adown the gulf oi Time1
1 saw the last of human mould
That shall Ci cation's death behold,
> o As Adam saw her prime !
The Sun 's e>e had a sickly glare.
The Earth with ace was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man '
16 Some had expned in fight,— the biands
Still nisted in their bony hands,
In plague and famine some f
Eai th's cities had no sound nor tread.
And ships were drifting with the dead
20 To shores where all was dumb '
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood.
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As il a btoiui pass'd by,
-"' Saying, "We are twins in death, proud
Sun!
Thy face ib cold, thy race is 11111,
'Tib Mercy bids thee go ,
Foi thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human teais,
•° That bhall no longer flow.
"What though beneath thee man put forth
Ills pomp, his pude, his skill,
And aits that made fire, flood, anil enith
The \assals of his willf
r> Yet mourn ] not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day ,
For all thobe tr opined artb
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal 'd not a passion or a pang
40 Entail 'd on human hearth.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
I 'poii the stage oi men,
Nor with thy using beams recall
Life's tiagedy again
n Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Noi waken ilesh, upon the lack
Oi pain anew to \viithe;
Shetch'd in disease's shapes abhort 'd,
<>r mown in battle by the sword,
~'° Like grass beneath the scythe.
E\ 'n T am weary in yon skies
To watch thy iadmg fiie,
Test of all sum less agonies,
Behold not me cxpne
05 M\ lips that speak thj dirge of death—
Their lounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,
The majesty of Darkness shall
b° Hecene nij parting ghost f
This spmt shall return to Him
Who gave its lieatenly spark ,
\ et think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark »
A"' No' it shall Ine again, and shine
Tn bliss unknown to licflins of thine,
By him recall 'd to breath.
Who captive led captmtv,
Who robb'd the giave of Victory,—
70 And took the sting from Death I1
Go, Sun. while Merry holds me up
On Natuic's auful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of guef that man shall taste—
~Z Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou sa\v 'st the last of Adam 's race,
1 RPT /
424 NINETEENTH GENTUBY BO1CANTIC18T8
On Earth's sepulchral clod, First to Hecla, and then to—-" Unmeet
The darkening universe defy was the vest
To quench his immortality, For man's ear. The old abbey bell thun-
80 Or bhake his trust in God ! der'd its clang,
And their eyes gleam 'd with phosphorus
THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND light as it rang .
1828 Ere they vanish M, they stopp'd, and
Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred gazed silently grim,
head! •"> Till the eye could define them, garb, 1 (Mi-
Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, bo tore, and limb
have the dead
There are brains, though they mouldei, Now who were those inamerst of gallon
that dream in the tomb, or wheel1
And that maddening forehear the last Bore they marks, 01 the mangling anato-
trumpet of doom, mint '*> steel f
6 Till then corses start sheeted to revel on No. by magistrates' chains 'mid then
earth, grave-clothes yon saw
Making horror moie deep by the sein- They were felons too proud to have per-
blance of mirth • ish 'd by law :
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they 36 But a ribbon that hung where a rope
dance, should have been,
Or at mid-sea appall the chill 'd mnnnei 's 'Twas the badge of their faction, its hue
glance. was not green,
Such, I wot, was the band of cadaveiou** Show'd them men who had trampled am1
smile toitured and dm en
10 Seen ploughing the night-surge of ITeli- To rebellion the faue&t Isle breathed on
go's isle by Heaven,—
Men whose hen's would yet finish UK
The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like tyrannous task,
fire, 40 If the Truth and the Time had not
And the red moon look'd down with an dragg'd off their mask
aspect of ire, They parted— but not till the sight mmlil
But her beams on a sudden grew pick-like discern
and gray, A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace'"
And the mews1 that had slept clang 'd and stern,
shriek M far away, Where letters emblazon 'd in blood-color fd
15 And the buoys antl the beacons extin- flame,
guibh'd their light, Named their faction— T blot not my page
As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came with its name
in sight,
High bounding from billow to billow. THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852)
Had tatJffhb a plaid flying We THE ***** OF THE DISMAL *"***>
to the storm; WRFTTEN AT NORFOLK IN TOGINIA
With an oar in each pulseless and icy -cold J™* l*™
hand, 'They made her a grave, too cold and
*° Past they jplough'd by the lee-shore of „ damP
Heligoland, *or fl 8oul *° warm nnd trueJ
Sueh breakers as boat of the living ne'er And she's gone to the Lake of the Dinn.il
cross 'd: Swamp,
Now surf-sunk for minutes again they r Where, all night long, by a flre-fly lamp,
uptosfl'd; She paddles lier white canoe
And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the -.,.--. , . „
flood "And her flre-fly lamp I soon shall see,
To the challenging watchman, that eurdled And her paddle I soon shall hear ;
his blood • k°DK atl(1 jwug our life shall be,
25 " We'are dead-we are bound from our A And. I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
graves in the west, 10 Wi«> the footstep of death is near. "
' wlxvT of tortnrt
THOMAS MOOBE
425
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds—
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent
feeds,
16 And man never trod before.
And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay wheie the deadly vine doth weep
Its venonioub tear and nightly steep
20 The flesh with blistering dew I
And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the
brake,1
And the eoppei -snake breath 'd in his
ear,
Till he starting- cned, from his dream
awake,
"Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake,
26 And the white canoe of my dearf "
He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd—
''Welcome/' he said, "my dear one's
And the dim shore echoed, for many a
uiRht,
30 The name of the death-cold maid.
Till he hollow 'd a boat of the birchen bark,
Which earned him off fiom hhoie.
Far, far he follow M the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were
dark,
85 And the boat return 'd no more.
But oft, f i oin the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true
Are been at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,
40 And paddle then white canoe1
A CANADIAN BOAT BONO
WRITTEN ON THE RIVER BT LAWRENCE
1804 1800
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep
time
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll smg at St Ann 'a our parting hymn
5 Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's
past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl f
There is not a breath the blue wave to
curl;
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
* thicket
10 Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's
past
Utawas1 tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon
r> Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring
airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's
past.
From IRISH MELODIES
1807 ffi 1808-84
OH, BREATHE Nor His NAME!
Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in
the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are
laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we
shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass
o'er his head.
5 But the night-dew that falls, though in
silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave
where he sleeps,
And the tear that we shed, though in secret
it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our
souls.
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE
When he who adores thee has left but the
name
Of his fault and his Mir tows behind,
Oh ! say wilt thou weep, when they darken
the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign Ml
6 Yes, weep, and however my foes may con-
demn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree,
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to
them,
I have been but too faithful to thee
With thee were the dreams of my earliest
love,
10 Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit
above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who
shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
15 But the next dearest blessing that Heaven
can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee
426
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
THB HARP THAT ONCE THEOUOH TARA'S
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's wails
As if that soul were fled.
B So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once heat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more!
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
10 The harp of Tara swells,
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
16 Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives
OH! BLAME Nor THE BAUD
Oh ' blame not the bard, if he fly to the
bowers,
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling
at Fame;
Tie was born for much more, and in hap-
pier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a
holier flame
5 The string, that now languishes loose o'ei
the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the
warrior's dart,
And the lip, which now breathes but the
song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a
patriot's heart
But alas for his country!— her pride i«
gone by,
10 And that spirit is broken, which never
would bend ,
O'er the ruin her children in secret must
sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death
to defend
Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learn 'd
to betray,
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame
not their sires;
16 And the torch, that would light them
thro9 dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile, where
their country expires.
Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure 'B
soft dream,
He should try to forget what he never
can heal:
Oh! give but a hope— let a vista but
gleam
-° Through the gloom of his country, and
mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would
lay down
Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it
ador'd;
While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with
his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should
cover his sword
26 But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope
fade away,
Thy name, lov'd Erin, shall live in his
songs,
Not ev'n in the hdui, when his heart is
most gay,
Will he lose the resemblance of thee
and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his
plains , N
30 The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er
the dec]),
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet
thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captne,
and weep.
LXSBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE
Lesbia hath a beaming eye.
But no one knows tor whom it beameth ,
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth
r> Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina,1 dear,
*° My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.
Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
16 But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it.
Oh ! my Nora 's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
20 Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress
25 Is loveliness—
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.
1 darling
THOMAS MOOKK
427
Lesbia, hath a wit refln'd,
But, when its points are gleaming round
us,
Who can tell if they're design M
10 To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow 'd on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes—
Red of peace f whose toughest pnii
IH but the ciumplnm of the roses
3"' Oh ' my Nora (Veina, dear,
My mild, ui\ ait less Nora Crema '
Wit, though bnght,
Hath no such light,
As warms your eyes, my Noia Crema
THE YOUNG MAY MOON
The young May moon is beaming, love.
The glow-woim'a lamp is gleaming, hue,
Ho^ sweet to rove
Through Morna's gro\e,
~' When the drowsy world is dreaming, lo\ e f
Then awake!— the hen\ens look bnght,
my deai ,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear.
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days,
10 Is to steal a few hours 1 lom the nu»ht, im
dear'
Now all the wuild is sleeping, )<>\e,
But the sage, his stai-watrh keeping, lo\o,
And I, whose stai ,
Moie glonous fai,
i:> Is the eye fiom that casement pee pin u.
lo\e
Then awake'— till rise of sun, my deai,
The sage's glass we'll slum, my deai.
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
J(l ITe might happen to take thee for one,
my dear
THE MINSTREL BOY
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him,
HIH father's sword he has girded on.
And his wild harp slung behind him —
B '4Land of wing1" said the warnoi-baid,
"Though all the world betray thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guaul,
(htr faithful harp shall piaise thee'"
The Minstrel fell!— but the foeman's
chain
10 Could not bring his proud wml under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
ir> Thy songs were made for the pure and
free,
They shall new»i sound in sla\ery "
FVREWELL'— BUT WHENEVER Yor WFLCOME
THE Houu
Fin em ell '— but \\heneAei you welcome the
houi
That awakens the night-song of muth in
youi bowei,
Then think of the fuend who once wol-
com'd it too,
And forgot his own giiefs to be happy
with you
5 His grief b may mum, not a hope mav
leniain
Of the few that ha\c bughten'd Ins path-
way of pain,
But he ne'ci will ioiyet the shoit vision
that thiew
Its enchantment aiouml him, while 1m-
g'nng with jon
And still on that e\einng, \\hen pleasme
fills up
10 To the highest top s]>aikle each heait and
each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy 01
In ig lit,
My soul, happ\ fiicnds, shall be \\ith you
that night ,
Shall join in >om levels, join spoils, and
join \\iles,
And letuin to me, beaming all o'ei \\ith
>oui smiles—
i' Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the aay
cheei ,
Some kind \oice had muimurM, ''T wish
he wei-e here f ' '
Ijet Fate do her woist, theie ai*e relics of
joy,
Bnght dreams of the past, \\hich she can-
not destroy ;
Which come in the uishMnno of soriow
and care,
-° And biing back the featuies that joy usedf
to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memo-
ries fill 'd'
Like the vase, in which loses ha\p once
been distilled-
You may break, you may shatter the vase,
if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round
it still.
428
NINETEENTH OKNTURY ROMANTICISTS
Tax TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING
The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
5 Has been my heart's undoing.
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn M the lore she brought1 me,
My only books
Weie woman's looks,
1° And folly's all they've taught me
Her smile when Beauty granted,
[ hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him, the Sprite,
Whom maids by night
16 Oft meet m glen that's haunted.
Lake him, too, Beauty won me,
But while hei e>es were on me,
Tf owe their ray
Wan tin n M away,
20 Oh, ninds could not outrun me
And are those follies going*
And is mv proud heait sjrowmsr
Too cold 01 too wise
For biilliant eyes
2-1 Again to set it glowing*
No, vain, alas' th' endear 01
Fiom bonds so *weet to sevei ,
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
30 Is now as ueak a«* e\ei
DEAK HARP OF MY COUNTUY
Dear Harp of my Oountrv' in daikness
I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'ei
thee long.
When pioudly, my own Island Harp* 1
unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, fiee
dom, and song'
B The warm lay ol love and the light note
of gladness
Have waken 'd thy fondest, thy liveliest
thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh
of sadness,
That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from
thee still
Dear Harp of my Country1 farewell 10
thy number*,
10 This sweet wreath of song is the last we
shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on
thy slumbers,
Till touch 'd by some hand less unworthy
than mine.
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or
lover,
Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory
alone,
15 I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly
over,
And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was
thy own
From NATIONAL AIRS
1815
OH, GOME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SITS
Venetian Air
Oh, come to roe in hen daylight sets;
Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sea
5 When Mirth's awake, and Love begins,
Beneath that glancing ray,
With sounds of lutes and mandolins,
To steal young hearts awa> .
Then, come to me when daylight sets,
10 Sweet ! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondnlets
O'er the moonlight sen
Oh, f hen's the houi ioi those uho lo\e,
Sweet ! like thee and me ,
15 When all's so calm below, above,
In heav'n and o'ei the sea
When maidens sing sweet baicarolles1
And Echo sings again
So sweet, that all with ears and souls
20 Should love and listen then
So, come to me when daylight sets ,
Sweet ! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sen
OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT
Scotch An
Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me,
5 The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken ,
The eyes that shone,
Now dimmed and gone,
10 The cheerful hearts now broken '
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
1 Popular aongs Rung by Venetian gondolier*
THOMAS MOOBE
429
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
15 When I remember all
The friends, so linked together,
1 've seen around me fall,
Lake leaves in wintrj u eat her,
I feel hke one
J0 Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deseited,
Whose light*, are fled,
Whose gat lands dead,
And all but lie departed '
-5 Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain ha** bound me,
Sad Memory bimgh the light
Of other days around me
LALLA BOOKH
Prom THE LIGHT OF THE HARAIC
Who hab not heard of Hie Vale of Cash-
mere,
With its roses the bushiest that earth
ever pave,
I is temples, and grottos, and fountains at*
clear
As the lo\e-lighted eyes that hang o^er
their wave f
K OhT to see it at «unset, when warm o'er
(he lake
Its splendor at parting a summer e\e
tlmws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when
ling 'ung to take
A last look of hei mirror at night ere
she goes '
When the shrines through the foliage are
gleaming half shown,
10 And each hallows the hour by some rites
of its own
Here the music of pray 'r from a minaret1
Here the Mngian* his urn, full of per-
fume, 1^ swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone9 of sweet
bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian
dancei is ringing.
18 Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly
shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and
shrines ,
When the water-falls gleam, like a quick
fall of stars,
'•lender tower of a mooqoe or temple, rar-
rounded b> one or more projecting balconle*
•priori
•girdle
And the nignungaie s hymn from the Isle
of Chenars
IB broken by laughs and bght echoes of
feet
20 From the cool, shining walks where the
young people meet .
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight
awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it
breaks,—
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth
every one
Out of daikness, as if but just bom of
the Sun
25 When the Spmt of Fragrance is up with
the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing
away,
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos
like a lover
The young aspen-trees, till they tremble
all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of
first hopes,
10 And Day, with his banner of radiance
unfurl 'd.
Shines in through the mountainous portal
that opes,
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the
world »
But never yet, by night or day,
In dew of spring or summer's ray,
35 Did the sweet valley shine so gay
As now it shines— all love and light,
Visions by day and feasts by night '
A happier smile illumes each brow,
With quicker spread each heart un-
closes,
40 And all its ecstasy, for now
The galley holds its Feast of Roses;
The joyous time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round and, in their shower,
Hearts open, like the season's rose,—
45 The flow 'ret of a hundred leaves,
Expanding while the dew-fall flows.
And every leaf its balm receives
'Twas when the hour of e\emng came
Upon the lake, serene and cool,
60 When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule,
When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh 'd from their embroider M beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
66 And wak'd to moonlight and to pla>
All were abroad*— the busiest hive
On Bela's hills is less alive,
When saffron beds are full in ftow'r,
480
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIBT8
Than look'd the valley in that hour.
60 A thousand restless torches play'd
Through every grove and island shade;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On eveiy dome and minaret,
And fields and pathways, far and neai,
06 Were lighted by a blaze so clear,
That you could bee, m wand 'ring round.
The smallest lose-leaf on the giournl
Yet did the maids and matrons lea\e
Their ^eils at home, that bnlhant e\e,
70 And theie were glancing eyes about,
And cheekb, that mould not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then, because 'twas night.
And all weie fiee, and wandeiing,
75 And all exclaim M to all they met,
That ne\er did the summer bring
So gay a Feast of Roses yet ,
The moon had nevei shed a light
So clear ab that which bless M them
there,
80 The roses ne'er shone half w> bright,
Nor they themselves look'd half so
fair
And what a uildemess of flow 'is1
It seem'd as though fiom all the b<>\\ 'is
And fanest fields of all the yeai.
83 The mingled spoil weie scattei M heie
The lake, too, like a gaiden breathes,
With the iich buds that ofet it he,—
As if a shower of fairy wreaths
Had fall'n upon it fiom the skj '
90 And then the sound of jov —the beat
Of tabors and of dancing feet;
The minaret-cner's chant of glee
Sung from his lighted gallery,
And answer M by a ziraleet1
95 Fiom neighboring llaram, wild and
sweet;
The merry laughter, echoing'
From ganljens, wheie the silken swing
Wafts some delighted girl above
The top leaves of the orange-grove ,
100 Or, from those infant groups at play
Among the tenth that line the way,
Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mothei.
Hand fills of roses at each other
Then the sounds from the lake:— the low
whisp'iing in boats,
1(16 As they shoot through the moonlight;
the dipping of oars,
And the wild, airy warbling that ev'ry-
wbere floats,
Through the groves, round the islands,
as if all the shores,
1 joyous choruB
Like those of Kathay, utter M music,
and gave
An answer in song to the kiss of each
wave.
110 But the gentlest of all are those sounds,
full of feeling,
That soft from the lute of some lover
aie stealing,
Some lover, who knows all the heait-
toiiching power
Of a lute and a su>h in this magical
hour
Oh ' best of delights as it everywhere is
115 To be near the lov'd One,— what a iap-
ture is his
Who in moonlight and music thus
sweetly may glide
O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that
One by his bide!
If woman ran make the worst wilder-
ness dear,
Think, think what a heav'n she muM
make of Cashmere '
From FABLES FOB THE HOLY
ALLIANCE
1823
I THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCF
A DREAM
T'\e had a dream that bodes no good
I'nto the Holy Biotheihood
T may be wrong, but I con f ess -
As far as it is right or lawful
c For one, no conjurer, to guess-
It beenib to me extremely awful
Methonpht upon 1he Neva's flood
A beautiful ice palace stood,
A dome of frost-work, on the plan
10 Of that once built by Empress Anne,1
Which shone by moonlight— as the tale is—
Like an Aurora Borealis.
In this said palace, furnish 9d all
And lighted as the best on land are,
13 I dreamt there was a splendid ball,
Given by the Emperor Alexander,2
To entertain with all due zeal,
Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Hejtaid so kind for Europe's weal,
20 At Troppau, Laybach, and Verona.
The thought was happy—and design M
To hint how thus the human mind
1 The ice-palace of St Petersburg wai built in
the Empreu Anna In the winter of 1744)
Re* Cowper't The Tart, R. 120 ff; al*o Tin
/V*nv JfSWfcr. 1837, • 4I»
•Alexander I, Empoior of ItuRsia, 1801-25.
THOMAS MOORE
431
May, like the stream imprison 'd there,
Be check M and chill 9d, till it can bear
25 The heaviest kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-prais'd, to dance upon it
And
and
all were pleas M, and cold,
stately,
Shivering in grand illumination—
Admir'd the supei structure greatly,
80 Nor gave one thought to the foundation.
Much too the Czar himself exulted,
To all plebeian fears a stranger,
For, Madame Krudener, when consulted,
Had pledg'd her word there was no
dangei
86 So, on he caper 'd, fearless quite,
Thinking himself extremely cle\er,
And waltz 'd away with all his might,
As if the frost would last forever
Just fancy how a bard like me,
40 Who leuTtince monarchs, mu«*t have
trembled,
To see that goodly coinpam ,
At such a ticklish sport assembled
Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
m My loyal soul, at all unfounded—
45 For, lo! ere Jong, those walls so inasKv
Were seiz'd with an ill-omen 'd dripping,
And o'ei the floors, now growing gla«*v.
Their Hoi meases took to slipping
The Czai, half through a polonaise1
"l0 Could scarce get on for downright stum-
bling ;
And Prussia, though to slippery ways
Weil used, was cursedly near tumbling
Yet still 'taas, who could stamp the floor
most,
Russia and Austria 'inong the foremost —
55 And now, to an Italian air,
This precious brace would, hand in
hand, go;
Now— while old Louis,1 from his chair,
Intreated them his toes to spare-
Call fd loudly out for a fandango.8
60 And a fandango, 'faith, they had.
At which they all set to, like mad f
Never were kings (though small the
expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)
So out of all their princely senses
65 But, ah, that dance— that Spanish dance—
i A stately Polish dance.
•Louis XVIII, King of France (1814-24).
* \ lively Spanish dance.
Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
Shot from an angry southern sun,
A light through all the chambers flam'd,
70 Astonishing- old Father Frost,
Who, bursting into tears, exclaim 'd,
"A thaw, by Jove— we're lost, nie'ie
lost,
Run, France— a second TPafetloo
Is come to drown you—sauve qut peul f9n
76 Why, why will monarehs caper so
In palaces without foundations t—
Instantly all was in a flow,
Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations—
Those royal arms, that look'd so nice,
80 Cut out in the resplendent ice—
Those eagles, handsomely provided
With double heads for double dealings-
How fast the globes and sceptres glided
Out of their claws on all the ceilings*
**B Proud Prussia's double bird of prej
Tame as a spatchcock,2 slunk away;*
While— just like France herself, when
she
Proclaims how gieat hci naval skill is—
Poor Louis' di owning fleurs-de-lys
90 Iniagm'd themselves water-lilies.
And not alone rooms, ceilings, shehes,
But— still more lalal execution—
The Great Legitimates themselves
Seem'd in a state of dissolution
115 The indignant Czar— when just about
To issue a sublime ukase,8
1 'Whereas ail light must be kept out"—
Dissolved to nothing in its blaze.
Next Prussia took his turn to melt,
100 And, while his lips illustrious felt
The influence of this southern air,
Some word, like "constitution"— long
Congeal 'd in frosty silence there—
Tame slowly thawing from his tongue.
"* While Louis, lapsing by degrees,
And sighing out a f amt adieu
To truffles,4 salmis,0 toasted cheese
And smoking fondus,6 quickly grew,
Himself, into a fondu too;—
110 Or like that goodly king they make
Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,7
When, in some m chin's mouth, alas,
It melts into a shapeless mass !
1 save hlnwlf who ran
•A fowl killed anrt im-
mediately broiled
• proclamation
«A kind of edible
fungus.
1 Roasted game stewed
with sauce, wine,
broad, etc
•Dishes made of
chocse, eggs, batter,
etc .melted together.
*A cake made for the
festival held on the
twelfth night after
Christmas It USD-
ally contained a
bean or a coin
482
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
In shorty I scarce could count a minute,
116 Ere the bright dome, and all within it,
Kings, fiddlers, emperors, all were gone—
And nothing now was seen or heard
But the bright nver, rushing on,
Happy as an enfranchised bird,
120 And prouder of that natural ray.
Shining along its ehainless way-
More proudly happy thus to glide
In simple grandeur to the sea,
Than when, in sparkling fetters tied,
*** 'Twos deck'd with all that kingly pride
Could bring to light its slavery f
Such is my dream— and, I confess,
T tremble at its awfulnero
That Spanish dance— that southern beam—
no But j say nothing— there's my dream—
And Madame Krudener, the she-prophet,
May make just what she pleases of it.
CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823)
THE BUBIAL OF SIB JOHN MOORE
AT CORTJNNA
1817
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
As his corse to the rampart we humed ,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the, grave where our hero we
buried.
* We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light.
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
10 Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound
him,
But he lay like a wamor taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow .
13 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that
was dead.
And we bitterly thought of the moirow
We thought a* we hollowed his narrow bed.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow.
That the foe and the stranger would tread
o'er his head.
20 And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's
gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Bntnn has laid him
26 But half of our weary task was done
When the clock struck the hour for
retiring ;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
30 From the field of his fame fresh aiid
We carved not a line, and we raised not
a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory
SONNET
1900
My spirit's on the mountains, where thr
birds
In wild and sportive freedom wing tlir
air,
Amidst the heath flowers and the browsini:
herds,
Where nature's nltai is, my spirit1-
there
3 It is my joy to tieml the pathless hills.
Though but in fancy— for my mind is
free
And walks bv sedgv wavs and hick lint:
nils,
While I'm foibid the use of liberh
This is delusion— but it is so *weet
10 That I could live deluded ]*t me lx-
Persuaded that my springing soul ma\
meet
The eagle on the hills— and I am fieo
Who'd not be flattered bv a fate like this9
To fancy is to feel our happiness
OH SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS
COLD
1826
Oh say not that my heart is cold
To aught that once could warm it—
That Nature's form so dear of old
No more has powei to charm it ;
" Or that 1h' ungenerous world can chill
One glow of fond emotion
For those who made it dearer still.
And shared my wild devotion.
Still oft those solemn wen eg I view
10 In rapt and dreamy sadness;
Oft look on those who loved them too
With fancy's idle gladness;
Again I longed to view the light
In Nature's features glowing;
16 Again to tread the mountain 's height,
And taste the soul's o'erflowinp.
SIB WALTER SCOTT
483
Stern Duty rose, and frowning flung
His leaden chain around me,
With iron look and sullen tongue
20 He muttered as he bound me—
"The mountain breeze, the boundless
heaven,
Unfit for toil the creature,
These for the free alone are given,—
But what have slaves with Nature f "
SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832)
WILLIAM AND HELEN
1195 1796
From heavy dreams fail Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red :
"Alas, my love, thou tamest long1
0 art thou false or dead!"
5 With gallant Fred 'rick's princely power
He sought the bold crusade;1
But not a word from Judah's wais
Told Helen how he sped.
With Payuim and with Saracen
10 At length a truce was made,
And every knight return 'd to dry
The tears his love had shed
Our gallant host was homeward bound
With many a song of joy ,
V1 Green waved the laurel in each plume
The badge of \ ictory
And old and young, and sire and bon,
To meet them crowd the way,
With shouts, and mirth, and melody ,
20 The debt of love to pay
Full many a inuid hei tine-love met,
And sobb'd in his embrace,
And flutt 'ling joy in tears and smiles
Array 'd full many a face
25 Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad ,
She sought the host m vain ;
For none could tell her William 's fate,
If faithless or if slain
The martial band is past and gone ,
30 She rends her raven hair,
And in distraction fs bitter mood
She weeps with wild despair
"0 rise, my child," her mother said,
"Nor sorrow thus in yam;
K A perjured lover's fleeting heart
No tears recall again."
1 He went on the Third Crnude, In 1189-02,
witb Frederick Barbarawi
41 0 mother, what ib gone, is gone,
What's lost forever lorn:
Death, death alone can comfort me ,
40 0 had I ne'er been bom'
"O break, my heart— O break at once!
Drink my life-blood, Despair'
No joy remains on earth for me,
For me in heaven no share."
« "O enter not in judgment, Lord!1'
The pious mother prays;
''Impute not guilt to thy frail child!
She knows not what she says.
44 O say thy patei nostei, child'
ri° O turn to God and giace!
His will, that tuni'd thy bliss to bale,
Can change thy bale to bliss "
"O mothei, mother, what is I
O mother, what is bale?
My William's love was heaven on eaith,
r>* Without it earth is hell
"Why should I pi ay to ruthless Hea\en,
Since my loved William's slain f
1 only pray'd for William's sake,
fl° And all my prayeia were vain. ' '
"O take the saciament, my child.
And check these tears that flow ;
By resignation's humble prayer,
O hallow 'd be thy woe!"
fis "No sacrament can quench this fire,
Or slake this scorching pain ,
No sacrament can bid the dead
Arise and live again.
"0 break, my heart— O break at once1
70 Be thou my god, Despair!
Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me,
And vain each fruitless prayer "
"0 enter not in judgment, Lord,
With thy frail child of clay !
76 She knows not what her tongue has spoke ,
Impute it not, I pray f
"Forbear, my child, this desperate woe,
And turn to God and grace,
Well can devotion's heavenly glow
8° Convert thy bale to bliss."
"0 mother, mother, what is bliss f
0 mother, what is balet
Without my William what were heaven,
Or with him what were belli"
434 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8TS
85 Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, O'er stock1 and stile, a hundred miles,
Upbraids each sacred power, We haste to bridal bed.99
Till, spent, she sought her silent room,
All in the lonely tower. "Tonight— tonight a hundred miles f
180 O dearest William, stay!
She beat her breast, she wrung her hands, The bell strikes twelve— dark, dismal
90 Till sun and day were o9er, hour!
And through the glimmering lattice shone 0 wait, my love, till day!"
The twinkling of the star.
"Look hero, look here— the moon shines
Then, ciasli' the heavy diawbndge fell cleai —
That o'er the moat was hung; Full fast 1 ween* we ride;
96 And, clatter! clatter! on its boards iss Mount and away1 for eie the day
The hoof of counsel rung We reach our bndal bed
The clank of echoing steel was heaid "The black barb snorts, the bndle rings.
As off the rider bounded, ' Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee'
And slowly on the winding stan The feast is made, the chamber spread,
™o A heavy footstep sounded no The bridal guests await thee 99
And hark! and hark! a knock-tap! tap » st love pievail>(1 She bnsK shc
A rustling stifled noise; bonnes
Door-latch and tinkling staples ring, Slie inollTlt8ftne barb ^^^
At length a whispering voice- And roun<1 her da i ling William's *nist
1A- ,, . , , , , Her lily arms she twined
10, "Awake, awake, arise, my love1
w*lT; Selen' *•? ^'l/T^i > * 4i in A"d» hum f hllirvf off thev lndo<
Wak'st thou, or sleep'st? laugh 'st them, A^ fflst ^ f^ ^^ ^
TT ^fiT*6?!. f OM Spurn 'd from the courser's tKiindeiins!
Host thought on me, my fan ?M ' heej8
"My love' my h»e'-so late by iupl.1 ' The flashln* PebbJes flec
110 Mirts i a1^*™ «i «,,.„ 11§ **?*; ^ sS£*$™-
Where, William, couldst thou *••• ^ff^yM JJJJJT^ ^
"We saddle late-from Hiingai> And rot» and castle flew
I rode since darkness fell, /,« * , A m.
11B And to its bourne *o both return Rlt fasf-dort tear? The moon slimes
Before the matin-bell "J _ f Ieai • _ _ _
Fleet goes my barb— keep hold1
"O rest this night within my arms, 1Vi Fear 'st thou*"— "0 no "'she fault ly said.
And warm thee in their told' '*Bnt why so stem and coldl
Chill howls through hawthorn bush tli«>
wind •— * ' What yonder rings? what yonder sings?
120 My love is deadly cold." Why shrieks the owlet gray?"
" 'Tis death-bells9 clang, 'tis funeral son;*,
"Let the wind howl through hawthoin ir>0 The body to the clay
bush*
This night we must away, "With song and clang, at morrow's dawn,
The steed is wight,2 the spur is bright , Yc may inter the dead
, T cannot stay till day. ' Tonight I ride, with my young bride,
To deck our bndal bed
125 "Busk, busk, and boune!8 thou mount St
behind 165 « Come with thy choir, thou coffin 9d guest,
Upon my black barb* steed: To ^ell our nuptial song'
» b e 1 1 mimraonlng t o • dren<i and p r e p a r e Come, priest, to bless our marriage f east !
early morning wor- § ***. Jonrney^ Come all, come all along'99
•powcrfnl grjpjrt and en ,^ ^
BIB WALTEB SCOTT
485
Ceased clang and song; down sunk the How fled what moonshine faintly show 'd!
bier , How fled what darkness hid '
14 ° The slnouded corpse arose. nB How fled the earth beneath their leet,
And, hurry! huriy! all the train The heaven above their head!
The thundering steed pursues.
"Dost feai ? dost feai ? The moon slimes
And, f orwai d f f orwni d ' on they go ; clear.
High snorts the stiainnig steed, And well the dead can ride,
175 Thick pants the iidei's laboung bicath, Does faithful Helen fear for them"''—
As headlong on they speed "Jl> "O lea\e in peace the dead!"
"<) William, why tins savage haste? "Barb! baibf methmks I heai the cock,
And where thy bndal bed?" The sand will soon be run .
" 'Tis distant fui, low, damp, and chill, Herb* baib' 1 smell the morning an .
180 And iiairmv, trustless maid." The lace is wcllnigh done."
"No room for me'"— '* Enough for both, 2jr> Tramp! tiampv along the land the> iodc,
Speed; speed, my baib, thy course1" Splash ? splash f along the sea,
O'er thundeung budge, thioujjh boiling The scouige is icd, the s]>ui diops blood,
suigc The flashing pebbles flee
lie dro\e the funous hoise.
4 'Hurrah * hurrah ! well ude the dead ,
JS"' Tiuinp! tinni])' alons» the land they rode, 1>so The bnde, the biide is come,
Splash1 splash' along the sea, And soon we leach the bndal bod,
The seoiuue is wight, the spm is blight, For, Helen, heic's my home "
The flashing pebbles lice
Keluctant on its instv lnn»c
Fled past on light and lett ho* fast on. Wc\oheil an 11011 dooi,
1<lfl Each foiest, gio\e, and Ixwer' "" An" "> lh* Pal|i imam's setting beam
On light and left fled past how fast Weie se<*» a dimcli nnd toitei.
Each citv, to\\n, and tower T .„ A.
\\ith main a shiiek and civ, \\hiz luund
" Dost feai ? dost feai ? The moon slimes . T,he b»<ls °* ""dinqlit, scaled ,
cjefll And lustlina: like autumnal ^es
Dost feai' to ride with me? "I0 Italian M gh<»sts weic heaid
193 II uriah! Initial) f the dead can ndef"— M, , . _ . . t
"0 William, let them be • ° « """J f. tt°"lb<lan<1 t«miW««e IM«"
He spun 'd the fieiy horse,
"See time. «» theic' What vonder Ti« rodden at iin oi«i i-wc
swinj,N ' He check M the tuindrons course
And cieaks 'mul whistling lain?"— »\~» TI,« ^n,.^ ^ * t **
"Gibbet and htccl, th' accursed wbc,l ;' nl "' gJ i «l«"1- ««"• «"«.
8W A mnideioi in liu, cl.ai.u J?""™ f lo** * he r*W* nt««*> ,
I lie cuiiass lea\es his shnnking wde,
^IIollo! thou felon, follow heie The *™ hls *»* beel
A ^.u1"1111,^1 ^^ "dCf * » i TIie *y** *^»f the nak«l skull,
And thou Shalt piance a fet ei dam* =-,o The mouUrini" flesh the bone,
Befoie me and my bnde T|H HelenV ,l|y W1|lb cntwme
»n- A j i 1 1 i i i_ i i i i i i i A ghastly skeleton
*°° And, huriy ! hurry ! clash ! clash ! clash f
The v asted foini descends ; The ftu ion. bai b snoi ts fire and foam,
And fleet as wind through hazel bush . And, with a feai ful bound,
The wild career8 attends. :*v« n,ssolves at once in empty air,
, . _ _ _ Jf , And leaves her on the ground
Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode
2W Splash ! splash ' along the sea ; Half seen by fits, by fits half heard,
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, Pale spectres flit along,
The flashing pebbles flee. Wheel round the maid in dismal dance,
1 wheel of torture * gallop ; ride 2fl° And howl the funeral song ,
486
NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
"E'en when the heart's with anguish
cleft,
Revere the doom of Heaven !
Her soul is from her body reft ;
Her spirit be forgiven I*'
THE VIOLET
1797 1810
The violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels
mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.1
6 Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining .
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through wat'ry lustre
shining.
The summer bun that dew hhall dry,
10 Ere yet the day be past its morrow ,
Nor longer m my false love's eye
Fomam'd the tear of parting sorrow.
TO A LADY
WITH FLOWERS FROM THE ROMAN WALL*
1797
Take these flowers which, purple waving.
On the rum'd rampart grew,
Where, the wins of freedom braving,
Home's imperial standards flew.
K Wamors fiom the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.
GLENFINLAS, OR
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH*
17W 1801
For them the viewless forms of air obey,
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair ,
They know *hat spirit lirews the stormfal day,
And heartlohs oft like moody madness ataro.
To we the phantom-train their secret work pre-
pare^ COLLINS.*
0 hone a neMB 0 hone a riej '
The pride of Albm's line is o'er,
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er feball see Tx>rd Ronald mpref
6 0 ! sprung from great Maegillianore,
The chief that never fear'd a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,1
How deadly thine unerring bowf
Well can the Saxon widows tell,
10 How on the Teith's resounding shore
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.
But o'er his hills, in festal day,
How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane tree,3
15 While youths and maids the light strath-
spey*
So nimbly danced with Highland glee1
rhcer'd bv Hie strength of Ronald'*
shelf/
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar,
But now the loud lament we swell,
20 0, ne'er to see Lord Ronald more'
From distant isles a chieftain came.
The joys of Ronald's halls to find.
And chase with him the dark-brown gaini*
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind
2"» Tuas Moyf whom in Coluinba's isle*
The seer's prophetic spirit found,
As, A\ith a minstrel's fire the while.
He waked his harp's harmonious sound
Full many a spell to him was knfwn,
30 Which wandering spirits shrink to hoai ,
And many a lay of potent tone,
Was never nieant for mortal eai
For there, tii said, in mystic mood,
High comerse with the dead they hold,
15 And oft espy the fated shroud,
That shall the fnture corpse enfold
0, so it fell that on a day,
To rouse the red deer from their den.
The Chiefs have ta'en their distant waj.
40 And scour'd the deep 01 en fin las glen'
No vassals wait their sports to aid,
To watch their safety, deck their bonid ,
Their simple dress the Highland plaid,
Their tiwty juruard the Highland sword
4B Three summer days, through brake5 and
dell, t '
Their whistling shafts successful flew,
\ large two-edged
1 narrow dell
•The wall of Hadrlnn,
In Cumberland
•lament, dirge
4 Ode on ihe Popvlat
fiuperttitiont of the
Highland* of Boot
land. 65-69 (p R4)
•alafl /or the chief
"tree horned in con
nectlon with the
celebration on Ifay-
V flvely RcottiKh
dance.
'The flrat lyre 10 raid
to have been made
from A tortnlne
shell The word is
here used for Aarp.
• IrolmkJIl, or lona
« thicket
SIR WALTKll HCOTT
And still, when dewy evening fell,
The quarry1 to their hut they drew.
In gray Gleufinlas' deepest nook
r'° The solitary cabin stood,
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook,
Which murmurs through that lonely
wood.
Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,
When tluee successive days had flown,
&r> And summer mist in dewy balm
Steep 'd heathy bank and mossy stone
The moon, half -hid in silvery flakes,
Afar her dubious radiance shed,
Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes,
60 And resting on Benledi'b head.
Now in then hut, in social guise,
Their silvan fare the Chiefs enjoy;
And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes,
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy
iri « \Vhat lack lie heie to crown our bliss,
While thus the pulse of joy beats Inghl
What, but fair woman's yielding kiss,
Tier panting bieath and melting e><* '
70
"To chase the deer of yonder shades.
This uioinmg left their father's pile-
The I'm ie>t oi our mountain maids,
The daughters of the proud Glengyle
"Loner have I sought sweet Mary's heart,
And dropp'd the tear, and heaved the
sigh:
'" But \am the lo\c*i 's wilv ait,
Beneath a sistei's watchful eye.
"But thou mayst tench that guaidian fair,
While far with Mary I have flown,
Of othei hearts to cease her care,
so And find it haid to guard her own
"Touch but thy haip— thou soon filial! sec
The lovely Ploia of Glengvlc,
Unmindful of her charge and me,
Hang on thy notes 'twixl tear and smile
85 "Or, if she choose a melting tale,
All underneath the greenwood bough.
Will good Saint Oranfs rule8 prevail,
Stern huntsman of the rigid brow* "
4 * Since Ennek's fight, since Morna's
death,
90 No more on me shall rapture rise,
Responsive to the panting breath,
Oi yielding kiss, or melting eyes
"E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe,
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame,
86 1 hade my harp's \vild waitings flow,
( >n me the SIMM 's sad spirit came
"The last dread cuise of angry heaven,
With ghastly sights and sounds of woe.
To dash each glimpse ot joy, was given ,
100 The gift— the futuie ill to know.
"The baik thou saw'st you summer mom
So gaily pait from Oban's bay,
My eye beheld hei dash'd and torn,
Far on the rocky Colonsay.
105 "Thy FergiiH too, thy sister's son,—
Thou saw'rt with piide the gallant's
power,
As marching 'i^ainst the Loid of DOM tie
He left the skirts of huge Benmoie.
"Thou only raw'st their tartans1 wave,
1 10 As down Benvoirlich's side they wound.
If card 'st but the pibioch* answering bra\e
To many a target' clanking round
"I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears,
I saw the \\ound his bosom boic,
ir> When on the senied Saxon speais
lie pour'd his clans 's resistless loai
"And thou who bidst me think of blips,
And bidst my heart awake to glee,
And court like thee the wanton kiss—
120 That heart, O Ronald, bleeds lor thrc!
"I see the death-damps chill thy brow,
1 hear thj Warning Spirit cry;
The corpxe-hghts dance1 Ihey'ie gone1
and now—
No more is given to gifted e>e!"
isri « Alone enjoy thy dreaiy di earns,
Sad prophet oi the evil hour!
Say, should we scorn joy's transient
beams,
Because tomorrow's storm may lour*
"Or false or sooth thy words of woe,
1 30 Clangillian 's Chieftain ne 'er shall f eai ,
igame
•castle
•That no woman
should pay her de-
votions In StOrm's
chapel in Icolmklll,
or be burled in the
cemetery there
1 garment* made ot
checkered woollen
cloth
•A kind of
Highland
•A
. _ music, usn
martial
of R m a 1 1
43S NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, 17B Our father's towers o'crhaug her side,
Though doom 'd to stain the Saxon spear. The castle of the bold Glengyle.
"E'en now, to meet me in yon dell, "To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer
My Mary's buskins1 brush the dew." Our woodland course this morn we bore,
135 He spoke, nor hade the Chief farewell, And haply met, while wandering here,
But called his* dogs, and gay withdiew. 18° The son of great Macgilhanore.
Within aii hour leturn'd each hound, "O, aid me, then, to seek the pair,
In rush'd ^he ionisers of the deer; Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost ,
They howPd in melancholy Round, Alone, I dare not venture there,
140 Then closely couch 'd beside the Seer. Where walks, they say, the shrieking
ghost."
No Ronald yet— though midnight came,
And sad weie Moy's prophetic dreams, J85 « Yes, many a shi lekmg ghost walks there;
As, bending o'er the dying flame, Then, first, my own sad vow to keep,
He fed the watch-fire's quiverincr Here j\ ill I pour my midnight prayer,
gleams. Which still must rise when mortals
sleep. ' '
146 Swlden the houndb ciect their ears,
And sudden cease their moanincr howl; «of fi^f for pity's gentle sake
Close piess'd to Moy, they mark their no Guide a lone wandeiei on hei wu> '
T*_ feals , , « , , ^or J raust cross the haunted brake,
By rim-erins hmbb and stifled growl. And reach my f athei 's towers ere day ' '
riiloudi'd, the hnip began to 2 ing, ,<FlIs( (hree timeg fell em.h
A A," r >' y' Oped { . d°°r; Alld tliri<* a Paternortei* snv,
And shook responsive every string, ior> Then kite Wlth me thc ho]y KHje
As, hplit, a lootstep press'd the floor Ro shall ,,e ^^y ^^ our
' With maiden blush, she softly said, 9A. __.., , lt . t ., _ n
"O gentle huntsman, hast thou scon, "0> Wild stared the minstiel's eyes of fliiiiif.
Tn dppp Glenfinlas' moonlight glade, . ^nd high hw sable locks arose,
A luvely maid in vest» of green • And quick hw color went and came,
As fear and rag* alternate rose
i«" With her a Chief in Highland pride, .
His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, "And thou ' when by the blazing oa'>
The mountain dirk adorns his side. '10 a I I^t to her and love resign 'df
Far on the wind his tartans flow?" Say, rode ye on the eddying smokp.
Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind 7
' « And who art thou » and who are they f f '
"0 All ghastly gazing, Moy replied: "Not thine a race of raoital blood,
"And why, beneath the moon's pale rav. Nor old Glengyle 's pretended line-
Daie ve thus mam Glenfinlas' side?" 2ir> Thy dame, the Lady of the riood-
Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine."
"Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide.
PIT no dark find dppn round mnnv in 'One of the bead* of 110 Ave Marios t"
Blue, dark anrt deep, round many nn a poBftry whlf,h arp Paternoatei* a n il
counted •• thopray- 15 Gloria Patrto.
on to the Virgin 'The Lord'n Prayer
, , i a rotary i
iflle, counted at
covcrlnw for thp «drw§; robe Marr are ottered 'CTOM
feet, bnir-bootM A rotary contains
BIB WALTER SCOTT
439
He mutter 'd thrice Saint Oran's rhyme,
And thrice Saint Fillan's powerful
prayei ,
Then turn fd him to the eastern clime,
-20 And sternly shook his coal-black hair.
And, bending o'er his harp, he flung
His wildest witch-notes on the wind;
And loud and high and strange they rune:,
As many a magic* change they find
225 Tall war'd the Spirit's altering form
Till to the roof hei stature grew.
Then, mingling with the rising storm,
With one wild yell away she flew
Rain beats hail rattles, whirlwinds tear:
280 The blender hut in fragments fle* ,
But not a lock of Moy's loose hair
Wab wa\ed by wind, 01 wet by dew.
Wild iniiigluig with the howling gale,
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise,
285 Hij>h o'ei the minstrel's head they sail,
And die amid the northern skies
The voice of thunder shook the wood,
As eeased the more than mortal yell ,
And, sputtering foul, a shower of blood
-40 Upon the hissing tiiebrauds fell
Next diopp'd fiom high a mangled arm,
The fingers strain 'd at half -drawn
blade.
And last, the life-blood streaming wnim,
Torn fiom the trunk, a gasping head
8« Oft o'er that head, in battling field,
Stream 'd the ptoud crest of high Ben-
more;
That nrm the bioad elnvmore could wield,
Which dyed the Teitli \\itli Saxon gore
Woe to Moneira's sullen rills!
2™ Woe to Glenfinlas' dieaiy glen!
There never son of Albm'p hills
Shall draw the hunter's shaft agenv
E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet
At noon shall shun that sheltering den,
256 Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet
The waywaid Ladies of the Glen.
And we— behind the Chieftain's shield
No more shall we in safety dwell;
None leads the people to the field—
*t° And we the loud lament must swell.
0 hone a rie'! 0 hone a rie'!
The pnde of Albin's line is o'er!
And fall'n Gleiiaitney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!
GADYOW CASTLE
1801 1803
When princely Hamilton's abode
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,
The song went round, the goblet flow'd,
And revel sped the laughing hours
5 Then, tliiillmg to the haip's gay sound.
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall,
And echoed light the dancer's bound,
As mirth and music cheer 'd the hall.
But Cadyow's toweis, in rums laid,
10 And vaults by ivy mantled o'er,
Thrill to the music of the shade,
Or echo E\an's hoarser roar.
Yet still of Cad yow's faded fame
You bid me tell a minstrel tale,
15 And tune my bar]) of Border frame
On the wild banks of E\andale.
For thou, fiom scenes of courtly pnde,
From pleasure's hghtei scenes, canst
turn,
To diaw oblivion's pall aside,
20 And mark the long-forgotten urn
Then, noble maid fl at thy command,
Again the crumbled halls shall use.
Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand.
The past returns— the present flies
25 Where with the rock's wood-cover 'd side
Were blended late the nuns green,
Rise turrets in fantastic pnde,
And feudal banners flaunt between.
Where the mdc toi rent's brawling course
10 Was shays* M nith thorn and tangling
sloe,2
The ashler8 buttress braves its force,
And rampaits frown in 'battled row
'Tis night the shade of keep and spire
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream,
35 And on the wave the warder's fire
Ts chequenng the moonlight beam.
Fades slow their light —the east is gray;
The weary warder lea\es his tower;
1 Lady Anne Hamil-
ton, to whom the
poem w a « nd-
dremied
•blackthorn
• hewn stone
440 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay. Stern Claud replied with darkening face—
40 And merry hunters quit the bower. Gray Parley's haughty lord was he—
"At merry feast or buxom chase
The drawbridge falls— they hurry out— No more the warrior wilt thou see.
Clatters each plank and swinging chain,
As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout sfj "Few suns have set since Woodhouselee
Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. Saw Bothwellhaugh 's bnght goblets
foam,
45 First of his troop the Chief rode on; When to his hearths in social glee
His shouting merry-men throng behind; The war-worn soldier turn'd him home
The steed of princely Hamilton
Was Heetei than the mountain wind. "There, wan from her maternal throes,
40 His Margaret, beautiful and mild,
From the thick copse the roebucks bound, Sate in her bower, a pallid rose,
50 The stai tied red-deer scuds the plain, And peaceful nursed her new-bom
For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound child.
Has roused their mountain haunts again.
"0 change accursed1 past are those days,
Through the huge oaks of Evandale, False Murray's ruthless spoilers came.
Whohe limbw a thousand years have % And, foi the hearth's domestic blaze,
woni, Ascends destruction's volumed flame
r»5 What sullen roar comes down the gale
And drownb the hunter's pealing hornf "What sheeted phantom wanders wild,
Where mountain Eske through wood-
Mightiest of all the beasts of chase land flows,
That roain in woody Taledon, Her arms enfold a shadowy child—
Clashing the forest in his race, l°° Oh! is it she, the pallid rosef
60 The Mountain Bull comes thundering on
"The wilder 'd tiaveller sees her glide.
Fierce on the huutei 's qimei 'd band And hears her feeble voice with awe,
He rolls his e>e* of swarthy glow, 'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride'
Spurns with black hoof and horn the And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh f ' "
sand,
And tosses high his mane of snow 106 He ceased; and cries of rage and grief
Burst mingling from the kindred band,
** Aim'd well the Chieftain's lance has And half arose the kindling Chief,
flown— And half unsheathed his Arran brand
Struggling in blood the savage lies.
His roar is sunk in hollow groan— But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock,
Sound, merry huntsmen! sound the no Rides headlong, with resistless speed,
pryse.1 Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke
Drives to the leap his jaded steed,
'Tis noon • against the knotted oak
™ The hunters rest the idle spear, Whose cheek in pale, whose eyeballs glare.
Curls through the trees the slender smoke. As one some vision 'd sight that saw,
Where yeomen dight2 the woodland 115 Whose hands are bloody, loose his hah •-
cheei 'Tis he' 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh
Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan. F™m R01? «*lle,iand reeling steed,
On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Sprung the fierce horseman with a
™ Yet mifes'd his eye the boldest man bound,
That bore the name of Hamilton And> reeking from the recent deed,
120 He dash'd his carbine on the ground
"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, .
Still wont our weal and woe to share? ***™ty h« *Poke: " ?» iwjet. ° heai
Why romes he not our sport to grace! 0 *n P»* greenwood the bugle blown.
«° Why shares he not our hunter's faret" Bu* 8^eetfr *? Bevf?&« 8. ear»
* To drink a tyrant 's dying groan,
i The note blown at the death of thp Ramp
5 prepare ' saddle
BIB WALTER SCOTT
441
126 "Your slaughter 'd quarry1 proudly trude, lor> "What joy the raptured youth can feel
At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, To hear her love the loved one tell*
But prouder base-born Murray rode Or he who broaches1 on his steel
Through oldLinlithgow's crowded town. The wolf by whom hifc infant feiil
"From the wild Border's humbled side,
130 In haughty triumph marched he,
While Knox relax 'd his bigot pnde
And smiled the traitorous pomp to see.
"But can stern Power, with all his vaunt,
Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare
1 *6 The settled heart of Vengeance daunt,
Or change the purpose of Despair?
"With hackbut bent,8 my secret stand,
Dark as the pui posed deed, I chose,
And mark'd where, mingling in his band,
"0 Troop 'd Scottish pikes and English
bows.
"Dark Morton, girt with many a speai,
Murder's foul minion, led the van.
And clash 'd their broadswords in the leai
The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan
145 "Glencairn and stout Paikhend \\fi««
nigh.
Obsequious at their Regent's8 rein,
And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,
That saw fair Mary weep in vain 4
170
" 'Mid pennon 'd spears, a steely gro\e.
150 proud Murray's plumage floated
high;
Scai re could his tiamphng elm i per mo\e.
So close the minions crowded nigh.
"Prom the laised vizor's shade, his e\e
Dark-rolling glanced the ranks aloim,
156 And his steel truncheon," waved on high,
Keein'd marshalling the iron throng
"But yet his sadden 'd brow confess'd
A passing shade of doubt and awe ,
Some fiend was ^hinpeimg in his bienM ,
1*0 * Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh f '
"The death-shot parts! the charger
springs,
Wild rises tumult's startling roai.
And Murray 's plumy helmet rings—
Rings on the ground, to rise no moie
nature to
of '
reaigpat
• wltn gun cocked vm. •««»•». •*-«»-• n~»
•Murray'! unmoved by Marjr's
'Lord LindHay, *ho weeping ai aba
"
"But dearer to my injured eye
To see in dust proud Murray roll,
And mine was ten times trebled joy,
To hear him groan his felon souL
"My Margaret's spectre glided near,
With pride her bleeding victim saw
17 "• And shriek 'd in his death-deaf en 'd eai
'Bemember injured Bothwellhaugh I'
'Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault!
Spread to the wind thy banner 'd tree1-'
Each wamor bend his Clydesdale bow f —
Miuiay ib fall'n, and Scotland free!"
Vaults every warrior to his steed ;
Loud bugles join then wild acclaim
"Muiray is fall'n, and Scotland freed1
("ouch,8 Ananf couch thy spear of
flame!"
1RB But, see' the minstrel vision fails—
The glimmering- spears aie seen no more ,
The shouts oi wai die on the gales,
Or sink in Evan 's lonely roar.
For the loud bugle, pealing high,
"" The blackbird whistles down the vale.
And sunk in ivied linns he
The banner 'd lowers oi Evaudale.
For chiefs, intent on bloodv deed,
And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain.
1<<r> Lo! high-born Beauty lules the steed,
Or giaceful guideb the silken rein.
And long may Peace and Pleasure own
The maids who list the minstrel's tale.
Noi e'er a ruder guest be known
200 On the fair banks of E\andale!
From THE MINSTRELSY OF THE
SCOTTISH BORDER
KINMONT WILLIE
0 have ye na heard o the fause4 Sakelde*
0 have ye na heaid o the keen Loid
Scroop T
How they hae taen bauld* Kininont Willie,
On Hainbee to hang him upf
• tbal&awed oak WM
tbe emblem of the
Hamilton family
•lower for tbe cbargv
'false
• nave taken bold
442
NINETEENTH CENTTJBY BOMANTICISTS
* Had Willie had but twenty men,
But twenty ipen ab btout ab he.
Pause Sakelde had never the Kinmunl
taen,
Wi eight score w hib cumpauie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,
10 They tied hw hands behind his back ,
They guarded bun, fivesouie1 on earh hide,
And they hi ought him ower the Liddel-
raok.1
They led him thro the Liddel-rack,
And also thro the Carlisle sands.
15 They brought him to Carlisle ca&tell,
To be at iny Lord Scroope's command*
"My hands are tied, bnt my tongue is free.
And whae will dare this deed avou *
Or answer by the Border law?
20 Or answer to the bauld Bucclcuch?"
"Now hand"
reivei f4
thy tongue, thon rank
50
' five together
•ford
•hold
« robber
•castle-gate
•reckoning before- I
went
'gone
And forgotten that the bauld Baoleuch
Is keeper here on the Scottish sidet
"And have they een taen him Kinmont
Willie,
Withouten either dread or fear,
And forgotten that the bauld Baeleueh
(1an back a steed, 01 shake a spear 9
"O were there war between the lands,
As well I wot that thete is none,
I would slight1 Carlisle eastell high,
Tho it were builded of maible-stone
Theie's nevei a Scot shall set ye tiee,
Before ye emss my castle-yate,8
I trow ye shall take farewell o me."
25 "Fear na ye that, my lord," quo Willie,
"By the f«nth o my bodie, Loid
Scroop," he wild,
' i I never yet lodged in a hostelne
But I paid iny lawmg before I gaed."6
Now word is gane7 to the bauld Keeper,
30 In Branksome Ha8 where that he lay.
That Lord Scroopc has taen the Kinmont
Willie,
Between the huurb of night and day.
He has taen0 the table wi his hand,
He garrd10 the red wine fepnng on hie,
35 "Now Chub's euise on iny head," he
said,
"But avenged of Loid Scroop I'll be 1
"0 is my basnet11 a widow's cnrrhf"
Or my lance a \vand of the willow-liee f
Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand?
40 That an English loid should lightly
me.18
"And have they taen him Kinmont Wfllie,
Against the truce of Border tide,
•ban
' Htruck
1V made
11 helmet
18 head-covering
"treat me with ron-
"T would set that eastell in a low,8
And sloken3 it with English blood ,
"|B Tilde's nevir a man in Cumberland
Should ken where Carlisle castell stood
"But since nae war'b between the lands.
And there is peace, and peace should be
1 'II neither harm English lad or las*-,
»" And yet the Kinmont freed shall be ' "
TTc» has ealld him forty marcbmen banlcl,
1 tio\\ they weie of his am name,
K.vept Sir Gilbeit Elliot, ealld
The Land oi Stobs, 1 mean the bnine
ftr> He has ealld him forty marchmen bauld,
Weie kinsmen to the bauld Bnccleuch,
With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,4
And gleuves** of green, and feathers
blue
There were five and five before them a f ,
70 AVi hunting-horn* and bugles bright,
And five and five came wi Buccleuch,
Like Warden's men, ai rayed for flight
And five and five like a mason-gang,
That earned the laddeis lang and hie,
75 And fi\e and fhe like broken men ,°
And fao they reached the Woodhouselee.
And as we ciossed the Bateable Land,
When to the English side we held,
The first o men that we met wi,
"" Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde'
"Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?"
Quo faube Sakelde; "come tell to mef"
"We go to hunt an English stag,
Has trespassed on the Soots countne "
* quench
* armor on
•glove*
• onttaws
BIB WALTEE SOOTT 443
tt "Where be ye gaun, ye marshal-men?" "Now sound out, trumpets I" quo Bue-
Qno false Sakeldc; "eome tell me cleuch,
true!1' "Let's waken Lord Scroope light mer>
" We go to catch a rank reiver, rilie!"
Has broken faith wi the bauld Buc- Then loud the Warden's trumpets blew
cleuch." "0 whae dare meddle wi met"1
"Where are ye gaun, ye mason-lads, 12G Then bpeedilie to wark we gaed,
f*° Wi a' your ladders lang and hie?" And raised the slogan ane and a',
"We gang to herry a corbie's nest,1 And cut a hole thro a sheet of lead,
That wons* not far frae Woodhouse- And so we wan2 to the castel-ha.
lee."
They thought King James and a' his men
"Where be ye gaun, ye broken men!" 13° Had won the house wi bow and spen
Quo false Sakelde; "come tell to me1" It was but twenty Scots and ten
05 Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band. That put a thousand in sic a steal f3
And the never a word o lear* had he
Wi coulters4 nnd wi forehamnierb/'
"Why trespass ye on the English side? We gand the bait» bang memlie,
Row-footed4 outlaws, stand I" quo he, 1J5 Untill we came to the innei pnson,
The neer5 a word had Dickie to say, Where Willie o Kinmont he did ho
100 Sae he thrust the lance thro his fause
btxlie And when we came to the lowci piisnu,
Where Willie o Kinuumt he did he,
Then on \ve held for Cai lisle toun, "O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,
And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we "° Upon the murn that them's to diet"
c'lossd,
The water was great, and meikle of spait," "01 sleep saft, and 1 wake aft,0
But the nevir a horte nor man we loM It's lang since sleeping was fleyd7 tine
me,
101 And when we reachd the Stanshaw-bank, (he my service back to my wyfe and ban n*>
The wind was rising loud and hie , And a9 gude fellows that speeiN for
And there the laird garrd leave7 our me "
steedb,
For fear that they should stamp and 145 Then Red Rowan hab hente* him up,
nie.§ The staikeat men in Teviotdale
"Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,
And when we left the Stane&haw-bank, Till of my Loid Scroope I take iaie-
* >» The wind began full loud to blaw , well.
But 'twas wind and weet, and fire nnd
sleet, "Farewell, farewell, my guile I/ord
When we came beneath the castel-wa Scroope !
150 My glide Lord Scroopp, f are* ell f" he
We ciept on knees, and held our breath. cried ,
Till we placed the ladders against the "I'll pay you for my lodging-maill10
wa; When first we meet on the boidei-cule M
in And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell
To mount the first before us a9. Then shouldei high, with shout and fi\.
We bore him down the ladder lans
He has taen the watchman by the throat, l55 At every stride Red Rowan made,
He flung him down upon the lead:9 I wot the Kinmont 's mm* playd
"Had there not been peace between our clang11
lands,
«o iTpon the other side thou hadst gaed. ' \0f™lous ™<Me«d«ie j sledge hammor,
- 1 a me 7 frightened
1 plunder a crow's n«*Bt « great of flood . o\ ei - « <wrh a f i Ight • <mk
e (twell« flooded * The c o u 1 1 P r is an • selied
8 word of learning » made nn leavo iron Mode attnrhed lo rent fo
• rough-footed • neigh to the front of \ » Irous rattle
otc
444
NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
"0 mony a time," quo Kinmont Willie,
"I have ridden horse baith wild and
wood;1
But a rougher beast than Red Rowan
irt I ween my legs have neer bestrode.
"And mouy a time," quo Kmmont
Willie,
"I've pricked a horse out cure the
furs,2
But since the day I backed a steed
I nevir wore sic cumbrous spurs "
165 We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men, in horse and foot,
Cam wi the keen Lord Scroope along
Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,
170 Even where it flowd f rae bank to bran,
And he has plunged in wi af his band,
And safely swam them thro the stream.
lie turned him on the other side,
And at Lord Scroope his glove flung
he:»
ITS "If ye hke na my visit in merry England,
In fair Scotland come visit me!"
All soie astonished stood Lord Scroope,
He stood as still as rock of stane,
He scarcely dared to trew4 his eyes
1M When thro the water they had gane
"He is either himself a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be,6
I wad na have ridden that wan watei
For a' the gowd in Christentie."6
LORD RANDAL
11 0 where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my
son!
C) where hae ye been, my handsome young
manl"
"T hae been to the wild wood; mothei,
make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald
he down."
6 "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal,
my sont
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome
young man f"
"I din'd wi my true-love; mother, make
my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald
lie down."
"What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Ran-
dal, my sont
What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome
young man!"
10 "I gat eels boiled in broo;1 mother, make
my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald
He down "
"What became of your bloodhounds, Lord
Randal, my sont
What became of your bloodhounds, my
handsome young mant"
41 0 they swelld and they died; mother,
make my bed soon,
15 For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald
he down."
"O I fear ye are poisond, Lord Randal
my son f
0 I fear ye are poisond, my handsome
young manf"
"0 yes! I am poisond, mother, make mv
bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart and I fain wald
he down.19
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL
2804-04 1805
From CANTO VI
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land f
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
6 As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand f
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ,
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
10 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,—
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
15 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unbonor'd, and unsung.
1 both wild and mad * 1
• over tbe farrows, or • mutt be
ground ' told In Christendom
«A\ tbe sign of a
challenge
0 Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
20 Land of tbe mountain and
» broth
shaggy wo
the flood,
BIB WALTEB SOOTT
445
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,
That knita me to thy rugged strand !
Still as I view each well-known scene,
25 Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as to me, of all bereft,
Sole fnendH thy woodn and streams were
left,
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.
30 By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way ,
Still feel the breeze down Ettnck break.
Although it chill mv wither'd cheek;
Still lay iny head by Teviot Stone,
35 Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan
Not worn'd like me, to Brantaome Hnll
The imnRtrelh came at festi\e call,
Tioopmg they came, from near and fai,
40 The jovial priests of mirth and war,
Alike for feast and fight prepar'd,
Battle and banquet both they sharM.
Of late, before each martial elan,
They blew their death-note in the van,
** But now, for everv merry mate,
Rose the portcullis' iron grate;
They sound the pipe, they stnke the string,
They dauce. they ravel, and they sing,
Till the nide turrets shake and ring.
• . • •
And much of wild and wonderful
In these rude wles might fancy cull;
For thither came, in times afar,
•SB Stern Lochlm 's Rons of roving war,
The Norsemen, tiam'd to spoil and blood.
Skill M to prepare the raven's food,
Kings of the main their leaders brave.
Their barks the diagons of the wave
™° And theie, in many a stormy vale,
The Scald1 had told his wondrous tale .
And many a runic2 coluntn high
Had witness 'd grim idolatry.
And thus had Ilaiold in his youth
885 Learn 'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth—
Of that Sea-Snake,8 tremendous curl'd,
Whose monstrous circle girds the world ,
Of those dread Maids,4 whose hideous yell
Maddens the battle's bloody swell;
1140 Of Chiefs, who, guided through the gloom
By the pale death-lights of the tomb,
1 Now iilnfpr of heroic poems
•carved with rune* (characters used In writing
bv the early Germanic people*)
* The JormimpaMdr, or Snake of the Ocean, which
In None mythology encircle* the earth
«The Vallvrlur, or Chooser* of the Wain, who
directed the course of battle Ree Gray's The
Fatal Wftfm (p 66).
RanaackM the graves of warriors old,1
Their falchions wreneh'd from corpses'
hold,
Wak'd the deaf tomb with war's alarms,
345 And bade the dead arise to arms!
With war and wonder all on flame,
To Roshn's bowers young Harold came,
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree,
He learn 'd a milder minstrelsy;
*r'° Yet something of the Northern spell
Mix'd with the softer numbers well.
HAROLD
Glisten, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell ,
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
355 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle
— "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to rtaj '
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth todin
880 "The blackening wave is edg'd with white
To inch* and rock the sea-mewn fl> ,
The fishers have heard the water-sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh
"Last night the gifted seer did vie*
365 A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay,
Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch
Why cross the gloomy firth today f "
" Tin not because Lord Lindesav'* heir
Tonight at Roshn leads the ball.
370 But that mv ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall
' ' 'Tia not because the ring they ride,>
And Linderay at the ring ndes well,
But that mv sire the wine will chide,
175 If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle "
O ver Roahn all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
'Twafl broader than the watch-fire's light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam
380 It glar'd on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen,
'Twas seen from Dryden 's groves of onk,
And seen from cavern M llawthornden
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,
385 Where Roshn 's chiefs uncofim'd lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheath M in h» iron panoply
* Northern warriors were buried with their
weapons and treasures _ These were said to IM
weapons and immures These were said tc
guarded bj the spirits of the dead warriors
1 A favorite uport In which a horaeman rides pa*.t
a suspended ring and trio* to carry it (iff on
the point of a liner
446
NINETEENTH OHMfUHT ROMANTICISTS
Seem'd all on firo within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale,1
390 Shone every pillar foliage-bound.
And glimmer 'd all the dead men's mail.
BlazM battlement and pinnet' high,
Bla&'d every rose-carved buttress fair —
80 still they blaze when fate is nigh
895 The lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty of Realm's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ,
Each one the holy vault doth hold —
But the sea holds lovely Bosabelle!
400 And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell;
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds
sung,
The dirge of lovely Botmbelle.
THE MAID OF NEIDPATH
1806
0, lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
And loveis' ears in hearing,
And lo\e, in life's extremity,
Can lend an Lour of cheering.
5 Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower,
To watch her love's returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
10 Her form decay 'd by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining;
By fits, a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek was flying;
15 By fits, so ashy pale she grew,
Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and bear
Seem'd in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog prick 'd his car
20 She heard her lover's riding ,
Ere scarce a distant foim was ken'd,n
She knew, and waved to greet him ,
And o'er the battlement did bend.
As on the wing to meet him
->r» He came— he pass'd— an heedless gaze,
As o'er some strangei glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in the courser's prancing.
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
™ Returns each whisper spoken*
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.
' * inclorarp
• pinnacle
HUNTING SONG
1808
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On tbe mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!
5 Hounds are in their couples1 yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Menily, merrily, mingle they,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
10 The mist has left the mountain gray,
Spnnglets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake1 are gleaming:
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green ;
16 Now we come to chant our lay,
" Waken, lords and ladies gay.9'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
20 Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst tbe oak his antlers fray 'd ,
Yon shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
28 Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman1 who can baulk,
30 Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay
From MABMION
1806 1808
WHXEE SHALL THE LOVER BIST
Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever
From hft true maiden's breast,
Parted forever?
6 Where, through groves deep and high
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,
Under tbe willow
Chorus
Eleu lore, etc. Soft shall be bis pillow.
10 There, through tbe summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
• brushwood • thicket
SIB WALTER SCOTT
447
There thy rest shalt thou take,
15 Parted forever,
Never again to wake,
Never, 0 never 1
Chorus
Eku tore, etc. Never, 0 nevei f
Where shall the traitor rest,
-° He the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin and leave her?
Jn the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles wai 's rattle
With groans of the dying.
_,
Chorus
Eleu loro, etc. There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted
s<> HIH wann blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted
Shame and dishonor sit
By his grave ever,
Blessing shnll hallow it,-
•'*•"» Nevei, 0 never!
Chorus
llleu loro, etc Nevei. 0 never '
7
LOCHINVAR
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the
Through all the wide Bonier his steed was
the best ,
And SUAC his good broadsword he \\ en pon*
had none,
lie lode all unarmed, and he rode nil
alone
5 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in
war,
There nevei was knight like the vounsr
Lochiuvai
_ *,,.,,, i
He stayed not for brake,1 and he stopped
not for stone j
He swam the Eske nver where ford their
was none,
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
10 The bride had consented, the gallant cnmo
late-
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in
war,
Wns to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch-
iiu ar*
Jbrunhwood: thicket
So boldly he entered tho Netherby Hall,
Among bride 'smen, and* kinsmen, and
brothers, and all
15 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand
on his sword,
(jror tfac poor naven bridegroom said
never a word) :
"0 come ye in peace here, or come ye in
waiT *
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord
Lochinvar V
"I long wooed vonr daughter; my suit
you denied ,
20 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like
its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost lo\e of
mmc
To lead but one measure, drink one cup
of wine
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely
by far,
That would glndlv be bride to the young
Lochinvai "
2r> The bride kissed the goblet; the knight
took it up,
He quaffed oil the uvme, and he thiew
down the cup
She looked down to blush, and she looked
__ ^P t(? "**• . _ A
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in
her eye.
Hta t°°k her soft hand, ere hei motliei
could bar—
so «tfow tread \ie a measure'" said young
Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall Rich a galliard1 did
giace,
While her mother did fret, and her
failiet did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his
_ bonnet and plume,
•n And the bude-maidens whispered,
" 'Tweie better by far
To ha\e niatclied our fair cousin with
young Lochunar."
One touch to her hand. and one word in
hei eui,
When they reached the hall-door, and the
charger stood near;
So light to the croupe2 the fair lady he
swung,
«° So light to the saddle before her he
sprung!
i A spirited dance
• place behind the md-
die
448
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8TS
''She is wont we are gone, over bank,
bus Vand scaur!1
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!"
quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of
the Netherby clan;
Porsters, Fenwicks, and Muagraves, they
rode and they ran ,
45 There was racing and chasing, on Can-
nobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did
they see.
So daring in love and BO dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young
Lochmvar?
Prom THE LADY OP THE LAKK
1809-10 1810
CANTO I. THE CHASE
Harp of the North '2 that mouldering long
hast hung
On the witch-elm8 that shades Saint
Pillan's spring,
And down the fatful breeze thy numbers4
flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee cling,
* Muffling with verdant ringlet every
string,—
0 minstrel Harp, still must thine ac-
cents sleep 1
'Mid rustling leaves and fountains mur-
muring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their
silence keep,
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid
to weep t
1° Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal
crowd,
When lay of hopeless love, or glory
won,
Aroused the fearful, or subdued the
proud.
At each according pause was heard aloud
16 Thine ardent symphony sublime and
high*
Fair dames and crested chiefs attention
bow'd;
For still the burilen of thy minstrelsy
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and
Beauty's matchless eye.
*rock wai the national
•An Invocation to an- music*! Instrument
dent Bcotttah mln- » The broad-leafed elm.
atrelaj. The harp 'renei
0 wake once morel how rude aoe'er the
hand
20 That ventures o'er thy magic maze to
stray;
0 wake once more! though scarce my skill
command
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay :
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die
away,
And all unworthy of thy nobler strum,
26 Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway.
The wizard note has not been touch 'd
in vain.
Then silent be no more! Enchantress,
wake again '
The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Mnnan's rill,
80 And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hajsel shade;
But, when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled on Benvoirhch 's head,
The deep-mouth 'd bloodhound's heavy bay
86 Resounded up the rocky way,
And faint, from farther distance home,
Were heard the clanging hoof arul hom.
As chief, who hears his warder call.
"To arms! the foemen storm the wall/9
40 The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste,
But, ere Ins fleet career he took,
The dew-drops fiom his flanks he shook;
Like crested leader proud and high,
« Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky,
A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuff' d the tainted gale,
A moment listen 'd to the cry,
That thicken 'd as the chase drew nigh ,
r>° Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,
With one brave bound the copse he clear 'd,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var
YellM on the view the opening pack;
55 Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back ,
To many a mingled bound at once
The awaken 'd mountain gave response
A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong.
Clatter 'd a hundred steeds along,
60 Their peal the merry horns rung out,
A hundred voices join'd the about;
With hark and whoop and wild halloo.
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew.
Far from the tumult fled the roe,
65 Close in her covert cower'd the doe;
The falcon, from her cairn1 on high,
1 crag ; peak (litmllr, a heap of f»tone<0
SIB WALTEE BOOTT
449
Cast on the rout a wondering eye,"
Till far beyond her piercing ken
The hurricane had swept the glen.
70 Faint and more laint, its failing dm
Return 'd from cavern, cliff, and hnn,1
And silence settled, wide and still,
On the lone wood and mighty hill.
Less lond the sounds of silvan war
76 Disturb 'd the heights of Uam-Vai,
Arid roused the ta\ern, where, 'tis told,
A giant made his den of old,
For ere that steep ascent was won,
High in his pathway hung the sun,
80 And many a gallant, stay'd perforce,
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse,
And of the trackers of the deer,
Scarce half the lessening pack was near;
So shrewdly' on the mountain side
K Had the bold burst their mettle tried.
The noble stag was pausing now
Upon the mountain 's southern brow,
Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fan Menteith
'*° With anxious eye he wander 'd o'ei
Mountain and nieadow, moss and moor,
And pondei 'd icfupe from his toil
By far Loch aid or Abcrfovle.
But neaicr was the copsewood gray,
% That wined and wept on Loch-Achiay,
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Ben venue
Fresh vigor with the hope return 'd,
With flying foot the heath he spiiiii'd,
100 Held westward with unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase
'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er,
As swept the hunt through Cambusmore
What reins were tighten 'd in despair,
105 When rose Benledi's ridge in air;
Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath,
Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Tcith,—
Fnr twice that day, from shore to shore,
The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er
110 Few were the stragglers, following far,
That reach 'd the lake of Yennachar;
And when the Bngg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
115 That horseman plied the scourge and steel ;
For jaded now, and spent with toil,
Emboss 'd with foam, and dark with soil,
While e\ery gasp with sobs he drew,
The labeling stag strain 'd full in view.
"0 Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,1
Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,
Fast on his flying traces came,
And all but won that desperate game,
For, scarce a spear's length from his
haunch,
126 Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds stanch;
Nor nearer might the dogs attain,
Nor farther might the quarry1 strain.
Thus up the margin of the lake,
Between the precipice and brake,8
180 O'er stock and rock their race they take.
The hunter mark'd that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way;
135 Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his eyes;
For the death-wound and death-halloo,
Muster 'd his breath, his whinyard4
drew,—
But thundering as he came prepared,
140 With ready arm and weapon bared,
The wily quarry shunn 'd the shock,
And turn'd him fiom the opposing rock;
Then, dashing down a darksome glen,
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken,
"r> In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook
His solitary refuge took.
There, while close couch 'd, the thicket shed
('old dews and wild-flowers on his head,
lie Jieard the baffled dogs in vain
ir>0 Rn\e through the hollow pass amain,
Chiding the rocks that yell'd again.
Close on the hounds the hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanish 'd game,
But, stumbling in the rugged dell,
"5 The gallant horse exhausted fell.
The impatient rider strove in \am
To rouse him with the spur and rein,
For the good steed, his labors o'er,
Stretch 'd his stiff limbs, to rise no more;
160 Then, touch 'd with pity and remorse,
He sorrow 'd o'er the expiring horse
"1 little thought, when first thy rein
I slack 'd upon the banks of Seme,
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
16B On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed f
Woe worth5 the chase, woe worth the day,
That costs thy life, my gallant gray!"
Then through the dell his born resounds,
From vain pursuit to call the hounds.
170 Back limp 'd, with slow and crippled pace,
»*t<M>p ravine
•keen!?; weverely
* Black bounds Hu-
bert wa* the patron
•alnt of bunting.
•prey
•hnmfawood; tblcket
« A kind of short
Rword
•woe be to
450
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
The sulky leaders of the chase;
Close to their mister's side they press M,
With drooping tail and humbled crest ;
_ But still the dingle V hollow throat
r3 Prolong 'd the swelling: bugle-note.
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer 'd with their bcream,
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seeni'd an answeung blast ;
180 And on the hunter hied his uay,
To join some comrades of the day ;
Yet often paused, so stiange the road,
So wondrous were the scenes it t»huw'd.
The western waves of ebbing day
185 Roll'd o'er the glen their level way,
Each purple peak, each flinty spue,
Was bathed in floods of living fire
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the daik ravines below,
190 Where twined the path in shadow hid,
Hound many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splinter M pinnacle;
Hound many an insulated mass,
195 The native bulwaiks of the pa**,
Huge as the towoi which builders vain
Presumptuous piled on R lunar 's plain -'
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Foim'd tuiret, dome, or battlement,
200 Or seein'd fantastically set
With cupola or minaiet,8
Wild crests as pagod4 ever cleck'd,
Or mosque of Eastern architect.
Nor were these earth-bom castles ban1,
205 Nor lack'd they many a banner fair,
For, from their shner'd brows display M,
Far o'?r the unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,
The briei-rose fell in streamer green,
210 And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Waved in the west -wind's Rummer sighs
Boon6 nature scatter 'd, free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child
Here eglantine embalm rd the air,
215 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there,
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower,
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
220 Group 'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain
With bouelm that quaked at every breath,
1 narrow dell'«
• «ee Ge»ffffe, 11 10
•lofty tower of a
temple, nurrounded
bv one or more pro-
jecting halcnnlei
4 pagoda, a towerlike
fitructure, with aev-
eral stories , nsnally
B Iwuntiful
tiray birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft, the ash and \vamoi oak
223 Cast anchor in the lifted rock,
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung
His shatter 'd trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seeniM the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the nainw'd sk\
280 Highest of all, wheie white peaks glanced,
Where ghst'inng stieamets1 wined and
danced,
The wanderer's e>e could barely \ie\\
The summer hea\en's delicious blue,
So wondioub Mild, the whole might seem
285 The scenery of a fairy dieam
Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep
A narrow inlet, still and deep,
Affording scarce such hi end 111 of bum
As served the wild duck's brood to M\mi.
240 Lost for a space, through thickets MMM-
mg.
Hut bioadei when again appealing,
Tall rooks and tufted knolls their face
Could on the dark-blue minor trace,
And farther as the hunlei stiav'd
-45 Still broader sueep its channels made
The shaggy mounds no longer stood,
Emerging from entangled wood,
But, wave-encircled, seeni'd to float,
Like castle girdled with its moat ,
250 Yet broader floods extending still
Divide them from their parent hill,
Till each, retiring, claims to be
An islet in an inland sea
_ And now, to issue from the glen,
2r> No pathway meets the \\anderei 's ken
Unless he climb, with footing nice,
A far projecting precipice
The broom V tough roots ins ladder made.
The hazel saplings lent their aid ,
2fio And thus an any point he won.
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnish M sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll 'd ;
In all her length I'm windm« la\,
266 With promontory, cieek, and bay,'
And islands that, empurpled btmht.
Floated amid the livelier light,
And mountains, that like giants stand,
To sentinel enchanted land.
270 High on the south, huge Rpiivenup
Down to the lake in mantes threw
Trass, knolls, and mountains, confusedly
hurl'd.
The f rajrments of an earlier world ;
A wildenng forest feat her 'd o'er
1 Of Ivy or other vlnw
' A kind of Hhrnb
SIR WALTER SCOTT 451
275 His ruin'd aides and summit boar, Led its deep line in graceful sweep,
While on the north, through middle air, Eddying, in almost viewless wave,
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. The weeping willow-twig to lave,
And kiss, with whimpering sound and slow,
From the steep promontory gazed 33° The beach of pebbles bright as snow
The stranger, laptured and auia/etl The boat had touch fd this silver strand,
2SO And, "What a bcene were heie," I.e cued, Just as the hunter left his stand,
"For princely pomp, or churchman's And stood concealed amid the brake,
pride! m To view this Lady of the Lake.
On this bold brow, a lordly tower, 3ri The maiden paused, as if again
In that soft >ale, a lady's' bower; She thought to catch the distant strain
On yonder meadow, far away, With head up-raised, and look intent,
285 ^e tui rets of a cloister gray, And eye and ear attentive bent,
How blithely might the bugle-horn And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn f 34° Like monument of Grecian art,
How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute In listening mood,. she seem'd to stand,
Chime, when the groves were still and The guaidian Naiad of the strand,
mute!
200 And, when the midnight moon should 1a\e And ne'er did Grecian chisel txfcee
Her forehead in the silver wave, A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace
How solemn on the ear would come "»|r> Of finer form, or lo\eher face!
The holv matin*,'1 distant hum, What though the sun, with ardent frown,
While the deep peal'b commanding- tone Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown;
2nr' Should wake, in yonder iblet lone, The sportne toil, which, shoit and light,
A sainted hoi nut from his cell, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
To diop a bend with every knell— «o Served too in hastier swell to show
And buple, lute, and bell, and all, Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
Should each bewildei M stiangei mil What though no rule of courtly grace
300 To fnendly feast, and lighted hull To measured mood had train 'd her pace;
A foot more light, a step more true,
"Blithe were it then to wander here* 3"» \r'er from the heath-flower dash'd the
But now,— beshrew yon nimble deeit— dew,
Like that same hctmit's, thin and spare, E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
The copse must gi\c my exenin^ faie, Elastic from her airy tread:
™ri Some mossy bank inv couch must he, What though upon her speech there hung
Some rustling oak my canopy The accents of the mountain tongue,
Yet pass we that, the war and chase 3r>° Those siher sounds, so soft, so deal,
Gi\e little choice of resting-place,— The listener held his breath to hear!
A summer night, in giccnwood spent,
™ Were but tomorrow's merriment- A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid,
But hosts may in these wilds abound, uer satm snood,' her silken plaid,
Such as aie better imss'd than iound , Her golden biooch, such birth betray'd.
To meet with Highland phmdereis here nr.5 Alu| seldom A\as a suood amid
^ Weie uoise than loss of steed 01 dooi - Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
si" I am alone, -rny bwlMtrain whose glossy black to shame might brin«?
May call some straggler of the tram , Thc piumage of the raxen's wing;
Or, fall the worst that may betide, And ^^mi 0»ei a breabl ^ fair>
Eie now this fnlchion2 has been tued •:<> Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combined
But scarce again his lioin he wound. Above a heart more true and kind.
«o When lof foith starling at the sound, Her kindness and Jier worth to spy,
Fiom underneath an aged oak, you necd but graze on Ellen's eye,
That slanted from the islet rock, 375 Not Katrine, in her mnror blue,
A damsel puider of its way, Owes back the shaggy banks more true,
A little skiff shot to the bay, Than every free-born glance confessed
•S" That round the promontory steep The guileless movements of her breast,
. - _ . A ^ ^ Whether jov danced in her dark e>e,
* \ praier son Ice for ni^ht, but nonio J
the moraine, prop- time* nt dnyhrenk
orly said nt mid- • sword 1 1»nd *<»rn nround the hair
452
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
380 QI woc ol pjiy claim 'd a sigh,
Or ialial love was glowing there,
Or meek ctaotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd foith
The indignant spirit of the North
a*3 One only passion umeveal'd,
With maiden pride the maid conceal M,
Yet not less purely felt the flame,—
O need I tell that passion's name?
Impatient of the silent hoin,
3*0 NOW on the gale her voice was home —
" Father' " she cued, the rocks uiound
LoAcd to prolong the gentle sound
Awhile she paused, no answer came;
"Malcolm, was thine the blast 7" the name
M5 Leqs resolutely utter M fell;
The echoes could not catch the swell
"A stranger I," the huntsman said,
Advancing from the hazel shade.
The maid, alarm M, with hasty oar,
_
44-1
100 Push'd her light shallop1 from
And when a space was Ram 'd between,
Closer she diew hoi bosom's scieen,
(So forth the startled cm an would swing,
So turn to piune his mflled wing )
405 Then safe, though fluttei'd and amazed,
She paused, and on the sti anger gazed.
Not his the form, nor his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly
On bib bold \isage middle age
410 Had slightly piess'd its signet sage,
Yet had not quench 'd the open truth
And fiery vehemence of youth;
Forwaid and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to daie,
415 The spaikhni? glance, soon blown to fire,
Of hasty love, or headlong ire
His limbs weie cast in manly mould,
For haidy sports or contest bold;
And though in peaceful garb anay'd,
420 And weaponless, except his blade,
His stately mien as well implied
A high-born heait, a martial pride,
As if a haion'H ciost he wore,
And sheathed in armor trode the shore.
425 Slighting the petty need he show'd,
He told of hia benighted road ;
His ready speech flow'd fair and free,
In phrase of gentlest courtesy;
Yet seem 'd that tone, and gesture bland,
480 tass used to sue than to command.
Awhile the maid the stranger eyed,
And, reassured, at length replied,
That Highland halls weie open still
1 A ktart of qmall open hont
To wilder 'd uaudeiers of the hill.
435 "Nor think >ou unexpected come
To yon lone isle, our desert home;
Before the heath had lost the dew,
This morn, a couch was pull'd ior you;
On yonder mountain's pin pie head
440 Have ptarmigan1 and heath-cock1 bled,
And our broad nets have swept the mere,5
To furnish forth your evening cheer."
"Now, by the rood,8 my lo\ely maid,
Your courtesy has err'd," he said,
«jfo right niue i to claim, misplaced,
The welcome of expected guest.
A wanderer, heie by fortune tost,
My \iay, my fnends, my courser lost,
I ne'er before, believe me, fair,
450 nave evei diawn your mountain air,
Till on this lake's romantic strand
J found a fay in fairy land!"
"I well believe," the maid replied,
As her light skiff approach 'd the side,
™ "1 well helmc that ne'er befoie
Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore,
lint yet, as far as yesternight,
Old Allan-Bane foietold youi plight,—
A giay-hanM sue, whose eye intent
4I|° Was on the Msiou'd futuie bent.
lie saw your steed, a dappled gray,
Lie dead beneath the buchen way,
Painted exact yom form and mien,
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green,
403 That ta*.selFd limn so gaily gilt,
That falchion's crooked bin dp and hilt,
That cap uith heron plumage turn,
And yon two hounds so daik and gum
He bade that all should leady he
170 TO grape a guest ot fair degiee,1
But light I held his prophecy,
And deem'd it was my father's horn
TVhose echoes o'ei the lake were borne "
The st in n» PI smiled "Since to youi home
175 A destined eriant-knicrht J points
Announced by prophet sooth and old,
Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold,
I'll lightly fiont each high empuse
For one kind glanee of those blight eyes
4*0 Permit me, ftist, the task to guide
Your fairy fngate o'er the tide "
The maid, with smile suppress M and sly,
The toil unwonted saw him try ;
For seldom sure, if e'er before,
485 His noble hand had gmp'd an oar
Yet with mam strength his strokes he diew
And o'er the lake the shallop flew,
With heads eieet, and whimpering cry,
1 A kind of grout*?
• lake
• by tho
4 high rank
BIB WALTER SCOTT
458
The hounds behind their passage ply.
490 NOI frequent does the might oar bieak
The dark'ning mirror of the lake.
Until the locky isle they reach,
And moor their shallop on the beach.
545
The stranger view'd the shore around;
495 'Tuas aU so close with copseweed bound.
Nor tiuek noi patlnvay might declare
That human foot liequented there, :'r>0
Until the mountain-maiden shm\ 'd
A clambeimg unsuspected load,
500 That * mcled through the tangled bcieen
And open'd on a naiiow gieen,
Wheie weeping bnch and willow round
With then long fibies swept the ground.
Ileie, fur retreat in dangeious hour,
505 Some chief had framed a rustic bowei.
555
560
r,r,r>
It was a lodge of ample size,
But strange of sliuclure and device;
Of such materials, as aiound
The workman's hand had readiest found,
510 Lopp'd off their boughs, their hoar trunks
bai ed,
And by the hatchet rudely squaied
To gi\e the Tialls their destined height
The stuidy oak and ash unite,
While moss and clay and leaves combin fd
515 TO fence each cieuce from the mud
The lighter pine-tiees, over-head,
Their slender length for rafteis spiead, "'70
And wither'd heath and rushes div
Supplied a lusset canopy.
520 Due weshwud, f uniting to the gieen,
A ruial poitico TIBS seen,
Aloft on natue pillais borne,
Of mountain fii, with baik unshoin,
Wheie Ellen's hand had tonight to twino
525 The i\y and Tdnean vine,1
The clematis, the favoi 'd flower
Which boasts the name of vngm-bowei,
And every hardy plant could beai
Loch Katrine's keen and seaulnn" .111
630 An instant in this poich she staul,
And gaily to the stiansrer said,
"On hea\en and on thy lady call.
And ontei the enchanted ball1" r|S5
"My hope, my heaven, my tii^st must l>e,
r.35 My 'gentle smidc, in following thee "
Tie cross 'd the threshold— and a clan?
Of ancrry steel that instant rang. P'q°
To his bold brow his spirit rush 'd,
But soon for vain alarm he blush 'd
M0 When on the floor he saw display 'd.
Cause of the din, n naked blade
Dropp'd fiom the bheath, that careless
Hung,
Upon a fctag'b huge antlers swung;
For all around, the walls to grace,
Hung trophies of the fight or chase.
A target1 there, a bugle here,
A battle-axe, a hunting-speai ,
And broadbwoidb, bows, and arrows store,2
With the tui-k'd tiophieb oi the boai
Heie guns the wolf as when he died,
And tlieie the wild-cat's bundled hide
The fiontlet of the elk adorns,
Or mantles o'ei the bison's horns;
Pennons and flags dclaced and stain 'd,
That blackening streaks of blood retain 'd
And deei -skins, dappled, dun, and white,
With otter's fur and seal's unite,
In rude and uncouth tapestry all,
To garnish fniih the sil\an hall.
The wondenny si i any CM lound him gazed,
And next the fallen weapon raised
Few weie the amis whose sinewy strength
Sufficed to stietch it foith at length,
And as the hi and he poised and sway'd,
"I ne\ei knew but one," he said,
"Whose stalwait aims might brook to
675
580
A blade like this in battle-field."
Shesigh'd, then smiled and took thewoid
"You see the miaidian champion 's s\\oid ,
As lisiht it tiembles m his hand,
As in my grasp a hazel wand;
My sne'b tall fonu might grace the pa it
Of Fei ragus or Ascabart ,
But in the absent giant 'b hold
Aie women now, and menials old "
The mistress of the mansion came,
Matuie of age, a giaceful dame,
Whose easy step and stately poll
Had \\ell become n pi nice ^ eouit ,
To whom, though rnoie. than kindred knew,8
Young Ellen ga\e a mothei 's due
Meet welcome to hei guest she made,
And every couiteous nte was paid
That hospitahh could claim,
Though .11 nnuskM Ins bnth and name
Such then the re\eienee to a guest,
That fellest foe might join the feast,
And tiom his deadliest foeman's door
UnquestionM tuin, the banquet o'er
At length hm rank the stranger names,
"The Knight of Snowdoun, James Pitz-
James,
i A kind of small Hbleld.
rod whoi tleherrj Ml Irtn In Cioto
fn mons foi it*
1 Roe *a<< the maternal mint of Ellen, Him lo\«l
her more than WH- iisu.il In Midi n relation
ship
454
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Lord of a barren heritage
Which his brave sires, from age to age,
By their good swords have held with toil;
595 His sire had fallen in such turmoil,
And he, God wot, was forced to stand
Oft for his right with blade in hand
This morning, with Lord Moray's train.
He chased a stalwait stag in vain,
600 Qutstnpp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer,
Lost his good steed, and wander 'd heie "
Fain would the Knight in tuin require
The name and state of Ellen's sire.
Well bhow'd the elder lady's mien,
605 That courts and cities she had seen ,
Ellen, though more her looks display M
The simple grace of silvan maid,
In speech and gestuie, form and face,
Show'd she wab come of gentle race
010 'Twere strange, in uuler rank to find
Such looks, such manners, and mich innul
Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun ga\t',
Dame Margaret lieaid with silence grn\e,
Or Ellen, innocently gay,
cl6 Turn'd all inquiry light away—
"Weird women1 we! by dale and down2
We dwell, afar fioni towei and town
We stem the flood, we ride the bla<M,
On wandeimg knights our spells we cast .
620 While tieuless minstrels touch the
'Tis thus oui charmed rh vines ^e sin«
She sung, and still a harp unseen
Fill 'd up the symphony between
or.o
Soldier rest! thy warfare o'er,
625 Bleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are shewing,
630 Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more ;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
635 Mont of toil, nor night of waking
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump* nor pibroch-* summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping
640 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow, 5
And the bittern sound his dram,
Booming from the sedgy shallow
Buder sounds shall none be near
MS Guards nor warden challenge here,
skilled in » sound of trumpet
witchcraft, or gifted «A kind of Highland
Here's no wui steed 'fl neigh and champing,
Shouting clans 01 squadron 's stamping.
She paused— then, blushing, led the lay
To grace the »ti anger of the day.
Her mellow notes awhile pioloni?
The cadence of the flowing song,
Till to her lips in measured fiamc
The minstrel \ei*e spontaneous came:—
SONG CONTINUED
Huntsman, rest' thy chase is done,
655 While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dieam not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveille, 1
Sleep I the deer is in his den ,
Sleep! thy hounds aie by thee lying,
G6(i Sleep ' nor dream in yonder glen
How thy gallant steed lay dying
Huntsman, rest I thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For, at dawning to assail ye,
665 Here no bugles sound reveille.
The hull \\,is rU'iiu'd — the stmnget's
bed
Was there of mountain heatheis spiead.
Where oft a bundled guests had lam,
And di earn M their ioiest spoits again
*'7U But vainly did the li<iatli-flo\\ei shed
Ttb moorland iiagrance round his head ,
Not Ellen's b]K>ll had lull'd to icsl
The fp\ei of his troubled bieast
In hioken di earns the nmi^c lose
('7> Of \aiied penis, pains, and woes
His steed now flounders in the brake,
No\v sinks Ins bulge upon the lake,
Now leadei of a broken host,
His stan da id falls, Ins honor's lost.
6SO Then,— from my conch may lien\enly
might
("haw thai worst phantom of the night !—
Apain return 'd the scenes of youth,
On confident undoubting truth ,
Again hi« soul he interchanged
686 With fi icnds whose hearts were lon-jr
estranged
They come, in dim procession led,
" The cold, the faithless, and the dead ,
As worm each hand, each brow as gay,
As if they parted yesterday
6<*° And doubt distracts him at the \iew-
0 were his senses false or true!
Dream 'd he of death, or broken vow,
Or is it all a vision nowt
At length, with Ellen in a grove
893 He seem'd to walk, and speak of love;
witb prophecy
•valley nnd hill
bagpipe mimic
'uncultivated Innrt
1 moraine ttlgnal «nmmnn1nff
ties of the day
to the du-
BIB WALTER SCOTT
455
She listen M with a blush and
His suit was \\aim, his hopes were high.
He sought her yielded hand to clasp,
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp:
TOO T^ phantom's sex had changed and
gone,
Upon its head a helmet shone;
Slowly enlaiged- to giant size,
With darken 'd cheek and threatening
eyes,
The grisly visage, stern and hoai,
706 To Ellen still a likeness hore
He woke, and, panting with affright,
Recall 'd the vision of the night.
The hearth 's decaying brands were red,
And deep and dusky lustre shed,
710 Half showing, half concealing, all
The uncouth trophies of the hall.
'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye,
Where that huge falchion hung on high,
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless
throng,
715 Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts along
Until, the giddy whnl to cure,
He rose, and sought the moonshine pure.
The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom,
WaRted around their rich perfume,
7->0 The birch-trees wept in fragrant balin,
The aspens slept beneath the calm ,
The silver light, with quivering glance,
Play'd on the water's still expanse*
Wild were the heart whose passion's
sway
725 Could rage beneath the sober ray!
He felt its calm, that warrior guest,
While tl us he communed with his breast .
"Why is it, at each turn I trace
Some memory of that exiled race?1
730 ("an I not mountain-maiden spy,
But she must bear the Douglas eye?
Can I not Mew a Highland brand,
But it must match the Douglas hand?
("an I not frame a fever'd dream,
735 But still the Douglas IR the theme f
111 dream no more; by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resign fd
Mv midnight orisons3 said o'er,
] '11 turn to rest, and dream no more "
710 His midnight orisons he told,
A prayer with every bead of gold,
Consign 'd to heaven his cares and woes,
And mink in undisturb'd repose;
Until the heath-cock shrilly crew,
745 And morning dawn'd on Benvenue
1 The Douglaie*.
hated bv 7nmeii V
becaune the Earl of
Angus, who had
married James's
mother, had nought
to make himself
King of Scotland
1 prayers
From CANTO II
BOAT BONO
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances I
Honor M and bless 'd be the e\ergreen
pine!
Long may the tiee, in his banner that
glances,
Flouribh, the shelter and grace of our
line f
c Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gayly to bouigeon,1 and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,
10 Rodengh Vich Alpine dhu,2 bo, ieioc!
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the
fountain,
Blooming at Beltane,3 in winter to fade,
When the whirlwind has stripp'd every
leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her
shade.
15 Moor'd in the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow,
MentPith and Bteadalbane, then,
Echo his praise again,
20 Rodeimh Vich Alpine dhu, hoi ieroe»
Proudly our pibroch has thrill fd in Glen
Fruin,
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan
replied ,
Glen Luss and Ross-dhn, they are smoking
in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead
on her side
25 Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with
woe;
Lennox and Le\ en-glen
Shake when they hear again,
30 Rodengh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! leroe !
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the
Highlands1
Stretch to your oars, for the evergreen
pinef
Of that the rose-bud that graces yon
islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him
to twine ?
1 put forth buds epithet belonged to
"•Black Roderick. tl<e Roderick as head of
deflcondant of Al the elan
pine '—Scott The •Mav-da>
456
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
86 0 that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honor 'd and bless 'd in their shadow
might grow !
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deepmost glen,
40 Roderigh Vich Alpine dhn, ho! leroe!
Prom CANTO III
OORONACH'
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Lake a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest
6 The font, reappearing,
From the ram-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow '
The hand of the reaper
10 Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
16 But our flower was m flushing.
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,*
Sage counsel in cumber,8
Red hand in the foray,
80 How sound is thy slumber'
Lake the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and forever f
CANTO VI THE GUABD-BOOK
The sun, awakening, through the smoky air
Of the dark city casts a sullen glance,
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care,
Of sinful men the sad inheritance .
5 Summoning the revellers from the lagging
dance,
Scaring the prowling robber to bib den ,
Gilding on battled tower the warder's
lance,
And warning student pale to lea^e hi*
pen.
And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind
nurse of men
10 What various scenes, and, 0 ! what scenes
of woe,
Are wit ness M by that red and strug-
gling beam!
» lament
1 hollow In a hill, the resort of game
•trouble
The ie\ei 'd patient, iroui his pallet low,
Through crowded hospital beholds itb
stream.
The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam,
16 The debtor wakes to thought oi gyve
and jail,
The love-lorn wretch starts from torment-
ing dream ,
The wakeful mother, by the glimmering
pale,
Tnms her sick infant's couch, and soothes
his feeble wail.
At dawn the towers of Stirling rang
20 With soldiei-step and weapon-clang,
While drums, with rolling note, foretell
Relief to weary sentinel.
Through nan ow loop and casement bair'd,
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,
25 And, struggling with the smoky air,
Deaden 'd the torches' yellow glare.
In comfortless alliance shone
The lights through arch of blacken 'd stone,
And show'd wild shapes in garb of war,
30 Fnces deform 'd with beard and scar,
Ail hapgaid fiom the midnight watch.
And lever 'd with the stern debauch ,
For the oak table's massue boaid,
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,
86 And beakers drain 'd, and cups o'er-
thrown,
Show'd in what spoit the night had
flown
Some, weary, Mioied on flooi and bench,
Some labor'd still their thirst to quench;
Some, chill 'd with watching, spread their
hands
40 O'er the huge chimney's dying brands,
While round them, or beside them flung,
At every step their hamesb rung
Thcbe diew not for their fields the sword,
Like tenants of a feudal lord,
45 Nor own'd the patriarchal claim
Of chieftain in their leader's name,
Adventurers they, from tar who roved,
To live by battle which they loved.
There the Italian's clouded face,
50 The swarthy Spaniard's there you trarp,
The mountain-loving >Switzer there
More freely breathed in mountain-air ,
The Fleming there despised the soil,
That paid so ill the laborer's toil;
65 Their rolls show'd French and German
name;
And merry England's exiles came,
To share, with ill conceal 'd disdain,
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain •
All brave in arms, well train 'd to wield
SIB WALTEB SCOTT 457
60 The bea\y halberd,1 brand, and shield; Our vicar thus preaches— and why should he
In camps licentious, wild, and bold: _ ^ n<|tt
In pillage fierce and uncontroli'd; For tte duf of ta «" «• the
^ A*d
._ _ „ 105 Who infringe the domains of our good
65 They held debate of bloody fray, Mother Church
Fought 'twizt Loch Katrine and Achray Yet whoop, bully-boys I off with your liquor,
Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their Sweet Marjonefs the word, and a fig for the
words, vicar!
Their hands oft grappled to their swords ;
Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear The wardei 's challenge, heard without,
70 Of wounded comrades groaning near, Staid in mid-roar the merry shout
Whose mangled limb*, and bodies gored, 110 A soldier to the portal went,—
Bore token of the mountain sword, "Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;
Though, neighboring to the Court of And, beat for jubilee the drum f
Guard, A maid and minstrel with him coine."
Their prayers and feverish wails were Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr'd,
heard; 115 Was entenng now the Court of Guard,
76 Sad burden to the ruffian joke, A harper with him. and in plaid
And savage oath by fury spoke ! All muffled clo«e, a mountain maid,
At length up-started John of Brent, Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view
A yeoman from the banks of Trent; Of the loose scene and boisterous crew.
A stranger to respect or fear, 12° "What newsf " they roar'd. "I only
80 In peace a chaser of the deer, know,
In host8 a hardy mutineer, From noon till eve we fought with foe,
But still the boldest of the crew, As wild and as untameable
When deed of danger was to do. As the rude mountains where they dwell;
He grieved, that day, their games cut On both sides store of blood is lost,
short, 125 Nor much success can either boast "
86 And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport, "But whence thy captives, friend f such
And shouted loud, " Renew the bowl! spoil
And, while a merry catch I tioll,4 As theirs must needs reward thy toil.
Let each the buxom chorus bear, Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp ;
Like brethren of the brand and spear:— Thou now hast glee-maiden8 and harp!
180 Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,
SOLDIER'S SONG The leader of a juggler band."
90 Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule .._._
Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny jo, comrade; no such fortune mine.
brown bowl, After the fight these sought our line,
That there's wrath and despair in the jolly That aged harper and the girl,
black-jack," 135 And, having audience of the Earl,
And the seven deadly Bins" in a flagon of ]£ar bade I should puney them steed,
Back,' - And bnng them hitherward with speed.
M J?* who°P' B™1*] ofL ^ S7 hquor' Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,
95 Drink upseea out," and a fig for the vicar. ror ^^ do them ^^ or h'arm/,
Our vicar he calls it damnation to Bip 14° "Hear ye his boast t" cned John of
The npe ruddy dew of a woman 'B dear lip, Brent,
Bays, that Beelzebub luiks in her kerchief Ever to strife and jangling bent;
BO sly, "Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,
And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry j^d yet the jealous niggard grudge
black mi m To pav the forester his fee f
100 Yet whoop, Jack I kiss Gillian the quicker, 14B Tni ^ • _u re howe'er it
H *. &. l*e a ««, and . fig for th. y^JJ^Jg'.
Bertram his forward step withstood;
i A kind of long- • Pride, Wlonens, glut- And, burning in his vengeful mood,
• &SS&* batUC""e' f SS& SffwaC* Old Allan, though unfit for strife,
• ring kS&ly • deeply ; to the bottom l A cant phraup for • swindle ; rob.
• blSck iwthpr pitcher of Pthr tankard ••women and wine " • dandnjr-glr]
458
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
1M i^d hand upon his dagger-knife,
But Ellen boldly stepp'd between,
And dropp'd at once the tartan screen .
So, from his morning cloud, appears
The sun of May, through summer tears.
155 The savage soldiery, amazed,
As on descended angel gazed;
Even hardy Brent, abash 'd and tamed,
Stood half admiring, half ashamed.
Boldly she spoke, "Soldiers, attend!
180 My father was the soldier's friend,
Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led,
And with him in the battle bled
Not from the valiant, or the strong,
Should exile's daughter suffer wrong "
165 Answer'd De Brent, most forward still
In eveiy feat or good or ill—
"I shame me of the part I play'd-
And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid*
An outlaw I by forest laws,
170 And merry Need wood knows the cause.
Poor Rose— if Rose be living now"—
He wiped his iron eye and brow—
"Must bear such age, I think, as thou.
Hear ye, my mates,— I go to call
i™ The captain of our watch to hall
There lies my halberd on the floor:
And he that steps my halberd o'er,
To do the maid injurious part,
My shaft shall quiver in his heart f
180 Bewaie loose speech, or jesting rough*
Ye all know John de Bient. Enough."
Their captain came, a gallant young,
(Of Tulhbaidine's house he sprung,)
Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight;
186 Gay was his mien, his humor light,
And, though by courtesy controlled,
Forward his speech, his bearing bold,
The high-born maiden ill could brook
The scanning of his curious look
190 And dauntless eye;— and yet, in sooth,
Young- Lewis was a generous youth:
But Ellen's lovely face and mien,
III suited to the garb and scene,
Might lightly bear construction strange,
195 And give loose fancy scope to range.
"Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!
Come ye to seek a champion's aid,
On palfrey white, with harper hoar,
Like errant1 damosel of yoref
*°° Does thy high quest a knight require,
Or may the venture rait a squire f"
Her dark eye flash 'd; she paused and
"0 what have I to do with pride!
«w*nfterlng on mlMloni of chivalry
Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and
stnfe.
205 A suppliant for a father's life,
I crave an audience of the King
Behold, to back my suit, a nng,
The royal pledge of grateful claims,
Given by the Monarch to Friz-James "
210 The signet-ring young Lewis took,
\\ ith deep lebpect and alter 'd look,
And baid, "This nng oui duties own,
And pardon, if to worth unknown,
In semblance mean obscurely veil'd,
215 Lady, in aught my folly fail'd
Soon as the day flings wide his gates,
The King shall know what suitor waits.
Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bowei,
Repose you till hib waking hour,
220 Female attendance shall obey
Your hest, lor service or ann>
Pennit I marshall you the way "
But, ere she followed, with the grace
And open bounty of her race,
225 She bade her slender purse be sharod
Among the soldiers of the guaid
The rest with thanks their gueidon tuck,
But Brent, with shy and awkward look,
On the reluctant maiden's hold
230 Forced bluntly back the profferM gold -
"Forjzne a haughty English heait,
And O f 01 get its ruder part f
The vacant purse shall be my share,
Which in my barret-cap1 I'll beai,
236 Perchance, in jeopardy of war,
Where gayer cicsts may keep afar 9f
With thanks ( 'twas all fehe could) the maul
His rugged courtesy repaid
When Ellen forth with Lewis went,
240 Allan made suit to John of Brent :
"My lady safe, O let your grace
Give me to see my master's face!
His minstrel I; to share his doom
Bound from the ciadle to the tomb;
245 Tenth in descent, since first my sires
Waked for his noble house their lyres;
Nor one of all the race was known
But prized its weal above their own.
With the chief's birth begins our care;
260 Our harp must soothe the infant hen,
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace
His earliest feat of field or chase;
In peace, in war, our rank we keep,
We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep,
265 Nor leave him till we pour our verse,
A doleful tribute I o'er his hearse.
Then let me share his captive lot ;
1 A kind of small cap formerly worn bj soldier*
SIB WALTER SCOTT
459
It is my right, deny it not!"
"Little we reck," said John of Brent,
280 "We Southern men, of long descent;
Nor wot1 we how a name, a woid,
Makes clansmen vasbals to a lord .
Yet kind my noble landlord's pait,—
God bless the house of Beaudeseit!
2BB And, but I lo\ed to dn\e the deei,
Mine thnn to guide the laboring steer,
1 had not dwelt an outcast heie
Tome, good old. Minstrel, follow me,
Thy Joid and chieftain shalt thou see."
270 Then, from a rusted iron hook,
A bunch of ponderous keys he took,
Lighted a torch, and Allan led
Thiou»h giatcd aich and passage dread;
Poi tii Is they pass'd, wheie, deep within.
276 Spoke piisonei 's moan, and fotteis' dm,
Thiough rugged vaults, where, loosely
stored,
Lav \\ heel, mid a\ey and headsman 's sword.
And many an hideous engine2 grim,
For * i pnclung joint, and crushing1 limb,
280 jiy aitist fonnM, who deem'd it shame
And sin to gi\e then woik a name
They halted at a low-hiou 'd poieh,
And Bient to Allan gate the torch,
While bolt and chain he hackwaid rollM.
2Sr> And made the bar urihasp its hold
Thfv entei'd 'twas a piison-iooni
Of stein security and gloom.
Vet not a dungeon, for the dav
Tluough lofly giatmirs found its \\ny,
200 And mde and antique garniture
Derk'd the sad walls and oaken floor,
Such as the Hinged days of old
DeeinM fit for captive noble's hold
"Ileie." snid De Brent, "thou nmst
icmam
20>i Till the leech Msit him again.
Stnct is his chaige, the raiders tell,
To tend the noble pnsonei >iell "
IHmnir then, the liolt he drew,
And the lock's muinnns giowl'd aneu
3°° Housed at the sound, fioni Icwlv bed
A captn e feebly raised his head ;
The wnndeimg Mmstiel look'd. and knew
Vot his dear lord, but Rodeiick Dim1
For, come from wheie Clan-Alpine foucrht,
305 They, ciiing, deem'd the Chief he sought.
AH the tall ship, whose lofty prore8
Shall ne\er stem the billows more,
Deserted bv her gallant band,
Amid the breakers lies astrand,
*10 So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu !
1know
*contrhnn<T
•prow
And oft his fever'd limbs he threw
In toss abrupt, as when her sides
Lie rocking in the advancing tideb,
That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,
815 Yet cannot heave hci from her seat ,
0 1 how unlike her course at sea !
Or his free step on hill and lea !
Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,
"What of thy lady? of mv clanf
320 My mothei t Douglas! tell me allT
Have they been imn'd in my fall?
Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou heret
Yet speak, speak boldly, do not fear."
(For Allan, -who his mood well knew,
825 \Vas choked with gnef and terroi too ) —
''Who fou§ht— who fledt Old man, be
bnef;
Some mieht— for they had lost their chief
Who baselv hvel who bra\ely died!"
"0, calm thee, Chief1" the Minstrel ciied
«o "Ellen is safe "-"For that, thank
Heaven!"
"And hopes are for the Douglas given.
The Lady Margaret, too, is well ,
Anc|, for thy clan,— on field or fell,
Has never harp of minstrel told,
3W QL combat fought so true and bold.
Thv stately pine is yet unbent,
Though many a goodly bough is rent "
The Chieftain rearM his form on high,
And fetei fs fiie uas in his eye,
1J4° But ghastly, pale, and livid stieak*.
Chequer 'd his swaithy brow and cheeks
- * ' Hark, Minstrel f 1 ha> e heard thee p!av.
With measure bold, on festal day,
hi yon lone isle,— again where ne'er
m Shall haiper play, or warrior hear'—
That stirring air that peals on high,
O'er Dernnd's race1 0111 Mcton
Strike it! and then (for well thou canst)
Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,
3"° Fling me the picture of the fight
When met my clan the Saxon might
1 '11 listen, till my fancy hears
The clang of sMoids, the crash of spears'
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then.
™ For the fair field of fighting men.
And my free spirit burst away
As if it soar'd fiom battle fiay "
The trembling Bard with awe obey'd,
Slow on the harp his hand he laid,
360 But soon remembrance of the sight
He witness 'd from the mountain's height.
With what old Bertram told at night,
Awaken 'd the full power of song,
And bore him in career along—
'ThoCnrnpholK
460
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
865 As shallop launch 'd on river's tide,
That slow and fearful leaves the side,
Bat, when it feels the middle stream,
Drives downward swift as lightning's
beam:
A narrow and a bioken plain,
Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
BATTLE or BIAL' AN DUINX
The Minstrel came oned more to view
370 The eastern ridge of Benvenue,
For, ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray:
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
80 lone a lake, so sweet a strand 1
375 There is no breeze upon the fern,
Nor ripple on the lake,
Upon her eyryi nods the erne,*
The deer has Bought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
380 The springing trout lies still,
Bo darkly glooms yon thunder cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill
Is it the thunder's solemn sound
385 That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread f
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
ttO Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams t
I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,
396 That up the lake comes winding far!
To hero bound for battle-strife,
Or bard of martial lay,
Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array!
400 Their light-arm 'd archers far and near
Survey M the tangled ground ,
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,
A twilight forest frown 'd;
Their bardeds horsemen, in the rear,
405 The stern battalia* crown 'd.
No cymbal clash 'd, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum;
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang,
The sullen march was dumb
410 There breathed no wind their crests tr
shake,
Or wave their flags abroad ;
Scarce the frail aspen seem 'd to quake,
That shadow 'd o'er their road
Their vaward* scouts no tidings bring,
416 Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing,
Save when they stirr'd the roe;
The host moves like a deep-sea wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,
420 High-swelling, dark, and slow
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain
At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
480 Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear;"
^Por life! for life! their flight they pl>—
485 And shriek, and shout, and cattle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high.
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
440 Pursuers and pursued;
Before that tide of flight and chow,
How shall it keep its rooted place,
The spearmen 's twilight woodf
""Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances
down I
445 Bear back both fiiend and foe! "
Like leeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay levell'd low,
And closely shouldering side to side,
450 The bristling ranks the onset bide
"We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tincheli cows the game*
They come as fleet as forest deer,
Well drive them back as tam«> "
455 Bearing Iwforc thorn, in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wn\e with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan- Alpine come
Above the tide, each broadsword bright
460 Wan brandishing like beam of light,
Each targe> was dark below;
And with the ocean 's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurl 'd them on the foe
4ft6 T heard the lance's shivering crash.
As when the whirlwind rends the ash,
T heard the broadsword 'H deadly clang,
As if a hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheel M his rearward rank
470 Of horsemen on Clnn-AlpineN flank,
"My banner-man, advance!
T SPC," he cried, "their column shake.
Now, gallantRf for your ladies' sake,
TTpon them with the lance!"
475 The horsemen dash 9d among the rout,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne t
480 Where, where was Roderick then f
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men!
'nest
•eagle
•armored
< battle array
* vanward
* A circle of huntm <
• shield
came.
BIB WALTER SCOTT
461
And refluent through the pass of fear, &45 ,
The battle 's tide was pour 'd ;
486 Vanish 'd the Saxon's struggling sjiear,
Vanish 'd the mountain-sword
As Bracklmn 's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,* 550
As the dark caveins of the deep
490 Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pa«H
Devour the battle's mingled mass
None linger now upon the plain, &55
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.
495 Now westward rolls the battled din,
That deep and doubling pans within
Minstrel, away, the work of fate 560
Is bearing on its issue wait,
Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile
500 Opens on Katrine's lake and isle
Gray Benvenue I soon repass'd,
Loch Katrine lay beneath me caul 665
The sun IB Ret ; the clou<ln are met,
The lowering scowl of heaven
605 An inky hue of livid blue
To the deep lake has gnen ,
Strange gnats of wind fioni niouutum-glen 570
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again
I heeded not the eddying mirge,
610 Mine eye but saw the Trosaclm' goige, '
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound,
Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and des]>erute strife
That parts not but with parting life,
615 Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
The dn ge of man} a passing soul
Nearer it conies, the dim-wood glen
The martial flood din^orged again,
But not in mingled tide ,
520 The plaided warriors of the North
, High on the mountain thunder forth
And overhang its side;
While by the lake below appears
The darkening cloud of Saxon spears.
686 At weary bay each shatter 'd band,
Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tatter 'd sail,
That flinps its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray '
630 Mark'd the fell havoc of the day.
Viewing the mountain 's ridge askance
The Saxons stood in sullen trance!
Till Morav pointed with his lance,
And pried— "Behold yon isle!
686 See1 none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand*
'Tis there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile;
My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,*
640 To him will swim a bow-shot o'er,
And loose a shallop from the shore. ,
Lightly well tame the war-wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den "
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,
* cataract : waterfall ^ ._ _. .
• filled with gold coin* embossed with the King**
bead wearing a bonnet 1n*trad of o cro*n
576
580
585
.On earth hiu casque and corslet rung,
He plunged him in the wave:
All saw the deed, the purpose knew,
And to their clamors Benvenue
A mingled echo gave;
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,
Pour 'd down at once the lowenng heaven •
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast,
Her billows rear'd their snowy crest
Well for the swimmer swell 'd they high,
To mar the Highland marksman 's eye ,
For round him shower 'd, 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael
In vain; he nears the wle, and lot
II IB hand is on a shallop's bow.
Just then a flash of lightning came,
It tinged the waves and strand with flame;
I mark'd Duneraggan 's widow 'd dame,*
Behind an oak I Raw her stand,
A naked dirk gleamed in her hand*
It darken 'd , but, amid the moan
Of wines, I heard 4 dying groan ,
Another flash ' — the spearman floats
A weltering corse bench the boats.
And the stern mation o 'er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.
"Revenge! revenge!" the Saxons cried,
The Gaels' exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they burned to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight,
Bloody with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag,
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a ti nee-note high and wide,
While, in the Monarch 's name, afar
An herald's voice forbade the war,
For Both well's lord,* and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold
But here the lay made sudden stand!
The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand*
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy
How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy-
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand, kept feeble time;
That motion ceased, yet feeling shonp
Varied his look as changed the song,
At length, no more his deafen'd ear
The minstrel melody can hear;
His face prows sharp, his hands are
clench'd,
As if some pang bis heart-strings
wrench'd ;
Set are his teeth, his fading q?e
Ts sternly flxM on vacancy;
Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew
1 The widow of the Duncan lamented In the
Coronach (p 456)
* Ellen'a father.
462
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8T3
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhul
Old Allan-bane look'd on aghast,
606 While grim and still his spirit pass'd :
But when he saw that life was fled,
He pourtt his wailing o'er the dead:
LAMENT
And art thou cold and lowly laid,
Thy f oeman 's dread, thy people 's aid,
610 Breadalbane's boast, Clan- Alpine 's shade!
For thee shall none a requiem sayf
For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay,
For thee, of Bothwell'n house the stay,
The shelter of her exiled line,
615 E'en in this prison-house of thine,
111 wail for Alpine's honor 'd pine!
What groans shall yonder valleys fill1
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
620 When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun !
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine
625 O, woe for Alpine's honor 'd pine!
Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!
The captive thrush may brook the cage,
The prison 'd eagle dies for rage
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain !
610 And, when its notes awake again,
Even she, so long beloved in vain,
Shall with my harp her voice combine,
And mix her woe and tears with mine,
To wail Clan-Alpine's honor 'd pine
MS Ellen the while with bursting heart
RemainM in lordly bower apart,
Where played with many-colored gleams,
Through storied pane1 the rising beams.
In vain on gilded roof they fall,
c*° And hghten'd up a tapestried wall,
And for her use a menial train
A rich collation spread in vain.
The banquet proud, the chamber gay,
Scarce drew one curious glance astray ,
•« Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say,
With better omen dawn'd the day
In that lone isle, where waved on high
The don-deer's hide for canopy;
Where oft her noble father shared
CKO The simple meal her care prepared,
While Lufra, crouching by her side
Her station claim 'd with jealous pride,
And Douglas, bent on woodland game,
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Gnome,
6U Whose answer, oft at random made,
The wandering of hia thoughts betray 'd.
Thorn who such ample joys have known,
* windows decorated with hlrtorical scenes (Bee
Jl PcitHrioso, 150 )
Are taught to prize them when they're
gone.
But sudden, see, she lifts her head !
660 The window seeks with cautious tread.
What distant music has the power
To win her in this wofnl hour!
Twas from a turret that o'erhung
Her latticed bower, (he strain was sung:
LAY Or THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN
665 My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle giey hound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.'
I wish I were, as I have been,
670
With bonded bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple 'a drowsy chime,
675 Or mark it as the mintaamR nawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The liable rook mv vespcra sing,
These towei H, although a kind's they be,
680 Have not a hall of JOT for me
No more at dawning- morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen 'B eyes,
T>nve the fleet deer the foicht thiough,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
685 A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the e\e on wing of glee:
That life IB lost to love and met
The hcait-hK'k lay was haidly said,
690 The Ijnt'ner had not turn'd her head,
Tt trickled still, the starting1 tear,
When light a footstep struck her ear,
And Snowdoun 's graceful knight was near.
She turn'd the hastier, lest again
6»5 The prisoner should ipncw his strain,
"0 welcome, biave'Fitz-James'" she said;
"How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt"— "0 say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe
700 Xot mine, alas T the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;
T ran but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's king thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
705 May lay MB better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come! 'tis more than time,
He holds his court at morning prime "]
With beating heart, and bosom wning,
As to a brother's arm she clung
1 dawn (It It literally the first hour of prayer,
or 0 A M )
SIR WALTER SCOTT
463
710 Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whisper 'd hope and cheer,
Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,
Through gallery fair, and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
716 A portal arch unfolded wide.
Within 'twas brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
7-0 Ten thousand hues to bummer even,
And from their tissue fancy frames
Auiial knights and faiiy dames.
Still by Fitz- James her footing stayed;
A few faint, steps she forward made,
725 Then slow her dumping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed ,
For lurn she sought, who own'd this state,
The dreaded prince whose will was fate.
She gazed on many a pi nicely port,
730 Might well have inled a royal court,
On many a splendid garb she gazed,
Then turn'd bewildei 'd and amazed,
For all stood bare , and, in the room,
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
7<*5 To him each lady's look was lent,
On him each courtier's eye was bent;
Midst f ure, and silks, and jewels sheen,
lie stood, in simple Lincoln green,1
The centie of the glittering ring.
740 And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's
King!
As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monaich's feet she Lay,
746 No noid hei choking voice commands,
She show'd the ring, she clasp'd her hands.
0 ! not a moment could he brook,
The geneious piince, that suppliant look'
Gently he laised her, and, the while,
750 Check'd with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd,
And bade her tenors be dwnnWd:
"Yes, fair, the wandering poor Fit /-James
The fealty of Scotland claims
TO To him thy woep, thy wishes, bring,
He will redeem his signet ring.
Ask nought for Douglas; yester even,
His prince and he have much forgiven.
Wrong hath he had from slanderous
tongue,
7*o I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not, to the vulgar crowd,
Yield what they craved with clamor loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
* A cloth made In Lincoln, worn bv huntsmen
Our council aided, and our laws.
765 I stanch 'd thy father's death-feud stem
With stout De Vaux and Gray Glencairn;
And Both well's Lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our throne.
But, lovely infidel, how nowf
770 What clouds thy misbelieving brow!
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid,
Thou must confirm this doubting maid."
Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung
775 The Monarch drank, that happy houi,
The sweetest, holiest draught of Powei ,
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
780 On Nature's raptures long should pry,
He stepp'd between— "Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my pioselyte awayf
The nddle 'tis my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed '
™ Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's moie low but happier way,
'Tis under name which veils my powei,
Nor falsely veils, for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
790 And Normans call me James Fitz-James
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws.
Thus learn to right the injured cause."
Then, in a tone apart and low,—
* 'Ah, little traitress! none must know
796 What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's daik witchcraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
800 Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive!"2
—Aloud he spoke— "Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz- James's ring;
What seeks fair Ellen of the King! "
805 FUJI we]j the conscious maiden guess 9d
He probed the weakness of her breast ,
But, with that consciousness, there came
A lightening of her fears for Graeme,
And more she deem'd the Monarch 's ire
810 Kindl'd 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellions broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dim.
"Forbear thy suit- the King of kings
815 Alone can stay life's parting wings:
I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved his
brand'
1 to a successful
1 broadsword
464
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANT1CI8TS
My fairest earldom would I give
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live!
820 Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive fnend to savet"
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the rang,
As if she wish'd her sire to speak
825 The suit that stain 'd her glowing cheek —
"Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course
Malcolm, come foilh !" And at the word,
Down kneel'd the Grame to Scotland's
Lord
830 "For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nuitured underneath our smile,
Hast paid oui care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
S35 A refuge for an outlaw 'd man,
Dishonoring thus thy loyal name
Fetters and warder for the Graeme !"
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck lie flung,
840 Then gently drew the glittenng band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand
Haip of the Noitli, faiewelM The hills
grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade de-
scending |
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights
her spaik,
845 The deer, half-seen, aie to the co\ert
wending
Resume thy wizaid elm1 the fountain
lending,
And the wild bieezc, thy wilder min-
strelsy,
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers
blending,
With distant echo fiom the fold and lea,
830 And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum
of housing bee.
Yet once again farewell, thou Minstrel
harp*
Yet once again forgi\e my feeble sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idle lay
865 Much have I owed thy strains on life's
long way,
Through secret woes the world has
never known,
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier
And bitterer was the prrief devoured
alone.
That I o'erlive such woe*, Enchantress!
is thine own.
860 Hark! as my lingering iootsteps slow
retire,
Some Spint of the Air has waked th>
string!
'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of flie,
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic
wing
Receding now, the dying numbers ring
865 Fainter and fainter down* the rugged
dell,
And now the mountain bieezes scaicely
bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant
spell-
And now, 'tis Mlent all f— Enchant ietss,
fare thee well '
From BOKEBY
1812 1813
BR1GNALL BANKS
0, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods aie ^ieeny
And you may gathei gai lands thete
Would giace a sununci queen.
5 And as I lode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing memly—
"O Brignall banks are fiesh and fair,
10 And Greta woods ate gieen,
I'd rather rove with Edmund theie,
Than reign our English queen."
"If, maiden, thou wouldst utend with me.
To leave both tower and town,
!"' Thou first must guess what life lead *e.
That dwell by dale and down '
And if thou canst that uddle icad,
As read full well you may,
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed,
** As blithe as Queen oi May "
Yet sung she, "Bugnall banks are fair,
And Greta woods aie gieen,
T'd lather love with Edmund there,
Than icign our English queen
25 "I lead you, by your bugle-hoi n,
And by your paJfiey good,
1 tead you for a ranger sworn,
To keep the king's gieenwood "
"A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
30 And 'tis at peep of light ,
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night "
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks aie fair,
And Greta woods are gay ;
3"> T would I were with Edmund there,
To reian his Queen of May !
1 vnlloy nnrt hill
BIB WALTER SCOTT
465
"With burnish 'd brand and musketoon,1
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold dragoon,
*° That lists the tuck2 of drum."
"I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
45 And 0 ! though Brig-nail banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle3 must the maiden darts
Would reign my Queen of May !
"Maiden* a nameless life I lead,
*>° A nameless death I'll die;
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead,
Were better mate than I!
And xv hen I'm with my comiade*. met
Beneath the gieenwood bough,
50 What once we weie we all forget,
Nor think \vhat we are now
Yet Bngnall banks ai6 fresh and fair,
And Greta \*oods aie green,
And you may gather garlands there
60 Would since a summei queen "
ALLEN-A-DALE
Allen-a-Dale has no fa sot foi burning,
Allen-a-Uale lias nu iuiiuw fui tinning,
AlIen-a-Dale has no fleece tot the spin-
ning,
Yet Allen-a-Dalc has led gold foi the
winning
5 Tome, read inr inv uddle1 come, heaiken
my talc'
And tell me the craft4 of bold Allen-a-
Dale
The Baron of Ravensworth prances in
pnde,
And he MCWS his domains upon Aikm-
dale side;
The mere5 for his net, and the land for
his game,
1° The chase for the wild, and the paik for
the tame,
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of
the vale.
Are less fiec to Lord Ducre than Allen-
a-Dale*
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade
be as bright ;
15 Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yrt twenty tail yeomen will draw at his
word;
» ihort mniket
9 heat
i much
< trade
•lake
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will
vail,1
Who at Here-cross on Stanmore meets
Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing u> come,
20 The inolbei, she abk'd of his household
and home
"Though the castle of Richmond stand
fair on the hill,
My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gal-
lauter still ,
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its
crescent so pale,
And with all its bnght spangles," said
Allen-a-Dale.
25 The father was steel, and the niotber was
stone ;
They lifted the latch, and they bade him
be gone,
But loud, on the mo now, their wail and
then m
He had laugh 'd on the lass with his bormj
black eye,
And die fled to the forest to hear a lo\e-
tale,
30 And the youth it Mas told by was
Allen-a-Dale!
Prom WAVERLEY
1805-li 1814
HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY
Hie away, hie away,
()\ei bank and IACI bi.ir •'
Wheic the ropsewood is (he mecnest,
AVheie the louiitains glisten sheenest,
5 Wheie the lad \-fem giows sf longest,
Wheie the morning dew lies longest,
Where the black-cock s\\eetest sips it,
Where the fany latest tups it
Hie to haunts right seldom Feen,
10 Lonely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Cher bank and over biae.
HIP away, hie away
From GTTY MAXNERING
1814-13 1815
TWIST YE, TWINE YE
Twist ye, twine ye f even so
Mingle shades oi joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.
r> While the mystic twist is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning,
" take off
* InlMdo
466
NINETEENTH CENTUBT BOMANTICISTS
Dimly been through twihgbt bending,
Lo, what varied shapes attending !
Passions wild, and follies vain,
10 Pleasuies M>OII exchanged for pain;
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,
In the magic dance appear
Now they wax, and now they dwindle,
Whirling with the whirling spindle,
tt Twist ye, twine ye ! even so
Mingle human bliss and woe
WASTED, WXABT, WBIRXFORX STAY
Wasted, weary, wherefore sta>,
Wrestling thus nut It earth and clajt
From the body pass away,—
Ilark! the mass is singing.
* Front lliee doff thy moital weed,
Maiy Mothei be thy speed,1
Saints to help tliee at thy wed,—
Hark! the knell is ringing.
Fear not snowdiift driving fast,
10 Sleet, 01 hail, <>i levin8 blast ,
Soon the shroud shall lap thec fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast
That shall ne'er know waking.
Haste theev haste tliee, tu lie gone,
15 Earth flits fa*t, and time diaws on,—
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
Day is near the breaking.
LINES
ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE HOT K*
OF BUCCUGUCH, AT A GREAT FOOTBALL
MATCH ON CARTER HVUOH
1815 1815
From the brown crest of Newark its.
summons extending,
Our signal is waving in smoke an 1 in
flame;
And each forester blithe, from hw moun-
tain descending,
Bounds light o'er the heather to join
in the game
Chorus
6 Then up with the Banner, let forest windfl
fan her,
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages
and more,
ibelp * lightning
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend
her,
With heart and with hand, like ouf
fathers before.
When the Southern invader spread waste
mid diHoidei,
10 At the glance of hei descents he paused
and withdiew,
For lound them weie mm shall 'd the pride
of the Border,
The Fliiueib of the Forest, the Bands
of Buccleurh
A stripling's weak hnn<l to our ie\el lins
borne her,
16 No mail-glove has grasp 'd liei, no
spearmen sm round;
But ere a bold foeinnn should sent IK or
should seorn lioi ,
A thousand tine licnits would he cold
on the ground
We forget each contention of civil dis-
sension,
20 And hail, like oui btethien, Home,
Douglas, and C'ai ,
And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall
mingle,
As welcome in peace as their fntheis in
war.
Then stiip, lads, and to it, though sharp
be the weather,
25 And if, by mischance, you should hap-
pen to fall,
There ate worse things in life than a
tumble on heather,
And life is itself but a game of foot-
ball
And when it is ovei, we'll drink a blithe
meafune
3b To each Laird and eaoli tady that wit-
ness M our fun,
And to every blithe heait that took pait
in our pleasure.
To the lads that ha\e lost and the ImN
that have won
May the Forest still flourish, both Borough
and Landward,1
* From the hall of the Peer to the Herd 's
ingle-nook ,
And huzza! my brave hearts, for Buc-
cleuch and his standard,
For the King and the Country, the Clan
and the Duke!
*towo and country
BIB WALTER SCOTT
467
Chorus
Then up with the Banner, let forest winds
fan her,
She has blazed over Ettnck eight ages
and more;
40 In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend
her,
With heart and with hand, like our
fathers before.
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN
1816 1816
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie t
Why weep ye by the tidoT
I'll wed ye to niv youngest MUI,
And ye sail be his bude
5 And yc ball be his bride, ladie,
Sac cornel v to be seen"—
But aye she loot the tears down ia'
For Jock of Hazoldean
"Now let this wiliu' giiet* be done,
10 And dry that cheek so pale.
Young Fiank is chief of Ernngtou,
And lord of Lnn« ley-dale ,
His step is fiist in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen"—
11 But aye she loot the teais <lo\\n la'
For Jock of Hazeldean
"A chain of j-old >e sail not lark.
Nor braid to bind >oui han .
Xoi mettled hound, nor managed1 hawk,
20 Nor pal f ley fiesh and fan .
And you, the foiemost u' them u'f
Shall ride oui foiest queen"—
But aje she loot the teais down ia'
For Jock of Hnzeldean
10
20
25 The knk was deck'd at nioiiung-tide.
The tapeis glimmer 'd fail ,
The pnest and bridegroom wait the buclc.
And dame and knight are there
They sought her baitb by bower and ha' ,f
30 The ladie was not seen '
She's o'er the Border, and a\\u'
Wi' Jock of IlazeMean.
PIBROCH" OF DONITIL DHU
1816 1816
Pibioch of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Gonuil.
i trained
•The hall wn« the public dwelling of the Toy
tonic chlpftain, and the him or the private
apartment!.. oHix-dally of the fjonion «ee
WordBWorth'h hmdtm.4 (p 2K7)
• A kind of Highland bagpipe music.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.
Tome from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill-plaid, and
True heart that wears one.
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.
Lea\e untended the herd,
The flock without shelter,
Lca\e the corpse umnterr'd.
The bride at the altar,
Leave the deei, leave the Meet,
Leave nets and batgcu-
Come with your fighting geai,
Bioad*words and targes.1
25 fume as the winds come,
Forests aic rended.
Tome as the wa\es come, when
NaMOb ate stranded
Faster come, faster come,
•w Faster and faster,
( 'Inef , > absal, page and m uom,
Tenant and master
Fast they come, last tliey come,
See ho\\ they gather f
*"• \Vide wa\cs the eagle ]>lume,
Blended with heathei
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward, each man, set !
Pibioch of Donuil Dhu,
40 Knell for the onset '
From THE ANTIQUARY
18lo 16 1816
WHY SITT'ST THOU BY THAT RUIN'D HALL!
"Why Mtt'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle2 so stem and gray?
Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it pasb'd away t"—
5 "Know'st thou not met" the Deep Voice
cried,
"So long enjoy 'd, so oft misused—
Alternate, in thy fickle pride,
Desired, neglected, and accused '
• cburl , peasant
468
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
1 'Before my breath, like blazing flax,
10 Man and his marvels pass away !
And changing empires wane aqd wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
"Redeem mine hours— the space is brief—
While in my glass the band-grains
shiver,
16 And measureless thy joy or grief
When Time and thou shall part for-
ever!"
From OLD MORTALITY
1816 1816
AMD WHAT THOUGH WINTER WILL PINCH
SEVERE
And what though winter will pinch severe
Through locks of gray and a cloak
that's old,
Yet keep up tliy heart, bold cavalier,
For a cup of sack1 shall fence the cold
6 For time will rust the bnglitest blade,
And years will bieak the strongest bow;
Was never wight so starkly made,-
But time and years would overthrow.
CLARION
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name
THE DREARY CHANGE
2817 1817
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet
* Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once it
bore,
Though evening, with her richest dye,
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shoie.
With listless look along the plain,
10 I see Tweed 's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in rum'd pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill, the stream, the tower, the
tree,—
16 Are they still such as once they weref
Or is the dreary change in met
Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dyev
The harp of strain 'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply I
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To fevensh pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers
Weie barren as this moorland lull.
2°
10
15
• person made «o strong
From BOB ROY
2817 1817
FAREWELL TO THE LAND
Farewell to the land where the clouds love
to rest,
Like the shroud of the dead on the moun-
tain 'b cold breast ,
To the cataiacl's roai ulieic the eagles
ieply,
And the lake hei lone bosom expands to
the sky
From THE 1IKART OF MIDLOTHIAN
18J8 1818
FLOOD MAISIB
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird.
When shall I marry me?"
"When six braw1 gentlemen
Kirkward shall cany ye "
"Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly!"
"The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.
"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady ,
The owl from the steeple sing,
'Welcome, proud lady.' "
From IVANHOE
1819 1819
THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR
HI give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth
or twain,
To search Europe through from Byzan-
tium to Spain ;
' flno • hnndwme
BIB WALTER SCOTT
But ne'er shall you find, should you search
till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted
Friar.
«
6 Your knight for his lady pucks forth in
career,
And is brought home at even-song prick 'd
through with a spear,
I confess him in haste— for his lady de-
sues
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted
Friar's.
Tour monarch f— Pshaw f many a prince
has been known
10 To barter his robes for oui cowl and our
gown;
But which of lib e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the gray hood of
a Fnai f
The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he
has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his
own,
15 He can roam where he lists, he can stop
when he tires,
For every man 's house is the Barefooted
Friar's
He's expected at noon, and no wight,1 till
he comes,
May profane the erieat chair, or the por-
ridge of plums ;
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by
the fire,
20 Is the undenied right of the Barefooted
Friar.
He's expected at night, and the pasty's
made hot,
They broach2 the brown ale, and they fill
the black pot ;
And the i>oodwife would wish the good-
man in the mire,
Eie he lack'd n soft pillow, the Bare-
footed Fnar
26 Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the
cope,
The dread of the devil and trust of the
Pope'
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by
the brier,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar
1 porinn
BEBECCJL'B HYMN
When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,
Her fathers' Ood before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame 1
6 By day, along the astonish 'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson 'd sands
Return 'd the fiery column's glow
There rose the choral hymn of praise,
10 And trump and timbrel2 answer 'd keen,
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,
With priest's and warrior's voice be-
tween.
No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone
16 Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own
But present still, though now unseen '
When brightly shines the prosperous
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
20 To temper the deceitful ray
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light f
36 Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's pest, the Gentile's scorn;
No cenw round our altar beams,
And mute our timbrel, harp, and hom
But Thou hast «aid, The blood of goat,
30 The flesh of rams I will not prize;
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.8
Prom THE MONASTERY
1819-20 1820
BORDER MARCH
March, march, Etttick and Teviot-dale,
Why the deil dinua ye march forward
in ordei f
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the
Border
B Many a bannei spread,
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
10 Fight for the Queen4 and the old Scot-
tish srlory.
»ft*J?*odtt«,lft'21-22
1 trumprt anil tambou-
rine
•Re? JMatoff, 51.17
4 Mary,Qncen of Brotru
470
NINETEENTH CKNTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Come from the bilk where your hirsels1
aie grazing
Come from the glen of the buck and
the roe;
Come to the crag wheie the beacon is
blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and
the bow.
16 Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms then, and march in
good order,
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
20 When the Bine Bonnets came over the
Border
Prom THE PIEATE
1821 1821
THE SONG OF TUK RKIM-EJENNAK*
Stern eagle of the far north-west,
Thou that beaiest in thy grasp the
thunderbolt,
Thou tthose rushing pinions stir ocean to
madness,
Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the
scatterer of navies,
6 Amidst the seioam of thy rage,
Amidst the lushing of thy on waul wint>s,
Though thy scieam be as loud as the ciy
of a perishing nation.
Though the rushing of thy wings be like
the roai of ten thousand wa>es,
Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste,
10 Hear thou the voice of the Keun-kcnnai
Thou hast met the pine-tiees of Dronl-
lieini.
Their daik-green heads he prostrate be-
side their up-rooted stems,
Thou hast met the rider of the ocean,
The tall, the strong bark of the fearless
liner,
15 And she has stiuck to thee the topsail
That she had not veil'd* to a royal armada.
Thou has met the tower that bears its ciest
among the clouds,
The battled massive tower of the Jarl4 of
former days,
And the cope-stone of the turret
20 Ts lying upon its hospitable hearth ;
But thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller
of clouds,
* herds ; flocks
• sorceress ; one who
knows magic rimes
or soells
•lowered
When thou nearest the voice of the Reim-
kennar
There are verses that can stop the stag in
the foiert,
Ay, and when the dark-color 'd do? is
opening on his track ,
25 Theie aie veises can make the wild hauk
pause on the wing,
Like the falcon that wears the hood and
the jesses,1
And who knows the shrill whistle of the
fowlei.
Thou who canst mock at the scieam of the
di owning manner,
And the crash of the ra>a|>ed foiest.
30 And thegioanof the overwhelmed crowds.
When the church hath fallen in the mo-
ment of prayer;
There aie sounds which Ihon also must
list,
When they aie chanted by the voice of the
Remi-kennai
Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the
ocean.
85 The uidous uiiiig- then hands on the
beach ,
Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the
land,
The husbandman folds his arms in de-
span ,
Cease thou the wauni? of thy pinions,
I jet the ocean repose in hei daik strength,
40 Tease Ihon the Hashing of thine e\c,
1-iet the thmuleiholt sleep in the aimoiy
of (Mm,
Be thou still at my bidding, viewless racer
of the north-western heaven,—
Sleep thou at the voice of Norna the
Iteim-kennai
Eagle of the far north-western waters,
46 Thou hast heaid the voice of the Reim-
kennai,
Thou hast closed thy wide sails at hei
bidding,
And folded them in ]ieace by thy side
My blessing be on thy ictinnp path,
When thou stoo]x?ht ftoin thy place on
high,
r>0 Soft be thy slumbers m the caverns of the
unknown ocean,
Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee.
Eagle of the north-west, thou hast heard
the voice of the Reim-kennar.
1 short BtrflTW secured aronnd the Iw of falcons,
for attaching the lwi«h
SIB WALTER SCOTT
471
FABEWELL TO THE MUSE
1822
Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast
decoy 'd me,
At the clobe oi the evening through
woodlandb to roam,
Where the forester, 'lated, with wonder
espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quit tint:
for home.
B Farewell, and take with thee thy numbeis
wild speaking
The language alternate of rapture and
woe:
Oh* none but some lover, whose heart-
strings are breaking,
The pang that I feel at our parting can
know.
Each joy thou eonldst double, and when
theie came sorrow,
10 Or pale disappointment to darken m\
way,
What \oice was like thine, that could sinir
of tomorrow,
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of
today'
But when fi lends diop aiound us in life's
neary \\amng,
The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou
canst not assuage;
15 Nor the gradual estrangement ot those yet
remaining,
The languor of pain, and the dullness
of age.
Twas thou that once taught me, in accents
bewailing,
To sing how a warrior1 lay stretch'd on
the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with nitl
unavailing,
20 And held to his lips the cold goblet in
vain ;
As \nm thy enchantments, 0 Queen of
wild Numliers,
To a bard when the rei^n of Ins fancy
is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apatlu
slumbcis—
Farewell, then, Enchantress! [ nioot
thec no more f
Pi 0111 QTTEVTTN DURWAKD
182,1 18223
COUNTY GUT
Ah ! Connty Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
iMtrmlon.
The breeze is on the
& The lark, his lay who thrill M1 all day,
Sits husb'd his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
But where is County Guy!
The village maid steals through the shade,
10 Hei shepheid's suit to hear,
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
15 And high and low the influence blow-
But where is County Guyf
From THE TALISMAN
18Z5 1825
WHAT BRAVX CHEEP
What brave chief shall head the forces
Wheie the red-cross2 legions gather?
Best of horsemen, best of horses,
Highest head and fairest feather.
5 Ask not Austria, why 'mid princes
Still her banner rises highest;
Ask as well the strong-wing 'd eagle
Why to hea\en he soars the nighent
Prom THE DOOM OF DEVEHOOTL
1885 1830
BOBIN HOOD
0, Robin Hood was a bowman good,
And a bowman good \\av he,
And he met with n maiden in
Sherwood,
All uiiUe.i the greenwood tiee
* Now rive me a kiss, quoth bold Robin
Hood,
Now give me a kiss, said lie,
For there never came maid into ineny
Sherwood,
But she paid the foiestei 's fee
•
BONNY DUNDEE
To (he Lords of Convention 'twas Clnver fse
who spoke,
"Kie the King's ciown shall fall theie
aie crowns to be broke;
So let each Cavalier who loves honor ami
me,
Come follow the bonnet of Bouuy Dundee.
5 "Come fill np my cup, come fill np my
can,
Tome saddle your horses, and call up
your men;
* trilled
8 The red crom N the national emblem of Bng-
472
NINETKENTII CENTURY BOMANTIGI8T8
Come open the We*l Port, and let me
gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee!'1
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the
street,
10 The bells are rung backwaid,1 the drums
they are beat ,
But the Provost,* douce* man, wild, "Just
e'en let him be,
The Gude Town IR weel quit of that Deil
of Dundee "
Come fill up my cup, etc.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of
the Bow/
15 Ilk carline* was flyting* and shaking her
pow,7
But the young plants of grace they look'd
couthie and slee,8
Thinking, "Luck to thy bonnet, thou
Bonny Dundee!"
Come fill up my cup, etc.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-
market was cramm'd
20 As if half the West had set tryst to be
hang'd;
There was spite in each look, there was
fear in each e'e,
As they watch 'd for the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
These cowls of Kilmarnock* had spits10
and had spears,
26 And lang-haf ted gullies11 to kill Cava-
liers;
But they shrunk to close-heads,19 and the
causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
He apurr'd at the foot of the proud Castle
rock,1*
>° And with the gay Gordon he gallantly
spoke;
Phe chimes are 'hooded [garment!
Branded In rerene madeatKUmarnock
order ai an alarm (Here med for the
i The
801
on
•Mayor
• sedate ; prudent
< windlnn of Bow
(It was In-
_ chiefly by
ant erf.)
•each old woman
PreibyterianB, who
wore them )
"Rworda
» long-handled knives
M upper ends of nar-
row panacea lead-
from tne street
"Let MODS Meg1 and her marrows2 speak
twa words or three,
For the love of the Bonnet of Bonny
Dundee."
Come fill up my cup, etc,
The Gordon demands of him which way
he goes—
85 "Where'er shall direct me the shade of
Montrose 1
Your Grace in short space shall hear
tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"There are hills beyond Pentland, and
lands beyond Forth,
40 If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's
chiefs in the North ;
There are wild Duniewassals,8 three thou-
sand times three,
Will cry hoighl for the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"There's brass on the target4 of barken 'd*
bull-hide;
45 There's steel in the scabbard that dangles
beside ;
The brass shall be burnish 'd, the steel
shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the
rocks—
60 Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the
fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of
your glee,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet
and met"
Come fill up my cup, eta
He waved his proud hand, and the trum-
pets were blown,
66 The kettle-drums clash 'd, and the horse-
men rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermis-
ton'slee,
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny
Dundee.
*The nickname of a
great cannon, tup-
pored to have been
made In Monn, Bel-
glum
• mates: companions
'Highland gentlemen
of secondary rank.
Jjbleld
* tanned with bark
SIB WALTER 800TT
478
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my
can,
Come saddle the horses, and call up the
men,
60 Come open your gates, and let me gae
free,
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee!
WHEN FBIENDS ARE MET
When friends are met o'er merry cheer,
And lovely eyes are laughing near,
And in the goblet's bosom clear
The cares of day are drown 'd;
6 When puns are made, and bumpeib
quaff 'd,
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft,
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laugh 'd,
Then is our banquet crown 'd,
Ah gay,
10 Then is our banquet crown 'd
When glees1 are sung, and catches troll M,2
And babhfulness grows bright and bold,
And beauty is no longer cold,
And age no longer dull ;
15 When chimes are brief, and cocks do crow,
To tell us it is time to go,
Yet how to part we do not know,
Then is our feast at full,
Ah gay,
20 Then is our feast at full
From WOODSTOCK
1816 1826
GLEE TOR KINO CHARLES
Bring the bowl which you boast,
Fill it up to the brim ,
'Tis to him we love most,
And to all who love him.
5 Brave gallant, stand up,
And avaunt ye, base cailes!**
Were there death in the cup,
Here's a health to King Charlc*1
Though he wanders through dangers,
10 Unaided, unknown,
Dependent on strangers,
Estranged from his own ,
Though 'tis under our breath,
Amidst forfeits and peril*,
*A glee !• an unaccompanied «mg for several
•olo voices, and usually In contrarted move-
ments A catch differ* In that each of wrcral
perrons ring* a part to one contlnuouH melody.
• nnng loudly
3 churls, peaaanta
15 Here's to honor and faith,
And a health to King Charles!
Let such honors abound
As the time can afford,
The knee on the ground,
20 And the hand on the sword;
But the time shall come round
When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,
The loud trumpet shall sound,
Here's a health to King Charles'
THE FOBAY
1830
The last of our steers on the board has
been spread,
And the last flask of wine in our goblet is
red;
Up, up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords
and begone.
There are dangers to dare, and there's
spoil to be won.
The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances
with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze
from the towers.
And strive to distinguish through tempest
and gloom
The piance of the steed and the toss of
the plume
The rain is descending; the wind rises
loud,
10 And the moon her red beacon has veil'd
with a cloud ;
'Tis the better, my mates! for the
warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream
we are nigh
Our steeds aie impatient* T hear my
blithe grav !
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope
in his neigh;
16 Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of
his mane
Shall marshal your march through the
darkness and rain
The drawbridge baa dropp'd, the bugle
has blown ;
One pledge is to quaff yet— then mount
and begone!—
To their honor and peace, that shall rest
with the slain ;
80 To their health and their glee, that see
Teviot again '
474
NINETEENTH CENTUBT BOMANTICISTS
JOANNA BAILLIE (1762-1851)
From THE BEACON
1W2
FISHERMAN'S SONG
No fibh stn in our heaving net,
And the feky is daik and the night u» wet ,
And we must ply the lusty oar,
For the tide is ebbing from the shoie,
5 And bad are they whose faggots burn,
So kindly stored for our return.
Our boat is small, and the tempest raves.
And naught is heard but the lashing wave*
And the sullen roar of the angry t»ea
10 And the wild winds piping dreanlv ,
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain,
We'll bless our blazing hearths again.
Push bravely, mates I Our guiding star
Now from its toweilet streameth far,
15 And now along the neanng strand,
See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand
Before the midnight watch be past
We'll quaff our bowl and mock the blast
WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'
1822
The bride she is winsome and bonny,
Her hair it is snooded1 sae sleek.
And faithfn' and kind is her Johnny,
Yet fast fa ' the tears on her cheek
5 New pearhns2 aie cause of hei soirow,
New pearhns and pleni&hinp* too ,
The bride that has a' to borrow
Has e'en right mickle ado.
Woo'd and married and a'f
10 Woo'd and married and a''
Is na' she very weel aff
To be woo'd and married at a't
Her mither then hastily spak,
' ( The lassie is glaikit4 wi ' pride .
15 In my pouch I had never a plack8
On the day when I was a bride
E 'en tak to your wheel and be clever,
And diaw out your thread in the bun,
The gear6 that IR gifted7 it never
20 Will last like the gear that is won.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Wi' having and tocher1 sae sma'f
I think ye are very weel aff
To be woo'd and married at a'."
** "Toot, toot,* quo* her gray -headed
farther,
"She's less o' a bride than a bairn,
» hound up In 8 riband 'A matt cola, worth
* finery . wees about one cent
* f nrnfahinga • clothing and property
* foolish I given
0 goods and dowry
She's ta'en like a cout1 frae the heather,
Wi' sense and discretion to learn.
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
80 As humor inconstantly leans,
The chiel2 maun8 be patient and steady
That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.
A kei chief sae douce4 and sae neat
O'er her locks that the wind used to
blaw!
*B I'm baith like to laugh and to greet
When I think of hei married at a't'9
Then out spak the wily bridegroom,
Weel waled6 weie his woidieb, I ween,
"I'm rich, though my coffer be toom,*
40 Wi' the blinks o' your bonny blue e'en.
I'm prouder o' tliee by my side,
Though thv ruffles or ribbons be few,
Than if Kate o' the Croft were my bride
Wi' pnrfles7 and pearhns enow.
46 Dear and dearest of ony!
Ye' re woo'd and buikit8 and aM
And do ye think scorn o' your Johnny,
And grieve to be married at a't "
She tuin'd, and she bhibh'd, and she
smiled,
60 And she looked sae bashfully down;
The pnde o' her heart was beguiled,
And she played wi' the sleeves o' her
gown.
She twirled the tag o' her lace,
And she nipped her boddice sae blue,
55 Syne9 bhnkit sae sweet in his faee,
And aff like a maukm10 she flew.
Woo'd and married and a'v
Wi' Johnny to roose11 her and aM
She thinks hersel very weel aff
w To be woo'd and married at aM
A SCOTCH SONG
1822
The gowan13 glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's" in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
S Oh not sad and slow
And lengthened on the ground,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It wean BO slowly round!
My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
10 My lambs are bleating near,
% But still the sound that I lo'e best,
• registered ai Intend-
Inr to marry
• then
"hare
** pralae
colt
fellow
emntar
trimmings
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
475
Alack! I canna' hear.
Oh no ! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still,
15 And like a lonely ghaibt I btand
And croon1 upon the hill
1 hear below the watei loai,
The null wi' clacking din.
And Lucky scolding fiae hei door,
20 To ca' the baimies in
Oh no! sad and slow,
These aie na' sounds foi me,
The shadow of our trystnig bubh,
It creeps sae drearily
25 I coft yebtieen frae Chapman Tain,2
A snood3 of bonny blue,
And promised when oni trysting cam'.
To he it lound hei biou
Oh nof sad and slow,
w The mark it winna' pass.
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tethered on the giabb
0 now I see her on the way,
She's past the witch's knowe,4
33 She's climbing up the Brtwny'h biae,B
My heart is in a lowe to
Oh no! 'tis no' so,
Ti*. glam'iie7 I ha\e seen.
The shadow of that ha wt home bush
40 Will move na' uiair till e'en
My book o' giace I'll try to read,
Though conned wi' little stall,
When collie barks I'll raise my head.
And find her on the hill ;
« Qh no i sad and slow,
The tune will ne'er be gane.
The shadow of the trysting bubh
Ib fixed like ony stane.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1784-1842)
THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL
1807 1813
The lark had left tlie evening cloud,
The dew fell baft, the wind was lowne,8
Its gentle breath amang the flowers,
Scarce stined the thistle's tap o' doun,
* The dappled swallow left the pool
The stais weie blinking owie the hill,
As I met, amang the hawthomea green,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
• wall with low monot- the hair
onoiiB wunch ' knoll
•boufht yepterdar 'jlopc
evening from 1'ed 'flame
flier Tarn T enchantment
3 blind worn around " calm
Her naked feet, amang the giass,
10 Shone like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair,
Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,
Daik curling owre her shoulders baie,
H§r cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth ,
Her lips had words and wit at will ;
15 And heaven seemed looking through liei
een,—
The lovely lass of Preston Mill
Quo' I, "Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me
Where blackcocks ciaw, and plovets
cryt
Six hills aie woolly wi' my sheep,
20 Six vales are lowing wif my kye.
1 hae looked lang foi a weel-faui 'd1 la^
By Nithsdalc'b holmes8 an' monie j
hill,"
She hung hei head like a dew-bent rose,—
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
23 Quo* I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down.
But gie'b a kibs, and gang wi* me,"
A lovelier face, 0, never looked up,
And the tears weie diapping fiae hei ee
"I hae a lad, wha'* far awa',
80 That weel could mm a woman's will,
My heart's already fu' o' love,"
Quo' the lovelj lass of Preston Mill
"No\\ wha is he wha could leave sic a la^
To seek for love in a far countreet"—
35 Her tears drapped down like simmer dev ,
1 fain wad kissed them frae her ee
I took but ane o' her comely cheek;
"For pity's sake, kind sir, be still'
My heait ib fu' o' other love,"
40 Quo' the Unely lass of Preston Mill.
She stretched to heaven her twa white
hands,
And lifted up her watei y ee-
"Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my ee ,
*'* While woods grow green, and burns* nn
clear,
Till my la*t drap o9 blood be still,
My heart shall baud nae other love,"
Quo' the lovely lass of Pieston Mill.
Theie's comely maids on Dee's wild banks
50 And Nith's lomantic vale is fu';
By lanely Cluden's hermit stream
'Dwells monie a gentle dame, I trpwv
O, they are lights of a gladsome kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
« But there's a light puts them a' out,-
The lovely lass of Preston Mill!
1 well-favored , handsome
• low lands
•brooks
476
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER GAULD
1813
Oane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.
6 Canld's the snaw at my head.
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Let nane tell my father,
10 Or my mither sae dear:
I'll meet ihem baith in heaven
At the spring o' the year.
A WET SHEET AND A PLOWING SEA
1825
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail
And bends the gallant mast ;
6 And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and \ea\ e->
Old England on the lee.
"O for a soft and gentle wind'"
10 I heard a fair one cry,
But give to me the snonng breeze
And white waves heaving high ,
And white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free,—
15 The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud ;
But hark the music, manners'
*° The wind is piping loud ,
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,—
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea
JAMBS HOGG (1772-1835)
WHEN THE KTE COMES HAME
1810
Come, all ye jolly shepherds
That whistle through the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret
That courtiers dinna ken •'
5 What is t\\e greatest bliss
That the tongue o'man can name!
'Th to woo a bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame,
' do not know
When the kye comes haiiic,
10 When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,1
When the kye comes hame.
'Tis not beneath the coronet,
Nor canopy of state,
15 'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor arbor of the great—
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,2
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
20 When the kye comes hame
When the kye comes hame, etc.
There the blackbiid bigs8 hei nest
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,
25 Oh, a happy bird is he,
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonnie la&sie
When the kye corner hame.
80 When the kye comes haiue, etc.
When the bleuuit4 beuis a peuil,
And the dawj tin us a pea.
And the bonnie lucken-gowanr|
Has fauldit" up her ee,
in Then the laveioek7 trae the blue lilt8
Drops down, an' thinks nae shame
To woo his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame, etc
10 See yonder pawkie* shepherd,
That lingers on the hill,
His ewes are in the f auld,
An' his lambs are lying still;
Yet he dpwna gang10 to bed,
4:' For his heart is in a flame
To meet his bonnie lassie
When the kye comes hame
When the kye comes hame, etc.
When the little wee bit heart
60 Rises high in the breast,
An9 the little wee bit stain11
Rises red in the east.
Oh there's a joy sae dear.
That the heart can hardly iranie,
53 Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie.
When the kye comes hamrr
When the kye tumm hame, HP
'dark
'birch
"buildH
« V kind of Hhruh
' globoflowor
• folclod :
7 lark
•sky
•sly, ail ful
10 cannot go
" *tm
JAMES HOGG
477
Then since all nature joins
In this love without alloy,
60 Oh, wha wad prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joyf
Or wha wad choose a crown,
Wiv its penis and its fame,
And miss his bonnie lassie
6" When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame f
THE SKYLARK
1810
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin1 o'er moorland and
lea*
Emblem of happiness,
6 Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee '
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, lo\e gave it birth
10 Where, on thy dewy wing,
Whete Hit thou jomneyingf
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth
O'er fell2 and fountain sheen,
O'ei moor and mountain green,
ir> O'er the led streamei that heralds the
day,
fhei the cloudlet dun,
(her the rainbow's inn,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away f
Then, when the gloaming conies,
20 Low in the heathei blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love
be'
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee1
WHKN MAGGY GANGS AWAY
1810
Oh, what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs awayt
Oh, what will a 'the lads do
When Maggy gangs away!
5 There's no a heart in a' the glen
That diwia8 dread the day :
Oh. what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs awayf
' morning song
1 moor elevated
fltld
wild
ilooH not
Young Jock has ta'eii the hill for'l —
" Awaefu'wight^she,
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,
An' laid him down to dee,
An9 Sandy's gane into the knk,
An' leainin' fast to pray;
I5 And oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs awayf
The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw
Has drunk her health in wine,
The pnest has said— in confidence—
20 The lassie was divine,
And that is mair in maiden 's praise
Than ony pnest should say :
But oh, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs awayf
25 The wailing in our green glen
That day will quaver high ;
Twill draw the redbreast f rae the wood.
The laverock frae the sky,
The lames fiae their beds o' dew
°° Will rise an' join the lay
\n' heyf what a da\ will be
When Maggy gangs awayv
From THE QUEEN'S WAKE
IblJ
KILMENY
Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk ot the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be
5 It was only to hear the yorlin2 sing,
And pu' the cress- flowei lound the spring ,
The scarlet hypp3 and the hind-berrye,4
And the nest that hung frae the hazel
tree;
For Kilmeny was puie as pure could be.
10 But lang may her minny* look o'er the
wa',
And lang mav she seek i' the greenwood
shaw ,fl
Lang the land o' Duneira blame,
And lang lang greet7 or Kilmeny come
hamef
When many lang day had come and fled.
16 When grief grew calm, and hope was
dead,
When mass for Kilmeny 's soul had been
sung,
« * oof ul f ello* * European raspberry.
1 vol low-hammer or bramble-berrj
• r 1 1) P n o d frnit. or B mother
berry, of the dc*- • thicket
iwe
478
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
When the bedesman1 had pray'd and the
dead-bell rung,
Late, late in a gloaming, when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin
hill,
20 The wood \vas sere, the moon i' the wane,
The reek o' the cot hung o'er the plain,
Like a wee cloud in the world its lane ,2
When the ingle lowed wi' an eiry leme8—
Late, late in the gloaming Kilmeny came
hame !
25 "Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you
been!
Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean ,4
By burn!5 by ford, by greenwood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat ye that joup8 o' the lily sheen?
30 That bonuie snood7 o9 the birk8 sae
green!
And those roses, the fairest that ever
were seen T
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you
been?"
Kilmeny look'd up wi' a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny 's
fare,
35 As still \i as hei look, and as still was her
ee,
As the stillness (hut lay on the emerant9
lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea
For Kilmeny had been, she kenned not
\\ here,
AIM! Kilmeny had seen what she could not
<le<*laic,
10 Kilinen\ had been uliete the cock never
Wheie the lain ne\er fell, and the wind
never blew.
But it seemed as the haip of the sky had
rung,
And the aiis of hea\en placed round her
tongue,
Whert she spoke of the lovely forms she
had seen,
45 And a land wheie sin had never been,
A land of lo\e and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
Where the river swa'd10 a living stream,
And the light a pure and cloudless beam f
1 A poor roan required
to pray for hi*, hene
•alone
•fireplace blaied with
an uncanny glenm
«*nod nnrt vfillo\
•hrook
• coat , tunk
7 hand worn around
the hair
" birch
•emerald
111 fc.«nied:*ii rood
60 The land of vision, it would seem,
A still, an everlasting dream.
In yon green wood there is a waik,1
And in that waik there ib a wene,2
And in that \vene there is a maike;1
68 That neither has flesh, nor blood, nor
bane;
And down in yon gicenwood he walks his
lane4
In that green wene Kilmeny lay,
Her bosom hap 'd5 wi 9 flowerets gay ;
But the air was soft, and the silence deep,
60 And l>onny Kilmeny fell sound asleep
She kenned nae mair, nor open'd her ee,
Till wak'd by the hymns of a far coun-
trye.
She woke on a couch of silk sae slim,
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's
rim;
6"f And lovely beings round weie rife,
Who eist had travelled mortal life,
And aye they smiled and 'j»an to speei .'
4 * What spirit has brought this moital
heref"
"Lang have I rang'd the world wide/9
70 A meek and reverend fere7 replied ,
"Baith night and day I hate watched the
fair,
Eident8 a thousand years and mair
Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree,0
Where\er blooms femmitye,
76 And sinless virgin, free of stain
Tn mind and body, found I nane
Never since the banquet of time
Found I a virgin in her prime,
Till late this bonnie maiden I saw,
80 As spotless as the morning snaw.
Full twenty years she has lived as fiee
As the spnits that sojourn in this coun-
trye:
I ha\e brought het away fiom the snaies
of men,
That sin or death she never mny ken "
86 They clasped her waist, and her hands
sae fair.
They kissed her cheeks, and they kemmed
her hair;
And round came many a blooming fere,
Saying, "Bonnie Kilmeny, ye 're welcome
here!
1 pasture . park
1 howei , cave
* heinoj , mato
4 alone
•inquire
7 fellow , companion
•diligent, at ton five
• <-verv rank
JAMES HOGG 479
Women are fieed of the htiand scorn,1 In the btream of life that \\andeietl bj
00 0 blessed be the day Kilmeny was born f And she heard a song, fehe heard it bung,
Now shall the land of the spirits bee, She ken M not where, but sae sweetly it
Now shall it ken what a woman may he ' rung,
Many lang year, in sonow and pain, Tt it'll on the ear like a dieam of the
Many lang year through the world we'\e 11101 n,—
gane, I""1 "0 blest be the day Kiluiony was born'
9"i Commissioned to watch fair woman-kind, Now shall the land of the spirits see,
For it's they who nurse the immortal mind Now shall it ken \vhat a woman may be'
We have watched their steps as the dawn- The sun that shines on the world sac
ing shone, blight,
And deep in the greenwood walks alone, A borrowed gleul1 fine the fountain of
By lily bower and silken bed, light ,
100 The viewless tears have been o'er them 14° And the moon that blcekb2 the sky sac dun,
shed , Like a frnuden'* bo\\ ot a heamless sun,
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep, Shall \iear away and be been nae mair,
Or left the couch of kne to weep. And the angels shall iuis« them travelling
We have been, we have seen! but the time the air.
maun2 come, Rut lang, lang aftei, baith nicht and daj,
And the angels will weop at tlie ilav of nfi When the sun and the wmld have fled
doom ! awa> ,
When the sinnei has pane tn his waesome
101 «o would llu» faneM of mortal kind doom,
Aye keep them holy truths in mind, Kilmeii} shall smile m eteinal bloom!"
That kindred spirits their motions see,
Who watch their ways with anxious ee, They bore her a*a>, die wist nnt how
And mum for the Wmlt of humanity el Foi she felt not aim Vim lest below,
"« O, R*eet to lleaxen the maiden's prayei, r.ft But w» swift the> named1 her thioush the
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fan ' light,
And clear to Heaven the woids of tiuth 'Twas like the motion of sound or sight,
And the piaise of \irtue fiae beauty'*. They seemed to split the gales of air,
mouth1 And yet inn gale noi freeze was theie
And dear to the viewless forms of air, rnnumbeied moves below them grew,
HB The mind that kythe^ as the bodv fan f ir.r, 'fiiey oame> tiiey passed, and backward
fleu,
"0, bonny Kilmeny! free fiae stain. Like floods of blossoms gliding on,
If e\er you seek the world asram, A moment seen, m a iiioment gone
That world of sin, of sorrow, and feai. All' ne\er \ales to mortal view
() tell of the joys that are waiting heie, Appeared like those o'er which thev flew,
120 And Ml of the signs you shall short lv ten That jalld lo human spirits given,
see , The lowei most \ ales of the stoned hea\ en ,
Of the times that aie now, and the limes p,^ thence the\ can vie\\ the world be-
that shall be" low,
_.,„,„,, , , . And hea\en's blue gate* with sapphire*
They lifted Kilraen>, thev led her awav. ejow
And she walked in the light of a sunless More gi^y'^ nnmeet to know .
The sky was a dome of crystal bright, i«-, T|iey ^^ hei far to a mouiltain
"•> The fountain of MSIOU, and fountain c»f Tn ^ what mortal ne^er had g
v I ^111 ^ j i i And lhev seRted ner ln*?l! on a
The emerant nelds wuie of dazzJmcr trw>w. sward,
And the flowers of everlasting blow1 Anil bftde hgr heed whnt shc saw and
Then deep m the stream her body they laid jieal d
That her youth and her beauty nevei micht And notc tl^ ciiai,ges the sjMnts wrought,
/ade; 170 For now she iived ni the land of thought
«° And they smil d on Heaven, when thej She lookedf and Ae gaw nor Slln nop gkieSi
saw her he pnt a r,y8tol dome of a thousand dyes
i hlnshlni icora B«howB itself
urorn of guilt « bloom > ray ; spark • ffoldm
t m ust • «f 1 «"M °^pr con vo> pfl
480 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
She looked, and she saw nae laud aright, 215 Till the bonniest flower o' the world lay
But an endless whirl of glory and light, dead;
175 And radiant beings went and came, A coffin was set on a distant plain,
Far swifter than wind, or the hnk&d flame. And she saw the red blood fall like rain ;
She hid her een frae the dazzling view; Then bonnie Kilmeny 's heart grew sair,
She looked again, and the scene was new. And she turned away, and could look nae
mair.
She saw a aim m'a summer sky,
180 And clouds of amber sailing by; -20 Then the gruff, grim carle1 girned*
A lovely land beneath her lay, amain,
And that land had lakes and mountains And they trampled him down, but he rose
gray; again;
And that land had valleys and hoary piles, And he baited3 the lion to deeds of weir,4
And marled1 seas and a thousand isles Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom
l** Its fields were speckled, its forests green, dear;
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, And weening5 his head was danger preef ,8
Like magic mirrors, where shining lay 22B When crowned with the rose and clover
The sun, and the sky, and the cloudlet leaf,
gray; He gowled7 at the carle, and chased him
Which heaved and trembled and gently away,
swung, To feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray.
i«o On every shore they seemed to be hung . He gowled at the carle, and he gecked8 at
For there they weie seen on their down- heaven,
ward plain But his mark was set and his arles given n
A thousand times and a thousand a«am, 23° Kilmenv a while her een withdrew,
Tn winding lake and placid firth, She looked again, and the scene was new
Little peaceful heavenR m the bosom of
earth , She saw before her fair unfurled
One-half of all the glowing world,
196 Kilmeny sighed and seemed to grieve, _ Where oceans rolled, and rivers ran,
For she found her heart to that land did 2V| To bound the aims of sinful man
cleave; She saw a people, fierce and fell,
She saw the corn2 wave on the vale , Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ;
She saw the deer run down the dale; There lilies grew, and the eagle flew;
She saw the plaid and the broad clay- And she herk&d10 on hei lavening ciew,
more,8 24° Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a
200 And the brows that the badge of freedom blaze,
bore,— And the thunder it i oared o'er the lands
And she thought she had seen the land and the seas.
before The widows wailed, and the red blood ran,
And she threatened an end to the race of
She saw a lady sit on a throne, man ;
The fairest that ever the sun shone on- She never lened,11 nor stood in awe,
A lion licked her hand of milk, 346 Till caught by the lion 's deadly paw
*°6 And she held him in a leish of silk , Oh ! then the eagle swmked" for life,
And a lerfu'4 maiden stood at her knee, And bramzelled" up a mortal strife ,
With a silver wand and melting ee; But flew she north, or flew she south.
Her sovereign shield till love stole in, She met wi' the gowl" o' the lion's
And poisoned all the fount within. mouth.
310 Then a gruff, untoward bedesman came, *50 With a mooted10 wing and waefu'
And hundit0 the lion on his dame , maen,16
And the guardian maid wi9 the dauntless i fellow money given,—* <?,
M* 'grinned he bad got hla
«. , ' i ji • 4ji i • «et on wagei. hl§ dewrt
She dropped a tear, and left her knee ; « dread » urged on
And •VIA raw till the nuepn frae the lion * thinking " rented . coanod
And sue saw tin me queen irae me non «pro0f • » stniffgied . tolled
fled, T bowled u ftttrred
11 •corned : mocked " howl
i variegated • loyal "his limit or COUFRP "moulted
•wheat • hounded , Incited was determined. » woful mien
•A large two-edged fword and bin earnest
JAMES HOGG 481
The eagle sought her eiry again ; But wherever her peaceful form appeared,
But lang may she cower io her bloody 295 The wild beasts of the hill were cheered ,
nest, The wolf played blythely round the field,
And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast. The lordly byson lowed, and kneeled ;
Before she sey1 another flight, The dun deer wooed with manner bland,
266 To play wi' the norland lion's might. And cowered beneath her lily hand.
too And when at eve the woodlands rung,
But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, When hymns of other worlds she sung
So far surpassing nature's law, In ecstasy of sweet devotion,
The singer's voice wad sink away, 0, then the glen was all in motion I
And the string of his harp wad cease to The wild beasts of the forest came,
play. 806 Broke from their boughts and faulds1 the
240 But she saw till the sorrows of man were tame,
by, And goved2 around, charmed and amazed ,
And all was love and harmony,— Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, And murmured, and looked with anxious
Like flakes of snaw on a winter day. pain
For something the mystery to explain
Then Kilmeny begged again to see 31° The buzzard came with the throstle-cock *
265 The friends she had left in her am coun- The corby left her houf* in the rock;
trie, The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew;
To tell of the place where she had been, The hind came tripping o'er the dew,
And the glories that lay in the land un- The wolf and the kid their raike5 began,
seen, *15 And the kid and the lamb and the le\-
To warn the living maidens fair, erettt ran ;
The loved of heaven, the spirits' care, The hawk and the hern attour them hung,7
270 That all whose minds unmeled3 remain And the merle and the mavis8 forhooyed0
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. their young;
And all in a peaceful nng were hurled—
With distant music, soft and deep, It was like an eve in a sinless world t
They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep,
And when she awakened, she lay her 32° When a month and a day had come and
lane,1 gane,
275 All happed with flowers, in the gieenwood Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene;
wene. There laid her down on the leaves sae
When se\en long years had come and fled, green,
When gnef was calm, and hope was dead, And Kilmeny on earth was never znair
Whence scarce was remembered Kil- seen
meny 's name, But 0 ' the words that fell frae her mouth
Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came MB Were words of wonder, and words of
Lame. truth1
280 And 0, her beauty was fair to see, But all the land were in fear and dread,
But still and steadfast was her ee! For they kendna10 whether she was living
Such beauty bard may never declare, or dead.
For there was no pride nor passion there; It wasna her hame, and she eouldna re-
And the soft desire of maiden 'R een main ;
286 In that mild face could never be seen. She left this world of sorrow and pain,
Her seyniar4 was the lily flower, M0 And >eturned to the land of thought again
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower , *„*„„„ ^ ,
And her voice like the distant melodye, THE WITCH O' PIPE
That floats along the twilight sea. 181°
2*> But she loved to raike5 the lanely glen, Hurray, hurray, the jade's away,
And keep afar frae the haunts of men, Like a rocket of air with her bandalet I1 ]
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring; iy™$* iS£ *
• male mistletbruBh • blackbird and thrunb
i MMV • try * robe * raven left ber haunt • abandoned
t nnmiTPd nun* •roam * running "knrwnot
• Slone ' f y™ »* **** " «m*» *«« op
482
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
I'm up in the air on my bonme gray
mare,
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
6 I '11 ring the skirts o' the gowden wain1
Wi' curb an9 bit, wi' curb an9 bit:
An' catch the Bear by the frozen mane—
An ' I see her yet, I see her yet
Away, away, o'er mountain an7 main,
10 To sing at the moining's rohy yett ,-'
An9 water my mare at its fountain clear-
But I see her yet, I see her yet.
Away, them bonnie witch o9 Fife,
On foam of the air to heave an' flit,
U An9 bttle reck them of a poet's life,
For he sees thee yet, he sec* thee yet !
A BOY'S SONG
1840
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the nver and o'er the lea,
That 's the way for Billy and me.
•r» Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest.
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That 's the nay for Billy and nit
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
10 Where the hay lies thick and gieenest,
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Wheie the shadow falls the deepest,
15 Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little maidens from their play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
20 That's the thing I never could tell
But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay :
Up the water and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me ,
M'KIMMAN
1840
Ts your war-pipe asleep, and forever,
M'Kimman 7
Is your war-pipe asleep, and forever!
Shall the pibroch8 that welcomed the foe
to Ben-Aer
'Widen wagon (a con- «A kind of Highland
fltellatlonT bagpipe music,
Be hushed when we seek the red wolf in
, his lair,
6 To gi\e back our wrongs to the givei ?
To the raid and the onslaught our chief-
tains have gone—
Like the course of the flre-flaught1 then
clansmen pass'd on;
With the lance and the shield 'gainst the
foe they have bound them,
And have taken the field with their vassals
around them.
10 Then laise the mid slogan-cry, On
to the foray '
Sons of the heather-hill, pine-
wood, and glen ,
Shout for M'Pheison, M'JLeod, and
the Moray,
Till the Lomondb ic-echo the chal-
lenge again.
Youth of the daring heart, bright be th>
doom
15 As the bodmgs which light up thy bold
spirit now,
But the fate of M'Kimmnn IB closing in
gloom,
And the bieath of the gray wituth8 hnth
pass'd o'er his bm\v
Victorious in joy thou'lt letmn to Ben-
Aer,
And be clasp M to the henits of thy best
beloved there;
20 But M'Kimman, M'Kiinman, M'Kiniman
shall never—
0 never— never— never— never!
Wilt thon shrink from the doom thou can
shun not, M'Kimmnn f
Wilt thou shiink from the doom thou
can shun not?
If thy course mu&t bo bnef, let the proud
Saxon know
25 That the soul of M'Kimman ne'er quail M
when a foe
Bared his blade in a land he had won
not.
Where the light-footed roc leaves the nilil
breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweet <
to the wind—
There our broad pennon flies, and oui
keen steeds are prancing
™ 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the
bright weapons glancing!
Then raise the wild slocfm-ery, On
to the foray'
1 lightning
•Hpecter (mippowd to foroKhnrtow ri«»Atln
JAM US HOGG 483
Sonb of the heather-hill, pine- Little know you of our moss-troopers'1
wood, and glen ; might —
Shout for M'Pherson, H'Leod, and Lanhope and Soibie true,
the Moray, Sundbope and Milburn too,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the 30 Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!
challenge again1
"I have Mangerlou, Ogilvie, Raeburn,
LOCK THE DOOR, LAWSTON and Netherbie,
1840 Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;
"Lock the dooi, Lanston, lion of Liddev Come all Northumberland,
dale; Teesdale and Cumberland,
Lock the dooi, Lanston, Lowther comes 3ri Here at the Breaken tower end shall the
on; fray!"
The Armstrongs are flying,
The wukros are crying, Scowled the broad sun o'er the links3 ol
r* Tlie Oastletown'fe burning, and Oliver's green Liddesdale,
gone! Red as the beacon-light tipped he the
wold ,8
"Lock the door, Lanston— high on the Many a bold martial eye
weather-gleam Mnror'd that moining sky,
See how the Saxon plumes bob on the *o Never more oped on his orbit of gold.
*ky-
Yecmien1 and caibmeer,2 Shnll was the bugle's note, dreadful the
Billman* and halbeidier,4 \v amor's shout,
in Fierce is the foray, and far is the cryf Lances and halberds in splinters weic
borne,
"Newcastle blandishes high his broad Helmet and haubeik* then
scimitar , Braved the claymoi e5 in vain,
Ridley is iidmg his fleet-footed gray, 4', Buckler and armlet in rim en were shoin
Hidle> and Howard there,
Wandale and Wmdermere, See how they wane-the proud flies of the
lo Lock the door, Lanston , hold them at ba> Windeimere!
. f Hero aid ' ah, uoe to thy hopes of thi
"Why ilos! tliou smile, noble Elliot of (|avt
_ I*"1;*0" ,_. . M Hear the wide welkin rend,
\\hy does the jn\ -candle gleam in tlnne While the Scots' shouts ascend -
<§>m! L tj „ J 30 "BHwt of Lanston, Elliot for aye!"
Thou bold Border langei.
Beware of thy danger, THE MAID OP THE SEA
20 Thy foes are lelentless, determined, and 1840
ni*h" Come from the sea,
Jack Elhot raised up his steel bonnet and MauteTof "i^Ztey, love, and pain !
TT u 1 i fin i 4U Wake from thy sleep,
His hand grasp 'd the swoid with a nen- 5 ^ow m lhe ^p
ous embrace; Over th ^aves 'sport again!
'Ah, welcome, b^a^e loemen. Come t^ thig ^uegtcred spot, love,
n earth there aie 1,0 men ^ ft , where thou rt as whe£ ^ ^
25 More trallant to meet in the foia> 01 not |ove. '
rhaqef Then come unto me,
b - R--- *** -tonny nuun;
hidden here; Wake fn)m fty ^^ *»
» cavalrymen of the yeomanry class Calm in the deep,
1 cavalry soldier armed with a carbine, a short Over thy green waves sport again !
, ••a&vrt'
« roldlor armed with a halberd, a long-handled twecn England a
weapo. w,th « ,h.rp M-t ni ^e«, .l»rp
484
NINETEENTH OBNTURY ROMANTICISTS
IB ig not the wave
Made for the slave.
Tyrant's chains, and stern control,
Land for the free
Spmt like theet
20 Thing of delight to a minstrel 's soul,
Come, with thy son? of love and of sad-
ness,
Beauty of face and rapture of madness,
0, come unto me,
Maid of the Sea,
26 Rise from the wild and surging main ;
Wake from thy sleep,
Calm in the deep,
Over thy green waves sport again !
GEORGE NOEL GORDON.
LORD BYRON (1788-1824)
LACHIN T OAIR
1807
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of
roses!
In you let the minions of luxury love ,
Restore me the rocks, wheie the snow-
flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to fieedom
and love:
6 Yet, Caledonia, beloved aie thy mountains,
Round their white summits though ele-
ments war;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-
flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dnik Loch nn
Garr.
Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy
wander 'd,
10 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was
the plaid ,
On chieftains long perish 'd my memoiy
ponder 'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-
cover 'd glade;
I sought not my home till the day's dying
glory
Gave place to the rays of the bnqlit
polar star:
16 For fancy was cheer'd by traditional
story,
Disclosed by the natives of daik Loch
na Garr.
"Shades of the dead I have I not heard
your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the
gale!"
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
20 And rides on the wind, o'er bis own
Highland vale.
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy
mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds there encircle the forms of my
fathers,
They dwell in the tempests of dark
Loch na Garr
25 "Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions
foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your
cause twi
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown 'd not your fall with
applause •
Still were you happy in death's earthly
slumber,
30 You rest with your clan in the caves of
Braeraar,
The pibroch2 resounds, to the piper's loud
number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch
na Garr
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Gnn, since
I left you,
Years must elapse eie I tread you again •
•1R Nature of verdure and flowers has be-
reft you,
Yet still are you dearei than Albion's
plain
England! thy beauties aie tame and do-
mestic
To one who has loved o'er the moun-
tains afar:
Oh for the ciags that are wild and majes-
tic!
40 The steep frowning glories of dark
Loch na Garr.
FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST
PRAYER
1808 1814
Fa re well f if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal a vail 'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in an,
But waft thy name beyond the sky
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh •
Oh! more than teais of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word— Farewell!— Fare-
well!
l"I allude here to mr maternal ancestor*, the
Gordons, many of whom fought for the un-
fortunate Prince Charles, better known bj
the name of Pretender ' — Byron
• \ kind of Ilifrhlnnd Iwjrplpe music
LOBD BYBON
485
These lips are mule, these eyes are dry ;
10 But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel ;
16 I only know we loved in vain—
I only feel— Farewell'— Farewell'
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OP THY SOUL'
1808 1815
Bright be the place of thy soul !
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er bunjj; from its mortal control,
Tn the orbs of the blessed to shine
5 On earth thou wert all but divine.
As thy soul bhall immortally be .
And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with
thee
Light be the turf of thy tomb f
10 May its verdure like emeralds bef
Theie should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy ie*t
15 But nor cvpiess nor yeu1 let us see.
For why should we mourn for the blest 1
WHEN WE TWO PARTED
1808 1816
When we two parted
In silence and tears.
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
* Pale grew thy cheek and cold.
Colder thy kiss,
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
10 Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame
16 I hear thy name spoken.
And share in its shame
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear,
A shudder comes o'er me—
10 Why wert thou so deart
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well.—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
25 In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet theet—
With silence and tears
30
From ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH
REVIEWERS
1807-09 1809
Still mnPt T heart-shall hoarse Fitz-
gerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my
musef
5 Prepare for rhyme— I'll publish, right 01
wrong-
Fools are my theme, let satire be my
*Tbe cypreM and the Tew am common
graveyard*
trttaln
Ohf nature's noblest gift — my gray
goose-quill !
Shne of my thoughts, obedient to my
will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
10 That mighty instrument of little men !
The pen! foredoom M to aid the mental
throes
Of brains that labor, big with verse or
prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may
dende,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
15 What wits, what poets dost thou daily
raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy
praise!
Condemn 'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to
write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen t
20 Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be
free:
Though spurn 'd by others, yet beloved by
me:
Then let us soar today; no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper 'd dream
25 Inspires— our path, though full of thorns,
is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the
strain.
486 NINETEENTH GENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
When Vice triumphant holds her sov'- « Take hackney 'd jokes from Millei, got
reign sway, by rote,
Obfy'd by all who nought beside obey, With just enough of learning to misquote,
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, A mind well skill 'd to find or forge a
80 Bedecks her cap with bells of every fault,
clime, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;1
When knaves and fools combined o'er all To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,
prevail, 70 His pay is just ten sterling pounds per
And weigh their justice in a golden scale , sheet :
E'en then the boldest start from public Fear not to he, 'twill seem a sharper hit,
sneers, Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears. for wit,
** More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, Care not for feeling— pass your propei
And shrink from ridicule, though not from jest,
law And stand a cntic, hated yet* caress 'd.
Such is the force of witf but not be- 7B And shall we own such judgment 1 no
long —as soon
To me the arrows of satiric song, Seek roses in December— ice in June,
The royal vices of our age demand Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
*° A keener weapon, and a mightier hand Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Still there are follies, e'en for me to Or any other thing thai 's false, before
chase, 80 You trust in critics, who themselves are
And yield at least amusement in the lace sore,
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other Or yield one single thought to be misled
fame; By Jeffiey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game head *
45 Speed, Pegasus'— ye strains ot great To these young tyrants, b> themselves
and small, misplaced,
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all1 _ Combined usurpers on the thicme of taste,
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 83 To these, \\hen authors bend in humble
I pour'd along the town a flood of ihyme, awe,
A sdiool boy freak, unworthy praise or And hail their voice as truth, their word
blame; as law—
60 I printed— older children do the same. While these are censors, 'twould be sin
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in to spare,
print; While such are critics, why should I for-
A book's a book, although there's nothing heart
in 't But yet, so near all modern worthies
Not that a title's sounding charm can saM> iun,
Or scrawl or scribbler fiom *n equal 9(l 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to
grave . shun ,
6* This Lambe must own, since his patncian Nor know we when to spare, or where to
name strike,
Fail'd to preserve the bpunous faice fiom Our bards and censois are so much alike
shame.
No matter, George continues still to write, Then should you ask me, why I \enture
Though now the name » veil'd from pub- o'er
he sight The path which Pope and Gifford trod
Moved by the great example, I pin sue before .
•O The self-same road, but make mv own 96 If not yet sicken 'd, you can Mill proceed
review* On on; my ihyme will tell jou as you
Not seek great Jeffiey 's, yet, like him, will read
be ' ' But hold ! ' ' exclaims a friend, < ' here 's
Self -constituted judge of poesy. some neglect :
This— that— and t'other line seem incor-
A man must sene his time to every rect "
trade j irojgt IB wit
Save censure— rritiov nil are rendv miulo s rho ncpotlnim won* proverbial for dull new
LORD BYRON
487
What thenf the self-same blunder Pope
has got,
100 And careless Dryden— "Ay, but Pye has
not:'1-
Indeed!— 'tis granted, faith!— but what
care It
Better to err with Pope, than shine with
Pye.
Time was, ere yet in these degenerate
Ignoble themes obtain 'd mistaken praise,
105 TO^ gense ^d wit with poesy allied,
No fabled graces, flourish 'd side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration
drew,
And, rear'd by taste, bloom 'd fairer as
they grew
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure
strain
no Sought the rapt soul to charm, noi soupht
in vain ,
A polish 'd nation's piaise aspiied to
claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's
fame.
L»ke him erent Dryden pour'd the tide of
SonS.
In stieam loss smooth, indeed, yet doubly
stiong.
115 Then Congi eve's scenes could checi, or
Otway 's welt—
For nature then an English audience felt
But why these names, or greater still, re-
iiace,
AVhen all to feeblei baids icsign then
place)
Yet to such times oui lingeiing looks aie
cast,
120 When taste and leason with those tunes
are past.
Xow look around, and tuni each trilling
page,
Smvey the piecious woiks that please the
age ,
This truth at least let satire's self allow,
No dearth of baids can be complain 'd of
now
125 The loaded piess beneath her labor groans,
And printers' devils shake then weaiy
18° Is new,"1 yet still from change to change
we run :
What varied wonders tempt us as they
pass!
The cow-pox,2 tractors,* galvanism,4 and
gas,&
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts— and all is
19_ _T . au"* _ . . _ ^
13B Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dul1 pretenders grapple for the
^f Pnze , t , a ^ ,
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards pre-
„ . va"5 ..... . ,
Each country book-club bows the knee to
A a , - ,
And, hurling lawful genius from the
1A_ „ throne,
uo Erects a shrine and idol of its own,
Some lcaden calf-but whom it matters
not,
From soanng Routhey down to grovelling
Slott
Behold ' in various throngs the scnb-
Wing crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review :
14B Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal
race;
Sonnets on sonnets ciowd, and ode on ode,
And tales of terror6 jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along,7
15° For simpering folly loves a vaned song,
To strange mystenous dulness still the
fnend,
Admires the strain she cannot compre-
hend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels— may they be the
last!8-
On half-strung harps whine mournful to
the blast
155 While mountain spmts prate to river
sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at
nights;
111 i DA i 11 i
While Southey's epics Ciaill the Cl caking
. , Ti -i 1-1 fi
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press M
twelves *
nm -fi! ??• n i ii VT j.* u
Thus saith the Preacher: "Nought be-
neath the sun
» A reference to the slie of the volume— t doo-
dedtno— and to the process of Imparting
smoothnoM to the printed iriieet* hr paR^Inc
them iM'tttcon hot rollers
oi whlchf when communicated
to the human sjntan by vaccination, pro
tects from the umall-pox
"Metal roan u«ed In treating rheumatism, etc
-The use of electric current* for curative pur
'Laughing gas. All of thew "wonder*" were
quack panaceas of the early 19th century
* A reference to Lewis'* Tale* of Term (1799)
and Talet of WwMlcr (1800)
"A throat at the new anapenttc metert, intro-
dUSIK!the Cowpcrf Ool*rt"ge' Bonthey, Moore,
• A* reference to Scott'" ^** ^«V »/ *** **«•'
Minttrel (1806). which grew opt of a sug
gention for a hallad on the Border legend of
Ollpln Homer
488
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
195
And goblin brats, of Oilpin Homer's
brood,
Decoy young border-nobles through the
wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how
high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord
knows why ;
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding knights to read who cannot
spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard's gia\e,
And fight with honest men to shield a
knave. 20°
prond pranch"r on
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic
name
The woik cf each immortal bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years.
Empires have moulder 'd from the face of
earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave
them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live
Not so with us, though minor bards, con-
tent,
On one great work a life of labor spent:
The golden-crted haughty Mann.o,,.
Now Wing scrolls, now foremost in the
Not qnSf • felon, yet but half a knight, 80B
2SS: h
*™ual strams' llke armie8'
Firet In t»'anks «• J°««> of Arc ad-
E"*land and the boast of
Thoughl by wicked Bedford for .
Beholdpltue placed in glory's niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from
To yield thy muse just h.lf-a-crown per 210
of -* deaoend to
from „„
The,r bfaysjare «ar, their former laurels
Wh.'^kSS b^forlu^^nTfor
fame •
Still far*™ Mammon may they toil in
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain'
Such be their meed, such still the just
Of pnSituted muse and hireling bard!
Domda^,;,g dwad dertroyer> who 0»er.
*or,
knew.
than the world e'er
We" «* ^umphant genii bear tl.ee
188 These are the themes that claim our
plaudits now,
These are the bank to whom the muse
must bow ;
While Miltonf Dryden, Pope, alike forgot,
Resign tbe^r hallow 'd bays to Walter
Scott
The time has been, when yet the muse
was young,
"° When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro
sung.
»Wi«ith§ of honor made from leaves of the
1 *v-troe. 11 KT'l of i '
•ffcott who recelTed £1,000 for igarmto*
* Jf armion, G. 860
sails,
Cacique* m Mexico, and prince in Wata;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers
do,
More old than Mandeville's, and not so
true.
Oh! Sou they! South ey! cease thy varied
A bard may chant too often and too loner-
^ thou art. Btron» in verse' in
BPare!
'Imffe**9.! JMNI - •L^rM-4 Jffllfoc
Appeared In 1796,
tively
• chief ; petty king
LOBD BYBON
A fourth, alas I were more than we could
bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say.
280 Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weaiy
way,1
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,2
The babe unborn thy diead intent may
lue
"God help thee,"8 Southey, and thy
readers too.
886 Next comes the dull disciple of thy
school,
That mild apostate from poetic iiile,
The simple Wordsworth, franier of a lay
As soft as evening in his favonte May,
Who wains his friend "to shake off toil
and trouble,
a«° And quit his books for fear of growing
double,"*
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is \eme, and veise is merely
prose,
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose iiibane,
245 And Christmas stones toituied into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,»
The idiot mother of "an idiot boy,1'
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
-B0 And, like his bard, confounded night with
day,
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tellfe,
That all who view the "idiot in his glory"
Conceive the bard the hero of the stoiy
258 Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed
hcie,
To turgid ode and tumid stanza deai f
Though themes of innocence amuse him
best,
Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
260 rf |, illul who takes a pixy for a muse,8
Yet none m lofty numbers can surpass
The bai d who soars to eleguse an ass 7
So well the subject suits his noble mind,
He brays the laureat of the long-eat 'd
kind.
i Bee Orav'n ElrffV TTHtten in a Country Church-
tin°tout\c7'«Bba\lad The Old Woman •/*«**-
Iry, the olil woman in carried away by the
« Quoted from the lat t line of a poem written by
Clifford aa a parody on Bouthey** dactylics
and publlBhedTn Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin,
82 (1 854 cd ). Bouthey had need the pbraw
Wife,
in bin The floMtef •
TIw Tablet Turned, 1-4 (p
2).
Bonge of the Pimiee
tArefprneeto Colerldfre** To a Vounq AM (p.
32*)
265 Oh I wonder-working Lewis I monk, or
bard,
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a
churchyard !
Lol wreaths oi yew,1 not laurel, bind thy
brow,
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thout
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy
stand,
270 By gibb'ring ppectres hail'd, thy kindred
band,
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age,2
All hail, M. P.!8 from whose infernal
brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly
tiain,
275 At whose command ''grim women" throng
in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With "small gray men," "wild ya-
gers,"4 and what not,
To crown with honor thee and Walter
Scott ,*
Again all hail! if tales like thine may
please,
280 St Luke alone can vanquish the disease ,•
Even Satan's self with thee might dread
to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper helL
Who in soft guise, surrounded by a
choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,
285 vfrth sparkling eyes, and cheek by pas-
sion flush 'd,
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening
dames are hush'df
'Tis Little! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay v
Gne\ed to condemn, the muse must still
be just,
290 Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar
burns;
From grossei incense with disgust she
turns*
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er,
She bids thee "mend thy line and sin no
more."
1The vew IR an emblem of mourning. It la a
common tree in graveyards
"LewtK'n The A/ OH* was condemned for Ita In-
decencr
• Lewi* wad a Member of Parliament from 1796
to 1802
4 huntsmen
•Scott contributed The Fire King, Glenfinl**,
The Wild Huntsman, and other poems to
Lewia'R Talc* of Hoiufrr Sonthey contrib-
uted The Old Woman of Berkeley and other
H Bunbury contributed The Ltttlf
m
was traditionally regarded an a phy-
SB*
•st ___
iilrlan.
400 N1NKTKKNTH CENTTJJiY KOMANT1018TS
195 for thee, translator of the tinsel bong, And1 shows, still whimpering thiough
To whom such glittering ornaments be- three-score of years,
long, 33° The maudlin prince of mournful t»nn*
Hibernian Strangf ord ! with thine eyes of neteers.
blue, And art thou not their pi nice, harmonious
And boasted lockb of red or auburn hue, Bowles !
Whose plaintive stiaui each love-sick mit* Thou first, great oracle ol tendei souls?
admires, Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and
300 And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, grief,
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine an- The fall of empties, or a yellow leaf ,
thor's sense, 3^5 Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence What merry sounds pioceed fiom Oxford
Think'st thou to gam thy verse a higher bells,
place, Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
By dressing Caraoens in u suit of lace? In every chime that jingled fiom Ostend,1
305 Mend, Strangf ord! mend thy morals and Ah1 how much justei weie thy muse's
thy taste, hap,
Be warm, but pure; be amoious, but be 34° If to thy bells tliou wouhlst but add a
chaste, cap12
Cease to deceive; thy pilfeiM harp re- Delightful Bowies' still blessing and still
store, blest,
Nor teach the Luuan baid1 to copy Mooie All love thy strain, but children like 11
best
Behold— ye tail*'3— one moment spare 'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moial son»,
the text— To soothe the mania of the amoioiis
310 Hayley's last woik, and worst— until Ins throng'
next, S46 With thee our nursery damsels shwl then
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays tears,
Or damn the dead with purgatorial pi aise. Ere miss as yet complete* Iu»i mfuiH
His style in youth or age is st ill the «ame, years •
Forever feeble and forever tame But in her teens thy whining powcis aic
315 Triumphant first see Temper's Triumphs vain,
shine! She quits poor Bowles for Little's puiei
At least I'm sure they triumph 'd over strain
nnne Now to soft themes thou scoinest to con-
Of Music's Triumphs, all who read may fine
swear S5° The lofty numbeis of a harp like thine,
That luckless music never triumph 'd there. "Awake a loudei and a loftier strain/91
Such as none heard beioie, or will again !
Moravians, rise! bestow some meet re- Where all Discoveries jumbled from the
ward flood,
820 On dull devotion— Lo! the Sabbath bard. Since first the leaky ark icposed in mud,
Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sub- 855 By more or less, are sung in every book,
lime From Captain Noah down to Captain
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to Cook
rhyme; Nor this alone, but, pawing on the road,
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, The bard sighs forth a gentle episode;4
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; And gravely tells— attend, each beauteous
MB And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, miss1—
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the 86° When first Madeira tiembled to a kiss
Psalms. Bowles! m thy memory let tins precept
Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings '
A thousand visions of a thousand things, ' Among the poemi of Bowie* arc The Fall nf
JSmpirci, To a Withrred Leaf. At 0<r/oi<f,
> Camoeni, whom Luaiad IB the national epic of , an<f 77»c bell* Of/rntf (p 104$
Portugal. »A cap and bells commuted the head-dram
•The paitry cook* vied the page* of uniiold . J*°"> by™u**f<x>1* ttnd. profemlonal Jentern
book! to fine Una for eooUnp. See Rostand's 'Bowloi, The Spirit of Discovery bv 8ca. 1
- - -sp- • *A reference to the story of two lover* In The
Jttfirit of Dinoomny by Beo, whoM klm made
the wood* of Madeira tromblr
LORD 1KYRON 491
Stick to thy bonnets, man !— at least they Though Bristol bloat him with the ver-
&eil dant fat;
But if some new-born whim, or larger 395 jf Commerce fills the puree, she clogs the
bribe, brain,
Prompt thy ciudc biain, and claim thce And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain.
for a scnbe, In him an author 'h luckless lot behold,
866 If chance some baid, though once by Condemn 'd to make the books which once
dunces f eai 'd, he sold.
Now, pi one m dust, can only be icveied, Oh, Amos Cottle!-- Phoebus 1 what a name
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the 40rt To fill the speaking trump of future
fhst, fame1—
Have foil'd the best oi ciitics, needs the Oh, Amos Cottle! for a moment think
worst, What meagre profits spring from pen
Do thou essay, each fault, each failing and ink!
scan , When thus devoted to poetic di earns,
370 The first of poets was, alas1 but man Who will peruse thy prostituted reams f
Rake fiom each ancient dunghill e\en *05 Oh' pen perverted! papei misapplied!—
peail, Had Cottle still adorn 'd the counter's
Consult Loid Fanny, and confide in Cuill .- side,
Let all the scandals of a foimer a»e Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy toils,
page , Been taught to make the paper which he
876 Affect a candoi which thou canst not feel, soils,
Clothe envy in the gaib of honest zeal. Plough 'd, delved, or plied the oar with
Wnte, as if St John's soul could still lusty limb,
intpne, 41° He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.
And do from hate what Mallet did for . -: . •*_*,•» i ^
]niei As Sisyphus against the infernal steep
Oh! hn<lsl (lion Inecl in that congenial Rolls the hnf rock whose motlons nc'cr
time, mav sleeP>
w° To ia\u with Dennis, and with Halph to So UP ih? ^11, ambrosial Richmond,
ill vine neaves
Tinting 'd with the rest aiound his Irons Dul1 ^aurice M hls &™iie we!8ht of
leaves-
M5 Smoo*n» M^ monuments of mental pamf
head
M5 f
And link'd thee to The Duncmd for thy m^ baek a£am
Palns With broken lyre and cheek serenely
pale,
885 Another epic • Wlio inflicts asrain kof sad Alcaaus wanders down the vale,
More books of blank upon the sons of 42° Though fair they rose, and might have
men? bloom 'd at last,
Bo?otian Cottle, rich Bn&tcwa'v boast, JI^ hopes Imve perish 'd bv the northern
Imports old stones from the rainliiuin blast
coast. Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales,
And sends his goods to roaikot— all ali\o» His blossoms wither as the blast prevails*
300 Lm<* toih thousand, cantos twentv-fi\e? O'er his lost works let tlawc Sheffield
Fiosh fish from Hippocrenef who'll buy, ^ weep; ...
who'll buyt May no nide hand disturb their early
The piecious bargain's cheap— in faith, sleep f
"°li1 * j i - i u« Yet sav! why should the bard at once
Your tin tie-feeder's ver*e must needs be n*\on
« ^ **^
nnT< His claim to favor from the sacred nine!1
Forever startled by the mingled howl
Of noithern wolves that rt.ll in darkness
plowl}
Mm^lf had ordered dwtrovod
492 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
**° A coward brood, which mangle as they 465 That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray,
prey, When Little's leadless pistol met his eye,1
By hellish instinct, all that cross their And Bow-Street myrmidons3 stood laugh-
\vay, ing by f
Aged or young, the living or the dead, Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,
No mercy find— these harpies must be fed. Dunedm's castle felt a secret shock;
Why do the nijuied unie&isting yield I7° Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of
*« The calm possession of their native field 1 Forth,
Why tamely thus before their fangs re- Low groan fd the startled whirlwinds of
treat, the north;
Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Ar- Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a
thiir'a Seat? tear,
The other half pursued its calm career;
Health to immortal Jeffrey' once, in Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base,
name, 475 The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.
England could boast a judge almost the The Tolbooth felt— for marble sometimes
same,1 can,
440 In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, On such occasions, feel as much as man-
Some think that Satan has resign 'd his • The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his
tinst, charms,
And gnen the spirit to the world again, If Jeffrey died, except within her arms:
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 48° Nay last, not least, on that portentous
With hand less mighty, but with heait morn,
as black, The sixteenth story, where himself was
446 With voice as willing to decree the rack; born,
Bred m the courts betimes, though all that His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,
law And pale Edina shudder M at the sound
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw, Strew M were the streets around with nulk-
Since well instructed in the patriot school white reams,
To rail at party, though a party tool, 4g5 Flow'd all the Canongate with inky
460 \\rfco knows, if chance his patrons should streams;
restore This of his candor seem'd the sable dew,
Backto the sway they f 01 feited before, That of his valor show'd the bloodless
His scubbhrur toils some lecompen&e may hue,
meet. And all with justice deem'd the two com-
Aud raise this Daniel to the judgment- bined
seat '-' The mingled emblems of his mighty mind.
Let Jeff revs' shade indulge the pious hope, 49° But Caledonia's goddess hover 'd o'er
465 And greeting thus, present him with a The field, and sa\ed linn from the wrath
iope* of Moore,
"Heir to my virtues' man of equal mind ' From either pistol snatch 'd the ^enpeful
Skill 'd to condemn as to traduce man- lead,
kind, And straight restored it to her favoute'b
This cord receive, for thee reserved with head;
caie, That head, with greater than magnetic
To wield in judgment, and at length to power,
wear " 495 Caught it, as Danae caught the golden
shower,
460 Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven pre- And, though the thickening dross will
serve his life, scarce refine,
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife. Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.
And guard it sacred in its future wars, "My son,11 she cried, "ne'er thirst for
Sinee authors sometimes seek the field of gore again,
Mars! Resign the pistol and resume the pen;
Can none remember that eventful day
1 Jeffrey and Moore met In 1806 to engage In a
•The Infemous lodge, George Jeffreys, of the duel, but were prevented by the magi titrate*.
-Bloody Arise*." In 1686. It wai Jeffrey'* pUtol that was found to be
> Bee The Merchant of Vmice, IV, 1, 223, and empty.
The Hittoryof fifeaomio, 46 ff., in the Apoc- ^officers from the Bow street police court
LOBD BYEON 493
600 O'er politics and poesy preside, Whose hue and fragrance to thy work
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's adhere—-
guide 1 535 This scents its pages, and that gilds its
For long as Albion 's heedless sons bubiint, rear.
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd
So long hliall last thine unmolested icign. grown,
606 Nor any daie to take thy name in vain Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, alone;
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. And, too unjust to other Pictibh men,
First m the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen !
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.
510 Herbert bhall wield Thor's hammer, and — Al A „ A. ., Al
sometimes, To ** famed thr°I1S now Paid *•
In giatitude, thuu'lt praise his rugged 800 XT . tribute due,
rhymes Neglected genius! let me tuin to you
Smug Sidney too thy bitter page shall Come forth, oh Campbell ! give thy talents
geek scope ,
Aiid clastic Hallam, much renown M for. Who dares asl)irc lf tbou mutlt cease to
Greek; hope?1
Scott may perchance his name and in- £nd*h°u' n}61^10"8 Rogers! rise at last,
fluence lend, HwM tne pl«"n* niemoiy ot the past,J
"•is And paltry Pillar* shall traduce his 805 A i ise ! let blest remembrance still inspire,
iriend And stnke to wonted tones thy hallow 9d
While gay ' Thalia 'b luckless votary, _ tyre; „
Lambe, Restore Apollo to his \acant throne,
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will Areert thy country's honor and thine own.
damn. v\ hat! must deserted Poesy still \ieep
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy 8l° Where her last hopes with pious Cowper
b\\ay! sleep t
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil Unless, pei chance, iium hib cold bier she
iepay, turns,
*20 While giateful Britain yields the praise To deck the turf that wiaps her minstiel,
she o^es Burn*!
To Holland'b hiielmgs and to learning's No! thou8h contempt hath maik'd the
foeg spunous biood,
Yet maik one caution ere thy next Review Tlie ^^J110 rhymc ilom fllll>' or for
Spiead its light wings ot saffron and oi c,_ ^ food,
blue,1 ^e^ £>tiH some genuine sons 'tis heis to
Hewaie-Jest blundei mg Brougham destio> Wi boast,
the sale, ^ no> 'ea8^ affecting, Mill affect the most:
">-'"' Tin n bec«t to'bannoek&,- eauhflo^eis tu Fccl •• th^T wnte, and wnte but as they
kail "3 feel—
Thus having said, the kilted goddess Dear witness Giffoid, Sotheby, Macneil.
kl6b'di in « *. i * "™y "'umbers Gifford?" once was
Her son, and vanish 7d in a Scottish mist. ask'd in *»m
._, T .. . _^ . . Al 82° Why shnnbeis Giffoul ' let u*» ask acani 3
Then prosper, Jeffrey! pertest of the AreJthere no follies for his pen to purge!
™ t^ainxl , ,. , « Are there no fools whose backs demand
Whom Scotland pampers with her faeiy ^ s^u^f
MA W1 4 S1111"1 . e . Are there no sins for satne's bard to
6>o Whatever blessing wait a genuine Scot, reet j
In double portion swells tliy glorious lot ; Stfllk8 ^not ; tlc Vice in every street 1
For thee Edma culls her evening sweets, 825 Sball pcersfr or plinces tread peon's
And showers their odors on thy candid * n. r ^
sheets, p '
*A reference to Campbell*! The Pleasure of
*The colon In which the volumes of The F*1n- //ope (p 417)
Imrgh Review were bound "A reference to Uoffeni'ii The Pleatvrc* of 31cm-
•A kind of uiilenvened oatmml cnko orj <u 2(»7)
•A kind of cflhlMiice Itannocki and kail were •Gilford had announced that The Bat lad
commui aithliH of Health dht (1704) and The Maiiad (1796) would not be
his last original works
NINKTEBNTH CENTURY BOMANT1C18TH
And 'scape alike the law's and m use's Though nature's stemest painter, yet the
wiatht best.
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future
time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime t Yet let them1 not to vulgar Wordsworth
Arouse thee, Giftord! be thy promise stoop,
claim 'd, The meanest object of the lowly group,
M0 Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. (J05 Whose ^erse, of all but childish prattle
void,
Unhappy Wlnte! while life* was in ns Seems blessed harmony to Jjamb and
spring, Lloyd •
And thy young muse just waved her joy- Let them— but hold, my muse, nor daie
OUB wing, to teach
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre awa>, A strain far, far beyond thy humble
Which else had sounded an immortal hri icacli.
885 oh f what a noble heart was here undone,1 The natne pernus with their hemp gi\en
When Science9 self destroy'd her favorite *10 Will point the path, and peal tlieir note*
son ! to heaven.
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pin-
suit, And thou, too, Scott' resign to min-
She sow'd the seeds, but death has icnp'd sliels rude
the fruit. The wildor slogan of a Bolder feud •
'Twas thine own genius gave the final I x?t others spin then raeayie lines foi hue,
blow, Kuough for genius, if itself iimpnp f
840 And help'd to plant the wound that laid qlG Jx»t Southcy sing, although his teem in-
thce low muse,
So the struck eagle, stretch 'd upon the Piohfie OACMV spnng, be too piofusc,
plain, Let simple Woid^worth chime his childish
No more through rolling clouds to sour \eise,
again, And biothei Coleridge hill the babe at
View'd his own feather on the fatal nurse ,J
dart, Let specti e-inongei nig Lewis aim, at most.
And wing'd the shaft that quivei 'd in his M2° To i<msc the gullenes, or to laise a phost ,
heart; I^et Mooie still sigh; let Stiangford steal
845 Keen weie hw pangs, but keener fni tu from Mooic,
feel And sweai that Cnmoens sans; such notes
He nursed the pinion which impel! 'd the of yoie,
steel; Let Hayley hobble on, Montgonieiy rave,
While the same plumage that had waimM And godly G rah a me olian! a stupid sta\e
his nest °25 Tx*t snnnetcenng Bonvles his shams refine,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleed in » And whine and whimper to the fourteenth
breast line;
Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest
There be who say, in these enlighten M Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place
days, the best,
850 That splendid lies are all the poet's Scrawl on, till death release us from the
praise; sttain,
That strain 'd invention, ever on the wm«, 9JO Or Common Sense assert her rights again.
Alone impels the modem bard to bin? But thon, with poweip that mock the aid
Tis true, that all who rhyme— nay, all of piaise,
who write, Shonldst leave to humbler bards ignoble
Shrink from that fatal word to genius— lays
trite; Thy country's voice, the voice of all the
886 Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest nine,
fires,
And deenrate the veroe herself irmrnres* ' A band of mediocre EnglUh pootn who trann
Ana aecorate uc i verse nerseu inspires ,Bted ftnd pullIlHhw1 fn 1R'06 Tratntiatio^
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe chiefly J ntm the Greek Anthology, with Talc*
ntfAflt • awd Mticrllaneou* Porm*
aue8l» s«w Colerldffo'h Frort at Midnight, 10, 44 (p
i Sec Hamlet, TIT, 1, 158 3RO), and Hoxnct to a Friend (p 881)
LOBD BYRON 495
Demand a hallow 'd harp— that harp is Then, hapless Britain! he thy rulers
thine. blest,
•• Bay! will not Caledonia's annals yield The senate's oracles, the people's jest!
The glorious record of some nobler field. Still hear thy motley orators dispense
Than the wild foray of a plundering clan, The flowers of rhetoric, though not of
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name sense,
of man! 1015 While Canning's colleagues hate him for
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food his wit,
940 For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Rohm And old dame Portland fills the place of
Hoodt Pitt
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native
bard, Yet once again, adieu! eie this the sail
And be thy praise his first, his best re- That wafts me hence is shivering m the
ward! gale;
Yet not with thec alone his name should And Af lie's coast, and Calpe's adverse
live, height,
But own the vast lenown a woild can give:1020 And Stamboul's minarets1 must greet ni>
945 Be known, pei chance, when Albion is no sight:
more, Thence shall I stray thiough beauty's na-
And tell the tale of what she was before , tive clime,
To future times her faded fame recall, Where Kaff is clad in rocks, and crown 'd
And save her glory, though his country with snows sublime.
fall Hut should I hack icturn, MO tempting
press
Shall diag my journal fiom the desk's
For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared recess,
to tell 102B Let coxcombs, printing as they come from
My count) y what hci MMIK should know far,
too well, Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from
Zeal foi her honor bade me here engage Carr;
The host of idiots that in Jest her age; Jxjt Aberdeen and Elgin still pursue
1195 NO just applause her honoi 'd name shall The shade of fame through regions of
lose, virtu;
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. Waste useless thousands on their Phidian
Oh! would thy baids but emulate thy freaks,
lame, 108° Misshapen monuments and maim'd an-
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy tiques;
name! And make their giand saloons a general
What Athens was in science, Rome in mart
power, For all the mutilated blocks of art :
luoo what Tyre appeal 'd in her meridian hour, Oi Dardair ton is let dilettanti tell,
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion' to have I leave topography to rapid Gell;
been— 1085 And, quite content, no moie shall inter-
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely pose
queen: To stun the public ear— at least with
But Rome decay 'd, and Athens strew M prose.
the plain,
And Tyre's piouil piers he shatter 'd in Thus far I've held my undisturbed
the main , career,
1005 y^jke these, thy stiength may sink, in ruin Prepaied for lancor, steel 'd 'gainrt self-
hurl 'd, isb feai •
And Biitain fall, the bulwark of the This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain 'd to
world. own—
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's 104° Though not obtrusive, yet not quite un-
fate, kno\inl8
Bft'&'siS -Bwwtf JB- - — —
!«• And «ij; fty b.r.1. to B.m n ,,,n» lite • J-JJ^ „„„ „ ^^ m plb
mine iinimvmmmh hnt the author *BB known.
496
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
My voice was heard again, though not so
loud,
My page, though nameless, never dis-1070
avow'd;
And now at once I tear the veil away •'—
Cbeer on the pack ! the quarry9 stands at
bay,
1045 Unscared by all the din of Melbourne
House,
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's
spouse,
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's 5
rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram8 shall have blo\ts
enough,
1060 And feel they too are "penetrable
stuff "«
And though I hope not hence unscathed
to go,r
"The first edition of
English Batfa and
Scotch Beiiewrit
was published
anonymously Lino*
1037 ff. were added
in the second edi-
tion, published In
October. 1800
•game; prey
•An illnnlon to the
volumes of Th<
Kdinlutyh Rcrier,
boand In buckram
See i 1 Bear* IT, I.
126 ff "
*ffamlet, HI, 4. 86
•See Mormion, k, 484
•ill-composed; crndo
10
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn
foe
The time hath been, when no harsh sound
would fall 15
From lips that now may seem imbued
with gall;
1055 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawl M beneath
my eyes:
But now, so callous grown, so changed 20
since youth.
I've learned to think, and sternly speak
the truth ,
Learn 'd to dende the critic's starch de-
cree,
1060 And break him on the wheel he meant
for me;
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or
hiss.
Nay more, though all my rival ihyme-
sters frown,
I too can hunt a poetaster down ;
1065 And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast
at once
To Scotch marauder, and to southern
dunce
Thus much I've dared; if my incondite0
lay
Hath wrong 'd these righteous times, let
others say;
This, let the world, which knows not how
to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.
MAID OF ATHENS,! ERE WE PABT
1810 1812
Zih) fMvt m dyaru*
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart !
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Zthj ftov, riu dyawu.
By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each JEgean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Z**/ fiovy ff&t dyawv.
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled8 waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's ^alternate joy and woe,
Zflfcf /tov, fftu
Maid of Athens, I am gone.
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul :
Can I peflfie to love theet No!
Zflhf MOV, vat dyairu.
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS
A TURKISH TALK
1S13 1818
Had we never loved HIP klnrllv,
Had we never lovei] sae bllodh,
Never met or ne\er parted,
We bad ne'er been broken-hearted
— BURNS*
CANTO THE FIRST
Know ye the land where the cypiebs and
niyille5
Are emblems of deedb that are done in
their clime Y
Where the rape of the vultuie, the love of
the turtle,6
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to
crime!
Know ye the land of the cedai and vine.
* Supposed to be
Tbercaa Maori, wbo
later became the
wife of an English-
man named Black.
1 my life, I love yon
• Kirdle encircled
•40 Fond Kits, 18-16
(P 201)
•Tne cyprera is an
emblem of mourn
In*; the myrtle, of
love
• turtledove
LORD BYEON
497
Where the flowery ever blossom, the beams
ever shine,
Where the light wmgb of Zephyr, op-
pi ess M with pei fume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gnl1 in 50
her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest oi
fruit,
10 And the voice of the nightingale ne\cr
is mute:
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues
of the bky, 55
In color though varied, in beauty may A ie,
And the puiple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the \irgnib aie w>ft as the roseb
they twine,
16 And all, sa\e the spirit of man, is divine T
'Tis the chine of the East; 'tis the land *°
of the Sun-
Tan he hnnle on such deedb as Ins chil-
dren hwe done?
Oh ! wild as the accents of Users' faiewell
Are the heaits which thev bear, and the
tales Mluch they tell <">
20 Begirt with many a gallant sla\e,
Apparell'd as becomes the brave,
Awaiting each hn loid's behest
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 70
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan a
25 Deep thought ma* in his aged eye,
And though the face of Mussulman
Not oft betrays to slanders by
The mind within, well skill 'd to hide
All but unconquerable pride, ^
80 His pensne cheek and pondering brow
Did more than he was wont avow
"Let the chamber be clear M."— The tram
disappear M —
"Now call me the chief of the Haram &o
guard.19
With Giaffir is none but his only son,
86 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's
award.
"Haroun— when all the crowd that wait
Are pasfe'd beyond the outer gate,
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld **
My child Zuleika's face unveil'd!)
40 Hence, lead my daughter from her
tcroei ;
Her fate is flx'd this very hour:
Tet not to her repeat my thought ;
By me alone be duty taught !" 90
"Pacha ! to hear is to obey."
** No more must slave to despot say—
1 rw.il Minrt mum II of stnh
Then to the tower had ta'en his way,
But heie young Selira silence brake,
Fiist lowly i en dei ing reverence meet;
And downcabt look'd, and gently spake,
Still standing at the Pacha's feet:
For son of Moslem must expire,
Ere dare to bit before his sire!
"Father! for fear that thou shouldst
chide
My bister, or her sable guide.
Know— for the fault, if fault there be,
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on
me—
So lovehly the morning shone,
That— let the old and weary sleep—
I could not; and to view alone
The fairest scenes of land and deep,
With none to listen and reply
To thoughts with which my heart beat
high
Were irksome— for whatever my mood,
In sooth I love not solitude;
I on Zuleika's slumber broke,
And, as thou knowest that iui me
Soon turns the Haram 9s grating key,
Before the guaidian sla\es awoke
We to the cypress groves had flown.
And made earth, mam, and hea\en 0111
own?
There linger M we, beguiled too long
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song.
Till I, who heard the deep tamboui1
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour,
To thee, and to my duty true,
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee
fleu •
But theie Zuleika zanders yet —
Nay, father, rage not— nor forget
That none can pierce that secret bowei
But tlu>«* who watch the women 'b
tower."
"Son of a slave "-the Pacha said-
"From unbeliexing mother bied,
Vain weie a father's hope to sec
Aught that beseems a man in thee
Thou, when thine arm should bend the
bom.
And huil the dait, and cuib the steed.
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed.
Must pore where babbling waters flow,
And watch unfolding roses blow
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow
Thy listless eyes so much admire,
Would lend thee something of his fire*
Thou, who wouldst see thin battlement
1 A law kettledrum which WAR aonn<l«sl nt
sunrise, noon nn<1 twtlleht
498 NINETEENTH CKNTUBY BOMANT1U1ST8
By Chribtian cannon piecemeal rent; He ib an Arab to my
96 Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall i46 Or Chribtian crouching: in the fight—
Before the 'logb of Mobcow fall, But hark1— I hear Xuleika's voice,
Nor strike one btroke for life and death Like Houra' hymn it meetb mine ear:
Against the curs of Nazareth' She is the offspiing of my choice;
Go— let thy less than woman 'b hand Oh! more than e/n her mother deni,
100 Assume the distaff— not the brand. 15° AVith all 1o hope, and nought to fear-
But, Haioun !— to my daughtei speed, My Pen* ever welcome here I
And hark— of thine nwii head take Sweet, a<» the dehert fountain's mno
heed— To lips jubt cool'd in time to sa\c—
If thus Zuleiko oit takeb wing— Such to my lonpmg sight ait them
Thou see'bt yon bow— it hath a btimg'" l3C Nor can they waft to Mecca's bhune
More thanks foi life, than 1 foi thine,
105 No sound fioni Sehm's hp i*as heaid, Who blest thy birth and bless thee
At least that met old Giaffir's ear, now."
But every frown and e\ery word __
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword Fa"» as the ^ ^ fel1 o£ womankind,2
11 Son of a blave '-reproach 'd with "hcn on thflt dread yet lovclv berpent
feai f smiling,
110 Those <*ibeb had cost another deai lb° Wllobc ini««^ t»e" *'**> stamp 'd upon IUM
Son of a slave '-and K ho my sire !" n mind-
Thus held his thoughts their daik Hut onc* beguil'd-and ever mon» )»<•
career
And glances e\'n of moie than ne Dazzling, as that, oh' too tianbrrndnit
Plash forth, then faintly disappear QUMon , , lt t
"- Old Giaffir gazed upon his bon To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumbei
And started, foi within hib eye _1Ti 8lve"> A ,
He read how much his wrath had done. ^ lien ]^ m«cts heait again in dieani-
He saw rebellion there begun 1<r . Blywan,
"Come hither, boy- what, no repl>» And Pa'nt8 the lost °" ^«rth ie\i\wl
120 I mark thee-and I know thee too, _ . m Heaven,
But there be deeds them dar'bt not do Jj°«» afe the memory of buried love,
But if thy beard had manlier length, Pmc» ««» the prayer which Childhood
And if thy hand had skill and strength, ^afts above,
I'd joy to bee thee bieak a lance. Was s^-the daughter of that rude old
125 Albeit against my own pei chance " CJlie£ • , A,
Who met the maid with tears— but not
As bneermgly these1 accents fell,
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed ,70 Who hath not ploved how feeb|v worf]s
That eye letmn'd him glance lor e&bay f
glance, To fix one spark of Beautv's liejvenh
And proudly to his sn e 's was raised, ray f
Till Giaffli'b quail 'd and bhrunk Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
-
And" -
Wrth timid fawn or antelope, Thc h^t of 1<n th .. f
Jtor less would wnture into strife The Jnd the „ ^eat^. « 'h
Where man contends for fame and **
"• I wo!i£~not trust that look or tone "' *»
And oh? 1h ^e WOB in itself
more— 1T^.C Arah» "c more doqtlRnl \n the Turku
111 watch him closer than before ^" SJJ
LORD BYBON
499
Her graceful arms in meekness bending
Across her gently-budding breast;
At one kind woid those annb extending
185 To clasp the neck of him who blest
His child caressing and carest,
Zuleika came— and Oiaffir felt
His purpose half within him melt :
Not that against her fancied weal
190 His heart though htern could ever feel ,
Affection chain 'd her to that heart,
Ambition toie the links apart.
"Zuleika1 child oi gentleness'
How dear this very dav must tell,
195 \vhen I forget my own distress,
In lotting what 1 love so well,
To bid thee with another dwell
Anothei ' and a bravei man
Was never seen in battle's '\an
200 \ve Moslem leek not much of blood ,
But yet (he line oi Caiasman
Unchanged, unchangeable hath Mood
Fust ot the lx>ld Tiniaiiot bands1
That won and well can keep their lands
20"' Enough that he who comes to woo
Is kinsman of the Rev Osrlou
ITis yeais need waioo a thought eniplo} .
I would not ha\e tliee wed a bo>
And thou slialt lia\e a noble dovei
210 And his and inv united po\\ei
Will laugh to scoin the death-finnan,2
Which others tremble but to scan.
And teach the messenger what fate
The bearer of such boon may *ait
215 And now thou kno\\ 'st thy f athei fs
will
All that tbv se\ hath need to knew
'Twas mine to teach obedience still—
The wav to love, thy loitl nia>
show '*
In silence bow'd tbe virgin's head,
220 And it hei eye was fill'd with teais
That stifled ieehng dare not shed,
And changed her cheek from pale to red,
And red to pale, as though hei eais
Those winged words like arrows sped,
225 What could such be but maiden fears*
So bright the tear in Beauty's eve.
Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness,
Even Pity scarce can wish it less!
>*0 Whate'ei it was the sire forgot;
Or if lemember'd, mark'd it not,
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his
steed,
i One of the group* of of Tnrkev
t li e feudal cavalry 3 death-warrant
Resign 'd bib gem-adorned chibouque,1
And mounting featly2 for tbe mead,
*** With Maugrabee* and Mamaluke,4
His way amid his Delis5 took,
To witness many an active deed
With sabre keen, or blunt jeneed.6
The Kiblar7 only and his Moors
aiw Watch well the Haram's massy doors.
His head was leant upon his hand,
His eye look yd o'er the dark blue water
That swiftly glides and gently swells
Between the winding Dardanelles;
245 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand,
Nor even his Pacha's turban 'd band
Mix in the game of mimic slaughter.
Careering cleave the folded felt.
With sabie stroke right sharply dealt,
250 NOT mark »d the javelin-darting crowd
Nor heaid their Ollahs8 wild and loud—
He thought but of old Giaffir 's daugh-
ter'
No woid from Relim's bosom broke.
One sigh Zuleika 9s thought bespoke
25"' Still gazed he thiou^h the lattice grate.
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate
To him Zuleika '« eye was turn'd,
Rut little f 1*0111 his aspect learn 'd*
Equal her grief, yet not the same;
-60 Her heart confess'd a gentler flame-
But yet that heart, alarm 'd or \teak.
She knew not why, forbade to speak
Yet speak she must— but when essay?
"How stiange he thus should tnni
a\va\ f
2fi3 Not thus we e'ei before haAe met ,
Nor thus shall be our patting yet."
Thrice paced she slowly through the
room.
And watcb'd his eye-it still was fix 'd
She snatch 'd the um wherein was
niuc'd
-~o The Pei Man Atar-gul's peifume,*
And sprinkled all its odors o'er
The pictured roof and marble floor:
The diops, that through his glittering
vest
The playful girl's appeal address 'd,
275 Unheeded o'er his bosom flew,
As if that breast were marble too
"What, sullen vett it mint not be—
'A kind of TuikMi
8 Moorish
* V body of Koldlers n
crulted from ulati"*
• Cavalrymen TV ho be
grin tbe action
• \ kind of lavelin
"The head of the Wat k
eunnch*
• battle-cries
•nttai of ronen
500
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
280
Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee!"
She saw in curious order set
The fairest flowers of eastern land—
* 'He loved them once; may touch them
If'offer'd by Zuleika's hand."
The childish thought was hardly
breathed
Before the rose was pluck 'd and
wreathed;
286 The next fond moment saw her seat
Her fairy form at Selim 's feet:
"This rose to calm my brother's cares
A message from the bulbul1 bears;
It says tonight he will prolong
290 For Selim 's ear his sweetest song;
And though his note is somewhat sad.
He'll try for once a strain more glad,
With some faint hope his alter'd lay
May sing these gloomy thoughts away
198 "What! not receive my foolish flower t
Nay then I am indeed unblest •
On me can thus thy forehead lower T
And know'st thon not who loves thee
bestf
Oh, Selim dear' oh, more than dearest*
800 Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearestT
Come, lay thy head upon my breabt,
And I will kiss thee into rest,
Since words of mine, and songs must
fail,
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale.
105 i knew our sire at times was stern,
But this from thee had yet to learn :
Too well I know he loves thee not ,
But is Zuleika's love forgot f
Ah! deem I right T the Pacha's plan-
no This kinsman Bey of Carasman
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine
If so, I swear by Mecca's fchnne,—
If shrines that ne'er approach allow
To woman's step admit her vow,—
115 Without thy free consent, command,
The Sultan should not have my hand !
Think 'st thou that I could bear to
part
With thee, and learn to halve my
heart 7
Ah ! were I sever 'd from thy side,
820 Wbeie were thy friend— and who my
guide T
Tears have not seen, Time shall not see,
The hour that tears my soul from thee:
Ev'n Azrael, from his deadly quiver
When flies that shaft, and fly it must,
825 That parts all else, shall doom forever
Our hearts to undivided dust!"
'The TnrUflh nightingale.
He lived— he breathed— he moved— he
felt;
He raised the maid from where she
knelt;
His trance was gone— his keen eye shone
280 With thoughts that long in darkness
dwelt,
With thoughts that bum-in rays that
melt.
As the stream late conceal 'd
By the fringe of its willows,
When it rushes reveal 'd
885 In the light of its billows,
As the bolt bursts on high
From the black cloud that bound it,
Flash 'd the soul of that eye
Through the long lashes round it.
340 A war-horse at the trumpet's sound,
A lion roused by heedless hound,
A tyrant waked to sudden strife
By graze of ill-directed knife.
Starts not to more convulsive life
845 Than he, who heard that vow, display 'd,
And all, before tepress'd, betray 'd:
"Now thou art mine, forever mine,
With life to keep, and scarce with life
resign;
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath,
850 Though sworn by one, hath bound us
both.
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done,
That vow hath saved more heads than
one:
But blench not thou— thy simplest tress
Claims more from me than tenderness ,
8BB I would not wrong the slenderest hair
That clusters round thy forehead fair,
For all the treasures buried far
Within the caves of Ibtakar
This morning clouds upon me lower 'd,
860 Reproaches on my head were shower 'd,
And Giaffir almost call'd me coward f
Now I have motive to be brave;
The son of his neglected slave,
Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave,
266 May show, though little apt to vaunt,
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt.
His son, indeed !— yet, thanks to thee,
Perchance I am, at least shall be;
But let our plighted secret vow
870 Be only known to us as now.
I know the wretch who dares demand
From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ;
More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul
Holds not a Mussolini's1 control:
875 Was he not bred in EgripoT
A viler race let Israel show !
But let that pass— to none be told
i A governor, next In rank to a Paaht
LOAD BYHON
501
Our oath; the rest shall time unfold.
To me and mine leave Osman Bey;
MO I *ve partisans for peril 's day :
Think not I am what I appear, 48°
I've arms, and friends, and vengeance
near."
"Think not thon art what thou appear-
est!
My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 436
*8B This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ,
But now thou'rt from thyself es-
tranged.
My love thou surely knew'st before,
It ne'er was less, nor can be moie. 44°
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay,
S4A And Kate the night I know not
why,
Sa\e that we meet not but by day ,
With thee to live, with thee to die, <«
I dare not to my hope deny:
Thy cheek, thine eves, thy lips to kiss,
895 Like this— and this— no more than this,
For, Allah f sure thy lips are flame
What fever in thy veins is flushing t 45°
My own have nearly caught the same,
At least I feel my cheek, too, blush-
ing
400 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health,
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 456
Or stand with smiles unmurniuimg by,
' And lighten half thy poverty ,
Do all but close thy dying eye,
405 y<ir that I could not live to try,
To the*e alone my thoughts aspire •
More ran I dot or thou requiief
But, Sehm, thou must ansnei why 460
We need so much of myRteij f
410 The cause I cannot dream nor tell,
But l>e it, since thou say 'fat 'tis well ,
Yet what thou mean'st by 'aims' and
'friends,'
Beyond my weaker sense extemK 46-.
I meant that Giafflr should lune hetml
415 The very vow I plighted thee,
His wrath would not revoke my woicl
But surely he would lea\e me fiee
Can this fond wish seem strange in 470
me,
To be t* hat 1 ha\e e\er been!
4*> What other hath Zuleika seen
From simple childhood's earliest hourt
What other can she seek to see
Than thee, companion of her bower,
The partner of her infancy f
4S5 These cherish 'd thoughts with life
begun,
Say, why must I no more avowf
What change is wrought to make me
shun
The truth; my pride, and thine till
nowf
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes
Our law, our creed, our God denies,
Nor shall one wandering thought of
mine
At such, our Piophet's will, repine*
No ! happier made by that decree,
He left me all m leaving thee.
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd
To wed with one I ne'er beheld
This wherefore should I not reveal!
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal f
I know the Pacha's haughty mood
To thee hath never boded good ;
And he so often storms at nought,
Allah* forbid that e'er he ought!
And why I know not, but within
My heart concealment weighs like sin.
If then such secrecy be enme,
And such it feels while lurking here;
Oh, Sehm ! tell me yet in time,
Nor leave me thus to thought** of fear.
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,1
My father leaves the mimic war,
I tiemble now to meet his eye-
Say, Sehm, canbt thou tell me why t"
"Zuleika— to thy tower's retreat
Betake thee— Giattir I can greet.
And now with him I fain must prate
Of firmans,2 imposts, levies, state
There's fearful news from Danube's
banks,
Our Vizier* nobly thins his ranks,
For which the Giaour4 may gi\e him
thanks!
Our Sultan hath a shorter way
Such costly tnumph to repay.
But, mark me, when the twilight drum
Hath warn'd the troops to food and
sleep,
Unto thy cell will Sehm come
Then softly from the Ha ram cieep
Wheie we may wander by the deep:
Our garden battlements are steep,
Nor these will ra*h mtinder climb
To list oui wotds, 01 stint our time,
And if he doth, I want not steel
Which Rome lime felt, and moie may
feel.
Then shalt thou learn of Sehm more
Than thon hast heaid 01 thought be-
fore:
»An attendaut who precede* a man of au-
thority
• V title of varloun high officiate in Moham-
medan countries, especially of the chief
ministers of utate.
• A term applied to all perwrna not of the Mo
hatnmedan faith, enporlally Chrtfttlan*.
502
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Trust me, Zuleika— fear not me'
Thou know fst I hold a Haram key "
"Fear thee, my Selim f ne'er till now
Did word like this "
11 Delay not thou;
I keep the key— and Haroun's guard
Have some, and hope of more reward
Tonight, Zuleika, thou shalt hear
My tale, inv puipose, and my feai
T am not, lo>cf \\hat T appear.'7
475
480
CANTO
The winds aie high on Belle's wave,
As on that night of stoimy water
When Love, who sent, foigot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
r> The lonely hope of Sestos' daughtei '
Oh I when alone along the sky
Her turret-torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale, and breaking foam,
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him
home,
10 And clouds aloft and tides below,
With signs and sounds, foibade to go,
He could not see, he would not hear,
Or sound or sign foreboding fear,
His eye but saw that light of love,
i* The only star it hail'd above;
His ear but rang with Hero's song,
"Ye waves, divide not lovers lonsf>>—
That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to pio\e as
true
20 The winds are high, and Helle's tide
Rolls darkly heaving to the mam ,
And Night's descending shadows hide
That field with blood bedew 'd in vain,
The desert of old Priam's pride,
2"» The tombs, sole relics of his reign,
All— save immortal di earns that could be-
guile
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle!
Oh i yet— for there my steps have been ,
These feet have press 'd the sacred
shore,
30 These limbs that buoyant wave hath
boine2—
Minstrel' with thee to muse, to mourn.
To trace again those fields of yoie,
Believing eveiy hillock green
Contains no fabled hero's ashes,
* Hero, a native of the city of! Beaton. A refer
ence to the classical «tonrof Hero and Lean
der, told by Ovid (HerQidet, 18-19) and
acroKH the Hellespont to tort
of the adjective tnipof. broad
or bonndleRR. Bee Byron'* Dow fran, 2, 105
and n 1 <p 581).
35 And that around the undoubted scene
Thine own "broad Hellespont" still
dashes,
Be long my lot! and cold were he
Who there could gaze denying thee !
The night hath closed on Helle's stream,
40 Nor yet hath iisen on Ida's hill
That moon, which shone on his high
theme .
No warrior chides her peaceful beam,
But conscious Bhepheids bless it still
Then flocks aie grazing on the mound
45 Of him1 who felt the Daidan's arrow
That mighty heap of gathci 'd ground
Which Ainmoii V sou2 ran piondlv lound.
By nations rinsed, by monaichs nnwn 'd,
Is now a lone and nameless banow '
50 Within— thy dwelling-place how nai-
rowf
Without— can only strangers bienthe
The name of him that was beneath
Dust long outlasts the stoned stone.
But thou— thy very dust is gone'
55 Late, late tonight will Dian cheer
The swam, and chase the boatman's
fear,
Till then— no beacon on the cliff
May shape the couise of struggling
skiff,
The scat tor 'd lights that skirt the ba>,
60 All, one by one, have died away ,
The only lamp of this lone hour
Is ghnimeiing in Zuleika 9s towei.
Ves' theie is light in that lone chamber,
And o'ei her silken ottoman11
66 Are thrown the fragrant beads of
amber,4
O'er which her fairy fingers ran,
Near these, with emerald rays beset,
(How could she thus that gem forget!)
Her mot hei 's sainted amulet,
70 Wheieon engraved the Koorsee text,
Could smooth this life, and win the
next ,
And by hei comboloio5 lies
A Koran of illumined dyes,
And many a bright emblazon 'd rhyme
7fi Bv Pei sian scribes ledeem'd fiom time,
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute,
Reclines hei now neglected lute,
i AchlNpg, whom Parln, the Trojan, wounded In
the heel with an arrow and then killed
5 Alexander, who ran naked to the tomb «.f
AchtlleH after placing a garland upon It and
anointing himself with oil Ror Plutardi s
Life of Alexander, 15
* <tuffed Heat without a back
« "When rubbed, the aml>er IK MURoeptiblo of a
perfume, which N Hllght, but not rtf
able " — Bvron
•A TnrkNh rosnry
LOBD BYBON
508
And round her lamp of fretted gold
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ,
90 The nchest work of Iran's loom,
And Sheeiaz' tribute of perfume, 13ft
All that can eye or sense delight
x\re gather M in that goigeou*- loom
But yet it hath an air of gloom
85 She, ol this Pen cell the spiite.
What doth she hence, and on so rude a
night f
Wrapt in the darkest sable vest. 13>
Which none save noblest Moslem
\\eai,
To gu.iid from winds ol hea\en the
bienst
*0 As hea\en itself to Sehm deal, no
With cautious steps the thicket thread-
ing*
And staitmg oft, as thioiigh the "lade
The crust its hollow nioaiini** made.
Till on the smoothei pathway heading. H">
95 Moie fieo hei timid bosom beat.
The maid pin sued hei silent guide ,
And thoiiiih hei tenor urged retreat,
Ho\\ fonld she (jint hei Sehm's side*
llou tench hei tender lips to chidet
no
100 They icnrh'd at length a 51 otto, hewn
By nut me, but en lamed b> ait,
Wheie olt hei lute she \\ont to tune,
And ott hei Koian conn'd apait,
And oft in >outhful re\erie
lor> She dieam'il *hat Paiadise mu»hi be
Wheie woman 's pai ted soul shall go IT,
Hei Piophet had disdain M to show .'
But Selnn's mansion uas secme,
Nor deem'd *he, could he long enduie
110 His bower in other worlds of bliss
Without her, most beloved in this » uo
()hf who so dear with him could dwell?
What llouii soothe him hall so well?
Since last she Msited the spot
115 Some chanue seem'd vuouaht within
the giot lei
It might be only that the night
Disguised thin us seen bv bettei light*
That brazen lamp but diml> threw
A lav of no celestial hue,
120 But m a nook within the cell no
Her eye on strnngei objects fell
There aims \veie piled, not such ns wield
The tin ban 'd Delis m the field.
But biands of foieign blade and hilt.
185 And one was red— perchance with guilt ! 175
Ah f how without can blood be spilt f
... Koran allot* nt leant a (bird of Paradise
to welMichavod n omon if— Byron
A cup too on the board was set
That did not seem to hold sherbet.
What may this, meanf she turn'd to see
Her Relim-"0h! can this be hei "
His lobe ol* pucle was thrown abide,
His bin* no high-crown 'd turban
boit',
But in its stead a shawl of red.
Wreathed lightly round, his temples
wore-
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem
Were worthy of a diadem,
No longei glittei 'd at his waist,
Wheie* pistols unadoiii'd were braced,
And from his belt a sabre swung,
And fiom his shoulder loosely hung
The cloak of white, the thin capote1
That decks the uandeimi; Candiote,2
Beneath— his golden plated vest
('lung like n cunass to his bieast,
The giea\es below his knee thnt wound
With sihew scales \\eie sheathed and
bound
But weie it not that lush command
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand.
All that a caieless eje could see
In him was some vounu (Sahonsree3
"I snid I w«s not i\hat I sceiuM,
And now thou sw'st mv words were
true.
1 lune n tale thou hast not dream 'd.
It sooth— its tiuth must others me
My storv now 'tweie vain to hide,
1 mu«*t not see thee Osman's bride.
But had not thine own lips declared
How much of that young lieait I shaied.
F could not, must not, jet have shown
The daikci sceicl of my own
In this 1 speak not now of love,
That, let time, tiuth, and peril prove-
But fiist— Ohf nc\ei wed another—
/nleika* I am not thy bi other1"
••Oh' not my brother'— yet unsay—
Oodf am I left alone on earth
To mourn— T daie not curse— the dav
That saw mv solitary birth •
Oh f thon wilt lo\e me now no more1
My sinking heart forboded ill ;
But know me all I was before,
Thy sister— friend— Zul^ika still
Thou led'st me heie perchance to kill
Tf thou hnst cause for vengeance, see f
MY breast is offerM-take thy fill*
Far better with the dead to be
1 A kind of long outer
garment
•TuirkKh Bailor
504
NINETEENTH CENTURY EOMANTICISTS
Than live thus nothing now to thee!
Perhaps far worse, for now I know
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe;
180 And I, alas I am Giaffir's child,
For whom thou wert contemn 'd, reviled.
If not thy sister— wouldst thou save
My life, oh! bid me be thy slave!"
"My slave, Zuleika !-nay, I'm thine:
186 But, gentle love, this transport calm.
Thy lot shall yet be hnk'd with mine;
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine,
And be that thought thy sorrow's
balm.
Bo may the Koran verse display 'd
190 Upon its steel direct my blade,
In danger's hour to guard us both.
As I preserve that awful oath f
The name in which thy heart hath prided
Must change; but, my Zuleika, know,
196 That tie is widen 'd, not divided,
Although thy sire's my deadliest foe
My father was to Giaffir all
That Sehm late was deem'd to thee
That brother wrought a brother's fall,
200 But spared, at least, my infancy ;
And lull'd with me a vain deceit
That yet a like return may meet.
He rear'd me, not with tender help,
But like the nephew of a Cam ;
205 He watch 'd me like a lion's whelp,
That gnaws and yet may break his
chain.
My father's blood in every vein
Is boiling; but for thy dear sake
No present vengeance will I take;
210 Though here I must no more remain
But first, beloved Zuleika! hear
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear.
"How first their strife to rancor grew,
If love or envy made them foes,
216 It matters bttle if I knew ,
Tn fiery spirits, slights, though few
And thoughtless, will disturb repose.
In war Abdallah's arm was strong,
Remember'd yet in Bosniac song,
220 And Paswan's rebel hordes attest
How little love they bore such guest*
His death is all I need relate,
The stern effect of Oiaffir fs hate;
And how my birth disclosed to me,
*** What e'er beside it makes, hath made
me free.
" When Paswan, after yean of strife,
At hut for power, but first for life,
In Widdin's walls too proudly sate,
Our Pachas rallied round the state;
sso Nor last nor least in high command.
Each brother led a separate band;
They gave their horse-tails1 to the wind,
And mustering in Sophia's plain
Their tents were pitch 'd, their post
assign 'd;
236 To one, alas ! assign 'd in vain !
What need of words! the deadly bowl,
By Oiaffir fs order drugged and given,
With venom subtle as his soul,
Dismiss 'd Abdallah's hence to heaven.
240 Reclined and feverish in the bath,
He, when the hunter's sport was up,
But little deem'd a brother's wrath
To quench his thirst had such a cup
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ,
246 He drank one draught, nor needed
more!
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt,
Call Haroun— he can tell it out.
"The deed once done, and Paswan's
feud
In part suppress 'd, though ne'er sub-
dued,
«o Abdallah's Pachalick' was gain'd:-
Thou know'st not what in our Divan
Can wealth procure for worse than
man—
Abdallah's honors were obtain 'd—
By him a brother's murder stain 'd;
255 »TIS true, the purchase nearly dram'd
His ill got treasure, soon replaced.
Wouldst question whence T Survey the
waste,
And ask the squalid peasant how
His gains repay his broiling brow!—
260 why me the stern usurper spared,
Why thus with me his palace shared,
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse,
And little fear from infant's force;
Besides, adoption as a son
2(6 By him whom Heaven accorded none,
Or some unknown cabal, caprice,
Preserved me thus,— but not in peace*
He cannot curb his haughty mood,
Nor I forgive a father's blood.
270 "Within thy father's house are foes;
Not all who break his bread are true :
To these should I my birth disclose,
His days, his very hours were few :
They only want a heart to lead,
275 A hand to point them to the deed.
But Haroun only knows, or knew,
This tale, whose close is almost nigh:
He in Abdallah's palace grew,
i A hone tail !• the Rtandard of a Pasha.
•The territory gowned b? a Panha
LOBD BYRON
505
And held that post ill his Serai1
180 Which holds he here— he saw him die : wo
But what could single slavery dot
Avenge his lord 1 alas! too late,
Or save his son from such a fatet
He chose the last, and when elate
285 With foes subdued, or friends be-
tray'd,
Proud Giaffir in high tnumph sate, **5
He led roe helpless to his gate,
And not in vain it seems essay 'd
To save the life for which he pray'd
290 ^e knowledge of my birth secured
From all and each, but most from me;
Thus Giaffir 's safety was insured. S4°
Removed he too from Roumehe
To this our Asiatic bide,
296 Far from our seats by Danube's tide,
With none but Haioun, who retains
Such knowledge— and that Nubian feels 34B
A tyrant's secrets are but chains,
From which the captive gladly steals,
800 And this and more to me reveals.
Such still to guilt just Alia sends—
Slaves, tools, accomplices— no friends' 35°
80S
sio
815
120
11 All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds;
But harsher still my tale must be •
Howe 'er my tongue thy softness wounds,
Yet I must prove all truth to thee.
I saw thee start this garb to see,
Yet is it one I oft have worn,
And long must wear: this Gahongfe,
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn,
Is leader of those pirate hordes,
Whose laws and lives are on their
swords;
To hear whose desolating tale
Would make thy waning cheek moie
pale:
Those arms thou see'st my band lune
brought,
The hands that wield are not remote,
This cup too for the rugged knaves
Is fill 'd— once quaff 'd, they ne'ei re-
pine:
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves;
They're only infidels in wine
855
860
865
"What could I bet Proscribed at 37°
home,
And taunted to a wish to roam ,
And listless left-for Giaffir 's feai
Denied the courser and the spear—
*** Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft !—
In full Divan the despot scoff 'd, '™
As if rot/ weak unwilling hand
Refused the bridle or the brand :
i harem
He ever went to war alone,
And pent me here untried— unknown;
To Haronn's care with women left,
By hope unblest, of fame bereft,
While thou— whose softness long en-
dear'd,
Though it unmann'd me, still had
cbeer'd—
To Bruba's walls for safety sent,
Awaited 'st theie the field's event.
Haroun, who saw my spirit pining
Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke,
His captive, though with dread resign-
ing,
My thraldom for a season broke,
On promise to return before
The day when Giaffir 's charge was o'er.
'Tis lain— my tongue cannot impart
My almost drunkenness of heart,
When first this liberated eye
Survey 'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky,
As if my spint pierced them through,
And all their inmost wonders knew !
One word alone ran paint to thee
That moie than feeling— I was Free'
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine,
The World— nay, Heaven itself was
mine!
"The shallop of a trusty Moor
Convey 'd me from this idle shore;
I long'd to see the isles that gem
Old Ocean's purple diadem:
I sought by turns, and saw them all ,
But when and where I jom'd the
crew,
With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall,
When all that we design to do
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet
To tell thee, when the tale's complete.
" 'Tis true, they aie a lawless biood,
But rough in foim, noi mild in mood;
And e\ery cieed, and e\eiy lace,
With them hath found— may find a
place;
But open speech, and leady hand.
Obedience to their chief's command,
A soul for every eutei prise,
That never sees with leiror's eye*?,
Fnendship for each, and faith to all.
And vengeance vow'd for tho&e V
fall,
Have made them fitting instruments
For more than ev'n my own intents.
And some— and I have studied all
Distinguish 'd from the vulgar rank,
But chiefly to my council call
The wisdom of the cautious Frank—
506 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And some to higher thoughts aspire, Though fortune frown, or falser friends
880 The last of Lambro's patriots there betray.
Anticipated freedom share; 42° How dear the dream in darkest hours of
And oft around the cavern fire ill,
On \isionary schemes debate, Should all be changed, to find thee faith-
To snatch the Rayahb1 from their fate. ful still!
885 So let them ease their hearts with prate Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly
Of equal rights, which man ne 'er knew , shown ,
I have a lo\e for freedom too. To thee be Sehm's tender as thine own,
Ay ! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam, To soothe each sorrow, share in each de-
Or only know 011 land the Tartar's home1 light,
390 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, *25 Blend every thought, do all— but disunite!
Are more than cities and serais to me: Once fiee, 'tis mine our horde again to
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, guide,
Across the desert, or before the gale. Friends to each other, foes to aught be-
Bound where thou wilt, my barb'2 or side:
glide, my prow! Yet there we follow but the bent assign 'd
395 But be the star that guides the wandcm. By fatal Nature to man's waning kind
thouf 4SO Mark! where his carnage and his con-
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my quests cease f
bark; He makes a solitude, and calls it— peace v
The dove of peace and piomisc to mine T, like the rest, must use my skill or
ark18 stieugth,
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of But ask no land beyond my sabre's length
strife, Pcwer sways but by division— her resource
Be thou the rainbow to the stoims of liH ? M6 The blessed alternative of fnuid or forcef
400 The evening beam that smiles the clouds Oms be the last, in time deceit nia> come
away, When cities cage us in a social home
And tints tomorrow with prophetic ia> ' There ev'n thy soul might cir— how oft
Blest— as the Muezzin's stiam from Me<- the heart
ca'swall Coir up turn shakes which peril could not
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call , pait f
Soft— as the melody of youthful days, 44° And uoman, more than man, when death
405 That steals the trembling tear of speech- or woe,
less praise, Or e\en Disgiace, would lay her Imei
Dear— as his native song to exile's cans low,
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved vmc Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame-
endears Away suspicion f— not Zuleika 's name*
For thee in those bright isles is built a But life is hazard at the best , and hcic
bower l45 No more remains to \un, and much to
Blooming as Aden4 in its eaihest hour fear:
410 A thousand swords, with Selim's heait Yes, fear' the doubt, the diead of losing
and hand, thee,
Wait— wave— defend— destroy— at thy By Osman's power, and Giaiftr's stein
command I decree
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, That dread shall vanish with the favoring
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride gale,
The Haram9s languid years of listles* ease Which Love tonight hath promised to my
41* Are well lesign'd for caies— for joys like sail •
these 45° No dangei daunts the pair his smile hath
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I ro\e, blest,
Unn umber 'd penis— but one only love f Their steps still roving, but their heaits
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast at rest.
repay, With thee all toils are sweet, each clime
hath charms;
* Those who pay the capitation tax levied upon Earth— sea alike— our world WlthlU our
male unbeliever* ^ , •**««!
•Barbary horse (note* for speed and endup- *m*l , , . , , Al . Al
ance) _ Ay— let the loud winds whistle o'er the
« flpp Geiiftftto, 8 11. *
4 The Mohammedan paradta*
LOBDBYEON
507
470
4W So that those anus cling clober lound iny
neck: 50°
The deepest minmur of this lip shall be,
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee !
The war of elements no fears impart
To Love, whose deadliest bane is human
Art:
460 Thete he the only rocks our com he can 50B
check;
Here moments menace— Mere are years of
wrack!
But hence ye thoughts that nse m Hoi-
ror's shape1 51°
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape
Few words remain of mine my tale to
close,
465 Of thine but one to waft ub from our foes,
Yea — foes— to me will Giaffir's hate de-
cline?
And is not Osman, who would part us, 51B
thine f
"His head and faith fiom doubt and
death
Return M in time my guard to save, B2°
Few heard, none told, that o'er the
wave
From isle to ible I io\ed the ululc,
And since, though paited from mj hand
Too seldom now I leave, the land,
No deed the\ '\e done, nor deed bhall do, l»25
476 Ere 1 have heard and doom 'd it too :
I form the plan, decree the spoil,
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil
But now too long I've held thine ear,
Tune piesscfc, floats my baik, and here
480 We leave behind but hate and fear
Tomorrow O&man with his train 58°
Arrives— tonight must break thy chain •
And wouldst thou save that hauglit}
Bey,—
Perchance Ins life who ga\e thee
thine,- «
485 With me this houi away— awuj f
But yet, though thou ait plighted
mine,
Wouldst thou lecall thy willing vow.
Appall M by tiuths imparted now.
Here lest I— not to see thee wed
«»o But be that peril on my head"' B*°
Zuleika, mute and motionless.
Stood like Hint M.itiio of dMic^s
When, her last hope f orever gone,
The mother harden M into stone • B4C
4W All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niobe".
But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Essay 'd to speak, or look reply,
Beneath the garden's wicket porch
Far flash 'd on high a blazing torch '
Another— and another— and another—
"Oh! fly— no more— yet now my inoie
than brother!"
Far, wide, through every thicket spread
The fearful hgbts are gleaming red ,
Nor these alone— for each light hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau,1 shining steel ,
And last of all, his sabre waving,
Stem Giafftr in his fury raving •
And now almost they touch the cave-
On ' must that grot be Selim 's grave f
Dauntless he stood—" 'Tis come— soon
past-
One kiss, Zuleika— 'tis my last
But yet my band not far from shoie
Mav hear this signal, see the flash ,
Yet now too few— the attempt were rash
No matter— yet one effort more "
Forth to the caiern mouth he stept,
His pistol's echo rang on high,
Znleika started not, nor wept,
Despair benumb 'd her breast and
eye'—
"They hear me not, or if they ply
Their oais, 'tis but to see me die,
That sound hath diawn my foes moie
nigh
Then forth my father's scimitar,
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal warf
Farewell, Zuleika '— sin eet f retire :
Yet stay within— heie linger safe,
At thee his rage will only chafe
Stir not— lest even to thee perchance
Rome erring blade or ball should glance.
Feai 'at thou for him?— mav I expne
If in this strife I seek thy sire1
No— though by him that poison pour'd;
No— though again he call me coward f
But tamely shall I meet their steel f
No— as each crest save Ins may feel!"
One bound he made, and gain'd the
sand:
A heady at his feet hath sunk
The foremost of the prying band,
A gasping head, a quivenng tiunk
Another falls— but round him close
A swarming circle of his foes;
From right to left his path he cleft.
And almost met the meeting wave
His boat appears — not five oars'
length-
* flnmfng torch
508 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANT1GI8TS
His comrades strain with desperate But where is he who woref
strength— Ye! who would o'er his relies weep,
Oh ! are they vet in time to save! wo Go, seek them where the surges sweep
550 His feet the foremost breakers lave; Their burthen round Sigeum's steep
His band are plunging in the bay, And cast on Lemnos' shore :
Their sabres glitter through the spray; The sea-birds shriek above the prey,
Wet— wild— unwearied to the strand O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
They struggle— now they touch the land ! 60B As shaken on his restless pillow,
655 They come— 'tis but to add to slaugh- His head heaves with the heaving bil-
ter— low;
His heart's best blood is on the water. That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, "° Then level I'd with the wave-
Had Sehm won, betray M, beset, What recks it, though that corse shall
w° To where the strand and billows met ; lie
There as his last step left the land— Within a living grave t
And the last death-blow dealt his hand— The bird that tears that prostrate form
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look Hath only robb'd the meaner worm,
For her his eye but sought in vainf 61G The only heart, the only eye
565 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, Had bled or wept to see him die.
Hath doom'd his death, or fii'd his Had seen those scatter'd limbs com-
chain. posed,
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, And mourn M above his turban-stone,
How late will lover's hope remain f That heart hath burst— that eye was
His back was to the dashing spray ; closed—
570 Behind, but close, his comrades lay, M0 Yea— closed before his own »
When, at the instant, histf'd the ball—
"So may the foes of Giaffir fall ' " By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail !
Whose voice is heard f whose carbine And woman's eye is wet— man's cheek is
rang! pale-*
Whose bullet through the night-air sane:, Zuleika ' last of Giaffir's race,
575 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err! Thy destined lord is come too late:
Tis thine— Abdallah's murderer! *25 He sees not— ne'er shall see thy face!
The father slowly rued thy hate, Can he not hear
The son hath found a quicker fate The loud Wul-wulleh1 warn his distant
Fast from his breast the blood is bub- earf
bling, Thy handmaids weeping at the gate,
580 The whiteness of the sea-foam troub- The Koran-chanters of the hymn of
ling— fate,
If aught his lips essay 'd to groan, wo The silent shues with folded arms that
The rushing billows choked the tone f wait,
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the
Horn slowly rolls the clouds away; gale,
Few trophies of the fight are there Tell him thy tale '
6g* The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Thou didst not view thy Seliin fall!
Are silent; but some signs of fray That fearful moment when be left the
That strand of strife may bear, cave
And fragments of each shiver 'd brand; 635 Thy heart grew chill:
Steps stamp 'd; and dash'd into the He was thy hope— thy joy— thy love-
sand thine All,
690 The print of many a struggling hand And that last thought on him thou couldst
May there be mark 'd ; nor far remote not save
A broken torch, an oarless boat; Sufficed to kill;
And tangled on the weeds that heap Burst forth in one wild cry— and all was
The beach where shelving to the deep still.
595 There lies a white capote! <4° Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin
'Tis rent in twain— one dark-red stain grave !
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain; *The death song of the Turkish women.
LORD BYRON
509
Ah I happy ! but of life to lose the wont ! "°
That grief —though deep— though fatal—
was thy first!
Thrice happy ne'er to feel nor fear the
force
Of absence, shame, pride, bate, revenge, 6RP|
remorse !
846 And, oh ! that pang where moie than mad-
ness lies!
The woim that will not sleep— and ne\oi
dies;
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly
night, 6q°
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes
the light,
That winds around, and tears the quiver-
ing heart !
450 Ah ! wherefore not consume it— and de- 693
part!
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief f
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy
head,
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost
spread • 70°
By that same hand Abdallah— Selun
bled.
«55 NOW let it tear thy beard in idle grief •
Thy pride of heart, thy bude for Daman's
bed, 7or'
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed,
Thy daughter's dead*
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's
lonely beam,
660 The star hath set that shone on Helle's
stream. 71°
What quench M its ray t- the blood that
thou hast shed !
Hark ' to the burned question of Despan •
"Where is my child?"— an Echo an-
swers-'1 Where f"
15
Within the place of thousand tombs
66C That dune beneath, while daik abo\e
The sad but living cypress blooms
And withers not, though branch and leaf T2°
Are stamp M with an eternal gnet.
Like early unrequited Love,
870 One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Ev'n in that deadly grove—
A single rose is shedding there
Its lonely lustre, meek and pale • T26
It looks as planted by Despair—
675 So white— so faint— the slightest gale
Might whirl the leaves on high;
And yet, though storms and blight
assail,
And hands more rude than wintry sky
May wring it from the stem-in 7»°
vain-
Tomorrow sees it bloom again :
The stalk some spirit gently rears,
And waters with celestial tears;
For well may maids of Helle deem
That this can be no earthly flower,
Which mocks the tempest's \\itheimg
hour,
And buds unshelter'd by a bower;
Nor droops though Spiing refuse her
shower,
Noi woos the summer beam:
To it the livelong night there sings
A bud unseen— but not remote:
Invisible his airy wings,
But soft as haip that Houn strings
His long entrancing note!
It were the bulbul , but his throat,
Though mournful, pours not such a
strain-
For they who listen cannot leave
The spot, but linger there and grieve,
As if they loved in vain !
And yet so sweet the tears they shed,
Tis sorrow so unmix 'd with dread,
They scarce can bear the morn to break
That melancholy spell,
And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well !
But when the day-blush bursts from
high
Expires that magic melody.
And some have been who could believe,
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive,
Yet harsh be they that blame,)
That note so piercing and profound
Will bhape and syllable its sound
Into Zuleika's name
'Tis from hei cypress summit heard,
That melts in air the liquid word*
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth
That white lose takes its tender birth.
Theie late was laid a marble stone;
Eve saw it placed— the Morrow gone!
It was no mortal arm that bore
That deep-fix 'd pillar to the shore;
For there, as Belle's legends tell,
Next morn 'twas found where Selun
fell;
Lash 'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave
Denied his bones a holier grate:
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said,
Is seen a ghastly turban 'd head :
And hence extended by the billow,
'Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's
pillow!"
Where first it lay that mourning
flower
Hath flourish 'd; flourished this
hour,
510
N1NKTKKNTH CENTURY KOMANT1CISTS
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale;
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's
tale!
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE
1814 1814
Tis done— but yesterday a king!
And aim'd with kings to strive—
And now thou art a nameless thing
So abject— yet alive!
5 Is this the man of thousand thrones.
Who strew M our earth with hostile bones.
And can he thus survive f
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Stan1
Nor man nor field hath fallen so f ni
10 Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind
Who bow'd so low the knee?
By ganng on thyself grown blind,
Thou tnught'st the rest to see
With might unquestion'd,— power to
15 Thine only gift hath been the gra\e,
To those that worshipped thee,
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition 's less than littleness !
Thanks for that lesson— It will tencli
20 To after-wainors more,
Than high Philosophy can preach
And vainly preach rd before
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,
-5 That led them to adore
Those Paged things8 of sabre sway
With fronts of brass, and feet of claj
The triumph and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife—
30 The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life,
The sword, the sceptic, and that swa>
Which man seem 'd made but to ohe\ ,
Wherewith renown was rife—
35 All quelPdl-Dark Spirit' what must be
The madness of thy memory f
The desolatur desolate!
The victor overthrown f
The arbiter of others9 fate
40 A suppliant for his own t
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly copef
Or dread of death fclonef
To die a prince— or live a slave—
<B Thy choice is mort ignobly brave!
1 Lucifer
» Idols
See /AtiurA, 14 12
He who of old would rend the oak
Dream 'd not of the rebound :*
Chain 'd by the trunk he vainly broke-
Alone— how look'd he round f
50 Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,
And daiker fate hast found-'
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away '
5r> The Roman,3 when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Tluew down the dagger— dared depart.
In savage grandeur, home-
He dared depart in utter scorn
60 Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom !
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon 'd power
The Span mid,4 when the lust of sway
*r> Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast ciowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell,
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
70 His dotage trifled well :
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine— nor despot's throne.
But thou— from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung—
7~* Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung,
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart
To see thine own unstrung;
*° To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean;
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own '
And monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
8> And thank M him for a throne!
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
1 Mtlo, a famona Greek athlete (Oth cent B C ),
who is said to have been eaten by wolven
while hU hand* wore caught In the cleft of
a tree which he had tried to pull apart See
Valeriiw MailmuR'H Factomm ct Dtctorum
MemoraWtem, IX, 12, 2, 9
• After Napoleon abdicated the throne on April
8, 1814, he was banlrhed to the Island of
•Sulla,' the great Roman general, who made
hlmbelf dictator, revenged hlmnelf on hfe
foe*, and then, In the height of big power
JT9 B C ), retired to private life.
4 rharleB V, King of Spain and Emperor of the
Holy Roman Empire, who abdicated his
throne In 1556. and Kpent the rent of hli
life In a monaMterv
LOKD liYliON
511
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
*° A brighter name to lure mankind !
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain—
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain .
95 If them hadst died as honor dies
Some new Napoleon might ai ise,
To shame the world again—
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?
100 Weigh 'd in the balance, hero dust
Ts M!C as vulgai clay,
Thy scales, Mortality f are jnM
To all that pass away
But yet met bought the Imng uietit
105 Some higher sparks should nmnmte,
To dazzle and dismay
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make
mirth
Of these, the conquerors of the eaith
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
no Thy still imperial hi idc ,l
How bears her bieast the tortuimg hour?
Still clings, she to thy Rule?
Must she too bend, must she too shaie
Thy late repentance, long despair.
115 Thou thioneless homicide?
If still she loves thee, hoaid that e*m,—
9Tis worth th j vanish 'd diadem '
Then haste thee to thy sullen isle,
And gn/e upon the sen ,
120 That element nut} meet thy smile-
It ne'ei A\as iiiled by thee1
Or trace with thine all idle hand
In loitennu mood upon the sand
That Eaith is now as free1
12fi That Coi mth 's pedagogue-' hath nou
Transferi 'd his by-word to thy biow.
Thou Timoui ? in his captive's cape8
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison 'd lage?
wo But one—4 ' The world if rw mine f f '
Unless, like he of Babylon,4
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
1 Ma rift Lntitin, daughter of Pranri* I, Em-
peror of Austria (1804-85)
9DlonyBiuB the Younger, who opcuui a school
for boy* nt Corinth (844 II. C ) aft IT he wan
baniRhod from Syracuse
•Napoleon IK likened to Tlmur (Tamerlane),
thr Mongolian conqueror, who In 1402 de-
feated and captured Bajaset I, Sultan of
Turkey, and Is taid to have carried him about
in an iron cage See Marlowe's Tamburlalnc
the Great, IV, 2 , alw> Rowt'ii Tanwrlane
« Nehuchadneizar, Kins of Babrlon (804-501
He WAA Iniiane for aeven yearn, floe
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth—
U* So long obey 'd— so little worth!
Oi, like the thief of (he fiom heaxen,1
Wilt thou withstand the shock f
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock*
140 Foredoom 'd by God— by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend 's arch mock ,=
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died '
145 There was a day— there was an hour,
While earth was Gaul's— Gaul thine-
When that inimeasui able po\\ei
Unrated to lesign
Had been an act of puiei fame
ir.O Than gatheis lound Marengo's name,
And gilded thy decline,
Thiough the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime
_ But thou f 01 sooth must be n king,
]r>"> And don the puiple vefet,
As if that foolish lobe could wnng
Hemcmbiance fiom thy bieast
Wheic is that faded gannent? wheie
The gewgaws thou weit fond to wear,
160 The stai, the stiing/* the cicst*
Vain fnmaid child of empnef say.
Are all thy playthings snatched away f
Wheie may the weaned eye repose
When gazing on the Great ,
166 Where neither tnulty glory glows,
Nor despicable state f
Yes— one— the first— the last— the best-
The Cmcninatus of the West,
Whom envy dated not hate,
170 Bequeath M the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one'
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY4
1815
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of daik and bnght
Meet in her aspect and her eyes •
•" Thus mellow M to that tender light
Which hea\en to gaudy day denies
B T )
, 4.
9 A reference to the Rtor? that Napoleon wan
engftfrwl in an unworthr lo\e affair at the
time of hi* abdication Bee Othrtlo, IV, 1, 09.
* The chflin of enameled enfclen
4I*dv Wilmot Horton, whom Byron had «een
at a hall, attired In mourning with
on
512
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
One shade the more, one ray the lees,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
10 Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-
place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
16 The smiles that wm, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent '
OH! SNATCH 'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S
BLOOMi
1814 1815
Oh! snatch M away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ,
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
5 And the wild cypress* wave in tender
gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a
dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
10 Fond wretch! as if her step disturb fd
the dead!
Away ' we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress •
Will this unteach us to complaint
Or make one mourner weep the lessf
u And thou— who telPst me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
MY SOUL IS DARK
1S14 1815
My soul is dark -Oh ! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;8
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
* If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again :
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
10 Nor let thy notes of joy be first :
' It ban been annulled that tbii poem refer* to
the unidentified Thyna. Bee Byron'H To
'The cyprem In an emblem of mourning, It IN
a common tree In graveyards
•fee Macpbemon's Oina Morul (p 92a. 82)
Byron wan a groat admirer of the Omlanlr
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ach'd in sleepless silence long;
15 And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst.
And break at once— or yield to song.
SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST
BATTLEi
1815 1815
Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or
the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in
your path:
Bury your steel m the bosoms of Qath !
6 Thou who art bearing my buckler and
bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away
from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy
feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to
meet.
Farewell to others, but never we part,
10 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart !
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us
today!
HEBOD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMXE
IBIS 1815
Oh, Mariamne ' now for thee
The heart for which thou bled'st is
bleeding;
Revenge is lost in agony,
And wild remorse to rage succeeding.
5 Oh, Mariamne! wheie art thouf
Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
Ah! could 'st thou— thou would 'st pardon
now,
Though Heaven were to my prayer un-
heeding.
And is die dead T— and did they dare
10 Obey my frenzy's jealous raving!
My wrath but doom'd my own despair:
The sword that smote her's o'er me
waving.—
But thou art cold, my murder 'd love!
And this dark heart is vainly craving
15 For her who soars alone above.
And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
She's gone, who shared my diadem;
She sunk, with her my joys entombing;
LOKD HYRON
513
I swept that flower from Jndah's stem,
20 Whose leaves for me alone were bloom-
ing;
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming,
And I have earn'd those tortures well,
Which uneonsumed are still consuming
THE DESTBUCTION OF
SENNACHEEIBi
1S15 1810
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on
the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in puiple
and gold;
And the sheen of their spears wan like
stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep
Galilee.
5 Like the leaves of the forest when summer
is green,
That host with their banners at sunset
weie Keen.
lake the leaves of the forest when autumn
hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither 'd and
strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings
on the blast,
10 Ayd breathed in the face of the foe as he
pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly
and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for-
ever grew still f
And there lay the steed with his nostril all
wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath
of hift pride,
15 And the foam of his gasping lay white on
the turf,
And cold a« the spray of the rock-beating
And there lay the rider distorted and pale.
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on
his mail .
And the tents were all silent, the banners
alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet nnhloun.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in
their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of
Baal;
i ** « King*,
And the might oi the Gentile, unsmote by
the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the
Lord!
STANZAS FOB MUSIC
1815 1810
There's not a joy the woild can give like
that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines
in feeling's dull decay,
'Tis not on youth 's smooth cheek the blusli
alone, which fades so last,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere
youth itself be past.
5 Then the feu whose spirits float above the
\vreck oi' happiness
Vre driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean
oi excess
The magnet of their course is gone, or
only points m \am
Th<» shore to which their snivel 'd sail shall
ne\ei stretch again.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like
death itself comes down ,
10 It cannot feel for others9 woes, it date
not dream its own ,
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the foun-
tain of our tears,
And though the eve may sparkle still, 'tis
where the ice appears.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips,
and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no
more their former hope of rest ,
15 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruuiM
turret wreath,
All green and wildly fresh without, but
worn and gray beneath.
Oh could I feel as T have felt.— or be what
I have been,
Or weep as I could once ha\e inept o'er
many a vanish 'd scene,
As springs in deserts found seem sweet,
all brackish though they be,
20 So, midst the withei 'd waste of life, those
tears would flow to me
FARE THEE WELL'
1816 1816
"Alaa* tber had boon friend* In youth;
But whinnering tongues can poison truth ,
And constancy live* in real ma nbove ,
Vnd life I* tuornv . and youth IH vain .
\nd to be wroth with one wo low
Poth work llko madne*B In the brain
» Addremed to Byron's wtfo. nhnrtW after their
reparation.
514
N1NKTKKNT11 CtiNTUfiY BOMANT1C1BTS
But never either found another
~ > free the hollow heart from paining—
Y stood aloof, the scan remaining.
__ cliffs which had been rent asunder,
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away. 1 ween,
The marks of that which once bath been "
— COLERIDGE'S
Fare thee well I and if forever,
Still forever, fare thee well.
Even though unforgiving, ne\ei
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel
6 Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
10 Every inmost thought could show!
Then thon wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it BO
Though the world for this commend thee—
Though it smile upon the blow,
15 Even its praises must offend thee.
Founded on another's woe*
Though my many faults defaced uie.
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
20 To inflict a cureless wound f
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
Rut by sudden wrench, believe not
Heaits can thufc be torn away
2R Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still mubt mine, though bleeding, bent ;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is— that we no more may meet
These are words of deeper sorrow
30 Than the wail above the dead.
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wakes us from a widow 'd bed
And when thon wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
» Wilt thou teach her to say "Father'"2
Though his care she must forego 1 *
When her little bands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press 'd,
Think of bun whose prayer shall bless
thee,
40 Think of him thy love had bless 'd I
« Lines 408-18; 419-26 (p. 847). ^
•Lady Bvron kept Byron's relationship
cm 1ml from their daughter Ada
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me
45 All my faults perchance thon knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go
Every feeling hath been shaken ;
r»o Pride, which not a world could bow.
Bows to thee— by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now •
But 'tis done— all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still,
R6 But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Fence then way without the will
Fare thee well ! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Senr'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
60 Afore than this I scarce can die
STANZAS FOB MUSIC
1816 1816
There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee,
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me :
5 When, as if its sound were causing «
The charmed ocean 's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming*
And the midnight moon is weaving
10 Her bught chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant 's asleep •
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
15 With a full but soft emotion,
Like the nwell of Rummer's ocean.
SONNET ON CHILLON
1816 1816
Eternal Spirit of the ehainless Mind!
Bnghtest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart—
The heart which love of thee alone can
bind;
5 And when thy amis to fetters aie con-
sign'd—
To fetters, and the damp vault's daylesa
gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyr-
dom,
LOKD BYKON
0 L.J
And Freedom's laine finds wings on every
wind.
ChillonI thy prison is a holy place,
10 And thy sad floor an altar— for 'twas trod,
Until IIIH very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bomrnnrd! May none those marks
efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God
'THE PRISONER OP CHILLON
1816 1816
My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears*1
* My limbs are bpw'd, though not with toil.
But i listed with a vile repose,
For they hate been a dungeou's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To \\houi the goodly earth and air
10 Are hann'd, and barr'd— forbidden faie
But thih was for my father's faith
I suffer M chains and com ted death ,
That father perish 'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake .
15 And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwel hug-place ,
We were seven— who now are one.
Six in youth, and one in ape,
Finish 'd as they had begun,
20 Pioud of Persecution's rage,
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal M,
Dying as their father died.
For the God their foes denied ,
26 Three were in a dungeon cast.
Of whom thin wreck is left the laM
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould.
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old.
There are seven columns, massy and uiav.
10 Dim with a dull imprison 'd lay.
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the cievice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ,
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
*R Like a marsh's meteor lamp-
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And m each ring there is a chain ,
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain.
40 With marks that will not wear awaj ,
Till I have done with this new day.
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise
IdtM. In a note, the cam* of I*urto<\l<o
(1451-1508) and others
For years— 1 cannot count them o'er,
46 I lost their long and heavy score,
When my last brother droop 'd and died,
And I lay living by his side.
They chain 'd us each to a column stone,
And we were three— yet, each alone ,
50 We could not move a jungle pace,
We could not see cadi other's lace,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us sti angers in our sight:
And thus together— yet apait,
** Fetter 'd in hand, but join'd in heart,
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
60 With some new hope, 01 legend old,
Or song heroically bold ,
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon stone,
*•"• A grating sound, not full and free
As they of yore ueie wont to be
It might be fancy, hut to me
They never sounded like our own
I was the eldest of the three,
70 And to uphold and cheer the rest
I ought to do— and did my best;
And each did well in his degree.
The youngest, whom my father loved,
Because our mother's brow was given
?r> To him, with eyes as blue as heaven—
For him my soul was sorely moved ,
And truly might it be distress 'd
To see such bird in such a nest ,
For he was beautiful as day
so (When day was beautiful to me
As to young eagles, being free) —
A polar day. which will not see
A sunset till its sumniei 's gone,
Its sleepless sumniei of long light,
8:> The snow-clad offspring of the sun •
And thus he was as puie and bnsht.
And in his natural spmt guy,
With (ears for nought but others' |ik.
And then they fln\i M like mountain nils,
90 Unless he could assuage the woe
Which he abhorr'd to \iew below
The other was as puie of mind.
But form'd to combat with his kind;
Strong in his fiame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perish M in the foremost rank
With joy:— but not in chains to pine:
His spirit wither 'd with their clank,
I saw it silently decline—
516 NlNJfiTJCJfiNTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
l<* And BO perchance in sooth did mine • Might shine— it was a foolish thought,
Rut yet I forced it on to cheer **& But then within my biain it wrought,
Those relics of a home so dear. That even in death his f roeborn breast
He was a hunter of the hills, In such a dungeon could not rest.
Had follow yd there the deer and wolf; I might have spared my idle prayer—
io& TO him his dungeon was a gulf, They coldly laugh M, and laid him there
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. "° The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love,
Lake Leman lies by Chillon 's walls His empty chain above it leant,
A thousand feet in depth below, Such murder's fitting monument j
Its massy waters meet and flow ;
HO Thus much the fathom-line was sent But he, the favorite and the flower.
From Chillon 's snowy-white battlement, 165 Most cheiwh'd since his natal hour,
Which round about the wave inthials His mother's image in fan face,
A double dungeon wall and wave The infant love of all his race,
Have made— and like a living gra\e His martyr 'd father 'b dearest thought,
115 Below the surface of the lake1 My latest care, for whom I sought
The dark vault lies wherein we lay , 17° To hoard my hf e, that his might be
We heard it ripple night and day ; Low wretched now, and one dny free ,
Sounding o'er our heads it knock 'd , He, too, who yet had held nntirod
And I have felt the winter's spray A spirit natural or inspired—
120 Wash through the bars when winds were He, too, was struck, and day by clay
high 175 Was wither'd on the stalk awa\
And wanton in the happy &ky; Oh, God' it is a fearful thing
And then the very rock hath rook YL To see the human soul take v, ma
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd. In any shape, in any mood •
Because I could have smiled to sec I've seen it rushing foith in blood,
125 Tne death that would have pet me free 18° I've seen it on the breaking wean
Stnve with a swoln convulsive motion,
I said my nearer brother pined, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
I said his mighty heart declined, Of Sin delinous with iN diead ,
He loathed and put away his food, But these were horrors— this uus woe
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 185 TJnunx'd with such— but sine and Mow
iso For we were used to hunters' fare. He faded, and so calm and meek.
And for the like had little care: So softly worn, so sweetly weak.
The milk drawn from the mountain goat So tearless, yet so tender— kind.
Was changed for water from the moat, And grieved for those he left behind ,
Our bread was such as captives' tears tq° With all the while a cheek whose bloom
185 Have moisten 'd many a thousand year*, Was as a mockery of the tomb.
Since man find; pent his fellow men Whose tints as gently sunk auay
Like brutes within an iron den , As a departing rainbow's ray ;
But what were these to us or himf An eye of most transparent light,
These wasted not his heart or limb; 1% That almost made the dungeon bright,
140 My brother's soul was of that mould And not a word of murmur, not
Which in a palace had grown cold, A groan o'er his untimely lot,—
Had his free breathing been denied A little talk of better days.
The range of the steep mountain 'R side A little hope my own to raise,
But why delay the truth t— he died 2ft° For I was sunk in silence— lost
"6 I saw, and could not hold his bend. In this last loss, of all the most ;
Nor reach his dying hand— nor dead,— And then the sighs he would suppress
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, Of fainting nature's feebleness,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. More slowly drawn, grew less and less •
He died— and they unlock M his chain, 205 I listen 'd, but I could not hear;
i60 And scoop 'd for him a shallow grave I call'd, for I was wild with fear;
Even from the cold earth of our cave. I knew 't was hopelem, but my dread
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay Would not be thus admonished;
His corse in dust whereon the day I call'd, and thought I heard a sound—
_ « *•. 21° I burst my chain with one strong bound.
1« not below the inrfaee of tho ._T >
LOBD BYfiON
517
7 only stirr'd in this black spot,
Z only lived, 1 only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ;
216 The last, the sole, the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound ine to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath—
220 My brothers— both had ceased to breathe •
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas T my own was full as chill ;
I had not strength to stir, or stnve,
But felt that T was still alive—
2-'5 A fi an tic feeling, when we know
That what \\e love shall ne'er be so.
I know not why
I could not die,
I had no earthly hope— but faith,
-30 And that forbade a selfish death.
What next befell me then and theic
I know not A\ell— I ne\erknew,
First came the loss of light, and an.
And then of daikness too
2ri I had no thought, no feeling— none ,
Among the stones I stood a stone,
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,
As shmbless crags within the mist;
For all HIHS blank, and bleak, and giay.
240 It was not nijrlif , it was not day ,
It was not e\ en the dungeon-light,
Ro hateful to my heavy sight,
But vacancy absorbing space,
And fixedness— without a place;
°45 Thcie ueie no stars, no earth, no time.
No check, no change, no good, no criino—
But silence, and a stirless breath
Winch neither was of life nor death ;
A sea of stagnant idleness,
250 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless*
A light bioke in upon my brain,—
It was the carol of a bird ,
It ceased, and then it came again.
The sweetest song ear ever heard,
2"5 And innip uas thankful till my eyes
Kan crsfT^ith the clad surprise,
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degiees came back
260 My senses to their wonted track;
I saw the dungeon walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before;
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done,
266 But thiough the crevice where it came
That bird was perch M, as fond and tame,
And tamer than upon the tree;
A lot ply bhd, with azure wings.
And song that said a thousand things,
270 And seem 'd to say them all for me !
I never saw its like before,
I ne'er shall see its likeness more.
It seem'd like me to want a mate,
But was not half so desolate,
-7C And it was come to love me when
None lived to love me so again,
And cheering from my dungeon 's bnnk,
Had brought me back to feel and think.
I know not if it late weie fiee,
280 Or bi oke it s caue to perch on mine.
But knowing well captivity,
Sweet bird ! I could not with for thine I
Or if it were, in winged guise,
A visitant from Paradise;
285 For— Heaven forgive that thouplit f the
while
Which made me both to weep and smile—
I sometimes deem'd that it might be
My bi other's wral come down to mo;
But then at last away it flew,
290 And then 'Uas nioital— \\ell I knew,
For he would never thus ha\e tio>\n,
And left me twice so doubly lone, —
Lone— as the corse within its shroud,
Lone— as a solitary cloud,
2ir> A single cloud on a sunny day,
While all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere,
That hath no business to appear
When skies are blue, and earth is gay.
°,oo A kind of change came in mv fate,
My keepers grew compassionate ;
T know not what had made them so,
Thev weie mined to sights of inx»,
But so it was-— my broken chain
305 \\i\\i hnks unfnsten'd did remain.
And it was libeity to stride
Alone: my cell fiom side to side.
And up and down, and then athwait.
And tread it over every part;
310 And round the pillars one by one,
Returning where my walk begun.
A\oidmg only, as I trod.
My brothers' graves without a sod,
For if I thought with heedless head
"1B Mjy step profaned their lowly bed,
My breath came gaspingly and thick,
And my crush M lieait fell blind and sick.
I made a footing in the wall,
It was not therefrom to escape,
320 For I had buried on^and all
Who loved me in ft human shape;
And the whole earth would henceforth lie
A wider prison unto me :
No child, no sire, no kin had I,
518
NINETEJtiNTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
825 No partner in my misery;
I thought of this, and I was glad,
For thought of them had made me mad;
But I was curious to ascend
To my barr'd windows, and to bend
330 Once moie, upon the mountains high,
The quiet of a loving eye.
I saw them— and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
33o On high— their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
T heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channelled rock and broken bush ;
I saw the white-wall 'd distant town,1
340 And whiter sails go skimming down;
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;
A small green isle, it seem'd no more,
846 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees.
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze.
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers
growing,
360 Of gentle breath and hue
The flsh swam by the castle wall,
And they seem 'd joyous each and all ,
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
355 As then to me he seem'd to fly ;
And then new tears came in my eye.
And I felt troubled— and would fain
I had not left my recent chain ;
And when I did descend again,
360 The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load :
It was as in a new-dug grave,
Closing o'er one we sought to save,—
And yet my glance, too much oppresf ,
3*6 Had almost need of such a rest.
It might be months, or years, or days—
I kept no count, I took no note,
I had no hope my eyes to raise,
And dear them of their dreary mote;
870 At last men came to set me free;
I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where,
It was at length the same to me,
Fetter'd or fetterless to be,
I learn 'd to love despair.
876 And thus when they appear'd at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage— and all my own !
And half I felt as they were come
380 TO tear me from a second home :
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch 'd them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they!
385 \ve were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill— yet, strange to tell !
In quiet we had learn 'd to dwell;
My very chains and I grew friends,
390 g0 much a long communion tends
To make us what we are:— even I
Regain 'd my freedom with a sigh.
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA
1810 1816
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined.
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find j1
6 Though thy soul with my grief was ac-
quainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling,
10 The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the
ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
15 If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is
shiver 'd,
And its fragments aie sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver 'd
20 To pain— it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me
They may crush, but they shall not
contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue
me;
'Tis of thee that I think— not of them.
88 Though human, thou didst not deceive
me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake.
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve
me,
Though slander 'd, thou never couldbt
shake;
Though trusted, Ihon didst not disclaim
me,
at all his domestic troubles. Byron
illy supported by bin sinter AufuvtH
fr TTVijoM'ff Plltjt fmapr, TTT, tlR-nfl (p
LORD BYBOK
519
30 Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame
me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie
Yet I blame not the world, nor despitte it,
Nor the war of the many with one,
85 If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twafc folly not sooner to shun :
And if dearly lhat error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
40 It could not depiive me of thee.
Fiona the wieck of the past, which hath
perish *d,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most
cherish M
Deserved to be dearest of all'
45 In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Winch speaks to my spirit of thee
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA
1816 1880
My sister! my sweet sister' if a name
Dearer and purer weie, it should be
thine,
Mountains and seas divide us, but I
claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer
mine :
5 Oo where I will, to me thou art the
same—
A loved legiet which I would not re-
sign
There yet are two things in my deb-
tiny,—
A world to roam through, and a home
with thee.
The first were nothing— had I still the
last,
10 It were the haven of my happiness;
But other claims and other ties thou
hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them
less
A strange doom is thy f athei 's son '<*.
and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redies«,
1~ Reversed for him our grandsire's i'utc
of yore,—
He had no rest at sea,1 nor I on shore.
i Admiral John Byron (1728-86), who wan nld
to have encountered a storm on every voyage
He was known to the tailor* as "Fonlwonttior
Incfc "
If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Of penis, overlook 'd or unforeseen,
20 I have bust am 'd my share of worldly
shocks,
The fault *as mme, not do I seek to
screen
My errors with defensive paiadox,
I have been cunning in mine over-
throw,
The caieful pilot of my piopei1 woe
25 Mine were my faults, and mine be their
reward
My whole life wab a contest, since the
day
That gave me being, gave me that which
marr'd
The gift,— a fate, or will, that walk'd
astray;
And I at times have found the stiugnle
hard,
?0 And thought of shaking .off my bonds
of clay
But now I fain would for a time sur-
If but to see what next can well annc.
Kingdoms and empires in my little day
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ,
"6 And when I look on this, the petty
spray
Of my own years of trouble, \vhicli June
roll'd
Like a wild bay of breakers, molts
away
Something— I know not what— does
still uphold
A spirit of slight patience,— not in tain.
40 Even for its own sake, do we purchase
pain.
Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
Within me,— or perhaps a cold despair,
Brought on when ills habitually recur,—
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air
46 (For even to this may change of soul
refer,
And with light armor we may learn to
bear),
Have taught me a strange quiet, which
was not
The chief companion of & calmer lot
I feel almost at times as I have felt
60 In happy childhood; trees, and flowers,
and brooks,
520
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
Which do remember me of where I 86 To see her gentle face without a mask,
dwelt And never gaze on it with fcpathy.
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to She was my early friend, and now
shall be
My sister-till I look again on thee.
books,
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
My heart with recognition of their
looks;
And even at momenta I could think I 9°
60
65
70
Some living thing to love— but none like
thee.
Here are the Alpine landscapes which
create
A fund for contemplation ;— to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;
But something worthier do such scene* 95
inspire :
Here to be lonely is not desolate,
For much I view which I could most
desire,
And, above all, a lake I can behold1
livelier, npt dearer, than our own of old.2
Oh that thou wert but with me!— but
I grow
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 10°
The solitude, which I have vaunted so,
Has lost its praise in this but one re-
gret;
There may be others which I less may
show,—
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my alter M eye.
105
I did remind thee of our own dear lake,
By the old hall which may be mine no
more
75 Leman's is fair; but Hunk not I for-
sake
The sroeet remeinbi ance of a dearer
shore:
Sad havoc Time mubt with my memory
make,
Ere that 01 tltou can fade these eyes
before;
Though, like all things which I have
loved, they are
80 Resign 'd foroer, or divided far.
The world is all before me, I but ask
Of Nature that with which she will
comply—
It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
* Lake Lcman (Geneva).
•The lake of Newttead Abbey .
tton of It, SCT Don luan, XTTT <VT
For a denerlp
I can reduce all feelings but this one;
And that I would not;— for at length
I see
Such scenes as those wherein my life
begun.
The earliest— even the only paths for
me;
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to
shun,
I had been better than I now can be;
The passions which have torn me would
have slept;
I had not suffered, and tJiou hadst not
wept.
With false Ambition what had I to do 1
Little with Love, and least of all with
Fame;
And yet they came unsought, and with
me grew,
And made me all which they can make
—a name.
Tet this was not the end I did pursue ;
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
But all is over— I am one the more
To baffled millions which have gone be-
fore.
And for the future, this world's future
may
From me demand but little of my care,
I have outlived myself by many a day,
Having survived so many things that
were;
My years have been no slumber, but
the prey
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
Of life which might have fili'd a cen-
tury,
Before its fourth in time had passM me
by.
And for the remnant which may be to
come
I am content; and for the past I feel
Not thankless,— for within the crowded
sum
Of struggles, happiness at times would
steal;
And for the present, I would not be-
numb
My feelings further —Nor shall I eon-
coal
LOUD BYRON
521
That with all this I still can look
around,
180 And worship Nature with a thought pro-
found.
For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy
heart
T know myself secure, as them in mine ,
We were and are— I am, even an thou
art-
Beings who ne'er each other can re-
sign ;
126 It IR the same, together or apart,
From life'*. commencement to its slow
decline
We are entwined— let death come slow
or faot,
The tie which bound the first endures the
DARKNESS
1816 181ti
I had a dream, which was not all a dream
The blight sun was extinguish M, and
the stnn>
Did zander darkling in the etenial space.
Ravle*s, and pathless, and the icy earth
5 Swung niiiu7 and blackening in the moon-
less an ,
Mom came and went— and cnnie, and
brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the
dread
Of this their desolation, and all heaits
Were chill fd into a selfish prayer foi
light •
10 And they did live by watchftres— and the
thrones,
The palaces of ci owned kings— the huts.
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were
consumed,
And men were gather fd round their bla/-
ing homes
15 To look once more into each other's face.
Happy were those who dwelt within the
"eye
Of thtih oleanos, and their mountain-torch
A feaiful hope was all the world con-
tain 'd;
Forests were set on fire— but hour by
hour
30° They fell and faded— and the crackling
trunks
Extinguish 'd with a crash— and all was
black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes Ml upon them; some lav down
26 And hid their eyes and wept, and some
did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands,
and smiled;
And others burned to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd
up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
80 The pall of a past world , and then again
With cuises cast them down upon the
dust,
And gnash M their teeth and howl'd: the
\Mld birds shriek 'd
And, terrified, did fluttei on the ground,
And flap their useless wings, the wildest
bnites
35 Came tnmc and tremulous; and vipers
crawl M
And twined themselves among the multi-
tude,
Hissing, but stmgless— they weie Main for
food!
And War, which for a moment was no
more,
Did glut himself again —a meal was
bought
10 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Goi-ging himself in gloom no love was
left;
All earth was but one thought— and 'that
was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails— men
46 Died, and their bones were tombless as
their flesh;
The meagre bv the meagre ^ere devoured.
Even dogs assail 'd their masteis, all save
one,
And lie was faithful to a corse, and
kept
The birds and beasts and famish M men
at bay,
50 Till hunger clung them,1 or the dropping
dead
Lured their lank jaws, himself sought
out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answei'd not with a caress— he
died.
:>I5 The ciowd was famish M by degrees; but
two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And thev were enemies- they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place.
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy
things
60 For an unholy usage; they raked up,
* dried them up (Boo Jfarftrfft. V. 5. 40 )
522
N1NLTKENTH CKNTURY BOMANTICIST8
And shivering scraped with their cold
skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
65 Their eyeb as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects— saw, and shriek M,
and died—
Even of their mutual hideousncss they
died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world
was void,
70 The populous and the powerful was a
lump
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless,
lifeless—
A lump of death— a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent
depths;
76 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal . as
they droppM
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides weie in
their grave,
The Moon, their mistress, had expired be-
fore;
80 The winds were wither 'd in the stagnant
air,
And the clouds perish VI ; Darkness had
no need
Of mid from them— She was the Universe
PROMETHEUS
1816 1816
Titan ! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
5 What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense,
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
10 The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.
16 Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill,
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
20 The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the bobn to die:
The wretched gift eternity
25 Was thine— and thou hast borne it well.1
All that the Thunderer9 wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
80 But would not to appease him tell;8
And in thy silence was his sentence,
And in his soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
85 Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
40 Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not con-
vulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit :
45 Thou art a symbol "and a sign
To mortals of their fate and force,
Like thee, man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source,
And man in portions can foresee
50 His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence-
To which his spirit may oppose
Itself— and equal to all woes,
56 And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter M recompense,
Triumphant where it dyes defy,
And making dentil n Airtory
SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN
1816 1816
Rousseau. Toltnire, oni Gibbon, and T)e
Stnel-
Leman* these names m<> woithy of tin
shore,
Thv shore of names likes these'— Wort
thou no more
Their memory thy remembrance would
recall:
5 To them thy banks were lovely as to all,
Hnt they have made thorn lovelier, for tho
lore
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
iSee tbe legend of Ttthonni, and Tennjnon'fl
knew that Jupiter and fall drnartv
"TraiJ&W!?* *-"•
LOK1> BYBOV
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but
by thee
10 How much more. Lake of Beauty' do we
feel.
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea.
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Which ot the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory
real!
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
1816 1829
They say that Hope is happiness,
But genuine Love must prize the past.
And Memory wakes the thoughts that
bless-
They lose the first— they set the last ,
6 And all that Memory loves the most
Was once 0111 only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.
Alas! it is delusion all*
10 The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall.
Nor dare we think on what we are
From
fHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE
1809-17 1812 18
CANTO III
1816 1816
1 Ih thy face like thy mother's, my fair
child*
Ada1 sole daughter of my house and
heart t
When last I saw thy young blue eyes
they smiled.
And then ue pa i led, — not as now we
part,
But with a hope — l
Awaking with a start.
The waters heme around me, and on
high
The winds lift up their A rices I depart.
Whither I know not, but the hour's
gone by.
When Albion's lessening shores could
grieve or glad mine eye.
2 Once more upon the waters ' yet once
more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a
steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their
roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it
lead!
Though the strain M mast should quivei
as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the
gale,
Still must I on , i<» I am ah a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam
to sail
Wheie'er the surge may sweep, the tem-
pest's breath pievail
3 In my youth 's summer 1 did sing of one,1
The wandering outlaw of his own dark
mind,
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing
wind
Bears the cloud onwards* in that tale I
find
The fuirowb of long thought, and dried -
up tears,
Which, ebbing, leaie a sterile track be-
hind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying
yeais
Plinl the last vantls of life,— where not u
flower appears
4 Since my young days of passion—
joy, or pain,
ercha
Perchance my heart and harp have lost
a string,
And both may jar* it may be, that in
vain
I would essay as I have sung to sine
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this 1
cling,
So that it wean me from the wean
dream
Of selfish grief or gladness— so it flinj:
Forgetfulness around me — it shall
seem
To me, though to none els*, a not un-
grateful theme.
5 He, who grown aged in this world of
woe.
In deeds, not years, piercing the depth*
of life,
So that no wonder waits him ; nor be-
low
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition,
strife,
t Lady Byron left her husband in January, 1816 ' The First Canto of Cfttfrfe J7oroU'« PUprimanr
Ada was then only flve weeks old B?ron was written In 1809, when Byron was 21
never flaw her again Tears of age
524
NINETEENTH CENTURA ROMANTICISTS
Cut to his heart again with the keen
knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves,
yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which
Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's
haunted cell.
6 'Tis to create, and in creating live
A being more intense that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we
give
The life we image, even as I do now
What am It Nothing* but not so art
thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I
traverse earth,
Invisible, but gazing, as I glow
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy
birth,
And feeling still with thee in my ci ush fd
feelings' dearth.
Fire from the mind as vigor from the
limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles
near the brim.
9 His had been quaff 'd too quickly, and
he found
The dregs were wormwood; but he
flll'd again,
And from a purer fount, on holier
ground,
And deem'd its spring perpetual, but
in vain!
Still round him clung invisible a chain
Which gallM lomei, fetteung though
unseen,
And heavy though it clank 'd not; worn
with pain,
Which pined although it spoke not, and
grew keen,
Knteimg with e\ery step he took through
many a scene.
7 Yet must I think lew wildly— T
thought
Too long and darkly, till nn binm
became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'er-
wrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame
And thus, untaught in youth my heart
to tame,
My springs of life were poison 'd. 'Tw
too late!
Yet am I changed ; though still enough
the same
In strength to bear what time cannot
abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accus-
ing Fate.
8 Something too much of this:1— but now
'tis past,
And the spell closes with its silent
seal2
Long absent Harold reappears at last;
He of the breast which fain no more
would feel,
Wrung with the wounds which kill not.
but ne'er heal;
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd
him
In soul and aspect as in age: years
steal
» Bee ffamlet. ITT, 2, 70
•On the Rtnry of fate own tnticeflv 1* *rt the Beal
of
10 Secui e in guarded coldness, he had mix 'd
Again in fancied safety with his kind,
And deem 'd his spirit now so fit uily tix 'd
And sheath *d with an invulnerable mind,
That, if no jov, no sorrow hirk'd behind ;
And he, as one, might 'midst the many
stand
Unheeded, searching- through the crowd
to find
Fit speculation; such as in shange land
He found in wonder-works of God and
Nature's hand.
11 But \vho can view the ripen 'd rose, nor1
seek
To wear itf who can curiously behold
The smoothness and the sheen of
beauty's cheek,
Nor feel the heart can never all grow
oldt
Who can contemplate Fame through
clouds unfold
The star which uses o'er her steep, nor
climb f
Harold, once moie \iithin the vortex,
roll'd
On with the giddy ciicle, chasing Time,
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's
fond2 prime.
12 But soon he knew himself the most unfit
Of men to herd with man ; with whom
he held
Little in common; untaught to submit
' and not
LOBD BYEOJS
525
His thoughts to others, though Ins soul
was quell 'd
In youth by his own thoughts; still
uiicoiupell'd,
He would not yield dominion of his
mind
To spirits against whom his own re-
bel I'd;
Proud though in desolation; which
could find
Then came iiib hi again/ which to o'er-
come,
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat
His breast and beak against his wiry
dome
Till the blood tinge his plumage, s?o
the heat
Of his impeded soul would through his
bobom eat.
A hfe within itself,
mankind
Mi. .,.1-
«
IS
Where lose the mountains, there to him
wcie fiieuds,
Wheie 10 1 I'd the ocean, there-nil was Ins
home .
Whcic a blue skv, and glowing elnne,
extends,
He hud the passion and the pnuei to
loam;
The desert, foiest, eavein, bieakei 's
loam,
Weie unt*) him companionship, tlwv
spake
A uiutnal lansnifl?e, Heaier than the
of gloom,
The veiy knowledge that he lived in
vain,
That all was o\ei on this side the tomb
JIad made Despau a smihngness as-
sume,
Which, though 'tweie wild,— as on the
plundei 'd wieck
When innrmcis would madlj meet then
doom
With di aughts intemperate on the sink-
in s» deck,—
Did yet inspnc n cheer, which he forbore
to check
id's ton-lie, which he would 17 *t<1>'-J™ th> tread is ou an empire's
/ dust !
An eaithrjuake's spoil is gepulchied be-
low!
N the spot nuirk'd with no colossal
bust!
Noi column trophied for tnumphal
show Y
None, hut the moial's tiutb tells sim-
pler so,
As the ground was befoie, thus let it
bc;-
IIow that red rain hath made the har-
vest gio\i '
And is this all the \vorld has gain'd by
thee,
Thou first and last of fields ' king-making
Viet 01 5 ?-
18 And Harold stands upon this place of
skulls,
The gia\c of France, the deadly Wat-
erloo '
How in an hour the power which ga\e
annuls
Tts gifts transferrina fame as fleeting
too»
In "pnde of place"3 here last the eagle
flew, •
» See Macbeth. III. 4. 21
-'The Battle of Waterloo made the thrones of
the European fclngn more flecure
Ifacbrt*. IT, 4. 13. Thin l« a tenn in falcmiri,
nml monns fAr lilvltctt point »f flmht
Of
oft lot sake
For Nature's pages i>IassM by sunhe.inis
on the lake.
14 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the
stais1
Till he had ]H»opled them with being**
bright
As then own beams, and euith, .ind
earth-hoi n jars.
And human fmlties. ucie foi gotten
quite
Could he ha\e kept his spirit to that
flight
lie had been happv; but this clay will
sink
Its spark iminoital, envying it the lipht
To which it mounts, aft if to bieak the
link
That keeps u«* from von heaven which
woos us to its brink.
IB But in man's dwellings he liecanie a
thing
Restless and worn, and stem and \\ean-
home,
Droop 'd as a wild-bom falcon with
dipt wing,
To whom the l>ouudlew> air alone wern
home-
Cbaldenn*
526
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Then tore with bloody talon the rent
plain,
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations
through;
Ambition's life and labors all were
vain;
He wears the shatter 'd linkb of the
world's broken chain.
19 Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the 22
bit
And foam in fetters; —but ib Earth
more free?
Did nations combat to make one sub-
mit;
Or league to teach all kings tine so\e-
reigntyt
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be
The patch M-up idol of enlighten 'd
days?1
Shall we, who shuck the Lion2 doiui,
shall we
Pay the Wolf8 homage? proffering
lowly gaze
And servile knees to thrones? No; prove
before ye praise!
20 Tf not, o'er one fallen despot boast no
more!
In vain fair cheeks were furrow 'd with
hot tears
For Europe's flowers long rooted uj>
before
The tramplei of her vineyards; in vain,
years
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears,
Have all been borne, and broken by
the accord
Of roused-up millions; all that most
endeais
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a
sword
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens'
tyrant lord.
24
21 There was a sound of revelry by night,4
And Belgium's capital had gather'd
then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and
bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and
brave men;
1 The Holy Alliance aimed at the restoration of
pre-BeYolutionary condition!.
•Snchapoor Imitation of Imperial rtrenath as
the Austrian emperor and others
* A ball was given at Brussels on the evening
before the %ittle of Quatre-Bms, which oc-
curred two davs before tho Rattle of Water-
loo
A thousand hearts beat happily; and
when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which
spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell ,
Rut hush! hark! a deep sound strikes
like a rising knell !
Did ye not hear itt-No; 'twas but the
wind,
<h the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance f let joy be uncon-
fined;
No sleep till mom, when Youth and
Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hums with flying
feet—
But hark!— that heavy sound breaks in
once more,
Ab if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than be-
fore!
Ann! Ann' it is— it ib— the cannon's
opening roar!
Within a window 'd niche of that high
hall
Sate Brunswick 'b fated chieftain,1 hi*
did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival.
And caught its tone with Death's
prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he
deem'd it near,
Hib heart more truly knew that peal too
well
Which stretch 'd his father on a bloody
bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone
could quell;
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost
fighting, fell
Ahf then and there was hurrying to
and fro,
And gathering tears, and tiemblings of
distress,
And cheeks oil pale, which but an hour
ago
Blush 'd at the praibe of their own line-
liness,
And there were sudden partings, such
as press
The life from out young hearts, and
choking sighs
1 Frederick William, Duko of Rrnn«»lck HI*
father * u* killed In tho Bnttlo of Anentadt,
In 1806
LORD BYRON
527
Which ne'er might be le pea ted; who
could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual
eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful
morn could use'
86 And there was mounting in hot haste
the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clat-
tering car,
Went pouring foiward with impetuous
speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks oi
war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal
afar;
And near, the heat of the alarming
drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning
star,
lu itb next voiduie, when this fiery
mass
Of living Miloi, lolling un the foe
And buining with high hope shall moul-
der cold and low
Last noon beheld them full of lusty
hie,
Labt eve in Beauty's cucle proudly gay,
The midnight biought the signal-sound
of strife,
The mom the muishalhng in arms,—
the day
Battle's magnificently stem an ay!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which
when rent
The earth ia emei'd thick with othei
clay,
Which her own clay shall co\ei, heap'd
and pent,
Rider and horse,— friend, foe,— in one
red burial blent ?
While throng M the citizens with terror
dumb,
Or whispering, with white hps-"The 20 Their praise is hyum'd by loftier harps
foe ! they come ! they come ! M • • - ' ^
26 And wild and high the Cameron's Gather*
ing1 rose* f
The war-note of Lorhiel, which Albyn's
hills
Have heaid, and heard, too, have hei
Saxon f<K*s — 2
How in the noon of night that pibroch*1
thrills,
Sa\age and shrill! But with the bieath
which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the moun-
taineers
With the fierce natne daring which
instils
The stirring memory of a thousand
years,
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings m each so There have
hearts foi
than mine **
Yet one I would select tiom that pioud
throng,2
Partly because tliej blend rue with his
line.
And partly that I did his sue sonic
wrong,
And partly that lnu»ht names will hal-
low song,
And this was of the bin\est, and when
shower 'd
The death-bolts deadliest the thmnM
files along,
Even where the thickest of wai 's tem-
pest lower M,
They reach M no noblei bieast than thine,
voung gallant Howard*
clansman s ears!
tear& ftnd ^^
27 And Ai den lies waves above them her
green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they
pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er
grieves,
Over the unreturnmg brave,— alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above
shall grow
1The war song which summoned the Cameron
clan
" t>an>l|* imwit
And mine were nothii.p, had I such to
give;
But when I stood beneath the fresh
gieen tiee,
Which living waves where thou didst
cease to live,
And saw around me the wide field
icvive
* Bee Scott'i TOe Fifld of Waterloo, and Words
worth's Character of the Happy Warrior (p
"Frederick Howard, who«e father, the fifth
Earl of Carlisle. Byron's Hooond cousin, had
been satirized in BnflU*h 7?n»^ an*
*, 725. If
528
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIdSTB
With fruits and fertile piomise, and 34
the Spring
Came forth her work of gladness to
contrive.
With all hei recklebs birdb upon the
wing.
I turn'd from all she brought to those
she could not bring.
31 I turn'd to thee, to thonsandb, of whom
each
And one as all a ghastly gap did make
In his own IHnd and kindred, whom to
teach
Forgetfulnesh were mercy for their
sake. 35
The Archangel fb turnip, not Glory's.
must awake
Those whom they thirst ioi ; though the
sound of Fame
May for a moment MNI(!H\ it cannot
blake x
The fever of \aiii l<mt»inir, and the
name
So honoi'd hut assumes a Mioiigei, hitteiei
claim
38 The> monin, but smile at length and.
* hiiiihujr, mom i)
The tiee will \iithei long befoie it tall,
The hull dmes on. though mast and
<ail be toin.
The roof -tree tanks, but jmmlders on
the hall
In massy hoanne^s; the iiiniM wall 36
Stands uhen its wiud-uoin battlements
are gone;
The bais simnc the captive they en-
thral.
The day drags tlunugh, though storms
keep out the sun ,
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly
live on
33 Even as a broken mirror, which the
glass
In every fragment multiplies, and
makes
A thousand images of one that was
The same, and still the more, the more
it breaks; 37
And thus the heart will do which not
forsakes,
Living in shatter M guise; and still, and
cold.
And bloodless, with its sleepless sor-
row aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign, for such things
are untold
There is a very life m our despair,
Vitality of poison,— a quick root
Which feeds these deadly branches; for
it were
As nothing did we die, but Life will
suit
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's
shore,
All ashes to the taste.1 Did man com-
pute
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life,— say,
would he name threescore!
The Psalmibt number M out the years
of man:9
They are enough; and if thy tale be
true,
Thou, who didst grudge him even that
fleeting span,
More than enough,8 thou fatal Water-
loo!
Millions of tongues record thee, and
anew
Their children's lips shall echo them,
and say—
''Here, where the sword united nations
drew,
Out countrymen were wamng on that
day'1'
And this is much, and all which will not
pass away.
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst
of men,
Whose spirit, antithetically mixt,
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness flxt;
Extreme in all things I hadst thou been
betwixt,
Thy throne had still been thine, or
never been ;
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou
seek'st
Even now to re-assume the imperial
mien.
And shake again the world, the Thun-
derer of the scene!
Conqueror and captive of the earth art
then!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild
name
L 'The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake
Asphalt** were aald to be fair without, and
within, aehefi— Fftfr Taclton, Hittor. 5, 7."—
•RaTpMrffiM, 90 10.
•If Waterloo really means what In «w»mn to
mean to mankind, the fleeting ipan of three
ucore year* and ten allowed by the Psalmist
\9 more than enough to Immorttillcr linnion
LORD BYRON
529
ne'er more bruited1 in men's
minds than now
That them art nothing, save the jest of
Fame,
Who woo'd thce once, thy vassal, and
became
The flatterei of thy heiceucbs till thou
wcrt 41
A nod unto thyself! nor less ihe same
To the abtouiuled kingdoms all inert,
Who deem'd thee for a tune whate'ei
thou didnt assert
88 Oh, mure or less than man— in high or
low,
Batthnp with nations living from the
field;
Now making monarch*.' necks thy foot-
stool, now
More than thy meanest soldict taught
to yield.
An empire thou couldst crush, com-
mand, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion,
nor, 42
However deeply in men 's spurts skill M.
Look through thine cmn, noi cuih the
lust of wai ,
Nor leain that tempted Fate \\ill 1ea\e
the loftiest star
39 Vet \iell thy soul hath hiook'd the
turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy.
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, 01 deep
pride.
Is gall and wormwood to an enemj
When the whole host of hatred stood
hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou 43
ha<«t smiled
With a sedate and all-cnduiing eye,—
When Fortune fled her spoil 'd and
favorite child,
He stood unbrw M beneath the ills upon
him piled
40 Sagerthan in thy fortunes, foi in them
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to
slum
That just habitual worn, which could
contemn
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to
feel, not bo
To wear it c\ei on tby lip and brow.
And spurn the instruments thou wert
to use2
Till the> weie tum'd unto thine over-
thiow:
'Tis but a \\oithlesb world to win 01
lose;
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot
who choose.
If, like a tiwei upon a headland rock,
Thou hndst been made to stand or fall
alone.
Such Boom of man had help'd to bia\e
the shock ,
But men's thoughts \\eie the steps
which jnui'd thy tin one,
Their admiration thy bebt weapon
shone;
The part of Philip's son3 uus thine
not then
(Unless aside thy pin pie had been
thrown)
Like stein Diogenes to mock ut men,
For sceptied c\mcs eaitli were tar too
wide a den
But quiet to quick IH»SOIUS ih a hell.
And Uie)c hath been \\\\ bane, theie is
a flie
And motion ot the soul \\lnch \\ill not
duell
In its 01*11 nano\\ hemg. hut uspue
Beyond the fitting medium ol desiie,
And, but once kindled, quenchless evei-
more,
Preys upon hii»h achentme, noi can
tire
Of aught but lest; a fever at the core.
Fatal to him \\ho bears, to all who evci
bore
This makes the madmen \vho ha\e made
men mad
By their contagion, conqueioib and
kings,
Founders of sects and systems, to whom
add
Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet
thincs
Which stir too stionnlv the soul's
1, 48.
And aie themsrhes the fools to those
they fool ,
Envied, yet hou unen\iablef \\\\n\
stragfc
Are theiiNf One breast laid open weie
a school
Which \\ould unteach mankind the lust t«>
shine or rule • '
1 \1cxandcr, who should have bMn hln model
nf the i Mile
530
NINETEENTH CENTURY KOMANTICISTB
44 Their breath IB agitation, and their life
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at
last.
And yet f*o mused and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving penis
past.
Melt to calm twilight, they feel over-
cast
With sorrow and supmeness, and so
die;
Even as a flaine unfed, which inns to
waste
With its o^n flickering, or a sword laid
by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts inglo-
nously
45 He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall
find
The loftiest peaks most wiapt in clouds
and snow,
He who surpasses 01 subdues mankind.
Must look down on the hate of those
below
Though high aborr the win of glory
glow,
And far Iteneatl the eaiih and ocean
spiead,
Pound him aie icy locks, and loudl>
blow
Contending tempests on lus naked head.
And thus reward the toils which to those
summits led
46 Away with these » tine Wisdom's world
will be
Within its own ci eat ion, or in thine.
Maternal Xattue' for who teems like-
thee.
Thus on the banks of thy majestic
Rhine t
There Harold gazes on a work divine,
A blending of all beauties, streams and
dells.
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield,
mountain, vmet
And chiefless castles breathing stem
farewells
From gray but leafy walls, where Rum
greenly dwells
47 And there they stand, as stands a lofty
mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser
crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying
wind,
Or holding "dark communion with the
cloud.
There was a day when they were young
and proud,
Banners on high, and battles1 pass'd
below;
But they who fought are in a bloody
shroud,
And those which waved are shredless
dust ere now,
And the bleak battlements shall bear no
future blow.
48 Beneath these battlements, within those
walls,
Power dwelt amidst her passion**, in
piond state
Kurh robber chief upheld his armed
halls,
Doing Ins e\il will, nor less elate
Than might lei heioes of a longer date
What want these outlaws conquerors
should have2
But history's purchased page to call
(hem great T
A wider space, an ornamented grine*
Their hopes weie not less warm, then
souls weie full as brave.
49 In their baronial fends and single fields.
What deeds of prowess uruecordeil
died!
And Love, which lent n bla/on to then
shields,
With emblems well devised by amoioiis
' pride,
Through all the mail of iion heaiK
would glide.
But still their flaine was fieiceness, and
drew on
Keen contest and destruction near
allied,
And many a tower for some fair mis-
chief won,
Saw the discolor 'd Rhine beneath its ruin
run.
50 But thou, exulting and abounding river!
Making thy waves a blessing as they
flow
Through banks whose beauty would
endure forever
Could man but lea\e thy bright crea-
tion so,
Nor its fair promise from the surface
mow
With the sharp scythe of conflict,—
then to see
» battalions
• In Ramaav'H vorbion of the ballad Johnle Arm-
9tro*g, tbe King, arts Johnle. —
"What wants that knave tbat a king told half
But thp flword of honor ami the crown?"
LORD BYBON
581
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to
know
Earth paved like heaven; and to seem
such to me,
Even now what wants thy stream T— that
it should Lethe he
51 A thousand battles have assail 'd thy
banks,
But these and half their fame have
pass'd away.
And Slaughter heap'd on high his wel-
tering ranks;
Their very jjiaves are gone, and what
are they?
Thy tide wash M down the blood of yes-
teiday,
And all was stainless and on thy cleui
stieam
Glass 'd, with its dancing light, the
sunny ray,
But o'er the blacken 'd memory's
blighting dieam
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweep-
ing as they seem
62 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd
along,
Vet not insensible to all which here
Awoke the jocund birds to eail>
song
In glens which might have made even
exile dear*
Though on his brow were graven lines
austere.
And tranquil sternness, which had ta'en
the place
Of feelings fierier far but le<* neveie,
Joy was not always absent from hib
face,
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with
transient trace
63 Nor was all love shut from him, though
his days
Of passion had consumed themselves to
dust.
It is in vain that we would coldly
And in its tenderer hour on that bib
bosom dwelt1
64 And he had learn 'd to love,— I know
not why,
For this in such as him seems strange
of mood,—
The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
Even in its earliest nurtuie, what sub-
dued,
To change like this, a mind so far
imbued
With scorn of man, it little boots to
know;
But thus it was; and though in solitude
Small power the nipp'd affections have
to grow,
In him this glow'd when all l>ebide had
ceased to glow
On such as smile upon us, the heart
must
Leap kindly back to kindness, though
disgust
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings:
thus he felt,
For there was soft remembrance, and
sweet trust
In one fond breast, to which his own
would melt,
56 And there was one feoft breart. as hath
been said,
Which unto his wat» bound b\ stronger
ties
Than the church link* withal, and,
though unwed,
That love was pme, aud, far above
disguise,
Had stood the test of nuutal enmities
Still undivided, and cemented more
By peril, dreaded most in female eye*;
But this was firm, and fiom a forei&rn
shore
Well to that heart might his these absent
greetings pour!
1
The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom 'd trees,
And fields that promise corn* and wine,
And scatter 'd cities crooning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew 'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert tftov« with me,
2
And peasant girls, with deen blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise,
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray ;
And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,
to Byron's sister Angurta, who
' In ner lovt for Byron when he
ban of society See rtansa 56 ;
to A*m*tn no
582
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTI01BT8
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; 58
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, —
Tliy gentle hand to clasp in mine!
I send the lilies given to me,
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must wither M be,
But yet reject them not as such ;
For I have cherish M them as deai,
Because they jet ma> meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold 'tit them droop
And know'st them gather M by 1
And offer M from my heart to thine!
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some f rather beauty varying round ,Q
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound OW
Through life to dwell delighted here.
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine,
56 By Coblentz, on a nse of gentle ground.
There 1*1 a small and simple ]>>iunud.
Clowning the summit of the venlmit
mound ;
Beneath its bate aie heiues' ashe* hid,
Onr enemy 's— but let not that forbid
Honor to Marceau! o'er whose eail>
tomb
Tears, big tea is, gushM from the rough
soldiei \ lid.
Lamenting awl yet envying such a
doom,
Falling for France, whose rights he bat- 60
tied to resume.
57 Biief, brave, and glorious wab his
young career,—
Hib mourners were two hosts, Ins
friends and foes:
And fitly may tbe stranger lingering
here
Pray for his irnllant spirit 's briarlit
repose:
For he was Freedom's champion, one
of those,
The le\\ in number, who had not o'er-
Htept
The charter to chastise which she be- 61
stows
On suck ah wield her weapons; be had
kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men
o'er him wept.
Heie Ehrenbreitstein, with her shat-
ter M wall
Black with the miner 'b blast, upon her
height
Yet shows of what she was, when shell
and ball
Rebounding idly on hei strength did
A towei oi victory i from whence the
flight
Of baffled foes wab wntch'd along* the
plain •
But Peace destroy 'd what Wai could
ue\ei blight,
And laid those proud roofs bate to sum-
mer's rain—
On which the iron showei for years had
pour'd in vain
Adieu to thee, fan Rhine1 How long
delighted
The stranger fain uonld hngei on hi**
way!
Thine is a scene alike uheie souN
united
Or lonely Contemplation thus mi^ht
stray,
And could the ceaseless vultuies <vas«'
to prey
On self-condcninini! bosoms, it \\eu»
heie.
Wheie Natme, nm too sombie noi too
say.
Wild but not iiidc, imful yet not aus-
teie.
Ts to the mellow earth n*> autumn to the
year.
Adieu to thee aigam! a \am adieu!
TluMe (an be no farewell to scene like
thine:
The innid is color 'd by thy ever} hue.
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherish 'd gaze upon thee, lo\elv
Rhine f
'Tis with the thankful heart of parting
piaipe,
Moic mighty spots ma> use. more glar-
ing shine,
Rut none unite in one attaching maze
The bnlliant, fair, and roft,— the srlorie«
of old days.
The negligently grand, the fruitful
bloom
Of coining ripeness, the white city's
sheen,
The Tolling stream, tin- piecipiee'a
gloom,
LORD BYRON
538
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls
between,
The wild rocks shaped as they had tur-
rets been,
In mockery of man's art, and these
withal
A race of faces happy as the scene.
Whose fertile bounties here extend to
all,
Still springing o'er thy banks, thouirh
empiiep near them fall 66
62 Bnt these leecde. Above me aie the
Alps.
The palaces of Nature. \\hose vast
walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy
scalps,
And thioned Kternity in icy halls
Of cold sublnmt>, wheie foims and
falls
Tlie inalanehe — the thunderbolt of
smro *
All that expands the spmt, yet appals.
(intber around these summits, as to
show
How earth mav pieice to heaven vet
lea\e A am man below
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic baud,
All nnbought champions in no princely
cause
Of vice-entail 'd Corruption; they no
land
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of
laws
Making kings' rights divine, by some
Draconic clause !
By a lone wall a lonehei column rears
A array and grief -worn aspect of old
days,
'Tis the last leinnant ot the wieck of
years,
And looks as with the wild-bewilder 'd
63 But eie Uieso matchless beiglits I dare
to scan,
Theie is a spot should not be pass'd in
\am,—
Moral' the pumd, the patriot field1
wheie man
May gim* on ghastly ti opines of the
slam,
Nor blush for those ^ho conquer 'd on
that plain ;
Here Burgundy bequeath M bis tomb-
less host.
A bony heap, tlnouirb as»e*. to icniain,
Themsehes their monument, — the
St>gian coast 67
T7nsepulciired thev loani'd, and slmekM
each wandeinm i»ln*»t '
64 While Wnteiloo with Tannin's carnage
vies,
Morat and Marathon twin names shall
stand ,
They were true Glory's stainless vic-
tories,
Won by the unambitious heart and
hand
Of one to stone converted by amaze,
Vet still with consciousness , and theie
it stands
Making a man el that it not decays,
When the coeval pride of human hands,
Lc\cird A\euticum, hath stiewM her
subject lands
66 And there— oh! sweet and sacred be
tlie name1—
Julia— the daughter, the dexotcd— gave
Ilei youth to Heaven, hei heart, be-
neath a claim
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a
fathei 's gia\e -'
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and heis
would cra\e
The life she h\ed in, but the judue
was just,
Viid then she died on him she could not
save
Their tomb was simple, and without a
• bust,
And held within their urn one mind, one
heart, one dust
allunlon to the fluponttttou that the spirits
of unhnrled mon could not paw the rlvei
Btvxt which Itftinded linden
But these are deeds which should not
pass away,
And names that must not wither, though
the earth
Forgets her empiies with a just decay.
The enslavei s and the enslaved, their
death and birth;
Tlie high, the mountain-majesty of worth
lThe code of Draco, an Athenian lawgiver of
the Reventh century, wa« noted for ita free
u«e of the death penalty
JA reference to the ntorv of Jnlla Alptnula.
who was thought to have died after vainly
trying to <ia\c the life of her father, who wan
condemned to death as a traitor by Aulu«
Oclnia Byron's Information waa derived
from an innerlptlon on a monument nine*
proved to bo forged
534
NINKTJ3KNT11 UUNTURY ROMANTICISTS
Should be, and shall, survivor of its
woe.
And from its immortality look forth
Tn the sun's face, like yonder Alpine
• snow,
Imperishably pure beyond all things be-
low
68 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal
face,
The mirror where the stars and moun-
tains view
The stillness of their aspect in each
trace
Its clear depth yields of their far height
and hue:
There is too much of man here, to look
through
With la fit mind the might which T
behold;
But soon m me shall Loneliness renew
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish M
than of old,
Ere mingling' with the herd had penn'd
me in their fold
69 To fly from, need not be to hate, man-
kind.
All are not fit with them tn qfn anil
toil,
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, le«t it overboil
In the hot throng, where we become
the spoil
Of our infection, till too late and long
We may deplore and struggle with the
In wretched interchange of wrong foi
wrong
Midst a contentious world, striving where
none are strong
70 There, in a moment we may plunge our
years
In fatal penitence, and in the blight
Of our own soul turn all our blood to
tears,
And color things to come with hues of
Night;
The race of life becomes a hopeles*
flight
To those that walk in darkness : on the
sea
The boldest steer but where their ports
invite;
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity1
Whose bark drives on and on, And
anchor 'd ne'er shall be,
' 8*e Shelley's Adonato, 80 -8 ff. (p. TS4)
71 Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly
sakef
By the blue rushing of the arrowy
Rhone,
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth
make
A i'air but i'rovtaid infant her O\MI
care,
Kissing its cues away ab ihene awake,—
Is it not better thus our lues to wear.
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to
inflict or bear?
72 I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me; and to me
High mountains aie a feeling,1 but the*
hum
Of human cities torture • I can see
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain.
Class 'd among creatures, when the soul
can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heav-
ing plain
Of ocean, or the stais, mingle, and not in
vain
73 And thus I am absorb 'd, and this is
life
I look upon the peopled desert past,
As on a place of agony and strife,
Where, for some BUI, to sorrow I was
cast,
To act and suffer, but remount at last
With a fresh pinion; which I feel to
spring,
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as
the blast
Which I would cope with, on delighted
wing,
Spuming the clay-cold bonds which round
our being cling.
74 And when, at length, the mind shall be
all free
From what it hates in this degraded
form,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall
be
Existent happier in the fly and worm.—
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be, shall I not
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more
warm?
* Bee Wordswortb'i lAnet Compote* » Few Miles
Above Tlntern Abbey, 70 ff. (p. 235).
LORD BYRON
585
The bodiless thought f the spirit of
each spot!
Of which, even now, I share at times the
immortal lot!
76 Are not the mountains, waves, and
skies, a part
Of me and of my soul, as 1 of them!
Is not the love of these deep in my
heart
With a pure passion 1 should I not con-
temn
All objects, if compared with these f
and stem
A tide of suffering:, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly
phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only tiun'd
below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts
which dare not glowf
76 But this is not my theme ; and T return
To that which is immediate, and require
Those who find contemplation in the
urn,
To look on one,1 whose cluM «ap once nil
fire,
A native of the laud where T respne
Tho clear air for a while— a
guest,
Where he became a being,— ulicnp
Wa* to be glorious, 'twn*» n foolish
quest,
The which to gain and keep, lie snci iflced
nil rest
77 Hero the nelf-toitunner ^ophnt. wild
Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over pasraon, and from
woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence. flr«t
drew
The breath which made him wi etched,
yet lie knew
How to make madness beautiful, and
cast
0 'er erring deeds and thoughts n heav-
enly hue
Of words, like sunbeam*, dazzling as
they past
The eyes, which o'er them shed teais
feelingly and fast.
78 His love was passion's essence-— as a
tree
On fire by lightning, with ethereal flame
Kindled he was/ and blasted; for to be
Thus, and enaznor'd, were to him the
same.
But his was not the love of living dame,
Nor of the dead who rise upon our
dreams,
But of ideal beauty, which became
In him existence, and o'er flowing teems
Along his burning page, distempered
though it seems.
79 TJas breathed itself to life in Julie, thu
Invested her with all that's wild and
sweet,
This hallow 'd, too, the memorable kiss
Which every morn his fever'd lip would
greet,
From hers, who but with friendship
his \\ould meet,1
But to that gentle touch through brain
and breast
Flash M the thrill 'd spirit's lo\e-devout-
ingheat,
In that absorbing sigh ]>erchance more
blest
Than \nlgar minds may be with all they
seek possest
80 His life was one long war with self-
sought foes,
Or fi lends by him self -banish 'd , for
his mind
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and
chose,
For its own cruel sacnfice, the kind,
'Gainst whom he raged with furv
strange and blind
But he was phrensied.— wherefore, who
may know!
Since cause might be which skill could
never find ;
But he was phrensied by disease or woe,
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a
reasoning show
81 For then he was inspired, and from
him came,
As from the Pythian 's mystic cave of
yore,
Those oracles which set the world in
flame,
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were
no more
Did he not this for France f which lay
before
»Jean Jicquoi ROUMMUU (1712-7R), who *a« kin which was the
horn m Geneva. French acquaintance
1 la nil ConfMHom (Bk. 9) Rousseau fires an
account of hla passion for Madame D'Bel
bach, whom he met every moraine for tho
klas which waa the common salutation of
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIC18TB
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years f 85
Broken and trembling to the yoke she
bore,
Till by the voice of him and hia coin-
peers
Roused up to too much wrath, which fol-
lows o'ergrown fearsf
82 They made themscKes a fearful monu-
ment !
The wreck of old opinions — thmg>
which grew.
Breathed from 1he birth of timo the
veil the> rent.
And what behind it lav, all earth shall
\iew
But good with ill they also overthrew.
Leaving but nuns, wherewith to rebuild
Upon the same foundation, and renew 86
Dungeon* and tin ones which the same
hour refilPd,
A« heretofore, because ambition was self-
will'd.
83 But this will not endure, noi be en-
dured!
Mankind have felt their stienuth, and
made it felt
They might have used it better, but
allured
Bv their new vigor, sternly have they
dealt
On one another; pity ceased to melt
With her once natural charities But
they,
Who in oppression's darkness caved 87
had dwell,
They were not eagles, nomish'd uith
the day,
What maivel then, at times, if they mis-
took their preyt
84 What deep wounds ever closed without
a seai f
The hem t 's bleed longest , and but heal
to wear
That which disfigures it ; and they who
With theii oun hopes and have been
vanquished, beai
Silence, but not submission : in his lair
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until 88
the hour
Which shall atone for years; none need
despair:
It came, it cometh, and will come,—
the power
To punish or forgive— in one we shall be
slower.
Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted
lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a
thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to
forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer
spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To watt me from distraction; once T
loved
Tom Ocean's roar, but thy soft mur-
muring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice re-
proved,
That I with stern delights should e'er
have been so moved.
It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy niaigin and the mountains, dusk,
yet clear,
Mellow 'd and mingling, >et distinctly
seen,
Sa\e darken 'd Jura, whose capt heights
appear
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near,
Theie breathes a living fragrance from
the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on
the ear
Drops the light dnp of the suspended
oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night
carol more;—
He is an evening re\eller, who makes
His life nn int'ancv. and sings his fill,
At intervals, some bird from out the
btakes
Stints into voice a moment, then is
still
There seems a floating whisper on the
hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight
dews
All silently their tear* of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they in-
fuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of
her hues
Ye stars! which are the poetry of
heaven f
If in your bright leaves we would read
the fate
Of men and empires,— 'tis to be for-
given,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o Vrleap their mortal state,
LORD BYRON
537
And claim a kindred with you; for ye 92
are
A beauty aud a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from
afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have
named themselves a star.
M All heaven and earth are still— though
not in sleep,1
But breathless, as we grow when feel-
ing most,
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too
deep-—
All heaven and earth are still. From the
high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and moun-
tain-coast,
All is concentei 'd in a life intense, 93
Where not a beam, nor air, nor feat1
is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which w of all Creator and De-
fence
90 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, wheie we aie leant alone,
A tiuth. i\hich through oui being then
doth melt.
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul mid source of music, which
makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm
Like to the fabled (Mheiea's swme,J
Rinding all things with beauty , —
'twould disarm 94
The spectre Death, hnd he substantial
power to harm.
91 Not \amly did the early Persian make
Ills altar the high places, and the peak
Of eartli-o'ergazmg mountains, and
thus take
A fit and mm all M temple, there to
seek
The Spirit, in A\hose honor shrines are
weak,
Dprear'd of human hands Come, and
compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or
Greek,
With Nature's realms of worship, earth
and air, 95
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe
thy pray'r!
» Bee WordBWorth'R tt In a Beauteous Evening
Calm ant Fw (p KM)
J Tti? srlrrtl* nf VPHIIM « Won Innpf 1*4 love
Thy sky is changed !— and such a
change! Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are won-
drous strong,
Yet lovely in your stiength, as is the
light
Of a daik eye m woman ! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags
among
Leaps the b\e thunder* Not from one
lone cloud,
Rut every mountain now hath found a
tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty
shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her
aloud f
And this is in the night:— Most glorious
night !
Thou wert not sent for slumber* let
me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of theef
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric
sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the
earth'
And now again 'tis black,— and now
the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its moun-
tain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth-
quake's birth.
Now, (where the swift Rhone cleaves his
way between
Heights which appear as lo\ers who
have parted1
In hate, whose mining depths so inter-
vene,
That they can meet no more, though
broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each
othei thwarted,
Love *as the *ery root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life'? bloom, and
then departed*
Itself expned, but leading them an age
Of years all winters,— war within them-
selves to wage
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath
cleft his wav,
The mightiest of the ^torms hath ta'en
his stand-
fp
538
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTiClttTtt
For here, not one, but many, make their
play,
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand
to hand.
Flashing and cast around; of all the
band.
The brightest through these parted bills 99
hath fork'd
His lightnings,— as if he did under-
stand
That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever
therein lurk'd.
96 Sky, mountains, rivers, winds, lake,
lightning! yet
With night, and clouds, and thunder,
and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well
maybe
Things that have made me watchful,
the far roll
Of your departing voices, is the knoll1
Of what in me is sleepless,— if I rest
But where of ye, 0 tempests! is the100
goal!
Are ye like those within the human
breast f
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some
high nestt
97 Could I embody and unbosom now
That which is most within me,— could
I wreak
My thoughts upon expiesfeion, and thus
throw
Soul, heart, mind, passion*, feelings,
strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, and all
I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe— into.-.
one word,
And that one word were Lightning, I
would speak;
But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing
it as a sword.
98 The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek
all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with play-
ful scorn,
And living as if earth contain M no
tomb,—
And glowing into day: we may resume
The march of our existence • and thus I,
» knell
Still on thy shores, fair Leuiari! may
find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much, that may give us pause, if pon-
der M fittingly.
Glarens! sweet Clareus, birthplace of
deep Love!
Thine air is the young breath of pas-
sionate thought;
Thy trees take root in Love, the snows
above
The very glaciers have his colors caught,
And sun-set into rose-hues sees them
wrought
By rays which sleep there lovingly • the
rocks,
The permanent crags, tell here of Love,
who sought
In them a refuge from the worldly
shocks,
Which fetir and sting the soul with hope
that woos, then mocks.
Clarens » by heavenly feet thy paths are
trod,—
Undying Love's, who here ascends a
throne
To which the steps are mountains;
where the god
Is a pervading life and light,— so shown
Not on those summits solely, nor alone
In the still cave and forest; o'er the
flower
His eye is sparkling, and his breath
hath blown,
His soft and summer breath, whose ten-
der power
Passes the strength of storms in their most
desolate hour.
AH things are here of him; from the
black pines,
Which are his shade on high, and the
loud roar
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the
vines
Which slope his green path downward
to the shore,
Where the bow'd ^ateis meet him, and
adore,
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the
wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all
hoar,
But light leaves, young as joy, stands
m where it stood,
Offering to him, and his, a populous
solitude.
LOBD BYBON
589
108 A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And f airy-form 'd and m any-color 'd
things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet
than words,
And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and lull of life, the gusli of
springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the
bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which
brings
The swiftest thought of beauty, here
extend, 1ftA
Mingling, and made by Love, unto onelwo
mighty end
103 He who hath kned not, here would learn
that lore,
And make his heart a spirit, he who
knows
That tender mystery, will love the more,
For this is Love's recess, wheie vain
men 's woes.
And the world f* \iaste, have driven bun
fai from those.
For 'tis his nntnip to advance or die;
He stands not still, but or decavs, or 107
grow*
Into a boundless blessing, which nun
vie
With the immortal lights, m its eternity!
104 Twas not for fiction chow? Rousseau
this spot,
Peopling it with affections, but he
found
It was the scene which Passion must
allot
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas
the ground
Where early Love his Ity die's zone
unbound,1
And hallow M it with loveliness, ftis
lone, 1M
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a
sound.
And sense, and sight of sweetness, here
the Rhone
TIath spread himself a couch, the Alps
have rear'd a throne.
105 Lausanne* nnd Forney1 ye have been
the abodes
Of names which unto you bequeath M a
name,2
reforenoo to thp legend of Cupid nn«l Ffw
uilrr (IfflM 177sf nn.l <J|l.hAn (171704)
Mortals, who sought and found, by
dangerous roads,
A path to perpetuity of fame.
They were gigantic minds, and their
steep aim
Was, Titan-like, on dainig doubts to
pile
Thoughts which should call down thun-
der, and the flame
Of Heaven again assail M, if Heat en the
while
On man and man's reseaich could deign
do more than smile
The one was fiie and fickleness,1 a child.
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind
A wit as various,- gay, giave, sage, or
wild,-
Histonan, bard, philosopher, combined:
He multiplied himself among mankind.
The Proteus of their talents , but his ou n
Bieathed most in ridicule,— which, as
the wind,
Blew where it listed,2 laying all tiling
prone,—
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to
shake a throne
The other, deep and slow, exhausting
thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious
year,
Tn meditation dwelt, with learning
wrought,
And shaped his weapon with an edge
severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn
sneei ,
The lord of irony,— that master-spell,
Which stung hi* foes to wrath, which
irrew from feai,
And doomM him to the zealot \ teach
Hell,
Which answers to all doubts so eloquen+lv
well.
Yet, peace be with their ashes,— for by
them,
1 f merited, the penalty is paid ,
It is not ouis to judge,— far less con-
demn ;
The hour must come when such things
shall be made
Known untn all, or hope and dread
allay M
By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust,
'Voltaire. Btanu 107 refers to Gibbon Roth
of thene men were ftkeptlm See ntnnui 105
nlfio Gibbon's The History of thr Dechnr and
Fall of the Roman RmtUrr, ihaptcrv 1R-1A
3 Snr JnftH , ft 9
640
NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Which, thus much we are sure, must be
decay M;
And when it bhall revne, as w our trust,
'Twill be to be forgiven, 01 suffer what is
just.
109 But let me quit man's works, again to
read
His Maker's, spiead aitmnd me, and
suspend
This page, which from my icvenes I
feed,
Until it seems prolonging without end
The clouds above me to the white Alps 113
tend,
And I must pierce them, and suney
what e'er
May be permitted, as my steps 1 bend
To their most great and gnnung legion.
where
The earth to her embiace compels the
powers of an
110 Italia! too, Italia f looking on thee,
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages.
Since the fieiee Carthaginian1 almost
won thee.
To the last halo of the duels and sages
Who glonf y thy consecrated pages ,
Thou wert the tin one and cna^e ot em-
pires, still 114
The fount at uhich the panting mind
assuages
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing theie
her fill,
Plows from the eternal source of Home's
imperial hill.
111 Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
Renew 'd with no kind auspices -—to feel
We are not what we ha\e been, and to
deem
We aie not what we should be. and to
The heart against itself, and to conceal.
With a proud caution, lo\e, or hate, or
aught,—
Passion or feeling, purpose, minf or
zeal,— 115
Which is the hraut spirit of our
thought,
Is a stem task of soul —no matter,— it is
taught.
112 And for these words, thus woven into
song,
It may be that they are a harmless
wile,—
* Hannibal, In tht frrmid Punic Wnr, 21 A It P
The coloring of the scenes which fleet
along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to be-
guile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am
not
So young as to regard men's frown or
smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ;
1 stood and stand alone,— remember 'd or
forgot
I have not loved the world, nor the
woild nit1,1
1 have not flattci 'd its rank breath, nor
bow'd
To its idolatiies a patient knee,
Koi com M my cheek to smiles, 1101 cried
aloud
In worship of an echo, in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such ,
T stood
Amongst them, but not of them, in a
sin ond
Of thoughts which woie not their
thoughts, and still could,
Hud I not tiled-' my min<l. \\hicli thus
itself "iibdned
T ha\e not lo\ed the \\oild, nor the
world me,—
Hut let us part fair ioex, J do lx»lie\e,
Though 1 have ioiiml them not, that
there may be
Words which aie things, hopes which
will not deceive,
And vntues uhieh are meiciful, nor
Snaies lor I he failing, T uonld
deem
O'ei others' grief's that some sincerely
That two, 01 one, aie almost what they
seem,
That goodness m no name, and happiness
no dream.
M> daughter* utith thv name this Bong
begun ;
My daughter! with thy name thus much
shall end ,
I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapt in thee, thou art the
friend
To whom the shadows of far yean ex-
tend:
' Rw Manfred. II, 2, 60 ff (n 557)
rt <FW Mftrbctlt. III. 1. 64 )
LOUD BYRON
541
Albeit my brow thou never sbouldst
behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions
blend,
And reach into thy heart, when mine i-
cold,
A token and & tone, even from thy father's
mould
116 To aid thy mind 'R development, to watch
Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see
Almost thy very growth, to view thee
catch
Knowledge of objects,— Bonders yet t»
thee'
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's
klBB,-
This, it should seem, was not reserved
for me;
Tet this was in my natuie as it is,
I know not what is there, vet something
like to this.
117 Yet, though dull hate as dut> should he
tn ught,
I know that thou wilt lo\e me. though
my name
Should be shut from thee, ns a <*pell still
fraught
With desolation, and a hioken claim
Though the grave closed between us.—
'twcie the same,
T know that thou wilt lo\e me, though
to drain
3/i/ blood from out thy heuiir \\eie an
aim,
And an attainment,— all mould he in
vain,—
Still thou wonldst 1o\e me, still that more
than life retain
118 The child of lo\e, though born in bitter-
ness,
And nurtured in convulsion,— of thy sire
These were the elements, and thine no
less
As yet such are aiouml thee. but thy flie
Shall be more tempei 'd, and thy hope
far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slnmbcis! O'er
the sea
And from the mountains where I now
respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon
thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might's!
have been to me.
From CANTO IV
1817 1818
1 I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of
Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures
rise
As from the stroke of the enchantei 's
wand:
A thousand yeais their cloudy \ungs
expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject
land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble
piles,1
Where Venice sate in state, throned on
her hundred isles f
2 She looks a sea Cybelc, fresh iinm
ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud toweis
At any distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers
And such she was,— her daughter* had
their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaust -
less East
Pour'd in hei lap all gems m sparklmu
showers
In put pie \v as she lohed. and of lu»i
feast
Monarchs partook, and doem'd their dic-
nity increased
3 Tn Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent io\\s the songless gondohei ,-
Hei palaces aie crumbling to the shore.
And music meets not always now the
ear:
Those days are gone— but Beauty still
is here.
States fall, arts fade-hut Nat me doth
not die,
Nor yet foriret how Venue once was
dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity
The revel of the earth, the masque of
Italy!
4 But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms
despond
i The winged Lion of St Mark standt on a
column near the Ducal Palace
•Before the capture of Venice by Napoleon, In
1707, the gondoliers were accuatomed to ring
atanaa* of Tamo'a Jcrntalem Dclivrrrt Bee
Roxers's The <lo»4ola (p 211).
542
N1NKTKUNT11 CKNTURY ROMANTICISTS
Above the dogeless city's vanish 9d
sway;1
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn
away—
The keystones of the arch! though all
were o'er,
For us ippenplcd \\ere the «*olitary
The beings of the mind are not of clay .
Essentially immortal, they create 15
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence : that which
Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits
supplied,
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ,
Watering the hearts whose early flowers
have died,
And with a freshet srio^vth replenishing
the void.
13 Before St Mark still glow his steeds of
brass,2
Their gilded collars glittering in the
sun ,
But is not Dona's menace come to pass?
Are they not bi idled f— Venice, lost and
won,
ITei thirteen bundled years of freedom
done,
Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she
rose*
Better be whelm 'd beneath the waves,
and fehun,
K\cn in destruction's depth, hei f 0101211
foes,
From whom submission wrings an in-
famous repose
14 In youth she was all glory,— a new
Tyie,
Her \e\y by-woid sprung from victoij,
The "Planter of the Lion,"3 which
through fire
And blood she bore o'er subject enrth
and sea;
1 The territory of Venire wan taken by Franco
and Aoitria In 1797 Bee Wordftworth** On
the Extinction of the Venetian Republic (p
"The famou* bronte rteertH of 8t Mark's
Church, which the Genoene commander Dorta
Mid In 1370, ho should bridle before Riving
wan the emblem of the
Though making many slaves, herself
still free,
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Otto-
mite ,l
Witness Troy'b nval, Candiai Vouch
it, ye
Immortal \vaves that saw Lepanto's
fight!
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can
blight
Statues of glass— all shiver 'd— the long
file
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust;
But where they dwelt, the vast and
sumptuous pile
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid
trust,
Their sceptic broken, and their sword
in rust,
Have yielded to the strangei • empty
halls,
Thin streets, and foreign aspects Mich
as must
Too oft remind hei who and what
enthrals,
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice'
lovely walls
16 When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse,-'
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of
war,
Redemption rose up in the Attie Muse,
Her voice their only ransom from afar*
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the
ear
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the
reins
Fall from his hands, his idle scimitar
Starts from its belt— he rends his cap-
tive's chains,
And bids him thank the bard for freedom
and his strains.
17 Thus, Venice, if no stronger elaim were
thine,
Were all thy proud historic deeds for-
got,
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine,
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the
knot
blic of Venice.
1 The Venetian! defended Candta, in Crete,
aoalnrt the Turk* for 24 yean. Troy was be-
. J?6!*1 J° 7,®*™ b? the Greeks.
-' Plutarch relates, In hla Life of Mote*, that
after the Athenian! had been defeated and
captured at flyracuae (5th cent B C ), thow
" recite para ' ' ~
.were «et L— - --•
, 120 ff
Damage* from the work* of
net free Bee Browning**
LORD BYRON
543
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy
lot
IB shameful to the nations,— most of all,
Albion I to thee* the Ocean queen
should not
Abandon Ocean's children, m the fall
Of Venice, think of thine, despite th>
watery wall
18 I loved her from my boyhood , flhe to
me
Was as a fairy city of the heau,
Rising like water-columns from the sea
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the
mart;
And Otway, Radchffe, Schiller, Shak-
speare's art,1
Had stamp 'd her image in mo, and
even so,
Although I found her thus, we did not
part,
Perchance e\c>n dealer m her clay of
woe,
Than when she was a boast, a maivel. and
a show
19 I can repeople with the past— and of
The present theic i»- still for eye and
thought,
And meditation chasten 'd down, enough ,
And more, it mav be, than I hoped OT
sought ,
And of the happiest moments which
were wrought
Within the web of my existence, some
Prom thee, fair Venice' have then
colors caught
Theie are some feelings Tune cannot
benumb,
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be
cold and dumb.
25 But my soul unnders. T demand it
back
To meditate amongst decaj, and stand
A ruin amidst ruins, there to track
Fall'n states and buned greatness, o'ei
a land
Which was the mightiest in its oh} com-
mand, *
And is the loveliest, and must ever be
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly
hand ;
tOtway In Venice Pmtrred. Mnu Radcllffo to
T*« **f*arl«» of VM**o. Milter In T»f
GhQHt&er, Bhakipere Tn Tkr Jfrroftanf of
Vciticr and Othello.
Wherein were cast the heroic and the
free,
The beautiful, the brave, the lords of earth
and sea,
26 The commonwealth ot kings, the men oi
Rome*
\nd even since, and new , tan Italy f
Thou art the garden of the world the
home
Of all Art yields, and Natuie can de
cree,
Even m thy desert, what is like to theet
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More nch than other climes' fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy rum graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot
be defaced.
27 The moon is up, and yet it is not night .
Sunset dmdes the sk\ with her. a 'sea
Of glor> stieams along the Alpine
height
Of blue Fi mil's mountain*, TTea\en% i*
free
Pi oin Honds but of nil colon seems to
be,-
Melted to one vast Ins of the West,-
Whcre the Day joins the past Etermtj,
Wliile, on the other hand, meek Dian*>>
crest
Floats through the azure air— an island ot
the blest!
28 A single star is at her side, and icigns
With her o'er half the loxelv heaven,
but still
Yon sunny sea heaves bnghth, and re-
mains
Roll'd o'er the peak of the 1'ai Khartum
hill,
As Day and Night contending \vere
until
Nature reclaim 'd hei oidci —gently
flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, vhere their hues
instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose
Which streams upon hei stream, and
glass 'd within it glows.
29 FilPd with the face of Heaven, which
from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its
hues,
Fiom the rich sunset to the rising stat.
Their magical variety diffuse .
And now they chanure: a paler shadow
strews
544
NINKTtiKNTH CKNTUKY KOMANT1UJL8T8
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting
day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang
imbues
With a new color as it gasps away.
The last still loveliest,— till— 'tis gone—
and all is gray. 95
78 Oh Rome ' my country T city *of the soul !
The orphans of the heait must turn to
thee,
Lone motlici of dead empires ' and con-
trol
In their shut breasts their petty misery
What are our woes and sufferance?
Come and see
The cypress,1 hear the oul, and plod
your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and tem-
ples, Ye'
Whose agonies are evils of a day—
A world is at om feet as fragile as our
clay
79 The Niobc of nations ' there she stands,
Childless and cnwnless, in her voiceless
woe;
An empty urn within hei withered
hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter 'd long
ago,
The Seipios' tomb contains no ashes
now;
And say, "here was, or is," where all is
doubly night 1
I speak not of men's creeds— they rest
between
Man and his Maker— but of things al-
low'd,
AverrM, and known, and daily, hourly
• seen:-
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd,
And the intent of tyianny avow'd,
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are
grown
The apes of him1 who humbled once the
proud,
And shook them from their slumbers on
the throne-
Too glorious, wore this all his mighty arm
had done
96 Can
The very sepulchres lie tenant less
Of then IIPIOIC dwellers, dost thon
flow,
Old Tibei ! thiough n nimble wilder-
ness?
Rise, with Ihj yellow waves, and mantle „ But Fnmw,
tyrants but by tyrants conquerM be,
And Freedom find no champion and no
child
Ruch as Columbia SBM arise ^lu»n she
Sprung forth a Pallas, ainiM and unde-
filed?
Or must such minds be noundi'd in the
wild,
Deep in the unpinned forest, 'midst the
roar v
Of cataracts wlu»rt» nursing Nature
smiled
On infant Washington * Has Earth no
more
Such Beedfl within her breast, or Em ope no
such shore f
her distress.
80 The Goth, the Christian, Time, Wai,
Flood, and Fire,
Ha\e dealt upon the se% en-hill 'd city's
pnde;
She saw her ploiies star by stai
expire. ,
And up the steep barbarian monarehs
ride,
Where the car climb 'd the Capitol; far
and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left
a site:
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the
void,
*The cypmm In an emblem of mourning; It !•
a common tree in
drunk with blood to
vomit crime,
And fatal have her Saturnalia been
To Freedom's cause, in every age and
clime;
Because the deadly davs which we have
seen,2
And vile Ambition, that built up between
Man and bis hopes an adamantine wall,
And the base pageant last upon the
scene,
Are grown the pretext for the eternal
thrall
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's
worst— his second fall.
i Napoleon
*The day* of the Ctojnrew of Vienna, of the
Holy Alliance, and of the Second Treaty of
,
PAriN (Rept-Noy. 181R). Them* cwmmnte
the "bane pageant** of 1. A. 7.
LOKD BtfBON
545
98 Yet, Freedom! yet thy bannei, torn but
Streams like the thunder-storm against
the wind;
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now
and dying,
The loudest still the tempest leaves be-
hind;
Thy tree hath lost its blowsoms, and the
rind,
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and lit-
tle worth, 131
But the rap lasts, and still the seed we
find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the
North -1
So shall a better Spring less bitter fruit
bring forth.
128 Arches on arches * as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all hei triumphs in one
dome,
Her Coliseum stands, the moonbeams
shine
As 'twere its natinal torches, for divine
Should be the light which streams here 132
to illume
This long-explored but still exhaustle«*s
mine
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies
assume
129 Hues which have words, and speak to
ye of heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous
monument,
And shadows forth its crlorv Theie is
given
Unto the things of earth, which Time
hath bent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath
leant 138
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is
a power
And magic in the ruin'd battlement.
For which the palace of the piesent
hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages
are its dower.
ISO Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead,
Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath
bled;
t England
Tune! the eorrectui when oui judg-
ments err,
The test of truth, love— sole philoso-
pher,
For all beside are sophists— from thy
thrift,
Which nevei loses though it doth defei —
Time, the avenger f unto thee I lift
My handb, and eyes, and heart, and crave
of thee a gift
•
Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made
a shrine
And temple more divinely desolate,
Among thy mightier offerings here are
mine,
Rums of yeais, though few, yet full of
fate-
If thou hast ever seen me too elate,
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne
(jood, and resened my pnde against the
hate
Which shall not whelm me. let me not
hai e worn
This iron in my soul in vain— shall they
not mourn 1
And thou, who never yet of human
wrong
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis !
Here, wheie the ancient paid thee
homage long—
Thou who didst call the Furies from the
abyss,
And round Orestes bade them howl and
hiss
For that unnatural retribution1— just,
Had it but been from hands less near—
in this
Th> f miner icalni, T call thee fiom the
dust '
Dost thou not hear mv henit?— Awake'
thou shalt, and must
It is not that T may not have incurr'd
For my ancestral f milts 01 mine the
-wound
I bleed withal, and, had it. been con-
ferr'd
With a just weapon, it had flo\i \1 un-
bound;
But now my blood shall not sink in the
ground :
To thee I do devote it—tlimi shalt take
The \engeance, which shall yet be
sought and found,
1Thc ulavlnR of his mother nml her lover, who
together hud Wiled hi* father, Ami moron on
546
NINETEENTH CENT UK Y AOMANT10I8T8
Which it* / have not taken for the
sake
But let that pass— T sleep, bnt thou shalt
yet awake
134 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not
that now
I shrink from \ihat is suffer 'd- let him
speak
, Who hath beheld decline upon uiy biou.
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it
'weak.
But in this page a record will I seek
Not m the air shall these my words dis-138
perse,
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall
wreak
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse,
And pile on human heads the mountain of
my curse !
135 That curse shall be Forgiveness —Have
Inot-
ITeai me, my mother Earth1 InOiold it.
Heaven '
Ha\e I not had to wiestle with ni\ lot 7
Ha\e I not suffer'd things to be foi-
given t
Hme I not had my hi am seai M, mv
heart riven,
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's
life lied away? 139
And only not to despeiation dm en.
Because not altogether of such clav
As lots into the souls of those whom T
survey
136 From mighty wrongs to pett> peifiih
Have I not seen what human thinirs
could do?
From the loud roar of foaming calumny
To the small whisper of the as paltn
few,
And subtler venom of the reptile cieu,
The Janus orlance of \\hose significant
eye,
Learning to lie with silence, would seem
true,
And* without utterance, save the shing
or sigh, 140
Deal round to happy fools its speechless
obloquy.
137 But I have lived, and have not lived in
vain-
My mind may lose its force, my blood
its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquei-
ingpain;
But there is Iliat within me which shall
tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when J
expire,
Something unearthly, which they deem
not of,
Like the reniembei'd tone of a mute
lyre,
Shall on their soften M spirits sink, and
mo\e
In hearts all rocki no\\ tlie late remoise
of love
The seal is set \o\\ welcome, thou
dread po^ei T
Nameless, jet thus omnipotent, which
here
Walk'st in (lie shadow of the niidiuglil
hour
With a deep awe, >et all distinct fiom
fear;
Thy haunts arc CACI uhcic the dead
walls rcai
Their ny mantles, and the solemn scene
Denves iiom thee a spimo so deep and
cleai
That we become a p.ut of \\hat has
been,
And iriow unto the spot, all-seems* bill
unseen
And here the hii/as of cagei nations inn,
Tn inunmiiM pitv, 01 lond-ioai'd ap-
plause,
As man uas slanuhlei M In his fello\\-
man
And wheiefoio slaughter M 9 \\lieiefore,
but because
Such \\eie the hlooth ('liens' i*eni,il
laws,
And the impeiial i»le.isuie —Wheiefoie
not*
What matters wheie A\e tall to fill the
mams
Of woiins— on battle-plains 01 listed
spoil1
Both rfie but theatres mheie the chief
actors rot
T see before me the Gladiator be:1
He leans up his hand— bis manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his droop M head sinks gradually
low—
1 That In, field of the Hut. or tournament
'RuRmted by the Htatue formerly called The
Dylno Gladiator, bnt now thought to repre-
M»nt a wounded warrior, and hence called
The Dyitiff <la*l It 1« In the Moneum of the
Capitol
LOUD BtfKON
547
And through his side the last drops,
ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by
one,
Like the tint of a thunder-Hhowei , and
now
The arena swims around him— ho
gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hnilM
the wretch who \\oii
141 Ho heard it, but he hoedod not— his eyes
Were with his heart, and that uas far
away;
He leck'd not of the hie he lost nor
prize,
But where his rude hut Irv the Danube
lay,
There \veio Ins -voiing barbarians nil at
play.
There AMIS their Ihieinri mothoi1— ho,
their sue,
Butcher 'd to moke a Roman holiday—
All this rush'd with his blood -Shall he
expire j
And unavenged f Anne, ve Goths, and
•slut v>ui n ef
142 But here, where Muicler bieathed hei
bloody si i earn.
And here, \\licii- hiix/nm nations clinked
144
And roar'd 01 muimui'd like n moun-
tain stream
Dashing 01 winding as its torrent stiays,
Heie, where the Roman million's blame
or pi a iso,
Wns death or life, the pla> things of a
eiowd.
My \oioe sounds much— and fall the
stais' faint lays
On the aionn \oid-seats ciushM— nail*
how'd-
And iralleiies, nheie mv Meps seem echoes 175
shaiiselv loud
148 A nun— yet \\hat rum1 from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities, lime boon
renr'd;
Vet oft the onounous skeleton >e pass.
And marvel where the spoil could ha\e
appear 9d
Hath it indeed been plunder M, or but
clear 'dt
Alas! developed, opens the decay,
i After Trajan had conquered the region north
of the Lower Danube and bad made It Into the
Roman piwlnce of Dacla (101 B. C), he
carried 10,000 captive* to Rome and exhib-
ited them In eombati for the amnacment of
the people.
When the colossal fabric's form is
near'd:
It will not bear the brightness of the
day,
Which streams too much on all years, man,
have reft away.
But when the rising moon begins to
climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses
there,
\\hen the stars twinkle through the
loops of time,
And the low mght-bieeze waves along
the air
The gailand-foiest, which the gray
walls weai,
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's
head,1
When the light shines serene but doth
not glare,
Then m this ma^ic cnclo laise the dead
Heroes have trod this spot— 'tis on their
dust ye tread
"While stands the Coliseum. Rome shall
stand ;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall
fall.
And when Rome falls— the Woild "2
Fiom oiu own land
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mi?ht>
'Rail
In Saxon times, nhich wo are wont to
call
Ancient, and those thiee moital thing**
are still
On their loundations. and unaltered all,
Rome and her Rum past Redemption's
skill,
The World, the same wide den — of
thieves, or \\hut ye will
• • • •
But T forget.— My pilgrim's shrine is
won,
And ho and I must part,— so lot it be,—
llis task and mine alike are nearly done ;
1 "Ruetonlu* inform* us that Julius derar was
particular!} gratified M that decree of the
senate *lilch enabled him to wear a itroath of
In in el on all octagon* He was anxlou* not
to show that be was the conqueror of the
world, but to hide that he was bald "—Byron
See Ruetonius'H Lire* of the Cmtar*. 1, 45
34ThlM is quoted in The fi<rh*c and Fall of the
Roman Empire as a proof that the Coliseum
*at entire when aeen by the Anglo-Haxon pil-
grims at the end of the seventh, or the begin-
ning of the eighth century" — Byron Bee
Gibbon'* The U fefory of the Dcriftir and Fall
of the Roman Kmtfre, ch 71 (1802 ed. p
ft&S) ; Gibbon gives the source of hU quotation
in a foot-note, — namely, Bede'a Ulo**ari*m
(ed. Basil), 2, 407.
548
NlNIJTKtiNTll CENTUKV ROMANT1C1BTH
Yet once more let OB look upon the sea ,179
The midland ocean1 breaks on him and
me,
And from the Alban Mount we now
behold
Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which.
when we
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock2 unfold
Those waves, we follow 'd on till the dark
Euxine roll'd
176 Upon the blue Symplegades Long
years-
Long, though not very many— since
have done
Their work on both; some suffering and
some tears
Have left us nearly where we had
begun:
Tet not in vain our mortal race hath
run; 180
We have our own reward, and it n
here,—
That we can yet feel gladden 'd by the
sun,
And reap from eaith, sea, joy almost
as dear
As if there were no man In trouble what
is clear.
177 Oh I that the desert were my dwelling-
place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,*1
That I might all forget the human race.
And, hating no one, love but only hei !
Ye elements!— in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted— Can ye not
Accord me such a being t Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot!
Though with them to converse can rarely181
be our lot
178 There u> a pleasure in the pathless
woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shoie,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, m which I
steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe,4 and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all
conceal.
tbe Medlterra-
o England
n'§ titter Augusta.
MO. toJUBK f
» Cfcnto III, 72. 8-9 (j
to Auff***<*. 81 £ (P. w
Bee Epistle to An-
&84)
).
afeo KpMlc
Boll on, thou deep and dark blue
Ocean— roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in
vain;
Man marks the earth with rum— his
control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery
plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor dotli
remain
A shadow of man's lavage, save his
own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of
rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling
groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd,
and unknown '
His steps are not upon thy paths,— thy
fields
Are not a spoil for him,— thou dost rise
And phake him from thee; the vile
strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all
despise,
Spuming him fiom th\ bosom to the
skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy play-
ful spray
And howling, to his god*, where haph
lies
His petty hope in some near port 01
bay,
And dashest him again to earth:— there
let him lav
The armaments winch thunderstnke the
walls
Ol rock-built cities, bidding nations
quake,
And monaichs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whowe huge nhs
make
Their clay cieatoi the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of wai —
These are thy toys, and, as the micro y
flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves,
which mar
Alike tbe Armada's pride or spoils of
Trafalgar.2
* See Scott's The Lay of th< Last Mitutrel, 6,
14-16 (n. 444).
•Over half of the Spanish fleet whl<»h nailed
agAlnftt England In 1588 wai dontroyed in a
wa-fttorm, an were aluo mont of the French
qhltm raptured by Nelnon at Trafalgar, In
LOKD BYBON
549
182
Thy blioreb aie em put*, changed in all
save thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Caithage, what
are they!
Thy waters wash'd them po\\ei while
they were liec,
And many a tyiant snue, then shine*
obey
The btnugei, sla\e, 01 ba\agc, then
decay
Has dried up realm* to deceits —not so!86
thouj—
Unchangeable, NUC to thy *ild zincs'
play,
Tune wnteb no winikle on thine azuie
blow
Such as creation 'b dawn beheld, thou
rollesl
183 Thou gloiious mm 01, uheie the Al-
mighty's f 01 m
Glasses itself in tempests, m all time,—
Calm 01 convulsed, in breeze, 01 frule, or
storm,
Icing the pole, 01 in the ton id eliine
Dark-heaving— boundless, endless, and
sublime,
The image of EtcimU, the ihione
Of the Invisible, e\cn iiom out thy
slime
The monsteis of the deep aie made,
each zone
Obeys thee, thou goes! forth, diead,
fathomless, alone
184 And I ha\e loved thee, Ocean » and my
Of youthful sports \ins on lli> hi east
to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, unpaid 1i»m
a boy
I wanton 'd with thy bieakeis— the> to
me
Were a delight; and if the freshening
sea
Made them a terroi — 'twas a pleasing
fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and neai,
And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do
here.
186 My task is done, my song hath ceased,
my theme
Has died into an echo; it is fit
The spell should break of this pro-
tracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguish 'd which
hath lit
My midnight lamp— and what is wnt,
is wnt;
Would it were worthier! hut I am not
now
That which 1 have been— and m> visions
flit
Less palpably before me— and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering,
faint, and low
Farewell! a word that must be, and
hath been—
A bound which makes us linger;— yet-
farewell!
Ye! who have traced the pilgtim to the
scene
Which is his last, if in youi memories
dwell
A thought which once was his, if on ye
swell
A single recollection, not in vain
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-
shell,1
Farewell! with him alone may rest the
pain,
If such there were— with you, the moral
of his strain
MANFRED
A DRAMATIC POEM
1816-17 1817
There are more thing* In heaven and earth,
Horatio,
Than arc dreamt of In your philosophy.1
DRAMATIS PERSONA
MlM-RED
CHAMOIS HDNTLR
\BBOT OF ST MAI RICE
MANI'KL
IIBKMAM
WlTCII OF THB ALPS
\U1M\M9S
Nl ME8I8
THF DKBTINIFS
SPIHITS, Ac
The BCEHB of the Drama IB amongat the
Higher Alp«— partly In the* Castle of Manfred,
and parth In the Mountains
ACT I
SCENE I
MANFRED alone —Scene, a Gothic Gallery
Time, Midnight.
Man. The lamp must be replenish M,
but even then
It will not burn so long as I must watch :
My slumbers — if I slumber— are not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought,
6 Which then I can resist not: in my heart
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close
To look within; and yet I live, and bear
*The aandala Indicated travel by land; the
acallopHihell, which wan worn In the hat
avelbjr set
mr*ff f. 5 :
550
NINETEENTH CENTURY HUMAN T101ST8
The aspect and the form of breathing men.
But grief should be the instructor of the
wise;
10 Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the
most
Must moum the deepest o'er the fatal
truth,
The Tree of Knowledge is not Hint of lafe.
Philosophy and science, and the springs
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world,
16 I have essay 'd, and in uiy mind thei-e IB
A powei to make these subject to itself —
But they avail not: I ha\e done men good,
And I have met with good even among
men —
But this avail 'd not: I have had my foes,
20 And none ha^e baffled, many fallen before
me —
But this avail 'd not : — Good, or evil, life,
Powers, pasuonb, all I see in other beings,
Have been to me as rain unto the sands,
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no
dread,
-5 And feel the curse to have no natural fear,
Nor flutteung throb, that beats with hopes
or wishes,
Or lurking love of something on the earth.
Now to niv task —
Mysterious agency!
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe!
30 Whom I ha\e sought in daikness and in
light—
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops
Of mountains inaccessible aie haunts,
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar
things —
35 I call upon ye by the written charm
Which gives me power upon you — RISC'
Appear » [A pause.
They come not yet —Now by the voice of
him
Who is the first among you— by this sign,
'Which makes yon tremble— by the claims
of him
40 Who is undyms*. — Rise' Appear!
Appear! [A pause.
If it be so — Spirits of earth and air,
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power,
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell,
Which had its birthplace in a star con-
demn Jd,
46 The burning wreck of a demolish 'd world,
A wandering hell in the eternal space;
By the strong curse which is upon my
soul,
The thought which is within me and
around me,
T do compel ye to my will — Appear!
50
55
SO
65
70
75
80
90
[A star is seen at the darker end of
the gallery: it is stationary; and
a voice is heard singing.
First Spirit
Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd,
From my mansion in the cloud,
Which the breath of twilight builds,
And the summer's sunset gilds
With the azure and vermilion,
Which is mbc'd for my pavilion ;
Though thy quest may be forbidden,
On a star-beam I have ridden :
To thine adjuration bow'd,
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd!
Voice of the Second Spirit
Mont Blanc is the monarch of moun-
tains;
They ciown M him long ago
On a throne of rock*, in a robe of
clouds,
With a diadem of snoM.
Around his waist are foiests braced,
The avalanche in his hand ,
But ere it fall, that thundering ball
Must pause for my command
The glacier's cold and restless mass
Moves onward day by day :
But I am he who bids it pass,
Or with its ice delay
I am the spint of the place,
Could make the mountain bow
And quiver to his cavern M base —
And what with me would thonf
Voice of the Third Spirit
In the blue depth of the waters,
Wheie the wa\e hath no strife,
Where the wind is a stranger,
And the sea-snake hath liPe,
Where the mermaid is decking
Her green hair with shells.
Like the storm on the surface
Came the sound of thy spells;
O'er my calm Hall of Coral
The deep echo roll'd—
To the Spirit of Ocean
Thy wishes unfold!
Fourth Spirit
Where the slumbering earthquake
Lies pillow 'd on fire,
And the lakes of bitumen
Rise boilingly higher;
Where the roots of the Andes
Strike deep in the earth,
A* their summits to heaven
LOBD BYBON
551
Shoot soaringly forth ;
I have quitted my birthplace,
Thy bidding to bide—
Thy spell hath subdued me,
Thy will be my guide!
100
106
Fifth
I am the ridei of the wind,
The starrer oi the btorm ,
The hurricane 1 left behind
Is yet with lightning warm ,
To speed to thee, o'ei shore and sea
I swept upon the blast
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet
'Twill sink eie night be past.
Strth Spirit
My dwelling is the shadow of the night,
Why doth th} magic toiture me with
light?
Spint
110 The btar which rules thy destiny
Was ruled, eie caith began, by me
It was a world as fresh and fair
A** e'er revolved round sun in an ,
Its course was tree and icgulai.
116 Space bosom 'd not a lo\ehei stai
The hour arrived — and it her nine
A wandering mass of 8hn]>eless flame,
A pathless comet, and a curse,
The menace of the unnerse,
1JO Still rolhner on with innate foire.
Without a sphere, without a course,
A bright deformity on high,
The nionstei ot the upper sky !
And thou! beneath its influence bom —
la5 Thou wonn ! whom I oliey and scorn —
Forced by a power (which is not
thine,
And lent thee but to make thee mine)
For this buef moment to descend,
Where these weak spmts lound thee
bend
180 And parley with a thing like thee —
What wouldst thou, child of Clay! with
met
The Seven Spirits
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains,
winds, thy star,
Are at thy beck and bidding, child of
Clay I
Before thee at ttr> quest their spirits
are—
«c What wouldst thou with us, son of
mortals — anyl
Man. Forgetfuluesb—
First Spirit. Of what— of whom— and
why!
Man. Of that which is within me; read
it there—
Te know it, and 1 cannot utter it.
Spirit. We can but give thee that which
we possess •
140 Ask of us subjects, soveieignty, the power
O'er earth — the whole, or portion— or a
sign
Which shall eontiol the elements, whereof
We aie the doinmatois, — each and all,
These shall be thine
Man. Oblivion, self -oblivion !
145 Can ye not wring from out the hidden
realms
Ye offer so profusely what I ask f
t Spirit It is not in om essence, in our
skill;
But — thou may'st die
Man Will death bestow it on met
Spirit We aie immortal, and do not
foiget;
150 \\Te aie eternal, and to us the past
Is, as the iutiuo, piescnt Art thou an-
swci Ml
Man Ye mock me — but the power which
brought ye heie
Hath made you mine Sla\es, scoff not at
iny will !
TV mind, the spirit, the Promethean
spaik,
156 The lightning of my being, is as bright,
Penn«hu», and tni dm ting as yom own,
And shall not yield to youis, though
coopM in clay1
Answer, or T will tench you what I am.
Spirit, We nnswer as we answer 'd ; oui
leply
160 Is e\en in thine own words
Man. Why say ye sot
tfptnt If, as thou sny'st, thine essence
be ns ours.
We have replied in telling thee, the thing
Mortals call denth hnth nought to do with
us
Man. I then hn\e call'd ye fiom your
realms in <\ uiu ,
166 Ye cannot, 01 ye will not, aid nie
Spirit. Say,
What we possess we offer, it is thine*
Bethink eie thou dismiss us, ask again—
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and
length of days—
Man Accursed ! what have I to do with
daysf
170 Thev are too long already. — Hence — be-
gone!
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOISTS
Spint. Yet pause : being here, our will 21°
would do thee service;
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift
Which we can make not worthless in thine
eyes!
Man. No, none : yet stay— one moment,
ere we part, 21 c
176 I would behold ye face to face. I hear
Tour voices, sweet and melancholy sounds.
As music on the waters; and I see
The steady aspect of a clear large star,
But nothing more. Approach me as ye 220
are,
180 Or one, or all, in your accustom 'd forms.
Sptnt We have no forms, beyond the
elements
Of which we are the mind and principle.
But choose a form — in that we will appear 225
Man. I have no choice; there is* no
form on earth
185 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him,
Who is most powerful of ye, take such
aspect 230
As unto him may seem most fitting — Gome T
Seventh Spirit (appearing in the shape
of a beautiful female figure). Be-
hold*
Man. Oh God f if it be thus, and thou
Art not a madness and a mockery, 235
190 i yet might be most happy, I will clasp
thee,
And we again will be—
[The figure vanishes
My heart is crush 'd!
[MANFRED falls senseless.
1 240
(A voice is heard in the Incantation which
follows.)
When the moon is on the wave,
And the glow-worm in the grass,
And the meteor on the grave,
195 And the wisp on the morass;
When the falling stars are shooting,
And the answer'd owls are hooting,
And the silent leaves are still
In the shadow of the hill,
200 Shall my soul be upon thine.
With a power and with a sign
245
2RO
Though thy slumber may be deep,
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;
There are shades that will not vanish,
There are thoughts thou canst not
banish;
By a power to thee unknown,
Thou canst never be alone;
Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,
Thon art gather 'd in a cloud ;
And forever shalt thon dwell
In the spirit of this spelL
Though thon seest me not pass by,
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye
As a thing that, though unseen,
Must be near thee, and hath been ;
And when in that secret dread
Thou hast turn'd around thy head,
Thou shalt marvel I am not
As thy shadow on the spot,
And the power which thou dost feel
Shall be what thou must conceal.
And a magic voice and verse
Hath baptized thee with a curse;
And a spirit of the air
Hath begirt thee with a snare;
fn the wind there is a voice
Shall forbid thee to rejoice,
And to the? shall night deny
All the quiet of her sky;
And the day shall have a sun.
Which shall make thee wish it done.
From thy false tears I did distil
An essence which hath strength to kill ;
From thy own heart I then did wnng
The black blood in its blackest spring;
From thy own smile I snatch 'd the
snake,
Fur there it coil 'd as in a brake ;l
From thy own lip I drew the charm
Which gave all these their rhiefest
harm;
Tn proving every poison known,
1 found the strongest was thine own.
By thy cold breast and serpent smile,
By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile,
By that most seeming virtuous eye,
By thy shut soul's hypocrisy;
By the perfection of thine art
Which pass'd for human thine own
heart;
By thy delight in others' pain,
And by thy brotherhood of Cain,
T call upon thee ! and compel
Thyself to be thy proper hell!
And on thy head I pour the vial
Which doth devote thee to this trial;
Nor to slumber, nop to die,
1 Shall be in thy destiny ;
Though thy death shall still seem near
To thy wish, but as a fear;
Lo ! the spell now works around thee,
' thicket
LOKD BYRON
653
And the clankless chain hath bound
thee;
2«° O'er thy heart and brain together
Hath the word been pass M— now wither 1
The Mountain of the Jung frau.— Time,
Morning.— MANFRED alone upon
the Cliffs.
Man. The spirits I have raised abandon
me,
The spells which I have studied baffle me,
The remedy 1 reck'd of tortured me,
I lean no more on superhuman aid,
5 It hath no power upon the past, and for
The future, till the past be gulf'd in
darkness,
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth '
And Ihou fresh breaking day, and you, ye
mountains,
Why are ye beautiful 1 I cannot love ye
10 And them, the bright eye of the universe,
That openest over all, and unto all
Art a delight — thou shin'bt not on my
heart.
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme
edge
I stand, and on the torrent's bnnk beneath
15 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs
In dizziness of distance, when a leap,
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would
bring
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed
To rest forever— wherefore do 1 pause?
20 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ,
I see the peril — yet do not recede;
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is
firm:
There is a power upon me which with-
holds,
And makes it my fatality to live,
26 If it be life to wear within myself
This barrenness of spirit, and to be
My own soul 's sepulchre, for I have ceased
To justify my deeds unto myself —
The last infirmity of evil. Ay,
80 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister.
\An eagle passes
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,
Well may'st thou swoop so near me— I
should be
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets, thou
art gone
Where the eye cannot follow thee; but
thine
86 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above,
With a pervading vision —Beautiful*
How beautiful is all this visible world »
*fU* jramfrf.ll, 2. 2S6 ff
How glorious in its action and itself 1
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns,
We,
*° Half dust, half deity, alike unfit
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence
make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation and ot pride,
Contending with low wantb and lofty will,
45 Till our mortality predominates,
And men are — what they name not to
themselves,
And trust not to each other. Haik' the
note, [The Shepherd's ptpe in
the distance is heard.
The natural music of the mountain reed—
For here the patriarchal days are not
60 A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air,
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the saunter-
ing herd;
My soul would drink those echoes Oh,
that I were
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,
A living voice, a breathing harmony,
r>5 A bodiless enjoyment1— born and dying
With the blest tone which made me!
Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTEH.
Chamois Hunter. Even so
This way the chamois leapt: her nimble
feet
Ha\e baffled me, my gains todaj will
scarce
Repay my break-neck travail — What is
here!
60 Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath
reach M
A height which none even of our moun-
taineers,
Save our best hunters, may attain: his
garb
, Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at thi«
distance :
6B I will approach him nearer
Man. (not perceiving the other). To be
thus—
Gray-hair 'd with anguish, like these blasted
pines,
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless,
branchless,
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,
Which but supplies a feeling to decay —
70 And to be thus, eternally but thus,
Having been otherwise! Now furrow 'd
o'er
With wrinkles, plough 'd by moments, —
not by years, —
To a ft* filar*, IIS (p. 704).
554 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And hours, all tortured into ages — hoius In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening
Which I outlive!— Ye toppling crags of heavens!
ice J Look not upon ine thus reproachfully —
7B Te avalanches, whom a breath draws down Ye were not meant for me— Earth1 take
In mountainous overwhelming, come ami these atoms!
crush me! [As MANFRED t* in act to spring
I hear ye momently above, beneath, fiom the chff, tlte CHAMOIS
Crash with a frequent conflict, but >tl HUNTER seizes and retain*
pass, Inm with a sudden grasp 1
And only fall on things that still would no C. Hun Hold, madman ' — though
live, aweary of thy life,
80 On the young flouiishmp foiest, or the hut Stain not our puie \ales with thy guilty
And hamlet of the harmless villager blood :
C. Hun The mints begin to rise from Away with me— I will not quit my hold
up the valley , Man I am most sick at heart — nay,
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance grasp me not —
To lose at once his way and life together I am all feeblenet* — the mountains whirl
86 Man The mists boil up around the 115 Spinning aiouiid mo— I grow blind-
glaciers; clouds What art thoul
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and C Hun I'll answer that anon Away
sulphurv, with me1
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep The clouds grow thicker— there— now loan
hell, on me—
Whose every wave breaks on a living Place your foot here — here, take this staff,
shore, and cling
Heap'd with the dmnu'd like pebbles. — A moment to that &hrub — now gi\e me
I am giddy your hand,
IJO C. Jinn I must approach him can- 12° And hold fast by my girdle — softly —
tiously; if near, well —
A sudden step will startle him, and he The Chalet will be gum M within an houi •
Seems tottering already Come on, we'll quickly find a surer foot-
Man Mountains have fallen, ing,
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the And something like a pathway, \\lnch the
shock torrent
Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling Hath wash'd since winter— Come, 'tis
up bravely done —
06 The iipc green valleys with destruction's 125 You should have been a hunter —Follow
splinters , me. [As they descend the rocks with
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, difficulty, the scene closes.
Which cruHh'd the waters into mist and
made ACT II
Their fountains find another channel— *«-*.- T
thus, SCENB l
Thus, in its old ape, did Mount Rosen- A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps
too nn. J*?r * u it. •*• MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.
100 Whyr stood I not beneath it! „ „ VT
C Hun Friend » have a care, C- Nvn- No> n°— yet Pause— thou mint
Your next step mav be fatal!— for the _. not yet go forth :
love Thy mind and body are alike unfit
Of him who made you, stand not on that To traj Jt*/* °ther' for 8OTnc hour8' at
Man. "(no* Coring him) Such would . ™"*$S" *.rt brtter' J wil1 * thy firttide~
have been for me a fitting tomb; ' But whithei I
My bones had then been quiet in their *•* . It imports not: I do know
depth ; My route full well, and need no further
™ They had not then been strewn upon the guidance.
„ T0(^ l «ee King Lcat . IV, C. Iii Tate'g adaptation of
Por ^hJ±nb^inie~" *BK^" «.^fc«J
they snail be — thinks is Dovor niff
LORD UYiiON
555
C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak
thee of high lineage —
One of the many chiefs, whom* castled
crags
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of
these
10 May call thee lord! I only know their
portals;
My way of life leads me but faiely down
To bask by the huge hearths of those old
halls,
Carousing with the vassals, but the paths,
Which step from out our mountains to
their doors,
15 I know fiom childhood — winch of these is
thine?
Man No matter.
C Hun Well, sir, pardon me
the question,
And be of better cheer Come, taste my
wine ;
'Tib of on ancient vintage, many a day
'Thas thaw'd my veins aniont* our gla-
cieis, now
20 Let it do thus for thine Tome, pledge me
fairly
Man Auay, away' there V blood upon
the bum!
Will it then novel — never sink in the
earth f
C.Hitn What dost thou meant thy
senses minder from thee
Man 1 snv 'tis blood — my blood1 the
pine \varm stream
26 Which ran in the veins of my iatheis, and
in our*.
When we were in oui youth, and had one
heart,
And loved each other as we should not
love,
And this was shed: but still it liscs up.
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from
heaven,
80 Where thou art not — and I shall ne\ei ht«
C Hun Man of strange words, ami
some half-maddening sin,
Which makes thee people vacancy, ivlm«-
e'er
Thy dread and sufferance be. theie's com-
fort yet—
x The aid of holy men, and heavenly pa-
tience—
8B M an Patience and patience » Hence—-
that word was made
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of
prey;
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine. —
I am not of thine order.
C. Hun* Thanks to heaven f
1 would uot be of thine for the free fame
40 Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill,
It must be borne, and these m ild starts are
useless.
Man. Do I not bear itf — Look on me —
I live
C.Hun. This is convulsion, and no
healthful life.
Man. 1 tell thee, nianr 1 lm\e lived
many years,
4G Many long years, but the\ aie nothing
now
To those which I must iiuinhei . ages —
ages—
Space and eternity — and consciousness,
With the fierce thirst of death— and still
unslaked !
C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of
middle age
D0 Hath scarce bee.ii set , I am thine elder i'ai.
Man Think 'st thou existence doth de-
pend on timet
It doth, but actions aie our epochs* mine
Have made my dajs and nu>hts imperish-
able,
Endless and all alike, as sands on the
55 Innumeiiihlc atoms, and one desert,
Itarren anil cold, on 'which the wild waves
break,
Tint imt bum iests save caicasses and
wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-sin f weeds of bitter-
ness.
f './/*» Alas» he's mad— but yet I
must not lea*\e him.
60 Man I would I were — for then the
thin era I see
Would be but a distempei 'd dream.
r. J/NN. What is it
That thou dost see, or think thou look 'at
uponl
Man Mvself, and thee — a peasant of
the Alps—
Thy humble \ irtues, hospitable home,
''"' And ppuit patient, pious, proud, and free.
TJiv self-respect, grafted on innocent
thoughts;
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep .
thy toils,
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave,
70 With cross and garland over its green turf,
And thy grandchildren 's love for epitaph .
This do I see— and then I look within —
Tt matters not — my soul was scorch M
already!
C.Hn*. And wouldst thou then ex-
chance thv lot for mine!
556
NINKTJUdNTli UflNTUBY KOMANTIC18TS
75 Man. No, friend! I would not wrong
thee, nor exchange
My lot with living being: I can bear-
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear-
In life what others could not brook to
dream,
But perish in their slumber.
C. Hun. And with th»—
*° This cautious feeling for another's pain,
Canst thou be black with evil!— say not
so.
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak M
revenge
Upon his enemies?
Man. Oh I no, no, no (
My injuries came down on those who loved
85 On those whom I best loved- I netet
quell'd1
An enemy, save in my just defence —
But my embrace wan fatal.
C IJun Heaven give thee res! *
And penitence restore thee to thyself,
My prayers shall be for thee
Man. I need them not —
90 But can endure thy pity I depart —
'Tis time— farewell1— Here's gold, and
thanks for thee;
No words— it is thy due. Follow me not —
I know my path — the mountain peril 's
past:
And once njrain I chatge thee, follow not f
[Exit MANFRED
SCENE II
A lower Valley tn the Alps.— A Cataract.
Enter MANFRED.
It is not noon — the sunbow'a rays still
arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silvei 's waving column
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular,
5 And fling its lines of foaming light along,
And to and fro, like the pale counsel 's
tail,
The giant steed, to be bestrode by Death,
As told in the Apocalypse.2 No eyes
But mine now drink this sight of loveli-
ness;
™ I should be sole in this sweet solitude,
And with the Spirit of the place divide
The homage of these waters. — I will call
her.
[MANFRED takes some of the water
into the palm of his hand, and
flings it into the air, muttering
the adjuration. After a pause,
WPTTH OF
the
THE ALPS rises
•RrrclaUnn.fi
beneath the arch of the sunbow
of the torrent.
Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light,
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whoee form
16 The charms of earth's least mortal daugh-
ters grow
To an unearthly stature, in an essence
Of purer elements; while the hues of
youth, —
Carnation 'd like a sleeping infant's cheek,
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's
heart,
20 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight
leaves
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow,
The blush of earth embracing with hei
heaven, —
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame
The beauties of the sunbow which bend^
o'er thee.
-"' Beautiful Spnit f in thy calm clear brow,
Wliemn IR glass 'd serenity of soul,
Winch of itself shows immortality,
I lend that thou wilt pardon to a son
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers
permit
80 At times to commune with them — if that
he
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus,
And gaze on thee a moment
Witch. Son of Earth '
I know thee, and the powers winch give
thee power;
T know thee for a man of many thoughts,
36 And deeds of good and ill, extreme in
both,
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings
1 have expected this — what wouldst thou
with met
Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing
further.
The face of the earth hath madden 'd me
and I
40 Take lefuge in hei mysteries, and pierce
To the abodes of those who govern her —
But they can nothing aid me I ha\e
sought
From them what they could not bestow,
and now
I search no further
Wttrt. What could be the quest
46 Which is not in the power of the most
powerful,
The rulers of the in visible T
Han. A boon;
But why should I repeat itf 'twere in
vain.
Witch I know not that; let thy lips
utter it.
LORD BYEON
557
Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tus
but the same;
66 My pangs shall find a voice. From my
youth upwards
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of
men,
Nor look'd upon the earth with human
eyeb,1
The thirst of their ambition was not mine,
The aim of their existence was not mine ;
55 My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my
powers,
Made me a stranger; though I wore the
form
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh.
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded
me
Was there but one who — but of her anon
60 I said with men, land with the thoughts of
men,
I held but slight communion ; but instead,
My joy was in the wildernessr-to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain 9s top,
Where the birds dare not build, nor in-
sect 'swing
•* Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the tonent, and to roll along
On the swift whirl of the new breaking
wave
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow
In these my early stienpth exulted , or
70 To follow through the night the mo> nip
moon,
The stars and their development; or eatdi
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew
dim ;
Or to look, listening, on the scatter 'd
leaves,
While autumn winds were at their evening
song
75 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ,
For if the beings, of whom I was one,-—
Hating to be so,— cross 'd me in my path,
I felt myself degraded back to them,
And was all clay again. And then I dived,
80 In my lone wanderings, to the caveb of
death,
Searching its cause in its effect; and diew
From wither M bones, and skulls, and
heap 'd up dust,
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass 'd
The nights of years in sciences untaught,
W Save in the old time; and with time and
toil,
And terrible ordeal, and such penance
A. in itself Mjr^^ff*'-
And spirits that do compass air and earth,
'gee OMM0 ffarold't Pllgrtmiffe, 111, lift
(p 540)
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made
*° Mine eyes familiar with Eternity,
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and
He who from out their fountain dwellings
raised
Eros and Anteios, at Gadara.1
As I do thee; — and with my knowledge
grew
95 The thirst of knowledge, and the power
and joy
Of this most bnght intelligence, until —
Witch. Proceed
Man. Oh! I but thus prolonged my
words,
Boasting these idle attiibules, because
As I approach the core of my heart 'b
grief—
10° But to my task. I ha\e not named to thee
Father, or mother, mistress, friend, 01
With whom I wore the chain of human *
ties;
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me ;
Yet there was one —
Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed
105 Man. She was like me in lineament*;,
her eyes,
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to
mine ;
But soften yd all, and temper 'd into beaut}
She had the same lone thoughts and wan-
denngs
no The quest of hidden knowledge, aud a
mind
To comprehend the universe : nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than
mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tears— which I had
not ;
And tenderness— but that I had for her,
115 Humility— and that I never had.
Her faults were mine — her virtues were
her own —
I loved her, and destroy 'd her*
Witch. With thy handf
Man. Not with my hand, but heart—
which broke her heart;
It gazed on mine, and wither 'd. I have
shed
120 Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood
wan shed ;
I saw— and could not stanch it.
a while Jambiicu*. a Neo-piatonic philosopher
'
he called up the lore-goto Bra and Ant
from the spring which bore their namea, in
order to explain why the apringe were so
called
558 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMAN T1CISTB
Witch. And for this— Witch. f Is this all*
A being of the race thou dost despise, * Hast thou no gentler answer f — Yet be*
The order, which thine own would rise think thee,
above, And pause ere thou rejected.
Mingling with us and ours, — thou dost Man. 1 have said it
forego Witch. Enough! I may retire then —
126 The gifts of oui great knowledge, and say!
shrink 'st back Man. Retire !
To recreant mortality— Away! [The WITCH disappears.
Man. Daughter of Air! I tell theef Man (alone). We are the fools of time
since that hour— and ten or Days
But words are breath — look on me m my 1BB Steal on us, and steal fiom us, yet we
sleep, live,
Or watch my watchings— -Come and Hit by Loathing our life, mid (heading still to
me' die,
180 My solitude is solitude no more, In all the days of this detested yoke —
But peopled with the Furies,— 1 June This vital weight upon the struggling
'gnash M heart,
My teeth in darknens till returning mom, Which milks \uth sorrow, or bents quick
Then cursed myself till sunset;—! lm\e \uth pom,
pray'd 17° Or jov that ends m agony or faiiitnev*-
For madnetu as a blessing — 'tis denied In all the clays of past and future, foi
me In life there is no present, we can numbci
135 j have affronted death — but in the war Uow few — how less than few — wheiein
Of elements the waters shrunk from me, the soul
And fatal things pass'd harmless; the Forbears to pant for death, and jet dra**.
cold hand back
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 17B As from a Bticam in winter, though the
Back by a single hair, which would not chill
break Be but a moment's I have one resouire
n° In fantasy, imagination, all Still in my science — I can call the dead,
The affluence of my soul — which one daj And ask them what it is we dread to be
was The sternest auswet can but be the Gra\e.
A Crasus in creation— I plunged deep, 18° And that is nothing. If they answci
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me not-
back The bulled piophet1 answered to the Haji
Into the gulf of my unf athom 'd thought Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch
145 I plunged amidst mankind — Foi getf ulness dre\v
I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found From the Byzantine maid 's unsleeping
And that I have to learn , my sciences spirit
My long-pursued and buperhnman art. An answer and his destiny2— he hie*
Is mortal here: I dwell in my despair— 185 That which he loved, unknowing what he
150 And live— and live forever. slew,
Witch It may be And died unpardou'd— though he callM
That I can aid thee. in aid
Man To do this thy powei The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused
Must wake the dead, or lay me low with The Arcadian Evocators to compel
them. The indignant shadow to depose hci
Do so— in any shape — in any hour — wrath,
With any torture— so it be the la*t 19° Or fl* her term of vengeance— she replied
!W Witch. That is not in my province; i Samuel Bee l Samuel. 28 9 ff
but if thou JPbSnniftenamolg °o ** (4T9"470 B' r >f
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do Cleonlce, demanded her as his mistress One
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wjshes SSrhfof "aS^S^fnd11 kilted "her1" 51" ™
Man. I will not swear— Obey' and haunted by her Image until In the temple at
whomf the spirits lheniclf a invok*3 her spirit and valued
Whose presence I command, and be the iirered from all his troubles The oracio
gfave van fulfilled by his death The story is told
1«« Of those who served me-Neveri - -Plut*1>cl?i' -w/-c of ?*"** 6- 8ee al80
LORD BYBON
569
In words of dubious import, but fulfill M.
If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful,
we Happy and giving happiness. What is
she)
What is she nowl— a bufterer tor my
sins —
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing.
Within few hours I shall not call in vain —
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
200 tlntil this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spint, good 01 evil— now I tremble,
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my
heait.
But I can act even what I most abhor.
And champion human fears. — The night
approaches [Exit.
SCENE III
Tie Summit of lite Junyfrau Mountain.
Knlet FIRST DESTINY
The moon is using bioad, and round, and
bright .
And heie (in MUMS, \\heie never human
foot
Of common moital trod, we nightly tread,
And lea\e no tiaces- o'er the savage sea,
5 The glashy ocean of the mountain ice,
We bkim its rugged bieakers, which put on
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam,
Frozen m a moment — a dead whirlpool's
image:
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle,
10 The fretwork of some earthquake— where
the clouds.
Pause to repose themselves in passing
by —
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils,
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way
To the Hall of Anraanes, for tonight
U Is our great festival— - 'tis strange they
come not
A Voice without, singing
The captive usurper,
Hurl'd down fiom the throne,
Lay buried in torpor,
Forgotten and lone;
SO I broke through his elu
I shiver'd his chain,
I leagued him with numbers-
He 9s tyrant again1
With the blood of a million he'll nnswei
my care,
85 With a nation's destruction— Ins flight
and despair.
36
40
Second Voice, without
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast,
But I left not a sail, tod I left not a mast;
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck,
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er
his wreck,
30 Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by
the hair,
And he was a subject, well worthy my
care;
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea—1
But I saved him to wreak further havoc
for me !
First Destiny, answering
The city lies sleeping;
The morn, to deplore it,
May dawn on it weeping:
Sullenly, slowly,
The black plague flew o'er it-
Thousands he lowly;
Tens of thousands shall perish;
The living shall fly from
The sick they should cherish;
But nothing can vanquish
The touch that they die from.
Soriow and anguish,
And evil and dread,
Envelop a nation;
The blest are the dead,
Who see not the sight
Of their own desolation,
This work of a night—
This wreck of a lealm— this deed of my
doing —
For ages I've done, and *hull htill be
renewing!
Enter the SECOND and THIRD DESTINIES
The Three
Our hands contain the hearts of men,
Our footsteps aie their graves;
We only gr/3 to take again
The bpmts of our slaves '
FirstDcs Welcome!— Where's Nemesis?
Second Des. At some great work ;
But what I know not, for my hands were
full
Third Des Behold t»he cometh
45
60
66
Enter NEMESIS,
80 First Des. Say, where hast thoubeent
My sisteiR and thyself me slow tonight
Nem. I was detained repairing shat-
ter M thrones,
refer to Thorn ft A Lord Cochrnnc
560
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANT1C18T8
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties,
Avenging men upon their enemies,
66 And making them repent their own re-
venge;
Goading the wise to madness; from the
dull
Shaping out oracles to rule the world
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date,
And mortals dared to ponder for them-
selves,
70 To weigh kings in the balance, and to
speak
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — A way!
We have out stay M the hour — mount we
our clouds. [Exeunt.
SCTNE IV
TJie Hall of A ri manes l-~Anmane8 on hu>
Throne, a Globe of Ftrc, surrounded by
the Spirits.
Hymn of the Spirit*
Hail to our Master! — Prince of Eatth and
Air'
Who walks the clouds and "waters — in
his hand
The sceptre of the elements, which teai
Themsehes to chaos at hm high com-
mand !
5 He breatheth — find n teni]>est shakes the
sea;
He speaketli — and the clouds reply in
thunder;
He gazeth — fiom his glance the sunbeams
flee,
Tie moveth— earthquakes rend the world
asunder.
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise,
10 His shadow is the Pestilence , his path
The comets herald through the crackling
And planets turn to ashes at his wrath.
To him War offers daily sacrifice,
To him Death pays Ins tribute, Life is
his,
16 With all its infinite of agonies—
And his the spirit of whatever is !
Enter the DESTINIES and NEMESIS.
First Des* Glory to Aiimanes! on the
earth
His power increaseth— both my sisters did
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty!
-° Second Des. Glory to Arimanes' we
who bow
i
VbliB In
The necks of men, bow down before his
throne1
Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await
His nod!
New. Sovereign of sovereigns! we
are thine,
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours,
25 And most things wholly so; still to in-
crease
Our power, increasing thine, demands our
care,
And we are vigilant. Thy late commands
Have been fulfill 'd to the utmost
Enter MANFRED
A Spirit. What is beret
A mortal! — Thou most iash and fatal
wretch*
Bow down and worship!
30 Second Spirit. I do know the man —
A Magian of great power, and fearful
skill!
Third Spirit. Bow down and wonJiip,
slave f —
What, know'bt thou not
Thine and our Sovereign t — Tiemble, and
obey!
All the Spmt* Prostiate thjbelf, and
thy condemned clay,
<>& Child of the Earth ! or dread the worht
Man I know it ;
And yet ye see I kneel not.
Fourth Spint 'Twill be taught thee.
Man 'Tis taught already; — many a
night on the earth,
On the bare ground, have J bow'd down
my face,
And strew 'd my head with adich, I have
known
40 The fulness of humiliation, for
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt
To my own desolation.
Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare
Refuse to Anmanes on his throne
What the whole earth accords, beholding
not
« The terror of his glory 1— Crouch, I say
Man Bid him bow down to that which
IR aboie him,
The overruling Infinite— the Maker
Who made him not for worship — let him
kneel,
And we will kneel together.
The Spirits. Crush the worm !
60 Tear him in pieces!—
First Des. Hence 1 bvaunt !— he V, iimie.
Prince of the Powers invisible! Tin* man
Is of no common order, as his port
And presence here denote; bis sufferings
LORD BYRON
Have been of an immortal nature, like 96 Redeem from the worm.
66 Our own; his knowledge, and his powers Appear I — Appear! — Appear!
and will. Who sent thee there requires thee here!
As far as is compatible with clay, [The Phantom of ASTABTE rises
Which dogs the ethereal essence, have been and stands in th* midst.
such Man. Can this be death? there's bloom
As clay hath seldom borne, his aspirations upon her cheek;
Have been beyond the dwellers of the But now I see it is no living hue,
earth, 1<X) But a strange hectic — like the unnatural
60 And they have only taught him what we red
know — Which Autumn plants upon the perish 'd
That knowledge is not happiness, and leaf.
science It is the same! Oh, God* that I should
But an exchange of ignorance for that dread
Which is another kind of ignorance To look upon the same — Astaite' — No,
This is not all — the passions, attributes I cannot speak to her— but bid her speak—
65 Of earth and heaven, from which no 105 Forgive me or condemn me.
power, nor being:,
Nor b^D?°m lhe wwm upwards 18 Ry the
Have ptJ t. heart, and in their con.-
Made him a thing which I, who pity not, Ol &<** who taw caU'd
Yet pardon those who pity He is mine, Man She is silent,
70 And thine, it may be, be it HO, 01 not, 110 And in that silence 1 am more than an-
No other Spirit m this legion hath swer'd.
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. Nem My power extends no further
Nem. What doth he here then? Prince oi Airf
First Des. Let him answer that Tt rests with thee alone — command hei
Man. Ye know what 1 have known, voice
and without power Ari. Spirit— obey this sceptic1
75 I could not be amongst ye- but there aie Nem. " Silent still1
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in She is not of our older, but belongs
quest ll& To the other powers. Mortal! thy quest i«»
Of such, to answer unto what I seek vain,
Nem. What wouldst thon T And we are baffled also
Man. Thou canst not i eply to me Man. Hear me, heai me —
Call up the dead — my question is for them Astarte ' my beloved ! speak to me .
80 New. Great An manes, doth thy will I have so much endured — Romuchenduie —
avouch Look on me f the sri a> e hath not changed
The wishes of this mortal f thee nioi e
An. Yea 12° Than I am changed foi thee Thou loved&t
Nem. Whomwouldstthou me
Uncharnelf Too much, as I loved thee* we were nof
Man. One without a tomb— call up made
Astarte. To torture thus each other, though it wen1
v The deadliest sin to love as we have lo\ed
AemeW6 Say that tliou loalh'st me not— that I do
Shadow! or Spirit9 bear
85 Whatever thou art, 125 This punishment for both — that tliou wilt
Which still doth inherit be
The whole or a part One of the blessed— and that I shall die,
Of the form of thy birth, For hitherto all hateful things conspire
Of the mould of thy clay, To bind me in existence — in a life
90 Which return 9d to the earth,— Which makes me shrink from iiumoitnl-
Reappear to the day ! ity— •
Bear what thou borest, 18° A future like the past. I cannot rest
The heart and the form, I know not what I ask. noi what I see
And the aspect thon worest I feel but what thou art, and what I am.
562
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOISTB
And I would hear yet once before I perish
The voice which was my music— Speak to
mef
J'6 For I have call'd on thee in the still night,
Startled the slumbering birds from the
hush'd boughs.
And woke the mountain wolves, and made
the caves
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed iimue.
Which answer 'd me— many things an-
swer'd me —
140 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all
Yet speak to me ! I have ontwatch 'd the
stars,
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search
of thee
Speak to me' I have wander 'd o'ei the
earth,
And never found thy likeness — Speak to
mef
145 Look on the fiends around — they feel foi
me:
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone? —
Speak to me1 though it be in wrath, —
but nay —
T leek not what — but let me hear thee
once —
This once— once more!
Phantom of Astarte Mantled T
Man Say on, say on —
IBO i ]ive kut m the sound — it is thy voice!
Phan Man lied* Tomoirow ends thine
earthly ills.
Faiewell f
Man Yet one word more — am I for-
given ?
Phan. Faiewell!
Man Say, shall we meet again t
Phan. Farewell f
Man. One word for ineicy'
Say, thou lovest me
Phan. Manfred*
[The Spirit of ASTARTE disappears.
15 "' Nem She's gone, and will not be re-
call'd,
Her words will be fulfill M Retuiu to the
earth.
A Spirit He is convulsed — This is to
be a mortal
And seek the things beyond mortality
Another Spirit. Yet, see. he mastered i
himself, and makes
160 His torture tributary to his will
Had he been one of us, he would ha\e
made
An awful spirit.
Nem Hast thou i'urthei question
Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers T
Man None
Nem. Then for a tune farewell.
1W Man. We meet then ' Where f On the
earth!—
Even as thou wilt, and for the giace
accorded
I now depart a debtoi Faie ye well !
[Exit MANFRED.
(Scene closes )
ACT in
SCENE I
A Hall in the Castle of Manfred.
MANFRED and HERMAN.
Man What is the hour?
Het. It wants but one till sunset,
And pi onuses a lovely twilight.
Matt Saj ,
Aie all things so disposed of in the ttvwei
As I directed f
Her. All, my lord, are readj
6 Here is the key and casket.
Man It is well
Thou may'st ictire [Exit HERMAN.
Man (alone ) Thei e is a calm upon mo —
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now
Did not belong to what I knew of life.
If that I did not know philosophy
10 To be of all oui vanities the mothest.
The merest word that ever fnol'd the ear
Fioin out the schoolman's jargon, I should
deem
The golden secret, the sought "Kalon."1
found,
And seated in my soul. It will not last,
15 But it is well to have known it, though but
once*
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new
sense,
And I within my tablets would note down
That theie is such a feeling. Who is there t
Re-enter HERMAN.
Her My loid, the abbot of St. Maurice
craves
20 To greet your presence.
Enter the ABBOT OP ST. MAURICE.
Abbot Peace be with Count Manfred I
Man Thanks, holy father! welcome to
these walls,
Thy presence honors them, and blesseth
those
Who dwell within them.
Abbot. Would it were so. Count I—-
But I would fain con lei with thee alone.
i Th* beautiful ; thf* beat of human
LORD BYRON
563
** Man. Herman, retire. — What would my
reverend guest 1
Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age
and zeal, my ofhce,
And good intent, must plead my privilege ;
Our near, though not acquainted neigh-
borhood,
May also be my herald. Humors stiangu,
80 And of unholy nature, are abroad,
And busy with thy name; a noble name
For centuries : may he who bears it now
Transmit it unimpaired !
Man Proceed, — I listen
Abbot. 'Tis said thou boldest converse
with Ihe things
*B Which are foi bidden to theseaich of man,
That with the dwellers of the daik abodes,
The many evil and unhea\enly spirits
Which walk the valley of the shade of
death,
Thou eommunest. I know that with man-
kind,
40 Thy fellows m cieation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, mid that thy soli-
tude
Is as an anchorite's, weie it but holy.
Man. And what are they \\ho do a\ouch
these things T
Abbol My pious brethien — the scaied
peasantry —
4S TC\en thy iwn vassals — nvho do look on
thee
With most unquiet eyes Thy life Js in pei il
Man Take it
Abbot. I come to sai e, and not desti oj
I \\ould not piy into thy seciet soul ,
Rut if these things be sooth, theie still is
time
60 For penitence and pity . reconcile thee
With the true church, and through the
church to heaven
Man I hear thee This is my reply:
what e'er
I may have been, 01 am, doth lest between
Heaven and myself. 1 shall not choose a
mortal
B~' To be my niediatoi. llfne I sinn'd
Against your oidinancesf pro\c and
punish f
Abbot My son* I did not speak of
punishment,
But penitence and paidon, — with thyself
The choice of such remains — and for the
last,
60 Our institutions and our stiong belief
Have given me jwvwer to smooth the path
from sin
To higher hope mid hotter thought* , the
first
1 leave to heaven, — "Vengeance is mine
alone !"1
So saith the Lord, and with ull humbleness
65 His servant echoes back the awful word
Man. Old man* there is no power in
holy men,
Nor charm in pra>ei, noi punfying foiui
Of penitence, nor outwaid look, nor fast,
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these,
70 The innate tort ui en of that deep despaii,
Which is remorse without the fear of hell,
But all in all sufficient to itself
Would make a hell of heaven2— can exoi-
cise
From out the unbounded spirit the quick
sense
75 Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and
re\enge
Upon itself; theie is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn 'd
He deals on his omn soul
Abbot. All this is well.
For this will pass a\\a>, and be succeeded
80 By an auspicious hope, which shall look
up
With cairn assuiance to that blessed place,
Which all who seek may win, whatevei be
Their earthly eirors, so they be atoned •
And the commencement of atonement is
85 The <sense of its necessity Say on —
And all our church can teach thee shall be
taught ;
And all we can absohe thee shall be par-
dun M.
Man. When Home's sixth empeioi " \\ as
near his last,
The uctirn of a self-inflicted wound,
90 To shun the torments ot a public death
From senates once his slaves, a ceitdin
soldier,
With sho\\ of loyal pity, would ha\e
btanch'd
The gushing thioat with his officious robe,
The dvmg Roman thrust him back, and
said—
qr' Some empire still in his expiring glance —
" It is too late— is this fidelity?"
Abbot. A nd what of this?
Man. I answei \\ ith the Roman —
"It is too late"'
Abbot Tt nexei can be so,
To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,
100 And thy own soul with heaven Hast thou
no hope?
'Tis stmnge— -e\en those who do despair
above,
1 Roman*, 12 10.
JHee P«tadi«0 Lost, 1, 254-R".
"Nero. Emperor of Rome (54-68)
nltw'H fcfrrA of the rfcvffM, <•, 41
SIM*
564 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Yet shape themselves some fantaby on Without the violence of warlike death;
earth, Rome perishing of pleasure, some of study,
To which frail twig they elms, Id"5 drown- Some worn with toil, some of mere wean-
ing men. ness,
Man. Ay — father! 1 have had those Some of disease, and some insanity,
earthly visions, 145 And some of wither 'd or of broken hearts ,
106 And noble aspirations in my youth, For this last is a malady which slays
To make my own the mind of other men, More than are number 'd in the lists of
The enhghtenei of nations, and to rise Fate,
I knew not whither— it might be to fall; Taking all shapes, and bearing many
But fall, e\eu as the mountain-cataract, • names.
110 Which, ba\ing leapt from its more daz- Look upon me! for even of all these things
zhng height, 1BO Have I partaken ; and of all these things,
Even in the foaming strength of lib abyss One were enough , then wonder not that I
(Which casts up misty columns lhat be- Ain what T am, but that I ever was,
come Or having been, that I am still on earth.
Clouds ranniu? l'iom (he ie-asceude<l Abbot. Yet, hear me still —
skies), _ Man. Old man ' 1 do respect
Lies low but mighty still — But this is past, 135 Thine order, and revere thine years; I
m My thoughts mistook themsehes deem
Abbot. And wherefoie sot Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain •
Man. I could not tame my nature down, Think me not churlish; I would spare
for he thyself,
Must serve who fain would sway; and Far more than me, in shunning at this
soothe, and sue, time
And watch all time, and pry into all place. All further colloquy; and so— farewell
And be a living lie, who would become [Exit MANFRED
120 A mighty thing amongst the mean, and 16° Abbot. This should have been a noble
such creature : he
The mass are; I disdain 'd to mingle with Hath all the energy which would have
A herd, though to be leader — and of made
wolves. A goodly fiame of glorious elements,
The lion is alone, and so am I Had they been wisely mingled , as it is,
Abbot. And why not li\e and act with It IB an awful chaos — light and darkness,
other men 7 165 And mind and dust, and passions and pure
125 Man Because my natuiu Mas tneiw thoughts
from life; * Mix'd, and contending without end or
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, ordei , —
But find a desolation. Like the wind. All doimant or destnictne; he will perish,
The red-hot breath of the most lone And yet he must not , I will try once more.
simoom, For such aie worth redemption , and my
Which dwells but in the deseitt and sweeps duty
o'er 17° Is to dare all things for ft righteous end
80 The barren sands which bear no shrubs to I'll follow him — but cautiously, though
blast, surely. [Exit ABBOT.
And revels o'ei tlieir wild and arid waves,
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, Scwx IT
But being met ih deadly^-such hath been Another Chambcr.
The course of my existence, but there „ , __
came ' MANFRED and HERMAN.
86 Things in my path which are uo moie Her. My lord, yon bade me wait on
Abbot. Alas! you at sunset
I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid He sinks behind the mountain.
From me and from my calling; yet so Man Doth he so f
young, > I will look on him.
I still would — [MANFRED advances to the
Man. Look on me ! there is an order Window of the Hall
Of mortals on the earth, who do become Glorious orb! the idol
40 Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, Of early natuio, and the vigorous race
LOUD BYRON
565
* Of undiaeaued mankind, the giant sons
Of the embrace of angels,1 with a sex
More beautiful than they, which did draw
down
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. —
Most gloiious 01 b ! that wert a worship, ere
10 The mystery of thy making was reveal fd f
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,
Which gladden 'd, on their mountain tops,
the hearts
Of the Chaldean shepheids,2 till the>
pour'd
Themselves in orisons ' Thou matenal God !
15 And representative of the Unknown —
Who chose thee for his shadow* Thou
chief star'
Centre of many stars' which mak'st our
earth
Endurable, and tempcreht the hues
And hearts' of all who walk within thy
lays'
20 Sire of the seasons' Monarch of the
chines,
And those who dwell in them ' for near or
far,
Our mboin spints have a tint of thee
FA en as our outward aspects, — thou dost
And shine, and set in glory Fare thee
well »
*' I ne'er shall see thee moie As my first
glance
Of love and wonder \\as for thee, then
take
My latest look; thou Milt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and wannth
have been
Of a more fatal nature lie is gone
* I follow. [Exit MANFRED.
SCENE III
The Mountains— The Castle of Manfred
at some distance— A Tertaie btfore a
Tower.— Time, Twilight.
HERMAN, MANUEL, and other Dependants
of MANFRED.
Tier. 'Tis strange enough , night after
night, for years,
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,
Without a witness. I have been within it,—
So have we all been oft tunes; but from it,
* Or its contents, it were impossible
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is
One chamber where none enter* I would
give
, 6*2-4.
•The rhaldranH wore ewpwlally verord In
astrology
The fee of1 what 1 have to come these
three years,
10 To pore upon its mysteries.
Manuel. 'Twcro dangerous :
Content thyself with what thou know'st
already.
Her. Ah' Manuel! thou art elderly
and wise,
And coukfct bay much, thou hast dwelt
within the castle —
How many ycnih is 't t
Manuel Ere Count Mnnfied'a buth,
15 I served his father, whom he nought re-
sembles
Her There be moie sonb in like pre-
dicament.
But wherein do they differ!
Manuel. I speak not
Of features or of form, but mind and
habits,
Count Siftismund was proud, but gay and
free, —
20 A wanior and a reveller, he dwelt not
With books and solitude, nor innde the
night
A gloomy vunK but a festal time,
Merrier than day, he did not walk the
rocks
_ And foiests like a wolf, noi turn awde
23 Fiom nuii and their delights.
Her. Beslnew the lioui.
But those weie jocund tunes1 1 mould
that such
Would visit the old walls again, thov look
As if they had i'oi gotten them
Manud. These- nalU
Must change their chieftain first Oh f 1
have seen
30 Some stiansre things in them, Herman
ller. Come, be friend l>
Relate me some to while a way our watch
T've heard thee daikl> speak of an event
AYhieh happen M hereabouts, bv this same
tower
Manuel That was a night indeed' I
do icmember
15 'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and
such
Another evening; — yon red cloud, which
rests
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, —
So like that it might be the same ; the wind
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain
snows
40 Began to glitter with the clmibuip moon .
Count Manfred was, as now, within his
tower,—
How occupied, we knew not, but with him
» ttflp to
56C
NINETEENTH CENT UK V ROMANTICISTS
The bole companion oil Lib waudeilngb
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly
things
46 That lived, the only thing he seem'd to
love, —
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do,
The lady Astarte, his—
Hush f who comes beret
Enter the ABBOT.
Abbot. Where is your master!
Her Yonder in the tower
Abbot. I must speak with him
Manuel 'T is impossible ;
50 He is most private, and must not be thus
Intruded on.
Abbot. Upon myself I take
The foifeit of my fault, if fault there
be—-
But I must sec him
Her Thou hast seen him once
This eve aheady
Abbot. Herman ' 1 command thee,
BC Knock, and apprize the Count ol ni\
approach
Her. We dare not
A bbot Then it seems T must be herald
Of my own purpose
Manuel Itoeieiid f'nthei, slop —
I pi ay you pause.
Abbot Why sot
Manuel But step this wa> ,
And T will tell you further. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV
Intcnor of the Towet
MANFRED alone.
The stars are forth, the moon abou* the
tops
Ot the snow-shining mountains.— Beauti-
ful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
6 Than that of man , and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
f learn 'd the language of another uorld.1
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering, — upon snob a
night
10 I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome,
Thp trees which grew along the broken
arches
Wared dark in tbe blue midnight, and the
stars
» See CMldf HamltT*
586)
, Tf I, MM»0 (p
Shone through the rents of ruin; from
afar
« The watch-dog bay'd beyond tbe Tiber;
and
More near from out the Caesar's palace
came
The owl's long cry} and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind
«° Some cypresses beyond the time-worn
breach
Appear 'd to skirt the lion/on, jet they
stood
Within a bowshot Where the Caesars
dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night,
amidst
A grove which springs thiough levelled
battlements,
25 And twines its roots \tith 'the imperial
hearths,
I\y usurps the lam el '* place of eiowth ,
But the gladiator's bloody ('inns stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection.
While Cesar's chanil>eis. and the AnguR-
tan halls,
30 (ho>el on eaith in indistinct deca>
And thou didst slum*, tlum i oiling moon,
upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which soft en 'd down the hoar misteiity
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,
11 As 'tweie anew, Hie gaps of centimes,
Ijea\mg that beautiful which still was
so,
And making that \thirh was not, till the
place
Became lehgion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worsmp of the great of old, —
40 The dead but sceptred sovereign*, who still
rule
Our spints from their urns
'Twas such a night f
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time,
But T have found our thoughts take wild-
est flight
FA en at the moment when they should
array
** Themselves in pensive order.
Enter the ABBOT.
Abbot. My good lord I
I crave a second grace for this approach ;
But yet let not my humble zeal offend
By its abruptness— all it hath of ill
Recoils on me; its good in the^effect
50 May light upon your head— could I say
heart —
LOBD BYRON
Could I touch that, with word* or prayera, Spirit Tiiuu 'It kuonv anon — Come '
I should come!
Recall a noble spirit which hath wandei 'd , Man I have commanded
But IB not yet all lost. 8& Things of an essence greater far than
Man. Thou know'st me not , thine,
My days are numbered, and my deeds And striven with thy masters Get thee
recorded, hence!
w Retire, or 'twill be dangerous— Awa> ' tipiut Mortal! thine hour is come —
Abbot Thou dost not mean to menace Awa> f I say
met Man I know, and know my hour is
Man. Not 1 , come, but not
I simply tell thee peril is at hand, To render up in} soul to such as thee
And would preserve thee l'° Away! I '41 die as 1 have Ined — alone
Abbot What dost thou mean? Spirit. Then 1 must summon up my
Man Look tlieief brethren — liise'
What dost thou seel [Othet Spint* nse up
Abbot Nothing Abbot A vaunt ' ye evil ones f — Avaunt f
Man Look thei e, I say, I say ,
60 And steadfastly,— now tell me what thou Ye have no powei wheie piety hath powei,
seest And I do chaige ye in the name—
Abbot Tliat which should shake me, ^ Spirit Old man*
but T feat it not • 93 We know ourselves, our mission, and thine
I see a dusk and awful hi* me use, oidoi ,
Like an mlenial god, 1'ioni out the earth, Waste not Uiy holy words on idle uses.
His face wiupt in a mantle, and his It \vou> in \am* this man is forfeited
form Once more I summon him — A^ay ! A\\u> '
*B Robed a> \\itli angrv clouds he stands Man I do defy >e, — though 1 feel nn
between soul
Thyself and me — but I do iear him not 10° Is ebbing f mm me, yet I do defy ye ,
Man. Thou hast no cause , he shall not Not \\ill I hence, while I have eaithlj
liaun thee, but hi oath
His sight mnv shock thine old limbs into To bieathe my scorn upon ye — earthly
palsj strength
I sav to tlioe — Kehre1 To trestle, though with spirits, what ye
Ablmt And 1 leply — take
70 Never— I ill I have batt led \i ith this fiend — Shall be ta 'en limb by limb
What doth he here? tipnit Reluctant mortal f
Man Wh> — ay — \vbat doth he beret 10B Is this the Magian \vlio \\ould so pervade
1 did not send for him, — he is unbidden The woild ui visible, and make himself
Abbot. Alas' lost nioital1 what with Almost our equal? ('an it be that thou
guests like these Ait thus in lo\e with hie9 (he ^ery life
Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake Which made thee wi etched f
76 Whv doth he gaze on thee, and thou on Man. Thou false tiend, thou hest f
hmil no My life is in its last houi,— Mat I know.
Ah f he unveils his aspect . on his blow Nor would redeem a moment of that houi f
The thunder-scais are graven- from Ins I do not combat against death, but thee
eye And thy siniounding angels, my past
Glares forth the immortality of hell — powei ,
Avaunt f — Was purchased by no compact with thy
Man Pronounce — what is thy mission t crew,
Spirit. Come! lir> But by supenor science — penance, daring.
*Q Abbot. What ait thou, unknown being? And length of watching, stiength of mind.
answer !— speak ! and skill
Spmt. The genius of this mortal— In knowledge of our fathers— when the
Come! 'tis time. earth
Man. I am prepared for all things, but Saw men and spirits walking side by side,
deny Aiid ga\ e ye no supremacy • I stand
The power which summons me. Who sent 12° Upon mv strength — I do defy — deny —
thee here? Spiun back, and worn yef—
568
NiNKTKENTH CKNTUKV KOMANT1C1HTS
Spirit. But tliy many crime*
Have made thee—
Man. What are they to such as thee f
Must crimes be punish 'd but by other
crimes.
And greater criminals!— Back to thy
hell!
126 Thou hast 110 power upon me, that 1 feel ,
1 Thou never shalt possess me, that I know
What I have done is done, I bear within
A torture which could nothing gain from
thine •
The mind which is immortal niakcH itself
180 Requital for its good or evil thoughts, —
Is its own origin of ill *nd end
And its own place and time,1 its innate
sense,
When stnpp'd of thib mortality, de-
rives
No color from the fleeting things with-
out,
188 But is absorb M in sufferance or in 303%
Born from tlie knowledge of its own
desert.
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou eouldnt
not tempt me ,
I have not been tliy dupe, nor am tlr\
prey-
But was iry own destroyer, and will be
140 My own hereafter — Back, ye baffled
fiends V—
The hand of death is on me— but not
yours {The Demons disappear.
Abbot Alas' how pale thou art — thy
lips are white —
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasp-
ing throat
The accents rattle Give thy prayers to
heaven —
M* Pi uv— albeit but in thought,— but die not
thus
Man 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix
thee not;
But nil things swim around me, and the
earth
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee
well!
Give me thy hand
Abbot. Cold— cold— even to the
heart —
ir>0 But yet one prayer— Alas? how fares it
with theet
Man Old man' His not so difficult to
die. [MANFRED expires
Abbot. He's gone— his soul hath ta'en
its earthless flight;
WhitherT I dread to think — but he is gone.
i RPP Paradise Lout, 1, 254-55
10
80, WE'LL GO NO MOBE A-BOVINO
1817 1880
So, well go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still ab loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
Tor the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have lest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE
1817 1821
My boat is on the shore,
And my baik is on the sea ,
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to theef
8 Here's a sigh to those who love me,
Ami a smile to those who hate,
And, whatever sky 'b above mo,
Here'b a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
1 « Yet it st ill shall bear me on ;
Though a deseit should surround me,
It hath bpiings that maj be won.
Were ft the last drop in the well,
As I gmsp'd upon the brink,
r> Kre n i y fainting spirit fell,
*T is to thee that I would drink
With that water, as this wine.
The libation I would pour
Should be — peace with thine and mine,
20 And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
STBAHAN, TONSON, LTNTOT OP THE
TIMES
1&18 1830
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Pat i on and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbta,
My Murray.
* To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all— and sellest some—
My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so green
10 The last new Quarterly is seen ;
But where is thy new Magazine,
Mv Murray T
LOBD BYKON
569
Along thy sprucest bookshelves sbme
The works thou deeinest most divine —
** The Art of Cookery, and mine,
My Murray
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist,
And then thou hast the Navy List,
*> My Muriay.
And Hea\eii forbid I bhould conclude
Without "the Board of Longitude,'9
Although this nariow paper would,
My Murray
MAZEPPA
1818 1810
T was after dread Pultowa's day,
When fortune left the royal Swede,1
Around a slaughter 'd army lay,
No moie to combat and to bleed*
6 The powei and glory of the war,
Faithless as their vain votaries, men,
Had paqa'd to the triumphant Czai,
And Moscow's walls were sate again,
Until a day more dark and dreai,J
10 And a more memoiable year, »
Should gi\e to slaughter and to shame
A mightier host and haughtier name ,
A greater wreck, a deeper fall,
A shock to one— a thunderbolt to all
15 Such was the hazard of the die ;
The wounded Charles was taught to fly
By day and night thiough field and flood,
Stain 'd with his own and subjects ' blood ;
For thousands fell that flight to aid *
20 And not a voice was heard t1 upbraid
Ambjtion in his humbled hour,
When truth had nought to dread from
power.
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave
His own— and died the Russians9 slave
25 This too sinks after many ft league
Of well sustain 'd but vain fatigue t
And in the depth of forests darkling.
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling—
The beacons of surrounding foes—
W A king must lay his limbs at length
Are these the laurels and repose
For which the nations strain their strength 1
They laid him by ft savage tree,
In outworn nature's agony;
• His wounds were stiff, his limbs were stark;
iChariM XIT. KUiff of Sweden (
whSi? foS2L w™ tlmprt
tbow of P*t*r the Orent <
Battle of Poltava, July R.
•A inference to Nanolewi'ii
of 1MU, In which Iffomww
«ie SSncn arnv almogt dertroved bv bun
mid on the return march.
-ITU),
tfd tar
in the
The heavy houi was chill and dark ,
The fever in his blood forbade
A transient slumber's fitful aid
And thus it was, but yet through all,
40 Kmglike the monarch bore his fall,
And made, in this extienie ot ill,
His pangs the vassals of his will
All silent and subdued were they,
As once the nations lound him lay.
45 A band of chief si— alas! how few,
Since but the fleeting of a day
Had thinn'd it, but this wreck was true
And chivalrous upon the clay
Each sate him down, all sad and mute,
60 Beside his monarch and his steed,
For danger levels man and brute,
And all are fellows in their need.
Among the test, Mazeppa made
His pillow in an old oak's shade—
56 Himself as Tough, and scarce less old,
The Ukraine's Iletnian,1 calm and bold.
But first, outspent with this loug couise,
The Cossack pnncr mbb'd donn his hoi-sc.
And made foi him a leafy bed,
60 And smooth 'd his fetlocks and his mane.
And slack 'd his girth, and stnpp'd his
rein,
And joy M to see how well he fed ;
For until nou he had the dread
His weaned courser might refuse
65 To browse beneath the midnight dews
Rut he was hardv as his lord,
And little cared for bed and board ;
Rut spirited and docile, too,
Whatever was to be done, would do
70 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb,
All Tartar-like he carried him;
Ohev'd hi* voice, and came to call,
And knew him in the midst of all:
Though thousands were around, — and
Night,
75 Without a star, pursued her flight,-
That Rteed from sunset until dawn
His chief would follow like a fawn.
This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak
And laid his lance beneath his oak,
80 Felt if his arms in order good
The long day's march had well withstood —
Tf still the powder flll'd the pan.
And flints unloosen fd kept their lock—
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt,
85 And whether they had chafed his belt ;
And next the venerable man,
From out his haversack and can
Prepared and spread his slender stock;
he Comtek rhfef from Ukraine, a district in
Rn«rta lying in tbe valley of tibe rtjer
Dnieper jSaxeppa had deRertefl from tho
nml lofnod thr ^
570
NINETEENTH GENTUBY KOMANT1CI8TS
And to the monarch and his men
90 The whole or portion offer 'd then
With far less of inquietude
Than courtiers at a banquet would.
And Charles of this his slender share
With smiles partook a moment there,
95 To force of cheer a greater show.
And seem above both wounds and noe.
And then he said— "Of all our band.
Though firm of heart and strong oi hand,
In skirmish, march, or forage, none
100 Can less have said or more have dime
Than thee, Mazcppa ' on the earth
So fit a pair had never birth,
Since Alexander's days till new,
As thy Bucephalus and thou
105 All Scy Una's fame to thuie should vield
For pricking on o'ei flood and field "
Mazeppa answer 'd— "111 betide
The school n herein T learn M to i ide ' J f
Quoth Chailes— "01<1 Hetitmn, ulieiefnie
so,
u° Since thon hast lenrn'd the ait so well!"
Mazeppa said—" 'T were long to tell ,
And we have many a league to go,
With everv now and then a blow,
And ten to one at least the foe,
11(* Before our steeds may ginze at ease
Beyond the swift Borvstbenes-
And, Sire, your limbs have need of rest.
And T will be the sentinel
Of tins voni troop "—"But I lequest,"
120 Said Sweden's monarch, "thon wilt tell
This tale of thine, and I mav leap.
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ,
For at this moment fiom my eyes
The hope of present slumber flies "
i« "Well, Sire, with such a hope, I'll track
My seventy years of memory back ;
T think 'twas in my twentieth spring,—
Ay, 't was,— when Casimir was king1 —
John Caramir,— I was his page
130 Six summers, in my earlier age •
A learned monarch, faith ' was he,
And most unlike your majesty ,
He made no wars, and did not gain
New realms to lose them back again .
13& And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)
He reign 'd in most unseemly quiet :
Not that he had no cares to vex;
He loved the muses and the sex ;
And sometimes these so f toward are,
140 They made him wish himself at war;
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took
Another mistress— or new book r
And then he gave prodigious ftta—
« John Pastmlr WM TCInsr nf Polnnrt from 1B40
to HOT*
All Wai saw gather 'd round his gates
145 TO gaze upon his splendid court,
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port:
He was the Pohah Solomon,
So sung his poets, all but one,
Who, being unpension 'd, made a satire,
i">fl And boasted that he could not flatter.
It was a court of jousts and mimes.
Where every courtier tned at rhymes,
E\cn I for ouce produced some verses,
And sign'd my odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.'
155 There was a certain Palatine,
A count of fai and high descent.
K idi at» a salt1 or silver mine;
And he was proud, ye may divine,
As if from heaven he had been sent
160 He had such wealth in blood and ore
As few could match beneath the throne,
And he would gaze upon his stoic.
And o'er his pedigree would pore,
Tntif by some confusion led,
lfi"' Which almost look'd like want of head.
He thought their merits ^ ere his own
Tlih wife was not of his opinion ,
His inmor she by thirty years,
Urew daily tired of his dominion ,
170 And, after wishes, hopes, and feais.
To virtue a few farewell tears
A restless dream or two, some glances
U Warsaw's youth, some sons*;, and
dances,
V waited but the usual chances
1 7n Those happy accidents which render
The coldest dames so A cry teiulei,
To deck her Count with titles gi\en,
'T is said, as passports into heaxen .
But, strange to say, they rarely boast
180 Of these, who have deserved them most
"I was a goodly stripling then ;
At se\ enty years I so may say.
That theie were few, 01 boys or men,
Who, in my dawning time of dav,
IRB of vassal or of knight 's degree,
Could vie in vanities with me ;
For T had strength, youth, gaiety,
A port, not like to this ye see,
But smooth, as all is rugged now ,
IM por time, and care, and war, have
plough 'd
My very soul from out my brow;
And thus I should be disavow 'd
By all my kind and kin, could they
Compare my day and yesterday;
195 This change was wrought, top, long ere age
Had ta'en my features for his page;
With years, ye know, have not declined
1 The wealth of Poland romtat* Inwlr In «lt
mine*
LOKD BYBON
571
My strength, my courage, or my mind,
Or at this hour I should not be
200 Telling old tales beneath a tree,
With starless skies iny canopy
But let me on : Theresa's form—
Methinks it glides before me now,
Between me and yon chestnut's bough,
206 The memory w so quick and warm ;
And yet 1 find no words to tell
The shape of her I loved so well:
She had the Asiatic eye,
Such as our Turkish neighborhood
"0 Hath mingled with our Polish blood,
Dark as above us is the sky;
But through it stole a tender light,
Lake the first moonnse of midnight ,
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream,
216 Which seem'd to melt to its own team ,
All love, half languor, and half fire,
Like saints that at jthe slake expire,
And lift their raptured looks on high,
As though it weie a joy to die.
220 A brow like a midsummer lake,
Transparent with the sun therein,
When waves no murmur dare to make,
And hea\en beholds her face within
A cheek and lip— but why proceed*
225 i ]oved her then, I \o\o her still :
And such as T nm, love indeed
In fierce extremes— in good and ill
But still we love even in our rage,
And haunted to our very age
230 With the vain shadow of the past.
As is Mazeppa to the last.
"We met— we gazed— I saw, and sigh'd,
She did not speak, and yet replied ;
There are ten thousand tones and signs
216 We hear land see, but none defines—
Involuntary sparks of thought,
Which strike from out the heart o'er-
wrought,
And foim n strange intellicpnce.
Alike urvsteiions and intense,
240 Which link the burning chain thnt binds,
Without their will,younsr heart** and minds ,
Conveying, as the electric wire,
We know not how, the absorbing fire
1 saw, and sigh'd— in wlenee w*pt,
246 And still reluctant distance kept.
Until I was made known to her,
And we might then and there confer
Without suspicion— then, even then,
I long'd, and was resolved to speak;
250 But on my lips they died again,
The accents tremulous and weak,
Until one hour —There is a game,
A frivolous and foolish play,
WP while nwnv the dav :
256 it is— I have forgot the name—
And we to this, it seems, weie set,
By some strange chance, which I t'oiget
I reck'd not it I won 01 lost,
It was enough for me to be
260 So neai to hear, and oh ! to see
The being whom I loved the most
I watch 'd her as a sentinel,
(May ours this dark night watch as well!)
Until 1 saw, and thus it was,
265 That she w*s pensive, nor perceived
Her occupation, nor was grieved
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still
Play 'd on for hours, as if her will
Yet bound her to the place, though not
270 That here might be the winning lot.
Then through my brain the thought did
pass
E\en as a flash of lightning there.
That theie was something in hei air
Which would not doom me to despair ;
276 And on the thought my words biokc foith,
All incoherent as they were;
Their eloquence vas little worth,
But yel she listen 'd— 't is enough—
Who listens once will listen twice;
280 ner heart, be sure, is not of ice,
And one refusal no rebuff
"I loved, and was beloved again—
They tell me, Sire, you never knew
Those gentle frailties, if 't is tine,
283 T shorten all my joy or pain ;
To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ,
But all men are not born to reign,
Or o'ei their passions, 01 as von
Thus o'er themselves and nations too
290 1 am— or rather was— a prince,
A chief of thousands, and could lead
Them on where each would foremost
bleed;
But could not o'er myselt evince
The like control— But to resume
295 I lo\ed, and was beloved acram ;
In aooth, it is a happy doom,
But "\et where happiest ends in pain
We met in secret, and the hour
Which led me to that lady's bowei
"m Was fiery Expectation's dower
MJy days and nights were nothing— all
Except that hour, which doth recall.
In the long lapse from youth to age.
No other like itself- I'd give
305 The Ukraine back again to live
It o'er once more, and be a page,
The happy page, who was the lord
Of one soft heart, and his own sword.
And had no other gem nor wealth
810 Save nature's cift of yonth and henltli
572
NINETEENTH CBNTUBY BOMANTIClbTtt
We met in secret— doubly sweet,
Some say, they find it so to meet,
I know not that— I would have given
My life but to have call'd her mine
815 In the full view of earth and heaven;
For I did oft and long repine
That we could only meet by stealth.
"For lovers there are many eyes,
And such there were on us; the devil
**° On such occasions should be civil—
The devil I— I'm loth to do him wrong,
It might be some untoward saint,
"Who would not be at rest too long,
But to his pious bile gave vent—
**6 But one fair night, some lurking spies
Surprised and seized us both.
The Count was something more than
wroth—
I was unarm 'd ; but if in steel,
All cap-&-pie from head to heel,
330 What 'gainst their numbers could I dot
'T was near his castle, far away
Prom city or from succor near,
And almost on the break of day;
I did not think to see another,
835 My moments seem 'd reduced to few ,
And with one prayer to Mary Mother,
And, it may be, a saint or two,
As I resign 'd me to my fate,
They led me to the castle gate:
340 Theresa's doom I never knew,
Our lot was henceforth separate.
An angry man, ye may opine,
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ;
And he had reason good to be,
845 But he was most enraged lest such
An accident should chance to touch
Upon his future pedigree;
Nor less amazed, that such a blot
His noble 'scutcheon should have got,
350 While he was highest of his line,
Because unto himself he seem'd
The first of men, nor less he deem'd
In others' eyes, and most in mine.
'Sdeath I1 with a page— perchance a king
™ Had reconciled him to the thing;
But with a stripling of a page—
I felt, but cannot paint his rage.
" 'Bring forth the hone! '-the hone wa«
brought;
In truth, he was a noble steed,
"° A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,
Who look 'd as though the speed of thought
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild,
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,
With spur and bridle nn defiled —
drath
366 ix wag but a day he had been eau
And snorting, with erected mane,
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
In the full foam of wrath and dread
To me the desert-born was led :
370 They bound me on, that menial throng;
Upon his back with many a thong;
Then loosed him with a sudden lash-
Away I— away I—and on we dash !
Torrents less rapid and less rash.
375 "Away !— away I My breath was gone,
I saw not where he hurried on:
'T was scarcely yet the break of day,
And on he foam'd— away!— awayl
The last of human sounds which rose,
380 As I was darted from my foes,
Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
Which on the wind came roaring after
A moment from that rabble rout :
With sudden wrath I wrench 'd my head,
385 And snapp 'd the cord, which to the mnne
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,
And, writhing half my form about,
Ilowl'd back my curse, but 'midst the
tread,
The thunder of my courser's ppeed,
390 Perchance they did not hear nor heed •
It vexes me— for I would fain
Have paid their insult back again.
I paid it well in after days :
Theie is not of that castle gate,
396 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,
Stone, bar, moat, budge, or barrier left ,
Nor of its fields a blade of grass,
Save what grows on a ndge of wall,
Where stood the hearth-Mane of the
hall;
400 And many a tune ye there might pass,
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was.
I saw its turrets in a blaze,
Their crackling battlements all cleft,
And the hot lead pour down like rain
405 From off the scorch 'd and blackening roof,
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof
They little thought that day of pain,
When launch 'd, as on the lightning's flnvh.
They bade me to destruction dash,
410 That one day I should come again,
With twice five thousand hone, to thank
The Count for his uncourteous ride
They play'd me then a bitter prank,
When, with the wild hone for my guide.
415 They bound me to his foaming flank •
At length I play'd them one as frank-
For time at last sets all things even—
And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
420 Which could cvnde, if nn forgiven,
l,OKi> HYJiON
.r>73
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures np a wrong.
"Away, away, my steed and I,
Upon the pinions of the wind,
"* All human dwellings left behind,
We sped like meteors through the sky,
When with its crackling sound the night
Is chequer 'd with the Northern light.
Town— village— none wore on our track,
430 But a wild plain of far extent,
And bounded by a forest black ,
And, save the scarce seen battlement
On distant heights of some strong hold,
Against the Tartars built of old,
436 No trace of man. The year before
A Turkish army had march 'd o'er,
And where the Spain's1 hoof hath trod,
The veidnre flies the bloody sod:
The f»ky was dull, and dim, and gray,
440 And a low breeze crept moaning by—
I could have answer 'd with a sigh—
But fast we fled, away, away—
And I could neither wcrh nor pray;
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain
445 Vpon the courser's bristling mane;
Hut, snorting still with rage and fear,
He flew upon his far career
At times L almost thought, indeed,
Ife must have slacken 'd in his speed ,
4CO But no— my bound and slender iramo
Was nothing to his angry might.
And merely like a spur became •
Kach motion which I made to free
My swoln limbs from their agony
4:15 Increased his fury and affright :
T tried my voice,— 'twas faint and low-
But vet he swerved as from a blow ,
And, starting to each accent, sprang
As from a sudden trumpet's clang-
460 Meantime my cords were wet with gore,
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er:
And in my tongue the thirst became
A something fierier far than flame
1 ' We near 'd the wild wood— 't was so wide,
465 I saw no bounds on either side;
'Twas studded with old sturdv trees.
That bent not to the roughest breeze
Which howls down from Siberia's waste.
And strips the forest in its haste,—
470 But these were few and far between,
Ret thick with shrubs more young and
green,
Luxuriant with their annual leaves.
Ere strown by those autumnal eves
That nip the forest's foliage dead,
475 Discolor'd with a lifeless red,
1 A Turkish
Which stands thereon like stiffen 'd gore
Upon the slain when battle's o'er,
And some long winter's night hath shed
Its frost o'er every tombless head,
480 So cold and stark the raven's beak
May peck unpierced each frozen cheek
'Twas a wild waste of underwood,
And here and there a chestnut stood,
The strong oak, and the hardy pine ;
486 But far apart— and well it wei e,
Or else a different lot weie mine—
The boughs gave way, and did not teai
My limbs; and I found strength to beai
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold ,
490 My bonds forbade to loose my hold.
We rustled through the leaves like wind,
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ,
By night I heard them on the track,
Their troop came hard upon our back,
49(5 With their long gallop, which can tire
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's flro
Where'er we flew they followed on,
Nor left us with the morning sun ,
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,
500 At day-break winding through the wood,
And through the night had heatd their feet
Their stealing, rustling step repeat
Oh I how I wish'd for spear or sword.
At least to die amidst the horde,
r>OB And perish— if it must be so—
At bay, destroying many a foe»
When first my courser's race begun,
I wish'd the goal already won ;
But now I doubted strength and speed
M* Vain doubt I his swift and savage breed
Had nerved him kke the mountain-roe ;
Nor faster falls the blinding snow
Which whelms the peasant near the door
Whose threshold he shall cross no more,
"* Bewilder M with the dazzling blast,
Than through the forest-paths he pass'd—
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ;
All furious AS a favor 'd child
Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still-
630 A woman piqued— who has her will f
"The wood was past, 'twas more thnn
noon,
But chill the air, although in June;
Or it might be my veins ran cold—
Prolonged endniance tames the bold;
B25 And I was then not what I seem,
But headlong as a wintry stream,
And wore my feelings out before
T well could count their causes o'er*
And what with fury, fear, and wrath,
M0 The tortures which beset my path,
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress,
Thus bortnd in nature's nakedness
574
N1NHTKKNTJ1 CKNTUKY JtOMANTlt'lBTS
(Spiuug fioui a race whose rising blood,
When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood,
6S5 And trodden hard upon, is like
The rattle-snake's, in act to strike),
What marvel if this worn-out tiunk
Beneath its woes a moment sunkf
The earth gave way, the skies roli'd round,
640 j geem'd to sink upon the ground ;
But err'd, for I was fastly bound
My heait turnM sick, my brain gieu sore.
And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more
The skies spun like a mighty wheel ,
•us I raw the trees like drunkards reel.
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,
Which saw no farther: he who dies
Can die no more than then I died,
O'ertortured by that ghastly ride
">r>0 I felt the blackness come and go,
And strove to wake, but could not make
My senses climb up from below
T felt as on a plank at sea,
When all the waves that dash o'er thee,
">66 At the same tune upheave and whelm.
And hurl thee touaids a deseit realm
My undulating life i*as as
The fancied lights that flitting pass
Om shut eyes in deep midnight, when
560 FV^e] liegms upon the biain .
Rut soon it pass'd, with little pain.
But a confusion woise than such
[ ov\n that I should deem it much,
Dying, to f^l the same again ;
3<r§ And yet I do suppose1 we must
Peel far more eie we turn to dust
No matter, I have bared my bio*
Full in Death 's face— before— and nov\
"My thoughts came back, *heie was T*
Cold,
"70 And numb, and giddy pulse by pulse
Life reassumed its lingering hold,
And throb by throb,— till grown a pang
Winch for a moment would convulse,
My blood reflow'd, thonirh thick and
chill;
ri75 My ear with uncouth noises long,
Mjr heart began once more to thrill .
My sight return 'd, though dim , alas *
And thicken. 'd, as it were, with glass
Methought the dash of waves <was nigh ,
580 There was a gleam too of the sky.
Studded with stars;— it is no dream.
The wild horse swims the wilder stream f
The bright broad river's gushing tide
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide,
M* And we are half-way, struggling o'er
To yon unknown and silent shore.
The waters broke my hollow trance.
And with a temporary strength
My stiffen 'd hmbb weio rebaptized
690 My courser's broad breast proudly bra\ t»s
And dashes off the ascending waves,
And onward we advance '
We reach the slippery shore at length.
A haven I but little prized,
r'95 For all behind was dark and drear.
And all before was night and fear
How many hours of night or day
In those suspended pangs I lay,
1 could not tell; T scarcely knew
600 It! this \\ere human breath I drew
"With glossy skin, and dripping mane,
And reeling limbs, and reeking flank,
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain
Up the repelling bank
«ori ^-e gam the |0p a boundless plain
Spreads through the shadow of the night,
And onward, onviaid, onward, seems
Like piecipices in our dreams.
To shetch beyond the sight,
610 And here and theie n speck of white
Or scattei 'd spot of dusky gieen,
Tn masses broke into the light,
As rose the moon upon my right
But nought distinctly seen
f"r> Tn the dim waste would indicate
The omen of a cottage gate ,
No twinkling tapei fiom afar
Stood like a hospitable star,
Not even an ignis- f at mis lose
820 To make him nierrv * ith my woes •
That very cheat had cheer'd me then !
Although detected, welcome still.
Reminding me, through every ill,
Of the nhodes of mc»n
625 "Ouwaid *e meni— but slack and slo\i ,
His savage force at length o'eisj>eiit.
The d looping- coniscr, faint and low,
All feebly foaming went .
A sickly infant had had power
cso TO gulde him fonvnrd in that Jioui ,
But, useless all to me,
His new-born tameness nought avail M—
My limbs were bound , my force had fail M,
Perchance, had they been free
<"R With feeble effort still I tried
To rend the bofld> so starkly tied.
But still it was in vain ,
My limbs were only wrung the more.
And soon the idle strife gave o'er,
M0 Which but prolong 'd their pain
The dizzy race seem'd almost done,
Although no goal was nearly won •
Rome streaks announced the* coming sun—
How slow, alap ! he came !
MB Methonffht thnt mi«t of dawning gray
LORD BYKON
575
Would nevei dapple into day:
How heavily it rollM away—
Before the eastern flame
Rose cnmson, and deposed the stars,
660 And call'd the radiance from their cars,
And fill'd the earth, from bis deep throne,
With lonely lustre, all his own
4 * Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl 'd
Back from the solitary woild
665 Which lay around, behind, before
What booted it to traverse o'er
Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute,
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot,
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ;
660 No sign of tiavel, none of toil ,
The very air was mute ;
And not an msect'b shrill small horn,
Nor matin bird's1 new vowe was boine
From herb nor thicket Many a uersi."
665 Panting: as if his heart would burst,
The weary brute still stagger'd on,
And still we were— or seem 'd— alone
At length, while reeling- on our war.
Methought I heard a courser ueigli,
670 j«>om Out yon tuft of blackening fiis
Is it the wind those blanches siir<*1
No, no I f i om out the f 01 e«t pi nnce
A tianiplin? tioop; T see them conic'
In one vast fwpiadron iliev advance1
*""' I strove to ei v— inv lips weie dumb f
The steeds rush on in plunging pride,
But where are they the icins to einde*
A thousand hnise— and none to ndef
With flowing tail, and flvmg mnnc,
8SO Wide nostuls never st i etch M by pain,
Months bloodless to the bit or lein,
And feet that non ne\er shod,
And flanks unseat rM bv spin or rod,
A thousand hoise, the wild, the free,
*** Like waves that follow o'er the sea,
Came thickly tlnuideiing on,
As if our faint approach to meet.
The sight re-nerved mv coursei 's feet,
A moment stnsrgermg, feeblv fleet,
fi<*° A moment, with a faint low neigh,
He answcr'd, nnd then fell,
With gasps and glazing eyes he lav.
And reeking limbs immovable—
His first nnd last career is done '
096 On came the troop— they saw him «toop,
They saw me strangely bound alone
His back with many a bloody thong
They stop— they start— they snuff the air,
Galiop a moment here and there,
700 Approach, retire, wheel round and round,
Then plunging hack with midden bound,
71S
irp ranal to R BOO feet
Headed by one black mighty bleed,
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed.
Without a single speck or hair
705 Of white upon his shaggy hide;
They snort— they foam— neigh— swei\<-
aside.
And backward to the forest fly,
By instinct, from a human eye.
They left me there to my despair,
710 Link'd to the dead and stiffening \i retch.
Whose lifeless limbs beneath uic fit i etch.
Relieved from that unwonted weight,
From whence I could not extricate
Nor him nor me— and there we lav,
The dying on the dead f
T little cleem'd another day
Would see my houseless, helpless head
"And there from motn to twilight bound,
I felt the heavy horns toil round,
720 With just enough of life to see
Mv last of suns go dew n on me.
In hopeless certainty of mind,
That mnkos us f i-el at length resign M
To that vthich 0111 foreboding years
725 Piesent the worst nnd^g of fears
Inevitable— even a IHMWJ
\oi moic unkind foi coming BOOH.
Yet shuim'd and di ended witli sncli cate.
As if it only were a snare
730 That Prudence might escai><>
At times both wish'd for and implored
At times sought with sell -pointed suoid.
Yet still a dark and hideous close
To e\en intolerable woes,
7r> And welcome in no shape
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasiuc.
Thev who have revell'd be\ond measim*
In Itemitv, wassail, wine, and tieasure.
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he
740 Whose bent age i*as misery
For he who hath in turn run through
All that was licautiful and new,
Hath nought to hope, and nought to
leave.
And, save the future (which is vnew'd
746 Not quite as men aic base 01 good,
But as their nerves may be endued).
With nought pei haps to gneve
The wretch still hope* his woes must end.
And Death, whom lie «Jinnlc1 deem hi*
fnend,
7BO Appears, to his distempei 'd eyes.
Arrived to rob him of his prize.
The tree of his new Paradise
Tomorrow would have given him all.
Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall;
7BB Tomorrow would have been the first
Of days no more deplored or curst,
57U
NINETEENTH CKNTUKY KOMANTiUlBTti
But bright, and long, and beckoning years,
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, '
Guerdon of many a painful hour;
760 Tomorrow would have given him power
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save—
And must it dawn upon his grave!
"The sun was sinking— still I lay
Chain 'd to the chill and stiffening steed ,
766 I thought to mingle there our clay,
And my dun eyes of death had need ;
No hope arose of being freed.
I cast my last looks up the sky.
And there between me and the sun
770 i gaw the expecting raven fly,
Who scarce would wait till both should
die,
Ere his repast begun ;
He flew, and perch 'd, then flew once more,
And each time nearer than before :
775 l saw his wing through twilight flit,
And once so near me he alit
I could have smote, but lack'd the
strength ;
But the slight motion of my hand,
And feeble Eogftfhmg of the sand,
7SO The exerted Wiroat's faint struggling
noise,
Which scarcely could be called a voice,
Together scared him off at length.—
I know no more— my latest dream
Is something of a lovely star
785 Which ftx 'd m v dull eyes from afar,
And went and came with wandering
beam,
And of the cold, dull, swimming, den«»e
Sensation of recurring sense,
And then subsiding back to death,
790 And then again a little breath,
A little thrill, a short suspense,
An icy sickness curdling o'er
My heart, and sparks that cross 'd my
brain—
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain,
795 A sigh, and nothing more
"I woke— where was IT— Do I see
A human face look down on me!
And doth a roof above me closet
Do these limbs on a couch repose T
»W> Is this a chamber where I lie!
And is it mortal yon bright eye,
That watches me with gentle glance f
I closed my own again once more,
As doubtful that my former trance
805 Could not as yet be o *er.
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall,
Sate watching by the cottage wall :
The imarkle of her eve I caught.
E\en with my first return of thought;
810 JTOP ^2. and an0n Bhe threw
A prying, pitying glance on me
With her black eyes so wild and free :
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew
No vision it could be,—
"* But that I lived, and was released
From adding to the vulture's feast :
And when the Cossack maid beheld
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd,
She smiled— and T essay 'd to speak,
820 But fail'd— and she approach 'd, and
made
With lip and flnger signs that said,
I must not strive as yet to break
The silence, till my strength should be
Enough to leave my accents free;
825 And then her hand on mine she laid;
And smootb'd the pillow for my head,
And stole along on tiptoe tread,
And gently oped the door, and spake
In whispers— ne'er uas voice KO sweet f
880 Even music follow 'd her light feet •
But those she calPd were not awake,
And she went forth , but, ere she pass'd,
Another look on me she cast,
Another sign she made, to say,
836 That I had nought to fear, that all
Were near, at mv command or call.
And she would not delav
Her due return '—while she waft gone,
Methought I felt too much alone
840 "She came with mother and with sire—
What need of moret— I will not tire
With long recital of the rest,
Since I became the Cossack's guest.
Thev found me senseless on the plain,
*45 Thev bore me to the nearest hut,
They brought me into life again—
Me— one day o'ei their realm to leign '
Thus the vain fool who strove to glut
His rage, refining on my pain,
™ Sent me forth to the wilderness,
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone.
To pass the desert to a throne,—
What mortal his own doom may guess T
Let none despond, let none despair !
Rr>B Tomorrow the Borysthenes
May see our coursers graze at ease
TTpon his Turkish bank, and never
Had I such welcome for a river
As I shall yield when wifely there.
8*o Comrades, good night'9'— The Hetman
threw
His length beneath the oak-tree shade,
With leafy conch already made,
A bed nor comfortless nor new
To him. who took his rest whene'er
BVUON
577
The hour arrived, no mallei wheie .
His eyee the hastening slumbers Bleep.
And if ye marvel Charles forgot
To thank his tale, he wonder 'd not,—
The king had been an hour asleep
Prom DON JUAN
7818-15 1819-24
DEDICATION
1810
1 Bob Southey' You're a poet — Poet-
laureate,
And representatne of all the lace,
Although 'tis true that yon tnin'd out a
Tory at
Last, yours has lately been a common
case,1
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are
ye atf
With all the Lakeis,2 in and out of
place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to mv e<\e
Like "four and twenty Blaekbuds in a
2 "Which pye being openM they began to
(This old song and ncu simile holds
good),
"A dainty dish to set before the King,"
Or Regent,*1 uho adnnies such kind <>i
food;-
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encunibeied with his
hood,—
Explaining metaphysics to the nation—
T wish he would explain his Explanation 4
3 You, Bob1 ate rathei insolent, you knu*.
At being disappointed m your wish
To snpeisede all waibleis heie belou,
And be the only Blackbird in the dish .
And then you oveistiam >ouiself. or M>,
And tumble downward like the flying
fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too
high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-drv.
Bob!
1 Bouthey, like Wordsworth and Coleridge, wait
at one time an ardent Republican, but the
excesses and the failures of the French Re\o
lutlon led him finally to become a Tory
9 Wordsworth, Coleridge, and others, BO called
because of their residence In the Lake Dls-
trtct.
'The Prince of Wales, afterwards fleorge IV.
who was appointed Regent when hi* father
George III, became Insane In 1811 Honthe\
was made pbet laureate In 1818
4 \ reference to Coleridge s Jlfo0nfpJrta Mfno
— *••-*• nnnonrprl In 1K17
4 And Wordsworth, in a rather long Excur-
sion
(I think the quarto holds five hundred
pages),
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages ,
'Tis poetry— at least by his assertion,
And ma> appear so when the dog-star
rages—
And he who understands it would be
able
To odd a story to the Tower of Babel.
5 You— Gentlemen' by dint of long seclu-
sion
From better company, have kept your
own
At Keswiok,1 and, through still continued
fusion
Of one anothei's minds, at last have
grown
Tii deem as a most logical conclusion,
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone
There is a nairowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your
lakes foi ocean
6 T would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor cum my self-lo\e to so base a
\ ice,
For all the glory your coiuersion brought,
Since gold alone should not ha\e been
it« puce
You June your salary* was 't for that
you wrought f
And Woidfrworth has his place in the
Excise 2
You're shabby fellows— true— but poets
still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill
7 Youi bavs11 mav hide the baldness of vonr
Peihaps some \ntuous blushes;— let
them go-
To jou I emy neithei fimt nor boughs—
And for the fame you would engross
below,
The field is universal, and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent
glow
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and
Crabbe will try
'Gainst you the question with posterity
1 Souther Joined Coleridge at Keawlck, In the
Lake Pfetrict, In 1808
J Wordsworth wan appointed Distributor of
Rtamp* for Westmoreland In 1818. but be
never had anj connection with the exctae
1 \lreathn of honor made from IPHVPK of the
hH \-tree n kind of Innrel
578 NINETEENTH CENTURY ^ROMANTICISTS
8 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian And thus for wider carnage taught %to
Muses, pant, -
Contend not with you on the winged Tiansferr'd to gorge upon a sister
steed, shore,
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could
chooses, want,
The fame you envy, and the skill you With just enough of talent, and no
need; more,
And recollect a poet nothing loses To lentfheu fetters by another fix'd,
In giving to his brethren their full meed And offer poison long already mix'd.
Of merit, the complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise. IS An orator of such set trash of phrase
_ _ , A ... . . ... Ineffably— legitimately vile,
9 He that reserves his laurels f or posterity That even lts groSBest flatterers dare not
(Who does not often claim the bright praise,
revei^ion) . *_ Nor foes-all nations-condescend to
Has generally no t»ieat ciop to spaie it, he smile
Being only injured by his own abser- Not even a gprigiltiy hinndei 's spark can
tion, blaze
And although heie and there some tfo- rrom that Ixioll gundst one's ceaseless
nous rarity toli
Arise like Titan from the sea's mimer- That turns and turilfe io gnc tll|S WfllM a
m 81on' * i. ,, * notlon
The major part of such appellants pro Of endleB8 torments and perpetual motion
To— OIK! knows where—for no one else
can know 14 A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
10 If. fallen in evil days on evil tongues,' And Welling, patching, leaving still
Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time, 4ll 2 u i * * f i
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his Something of whifli lU masters are -afraid,
wrongs States to be euib'd, and thoughts to be
And make* 'the word "Mil tonic" mean confined,
"•sublime " Conspiracy or Congress to be made—
He deicn'd not to belie his soul in sonps, . Cobbling at manacles for all mankind-
Nor turn l.is very talent to a crime; A tinkenng slave-maker, who mends old
7/p did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, _„... J**™1** , , U1 f .t
But closed the tyiant-hatei he begun ^ ^ >th O<Kl's and man's abhorrence for Us
gams.
11 Think 'st thou, could he-the blind Old
Man— arise, 15 If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Like Samuel fioni the jriuxe,1 to t'ree/e Emasculated to the marrow It
once more Hath but two objects, how to serve, and
The blood of monarclis with his prophe- bind,
cies, Deeming the chain it wears even men
Or be alive again— again all hoar may fit,
With time and trials, and those helpless Eutropms of its many masters,— blind
eyes, To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit
And "heartless daughters4— worn— and Fearless— because no feeling dwells in ice,
pale— and poor; Its very courage stagnates to a vice
Would be adore a sultan T lie obey
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? 16 Where shall I turn me not to view its
12 Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid mis- For I will never ^ them !-Ttaly»
_ , ^reant Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Beneath the lie this Rtate-tlnngbieathed
Erin's gore, o'er thee-^
and Routhey
• Ree 1 Hamvel, 28 7 ff
4 ^TSTTja XttSAXTiSS'tSKA Have voices-ton*™ to ory «lm,«l for
ert clauRhtern me
LORD BYRON
579
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies
still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill
17 Meantime, Sir Laureate, I pioceed to dedi-
cate,
In hcmeht simple verse, tins sons* In yon
And, if in flattering stiains J do not predi-
cate,
'Tis lliat I *till letam m\ "buff and
blue,'"
My politics as yet are all to educate
Apostasy 's so fashionable, too,
To keep one creed's a task grown quite
Herculean
Ts it not so, my Toiy, lTllia-Jiilinnf-f
From CANTO 1
1818 1819
1 I want a heio an uncommon want,
When oeiy yeai and month sends ioith
a new one.
Till, attei cloying the gazettes \\ilh rant,
The as»e disco\eis he is not the hue one
Of such .is these 1 should not caie lo
Munit,
I'll theiefoie take 0111 ancient 1 1 lend
Don Juan—
We all IIBM* seen linn, in the pantomime.
Sent lo the deul some\\ha( ere his time
5 Bia\e men weie living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding? \alorous and sa<je,
A «»ood deal like him too, though quite
(he same none,
But then they shone not on the poet V
paue,
And so ha\e been lorgotten —I condemn
none,
But can't find any in the piesent aao
Fit foi mv poem (that is, foi inv ne\\
one) ,
So, as I said, I'll take my fiiend Don
Juan
8 Most epic poets plunge "in medias res'*4
(Horace makes tins the heroic tinnpike
load),
1 The colors of the uniform adopted In
of the \\Tiitf t'lnb hence, the binding of TJi<'
Edinburgh Rentw, the Whig organ
9 "I Allude not to our friend Landor'h hero the
traitor Count Julian, hut to Gibbon's hero,
\ulfcarly v«lept The Apostate1" — Byion
•A nhort vorHlon of Hhadwell'K LftnllHC, aited
miller the title of Don Juan, or, The Libci-
tinr Dratrovrd At the concliiHion of the last
Act, Don Jiinn is thiown Into the flnmen hv
the FurloM
4 into the middle of things (Horace, At* Poi firrr,
148)
And then your hero tells, whene'er you
plea&e,
What went before— by way of episode,
While seated after dinner at his ease,
Beside his mwrresR in some soft abode,
Palace, or garden, paradise or cavern,
Which serves the happy couple for a
tavern.
7 That is the usual method, hut not mine—
My way is to begin with the beginning;
The letfulanty of my design
Foi bids all waudeung as the worst of
sinning,
And therefore I shall open with a line
(Although it cost me half an hour in
spinning)
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's
father,
And also of bib mother, if you'd lather
8 Tn Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
Famous toi oianges and worn en —he
Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
So say* the pio^erb— and I quite agree;
Of all the Spanish touns is none moie
pietty,
Cadiz, perhaps— but that you soon may
see .
Don Juan's parents h\ed beside the river,
\ noble stieam, and call'd the Guadal-
quivn .
9 TTis father's name *as J6se— Don, of
COUISI',—
A tnuj Hidalgo,1 liee from e\ery stain
Ot Moor or Hebiew blood, he traced his
source
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of
Spam , J
A hettei ca\aher ne'er mounted hoise,
Oi, being mounted, e'er got down again,
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who
Begot— but that's to come— Well, to
renew
10 His mother was a learned lady,8 famed
For e\ery branch of e\ery science
known—
In exery Christian language ever named,
With urine* equall'd by her wit alone-
She made the cleverest people quite
ashamed,
1 A title (lenotlnc a Spanish nobleman of the
lower class
•That la, of the pureat RpnnlHh rtock. The
ijoth* established the Vl5gothlc UnSom l5
Spain and southern France in the fifth een-
thp
wife
1029 arc Raid to refer to RyronN
580 NINKTKKNTH CKNTURY UOMANTIOIST8
And even the good with mward envy But this I heard her bay, and can't be
groan, wrong,
Finding themselves so very much exceeded And all may think which way their
In their own way by all the things that judgments lean 'em,
she did. " 'Tis strange— the Hebrew noun which
means 'I am,'
11 Her memory was a mine. she knew In The English always use to govern d— n "
heart
All Calderon and gieater pait of Lope, 15 Some women use their tongues— she look'fl
So that if any actor miRs'd hiH part a lecture,
She could have served him for the Each eye a fccrninn, and her hum a
prompter's copy; homily,
For her Feinagle's were an useless ait, An all-in-all sufficient self-director,
And he himself obhued to shut up Like the lamented late Sir Samuel
shop— he Romilly,
Could never make a memoiy BO fine ns The Law's expound™, and the State's
That which adorn 'd the brain of Donna corrector,
Inez Whose suicide was alnuibl an anomaly-
One rod example more, that "All is
12 Her favorite science was the mathemat- \amty,"—1
ical, (The jury brought then ^elcll(•t in "In-
Her noblest Milne vas liei iimt»n.i- sanity")
mmity;
liei wit (she sometimes trwd at wit) ^\<is 16 In short, she wan a walking calculation,
Attic1 all, Mi^s Edgcwoith's novels stepping from
Tier serious saying daiken'd to sub- then cmeis,
limity; Or Mrs Tnmmer's books on education,
In short, in all things she \vas fanly \\hal Oi "Ciplebs' Wife" set out in quest ol
I call lovers,
A prodigy— her morning cliess \\as Morality's pinn personification,
dimity, In which not Knvv's self a flaw du-
ller evening silk, 01, in the siunniei covers;
muslin, To others ' share let ' * female errors fall, ' 'J
And other stuffs, with winch I won't sta> For she had not even one— the worst of
puzzhn&r all
IS She knew the Latin— that is, "the Lend V 17 Oh' she was perfect past all parallel-
prayer," Of any modem female saint's compau-
And Greek— the alphabet— I'm neaily son;
sure; So far abo\e the cunning powers of hell,
She read some Fiencb romances here and Tier guardian angel had ghen up his
there, garrison ,
Although her mode of speaking uas not FA en her minutest motions went as well
pine, As those of the best time-piece made bj
For native Spanish she had no gient caie, Harrison
At least her conversation was obscure. Tn virtues nothing onrthlv could surpass
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a her,
problem Save thine " incomparable oil," Macas-
As if die dram'd tliat mystery would sar?3
ennoble 'em
18 Perfect she was, but as perfection is
14 She liked the English and the Hebrew Insipid in this naughty world of ours,
tongue, Where our first parents never learn M to
And said there was analogy between kiss
'em ; ' Kcclcrtarte*. 1 2
She proved it somehow ont of «Crcds»m.. ' ^fcfirfW tft %&£ 3 th, '*«».
But I must leave the proofs to those parable oil of Macaimar" wan included in Alex-
'
i delicate ; poignant
cu*m Wi ander Rowland'fi An Hittorlcal, oor,
seen em, -M p^^^j KHMV an t?lc ffuma* ilatr
LORD BYHON 581
Till they weie exiled from their earlier Bui— Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
bowers, Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck M
Where all was peace, aiid innocence, and yon allf
bliss
(I wonder how they got tluongli the 28 Don J6se and his lady quarrell'd-it*t/,
twelve hours), Not any of the many could divine,
Don J6se, like a lineal son of E\e, Though several thousand people chose to
Went plucking various fimt without hei try>
leave. Twas biuely no umcern of theus noi
mine ,
19 He was a moital of the oaieless kind. 1 *"«the that low \ ice- curiosity ,
With no great lo>e foi learning, ui the But ii theie's anything in which 1 shme,
learn 'd, 'Tlb m anangmg all my friends' affairs
Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, Not ha\mg, of my own, domestic caies.
Andc^m'd-drCaiUM Ulh ^ ™h P0"" 24 And *° T interfered, and with the best
The woild, as'Ubual, wickedly inclined Intentions, but their treatment was not
T° hiCrn'clkl"8d0m °r a 1'"USe °'CI~ ' think tTie foolish people were possessed,
Wlnsper'd he had a mistress some said *?UI n«th« ot them wai1 ^er find,
%MV1 Although their porter afterwards con-
' fessM—
But foi domestic nuaiiels one will do .. . ,, , , ,, , ,, .,
1 But that's no matter, and the worst's
20 Now Donna TIICJ had, with all hei men!, ., . . , ., , .
A great opinion of hci mn good cjuoh- \nl }l U^, 'Juan ° ei "ie ih™> down stairs*
& ties * & j £ pall Oj^ housemaid's watci unawares.
Neglect, indeed, lefiimeh a saint to beai it, 25 A little cm ly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And Mich, indeed, she \\as m hei moiul- And miwhicl -making monkey from his
ities; blllh>
But then she had a deul ol a spmt, Uls |iaieillb lieV, agiewl except m doting
And sometimes mix'd up fancies with Upim the moftt unquiet lmp on earth;
L , , 10?lltlos' Liistead of quari elhng, had they been but
And let ie\\ oppnit unities escape both in
Of getting hei hegc lord into a scrape Tboil M|1WSi tlieyM hine ^l{ >OU11I,
*• m, , mastei foith
21 This * as an easy mattci with a man To whool or had ,li]n souildly ^hipp'd at
Oft in the \iiontr, and nexei on hi** home
gnaid, 'p4) |encij jnm lnanneiN jor Hie time to
And even the wisest, do the host thej can. come.
Have moments, hours, and days, M> un-
prepared, 26 Don Jose and the Donna Inez led
That you might "brain them with then For some time an unhappy sort of life,
lady's fan,"1 \Vishmg each other, not divoiced, but
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding dead,
hard, They h\ ed i espectahly ut> man and wife,
And fans tuin into fnlchums in lair Then conduct was exceedingly well-bied,
hands, And pa\e no outward sigus of inlaid
And why and wlieieforc no one under- stnfe,
stands Tntil at length the smothei M file broke
out,
22 'Tis pity leained Mi-gms e\er wed And put the business past all kind of
With persons of no sort of education doubt.
Or gentlemen, who, though well bom and
bred, 27 For Inez call'd some druggists and phy&i
Grow tired of scientific conversation, rims, .....
I don't choose to say much upon this And tried to prove her loving lord was
head, m«d>1
I'm a plain man, and in a single station. , r ftdv B?roll ^^^ phyridans m «*ani to
M JJwrtr ?V TT T 10 h« '
582 NINETEENTH CENTURY EOMANTICI8T8
But as he bad some lucid intermissions, Any one else— they were become tradi-
She next decided he was only bad; tional;
Yet when they ask'd her for her deposi- Besides, their resurrection aids our glories
tions, By contrast, which is what we just were
No sort of explanation could he had, wishing all :
Save that her duty both to man and God And science profits by this resurrection—
Required this conduct— which seemM very Dead scandals form good subjects for dis-
odd. section.
28 She kept a journal, where his faults were 32 Their friends had tned at reconciliation,
noted. Then their relations, who made matters
And open M certain trunks of books and worse,
letters, ( 'Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion
All which might, if occasion served, be To whom it may be best to have re-
quoted ; course—
And then she had all Seville for ubct- I can't say much for fnend or yet rela-
tors, tion) :
Besides her pood old grandmothei (who Tlic lawyers did their utmost for di-
doted) ; vorce,
The hearers of her case became repent- But scaiee a foe was paid on either bide
ers, Befoie, unluckily, Don J6se died
Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges
Some for amusement, others for old 33 He died • and most unluckily, because
grudges According to all hints 1 could collect
From counsel learned in those kinds of
29 And then this best and meekest woman laws
bore (Although their talk's obscure and cir-
With such serenity her husband's woes, cnmspect),
Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, His death eontrncd to spoil a charming
Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly cause ,
chose A thousand pities also with respect
Never to say a word about them more— To public foelmcr. which on this occasion
Calmly she heard each calumny that Was manifested in a great sensation.
rose,
And saw Jus agonies with such sublimity, 34 But ah ' he died , and buried with him lay
That all the world exclaim 'd, "What The public feeling and the lawyeis'
magnanimity |M fees
His ImuH? uas sold, his servants sent away,
30 No doubt this patience, when the world i«* A Jew took one of his two mistresses,
damning us, A pnest HIP other— at least so thev sav
* Is philosophic in our former fneiids , t ask 'd tlie doctors after his disease—
Tis also pleasant to be deem 'd magnam- TTo died of the slow fe\er called the
mous, tertian,
The more so in obtaining our own ends. And left his widow to her own aversion
And what the lawyers call a "mains
antiww*"1 35 Yet Jfoe was an honorable man.
Conduct like this by no means conipie- That T must say, who knew linn \ery
liends : well ,
Revenge in person 's certainlv no virtue, Tliciefore his fiailtiob I'll no fin HUM*
But then 'tis not my fault, if otltns hint scan,
you Indeed there were not many more to
tell-
31 And if our quarrels should rip up old And if his passions now and then out-
stories, ran
And help them with a lie or two mldi- Discretion, and were not so peaceable
tional, As Numa's (who was also named Pom-
7'm not to blame, as you well know— nn pihus),
more is TTc had been ill brought up, and was born
1 malice aforethought bilious.
LORD BYBON 583
86 Whate'er might be his worthlessness or 40 The language*, especially the dead,
worth, The sciences, aiid most of all the ab-
Poor fellow! he had many things to struse,
wound him, The arts, at least all such as could be said
Let's own— since it can do no good on To be the most remote from common
earth— rose,
It was a trying moment that which In all these he was much and deeply i cad.
found him But not a page of anything that 's loose,
Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, Or hints continuation ot the species,
Where all his household gods lay shiv- Was e\er suffer M, lest he should grow
er'd round him- \icious
No choice was left his feelings or his
pnde, 41 HIS classic studies made a little puzzle,
Save death or Doctors' Commons1-^ lie Because of filthy loves of gods and god-
died desses,
37 Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir w J» "' lhe eal [ler ««es raised a bustle,
To a chanceiy suit, and messuages* and TIBut ™er put on pantaloons or bcjdjces;
lands ie\eiend tutois had at times a tussle,
Which, with a long minority and caie, And for their ^neids, Iliads, and
" "dd
»*
mands j
An only son left with an only mother 42 0\5cl'fc n rake, as half his verses show him,
Is brought up much more wisely than Anaeicon's morals are a still worse
another. sample,
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,
38 Rarest of women, even of widows, she 1 don't think Sappho's Ode a good
Resolved that Juan should be quite a example,
paragon, A 11 hough Longmus tells us theie is no
And \\oithy of the noblest pedigree: hymn
(Ills MIC was of Castile, his dam from Wlieie the sublime soars i'oith on *mgs
Ai agon ) more ample ,*
Then for accomplishments of chivalry, But ViiRil's songs ate pure, except that
In case our loid the king should go to horrid one
war again, Beginning with "Formosum Pastor Cory-
He learn M lhe ails of iiding, fencing, don."2
minnery,
And how to scale a fortiess-or a nunnery. 43 Lucretius> irreilpion is too strong
39 But that winch Donna Inez most desired, For early stomachs, to prove whole-
Ancl saw into heiself each day before all T f ««ne food ;
The Icained tutors whom for him she I can't help thinking Juvenal was wronjj,
h,re(lf Although no doubt his real intent was
Wns, ilint his bi ceding should be strictly good,
njoial *or ^peaking out so plainly in his song,
Much into ttll his studies she inquired, So much indeed as to be downright
And so thcv were submitted first to her, rude;
nllf And then what proper person can be par-
A i ts, sciences, no branch was made a niys- tial
tpry To all those nauseous epigrams of Mar-
To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. tW
44 Juan was taught from out the best edition.
Expunged by learned men, who place,
n
lv\ courts having Jurisdiction o\er
liconqon. divorce, etc.
mar-
rlage liconqon. divorce, etc. 1 Reo hl^ emay On the flubllme 10 The ode re-
•dweulnir linuKon, with adjacrat building nnd foried to IH entitled To a Lovtd One.
land* srinnd^ome Shepherd Corydon — Boloffve*, 2
584 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's If such uii education was the true one.
vision, She scarcely trusted him from out her
The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface sight ;
Too much their modest bard by this omis- Her maids were old, and if she took a
fiion, new one,
And pitying sore this mutilated case, You might be suie she was a perfect
They only add them all in an appendix, fright,
Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an She did this during even her husband V
index; life—
I recommend as much to every wife.
45 For there we have them all "at one fell
swoop,"1 ..... 49 Tonng Juan wax M in godliness and grace,
Instead ot being scattei 'd thiough the At ui a charming child, and at eleven
pages, With all the promise of as fine a face
They stand forth marshall'd in a hand- As e'er to man's maturer growth was
some troop, given
To meet the ingenuous youth of futuie He studied steadily and giew apace,
ages, And seem'd, at least, in the right road
Till some less rigid editor shall stoop to heaven,
To call them back into their separate For iia]f his days weie pass'd at church,
caffes* the other
Instead of standing staring all together, Between his tutors, confessor, and mothet
Like garden gods— and not so decent
Clther- 50 At six, T said, he was a charming child,
AO mi_ i*« i A. i L xi a -i **• i\ At twelve he was a fine, but quiet bo\ ,
46 The Missal too (it TO* the family Mi*al) AUhoURh m mfmey B httle ^
Was ornamented in a sort of way T, tamed himjdown amon^t them.
Which ancient masv-book«. often Hie. and 'to j^^
this all jjlg najnra] mint not in vain they toil'd.
Kinds of srotescuu* illumined ; and h.m At j^ Jt ^m,d and hlg *other,b
y* joy
Who nw those figures on the margin kiss Was t^ >dw]m ,10W ^ mA 8till> and
* stead v
CouUHurn their optics to the text and Her viran/lpilliOMIllhCT was ^own al.
Is more than I know— But Don Juan's rea J"
Kept fitrself, and gave her Hon an- 61 I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,
othei "ut ™at ^ ""y lb nei"ier °erc nor ^ere
1 knew his fathei well, and have SOUTH'
47 Sermons he read, and lectures he endured. T ™"
And homilies, and lives of all the saints . _ In charaetei -but it would not be f air
To Jerome and to Cbrysostom inured, Fl!Lm s™ to Ron to augur good or ill :
He did not take such studies for re- He and his wife were an ill sorted pair-
stramts- But ^^^ 8 my aversion— I protest
But how faith i* acquned, and then in- ASamst ail evi1 «Pe^mg, even in jeat
sured,
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 52 For my part T say nothing— nothing— but
As Saint Augustine in his fine Confes- This I will say— my reasons are m>
stons* own—
Which make the reader envy his trans- That if I had an only son to put
gresnons. To school (as God be praised that I
have none),
48 This, too, was a sealM book to little Ti* not with Donna Inez I would shut
Juan— Him up to learn his catechism alone,
I can't but say that his mamma was No— no— I'd send him out betimes to
right, college,
2i» For there li was T pickfd *p "^ own
m i, ch ot mid Wk 2, ch 2 knowledge
LOKD iiYKON
68 For there one learns— 'lib not ioi me tu Is, that myself, and several now in Seville,
boast, baw Juan's last elopement with the devil.
Though I acquired— but I paw. over
titort, 204 If ever I should condescend to prose,
As well as 'all the Greek I since have lost : I'M wnte poetical commandments, which
I say that there's the place — but yiia11 supersede beyond all doubt all those
"Verbum sat,"1 That went before; in these I shall en-
I think I piek'd up too, ab well at* iiioM, nc^
Knowledge of raatteifc— but no mattei My text with many thing* that no one
what- knows,
T never married-but, 1 think, 1 know And carry piecept to the highest pitch:
That M)iih fehould not be educated so I'll call 1he work "Longmus o'er a Bottle,
..... Oi, Every Poet his own Aristotle. "
200 My poem '* epic, and is meant to be 206 Thow JJJ . "«• » mi™>
Divided m twelve books, each book con- Thfm ^ ^ up Wordgworth>
So 1I..I », ,i.n« ,,t r.p,r '•, ao
•* fc
The Tradf J/pcum8 of the tiue subliiui-, Moore.
Which makes so many poets, and snme206 Thou 4ialt not co\et Mr Sotheby's Muse,
fools His Pegasus, noi anything that's hw;
Pi owe poeth like blank-veiws I'm fond of Thou slialt not bear false witness like 'Hhe
rhyme. Blues"1—
flood workmen nevei quaiiel witli tln-n (Theie's one, at least, is very fond of
tools; thi«);
Tve pot new mythological machinery, Thou shalt not wiite, m shoit, but what I
And very handsome supernal mal sceneij choose,
This is true criticism, and you may kiss—
202 Theie's only one slight difference between Exactly as yon please, or not,— the rod;
Me and my epic bretlnen gone before, But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G— d!
And here the advantage is my own, I ween
(Not that I have not several merits moie.207 If any person should presume to assert
But this will more peculiarly be seen) ; This story is not moial, fiist. I pray,
They so embellish, that 'tis quite a boie That they will not cry out before they'ie
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, hui t,
Whereas this story's actually true Then that they'll read it o'er again, and
say
208 Tf any person doubt it, I appeal (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert),
To histor\, tiadition, and to facts, That this is not a moial tale, though gay;
To newspapers, whose truth all know and Besides, in Canto Twelfth, T mean to show
feel, ^ f The \eryplace where wicked people go.
To plays in foe, and opeias in three
actg ; 208 If, after all, there should be some so blind
All these confirm my statement a good To their own good this warning to de-
deal, spise,
But that which more completely faith ' The BlneftoeMnpn, a name applied to 8 nodety
AYantB of women affecting an interest In literature
exacw and politic*. ThcTdea originated about 17GO,
i a word to the wine Is roffldent bnt the name here given wa* first wed about
• Begardlng the unities of time, place and ac- 1790 Bee Byron'* 7*fcr Blur* ; alfto Ethel B
tlon WbeeJer'B Famo** Jtrne-WofllNitw (London,
• handbook (literally, go with me) 1910)
086 NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIC18TS
Let by some tortuosity of mind, (Long ere I dieaiut of dating from the
Not to believe iny verse and tbeir own Brenta)
eyes, I was most ready to retm u a blow,
And ciy that they "the moral cannot And would not biook at all this t»ort of
find," thing
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; In my hot youth— when Qeorge the Third
Should captains the remark, or critics, was King
make,
They also he too-under a mistake 213 But now at thirty years mv hair is gray
AA* mi . i. ,_ • -r (*• wonder what it will be like at forty!
209 The public approbation I expect, I thought of a peruke the other day) -
And beg they'll take my word about the My iieart is not much greener, and, in
moral, <hmt, I
Which I with their amusement will connect Have squander 'd my whole summer while
(So children cutting teeth receive a >twah MnVf
^coral) , And feel no more the spin! to ictort, I
Meantime they'll doubtless please to recol- navt spent my life, both interest and prm-
lect cipal,
My epical pretensions to the laurel: And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul
For fear some prudish readers should grow invincible
skittish,
I've bribed my grandmother's review-the2M No more-*o more-Oh ' never more on me
Brit1811- The freshness of the heart can fall like
210 I sent it in a letter to the Editor, Whlch Jj'rf al, the loyel lh we
Who lhank'd me duly by return of Extracts emotions beautiful and new;
I'm fo?a handsome aiticle his creditor; Hlved ^our lnmm llke the ^ °' the
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to Think^ thou ^ h ^ thoge ^
roast, lects crew t
And break a promise after having made it Alag , ^twashnot m ^m. buf „ thy powpr
DenymR the «ceiPt of what it cort, T° dcuble Cven thfl sweetnesa °f a flower
And smear Ins page with gall instead of
honey, °T" No moie— no more— On! ne\er more, my
AH I can say is— that he had the money. heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, iny um-
211 I think that with this holy new alliance ^ yen* I
I may ensure the public, and defy Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
All other magazines of art or science, Th™ canst not be my blessing or my
Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I M011.196:
Have not essay 'd to multiply their clients, The illusion 's gone forever, and thou art
Because they tell me 'twere in vain to Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
try, And in thy stead I've got a deal of judp-
And that The Edinburgh Eemew and ^ nient,
Quarterly Though heaven knows how it ever found n
Treat a dissenting author \eiy martyrly l lodgment.
212 "Non eqo hoc ferrem calidd juventA 216 My days of love are over; me no more
Console Ptoiwo,"2 Horace said, and so The charms of maid, wife, and still lew
Sav I ; by which quotation there is meant a of widow,
Hint that Rome six or seven good years Can make the fool of which they made
ago before,—
1 *£* JttTjJ^™^ The" crJdulous^pT^f ^ufil mhufofe
485), which WEB Inspired by an attack upon O'er
SSTiflPiyS ft WEST"* ' The copioiM nae of claret is forbid too,
•^iFWrarssSias ^afi^s^ ^t^g^M^ntt^y ™
Homer, odn, in, 14, 27. I think T mu«t take np with avarice.
LORD BYRON
587
217 Ambition was my idol, which was broken221
Before the shrines <>[ Soiiow, aiid oi
Plea&ure,
And the two last ha\e left me1 inan> a token
O'er which leflection may be made at
leibuie,
Now, like Friar Bacon's bia/en head, l\e
spoken,
"Time is, Time was, TUMP'S past "| —
a cltyiiuc-1 tieasuie
Is glitleung youth, which I ha\e spent
bet imeb—
My heart in passion, and my head on
rhymes 222
218 What is the end of famel 'tis but to fill
A ceitam poition of uncertain papei
Some liken it to climbing up a hill *
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in
vaP01 1
For this men wntc, speak, preach, and
heines kill,
And baids burn what they call their
"imdm&hl tapei,"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wietehed pictuie, and worse
bust
But foi the present, gentle reader9 and
Still gentler purchusei ! the bard— that 's
1—
Must, with permission, bhake you by the
hand,
And so "Your humble servant, and
good-bye f"
We meet again, if we should understand
Each other, and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short
sample-
'Twere well if others follow 'd my example.
"Go, little book, from this my solitude!
I cast thee on the waters— go thy ways!
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The woild will find thee after many
c]avs "1
\yjien Southey 's read, and Wordsworth
undci stood,
I ean»t help putting m my claim to
praise—
The four first rhymes are Southey 's, every
l,ne-
por QIK]»h ^^ render f tafce them not for
~-~ ™ , , n m ^^ ^ t
219 What aic the hopes of mnnT Old Egypt's
rn Klllft » m « 4. i
Cheops eiec ed the flirt pyramid
And Inrnesl, thinking it was just the thine:
To keep his memory whole, and mummy
Bnt «.melH«lv or other rnminapnp,
Burelni musly broke ln« ooflin \ lul
Let not a in.mmnent pive yon ,„ me hopes,
Since not n pinch of ousl ipinniti« of
(<he"Ps
220 But I, tang fond of tnie pliilosophy,
Say "17 often to myseli AIas»
All things that have been bom were bom
to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to
liny) is ST.ISS,*
You've pnssM your youth not so un-
pleasantly, * -
And if you had it o'er again- 'twould
pass—
So thank vom stars that matters me no
From CANTO II
1818-19 1819
44 The ship was evidently settling now2
Fflst 'b ^ head/and, all distinction
ffone ' '
gorae |ent'to prayers agam> ml made ft
vow
Qf d)es t (, .^t,.^ tbere
To lh fb and ,ook>d ,
e the bow
Some hofeted out the boats, and there
Whfl
M Pednllo for an absolution,
, f() he daran.d«in hls con.
fusion
^^P!
And read your Bible, sir, and mmd vmr
pulso »
1
Bpeoch of the Braren nenrt in ammo'*
The Honorable HMoty of Friar Baton and
FtlarBuntfau.il. 58 ff
•of alchemic metal,—* c, counterfeit gold
•Bee Beattle'n T/ie AlttutrcL 1, 1 2 <p. 120)
* Bee r*alm*. .17 2 , and Itaia*, 40 6
_, . _ _ _ . A_ . . .
Some la^h'd them in their hammocks; some
mi P*jt on
u Tlleir besl, cl;)lh?' ns lf ^f *"* fair;
Soine e!nse<l lhe dfly on whlch lh^ 8aw
llie 8U11'
A»d ^a^h'd }heir leeth* and howling
tore their hair;
And others went on as |hev had bejrun,
Oettin? the boats out, being: well aware
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea,
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.
f Routhpy, Carmen Nuptiale,—This Lay of Me
Laureate. LT-nioy, 1-4.
"The uhlp in *hich Juan and hli tutor Pedrlllo
loft Spain for Ttnly * m wrecked In a Ptorm
588 NINETEENTH: CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
•
46 The worst of all was, that in their couch- Unless with people who too much have
tion, quaff'd,
Having been several days in great die- And nave a kind of wild and horrid
tress, glee,
'Twas difficult to get out such provision Half epileptical, and half hysterical —
As now might render their long suffering Their preservation would have been a
less: miracle
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ;
Their stock was damaged by the wealh- 51 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-
ei 9s stress coops, spars,
Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, And all things, for a chance, had been
Were all Hi at could be thiown into the cast loose
cutter That still could keep afloat the struggling
tais, v
47 But in the long-boat they contnved to stow For yet they strove, although of no great
Some pounds of bread, though injured use:
by the wet; There was no light in heaven but a few
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so , stars,
Six flasks of wine: and they contrived The boats put off overcrowded with their
to get crews;
A portion of their beef up fiom below, She gave a heel, and then a lurch to poit,
And with a piece of poik, moreover, met, And, going1 down head foremost— mink, in
But scarce enough to seive them fin a shoit
luncheon —
Then there was mm, eitrht gallons in a 52 Then rose fiom sea to sky the wild fare-
puncheon ' well-
Then shiiekM the timid, and stood still
48 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had the biave—
Been stove in the beginning of the gale, Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful
And the lonp-boat'H condition was but bad, yell,
As there were but two blankets for a sail, As eager to anticipate their grave ,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad And the sea yawn 'd around her like a hell,
Threw in by good luck over the ship's And down she suck'd tuth her the whirl-
rail , * ing wave,
And two boats could not hold, far less be Like one who grapples with his enemy,
stored, And strives to strangle him before he die
To save one half the people then on board.
53 And first one universal shriek theie lush'd,
49 'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
down Of echoing thunder; and then all was
Over the waste of waters; like a veil, hush 'd,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose Save Hie wild wind and the remorseless
the frown dash
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to Of billows; but at intervals there gush M,
assail Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was A solitary sin iek, the bubbling cry
shown, Of some strong swimmer in his agony
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale.
And the dim desolate deep : twelve days 64 The boats, as stated, had got off before,
had Fear And in them ciowded se\eial of the
Been their familiar,2 and now Death ua«* crew;
here And yet their piesent hope was hardly
more
50 Some trial had been making at a raft. Than what it had been, for so strong it
With little hope in such a rolling sea. blew
A sort of thing at which one would have There WAS slight chance of reaching any
laugh 'd, shore:
If any laughter at such times could be, And then they weie too many, though so
* A kind of law rank • attendant spirit
LOBD BYBON 589
Nine in the cutter. Unity in the boat, - That earned off his neighbor by the
Were counted in them When they got afloat. thigh ,
As for the other two, they could not b\\ un,
So nobody amved on shore but him
103 As tbey diew nigh the land, which now was
seen 107 Nor yet had he aimed but for the oar,
Unequal m its aspect here and theie, Which, providentially for bun, wus
They felt the freshness of its growing wash'd
green, Just as his feeble amis could strike no
That waved in forest-tops, and smooth M more,
the air, And the haid wave overwhelmed him as
And fell upon tbeir glazed eye like a sci een 'twas dasli 'd
From glistening waves, and bkie* so hot Within Ins grasp ; he clung to it, and sore
and bare— The waters beat while he thereto was
Lovely seem 'd any object that should sweep lash 'd ,
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. At last, with swimming, wading, scram-
bling, he
104 The fell 01 e look'd wild, without a tiacc of HollM on the beach, half senseless, from
man, the sea •
And girt by foimidable wa\es, but they
Were mad for land, and thus then eourselOS Theie, breathless, with ln& digging nails he
they lan, dung
Though light ahead the nmimp breakers Fast to the sand, lest the iclurning wave,
lay From whose reluctant, ioar his life he
A reef beta een them also now hpfran wrung,
To show its boiling suif and bounding Should suck him back to her insatiate
spiny, grave:
But finding no place foi their landing And theiehc lay, full length, whciche was
bettei, flung,
They ran the boat for shore,— and moibct Hefoie the enhance of a cliff-woni ca^e,
her. With just enough of life to feel its pain.
And deem that it was sa\ed, perhaps in
105 But in Ins natnc stieam, the Guadalqimir, vnm
Juan to la\e Ins youthful limbs -was
nont; 109 W\\b slow and Maggenng effoit he arose,
And luiMmjr learnt to swim in that sueet But sunk again upon his bleeding knee
nver, ^ll(l quiveiing hand, and then he look'd
Had often tmii'd the art to some ac- for thine
count Who l°"g «ad been his mates upon the
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. vn >
Tie could, perhaps, have pass'd the But none of them appeal M to slmie his
Hellespont, woes,
As once (a feat on which oursehes we ™"e °"C, a corpse, fumi out the fam-
pnded) ish'dtlnee,
Leandui, Mi. Ekeuhead, and I did.1 Who (lie(* *wo day* befoie, and now had
found
106 Ro heie, thon&h faint, emaciated, and A» unknown barren beach for burial-
stark, Rround
He bnoy'd Ins boyish limbs, and strove
to p]y 110 And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast.
With the quick wave, and £am, ere it was And down he sunk, and as he sunk, the
dark, sand
The beach which lay before him, hi* Sw«m round and round, and all his senses
and dry: pass'd'
The greatest danger here was from itrfiark, He fd* upon his side, and his stretch M
hand
« Byron and Bkenhoad, an officer In the British Droop 'd dripping on the nar (their jury-
navy, iwam across the Hellespont on May 8. mnatl J
1810 Bee Bvron'* poem, Written After fliHw- nia81 ' '
ml iw from Xp*/0* to Abwlot. l temporary mN«t
590 NINETEENTH CENTURY KOMANTICISTS
And, bke a wither M lily, on the land " And watch M with eagerness each throb
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, that drew
As fair a thing as e'er was fonu'd of clay. A sigh from his heaved bosom— and herb,
too.
Ill How long in his damp trance young Juan
lay 116 And lifting him with care into the ea\c,
He knew not, for the earth wab gone for The gentle giil, and hei attendant,-one
hun, Young, yet her eldei, and of biow let*
And time had nothing more of night nor gia\e,
day And more robust of flguie— then begun
For his congealing blood, and senses To kindle fire, and ab the new flame* ga\e
dim, Light to the rocks that roof'd them,
And how this heavy f am t ness pass'd away which the Run
He knew not, till each painful pulse and Had never seen, the maid, 01 whatsoe'er
llu»D> . She was, appeared distinct, and tall, and
And tingling \em, serin 'd throbbing back fair
to life,
For Death though vanquisli'd, still retiiedn6Hcr blow 0,eiliung ^ltll coms oi
with strife.
-.« TT , ,, , , i j That spaiklod o'ei the auhuiii of her
112 Ilia eycb he open 7d, shut, again unclosed, j|ajr
For all wob doubt and dimness, he „ A^nbs hair ^ll<)bc ln r loAs
thought were roil
ITe still was in Ihe boat, and had but do/xxl, j blaidfi tahli|d d u b , f t
And felt again with Ins despair o'ei- weie ' b
. , wJ°,jg:!!t>J lf iiiii E\cnof the hiphestf 01 a female mould,
And wish 'd it death in which he had le- T, neapl ^^ M hei , , d }
posed, JaiT J
And then once more his feeling? back Theifl wns a ^4^ wlllA bcs])oke coln.
were brought, lnnnd
And slowly by his swimming e^Tb was seen - . ' , , ^ , ,
A lovely female face of wventeen. ^ onc WUo was a lady in ™ lauU'
113 'Twas bending close o 'ei his, and the small117 Her haii I said, wa^ oiibiu n , but her eves
\\eie black as d^ath, tlieir lashes the
Reem'd almost prymj? into his for _ _ , Mine ius
blcajb Of downcast letiytli, in whose wlk shadow
And chafin&r bun. the soft waim hand of ^. "°^ „
you1b Deepest attiaetioii , foi when to (lie view
Recall 'd hib angering spn its back from Forth *»«« lls ravcn *« "W the full glance
death • flieSf
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to Ne'er -with such force the swiftest arrow
soothe '
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 'Tw as the snake late coilM, who pours his
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh lengtli,
T<» these kind effort made a low reply And h«rls «< onpc 1"» v««»" and his
strength.
114 Then was the cordial ponr'd, and mantle
flung 118 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's
Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the ^ puied>e
fair arm Like twilight losy btill with the set sun ,
Raised higher the faint head which o'ei it Short upper lip— sweet lips' that make us
hnng; sigh
And her transparent cheek, all pure and Ever to have seen such , for she was one
warm, Fit for the model of a statuary
Pillow fd hifl death-like forehead; then she (A race of mere impostors, when all's
wrung done—
His dewy curls, long drench M by every T'\e ven much finer women, ripe and teal.
storm , Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal)
LORD BYRON 591
119 I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just And have ten thousand delicate inven-
One should not rail without a decent lions:
cause . They made a most bupenor met* of broth,
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust A thing which poesy hut seldom men-
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was turns,
A frequent model; and if e'er she must But the best dish that e'er was cook'd
Yield to stein Tune and Nature's wrin- since Homer's
kling laws, Achilleb ordei 'd diniier ioi new comeib.1
They will destroy a face which moital1AJ _.„ A „ , x, ... - .
thought *" * ™ te^ y°u w*10 ^^ were» tnw female
Ne'er compass 'd, nor less mortal chisel _ Pair> ,
wrought kest "iey suou^ seem piuicebbes in dis-
guise,
120 And such was she, the lady of the cave- Besides, I hate all mybtery, and that air
Her drebs wab very different from the Of clap-trap, which your recent poets
Rpanibh, prize,
Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave , And so, in short, the girls they really were
For, ab you know, the Spanish women They shall appear before your cunous
banish eves,
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, Mistress and maid, the firbt was only
while wa\c daughter
Around them (what I hope will ne\er Of an old man, who lived upon the water.
mi i. vanirfl] , .. . „ 0 ,. 125 A fisherman he had been in his youth*
The basqmna' and the mantilla,- they And gtlU gort f nshcnnan ;as he
Seem at the same time mystical and gay. Rut other Bpeculatlons weie> m ^^
121 But with our damsel this was not the case: „ Audded to4hls ™™<**™ with the sea,
Her dress was man> -coloi 'd, finely spun ; * ,Ti "° T sperta°le' ln truth :
Her lockH cuil'd negligently round her T A little Pmuwling, and wmie piracy,
fnpe * b J Left him, at last, the sole of many masters
But through them gold and gems pro- Of an &'&>"*» million of piastre*.*
fusclyhhonc: 126 A fisher, therefore, was he.— though of
Her giidle spmklcd, and the richest lace mcily
Klow'd in her veil, and many a precious Ld«5 Peter the Apoblle,*— and he fish'd
s*cmc F<»r \vandenng inei chant ^esbels, mm niul
Flnnh'd on her little hand; but, what was then,
shocking, Ami st»metimes cnuglit as manv as ho
Her small snow feet had slippers, but no wish'd,
stocking. The caigocs he confiscated, and srain
• ~~ mi ii - , i -i 11 He sought in the sla>e-maikct loo, and
122 The other female's dress was not unlike, dish'd
But of inferior materials : she FllU n, a morsel f nr that Tni kl|J| trade^
Had not so man) oinaments to strike, B wblchJ no doubt a d deal be
Her hair had silver only, hound to be * made.
Her dciwry , and her ^ell, in form alike,
XVns coarser, and her air, though flrm,127 He was a Greek, and on his isle had built
less fiee. (One of the wild and smaller Cvelades)
Her htur was thicker, hut less long; her A >eiy handsome house fioni out hib guilt,
e\es And there he Ined exceedingly at ease,
Afc black, but quicker^ and of bmallei bizc. Hca>en knows \ihat cash he got, or blood
he spilt.
123 And these two tended him, and cheer fd him A sad old felloe ^ab he, if you please;
both But this I know, it was a spacious building,
With food and raiment, and those soft Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gild-
attentions, ing.
Which are— (as I must own)— of female i AJax. myrow, and PIMPII!T m brought before
ornwth, \chillpH, ^ho then ItMidh them into thp trat
n ' and BPts mmt and wine bpfore thoin Seethe
Iliad, 9, lOt ff
1 A rlih outnr petticoat 9 \ coin north aixnit a dollar.
3 A kind of xoll, i>o\<MliiR the head and shoulders * 8f»e Metthw, 4 18-19
592 NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
128 He had an only daughter, call'd Haid&, That there was fuel to have furnish 9d
The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; twenty.
Besides, so very beautiful was she,
Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles :188 He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse,1
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree For Haidfe stripped her sables off to
She grew to womanhood, and between make
whiles" His couch; and, that he might be more at
Rejected several suitors, just to leani ease,
How to accept a better in his turn. And warm, in cane by chance he should
awake,
129 And walking out upon the beach, below They also gave a petticoat apiece,
The chff, towards sunset, on that day she She and her maid,— and promised by
found, daybreak
Insensible,— not dead, but nearly so,— To pay him a fre&h MBit, with a dish
Don Juan, almost famidi'd, and half For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and
drown 'd: fish.
Rut being naked, she was shock M. you
know, 134 And thus they left him to his lone repose •
Yet deem'd herself in common pity Juan slept like a top, or like the dead,
bound, Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only
As far as in her lay, "to take him in, knows),
A stranger/'1 dying, with bo white a bluu Just for the picsent, nnd in hit* lullM
head
180 But taking him into her father's house Not e\en a \ ision of his f 01 mer * oes
Was not exactly the beat way to save, Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which
But like com eying to the cat the mouse, sometimes spread
Or people in a tiance into their grave . Unwelcome visions of our former years,
Because the pood old man had so much Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with
"vow,"2 tears.
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so braxe,
He would have hospitably cured the 135 Youns? Juan slept all dreamless: —but the
stranger maid,
And sold him instantly \\hen out of danpei. Who smooth 'd his pillow, as frhe left
131 And therefore, with her maid, she thought T-ookM ^A *pon lim|> ftnd a moment gtaidi
,A "test And turn'd, believing that he call'd
(A virgin ataays on her maid lelies) a«»ain
To place him fa ithe cave for present rest: 1Te ^ber'd, yet she ihmi5ht, at least
And when, at last, he open'd his black 8jic M1j
mi . 9res.'_ . jt.*-.!- i (The heait will slip, e\ en as the tongue
Their chanty increased about their guest, an(j p€n\ °
And their compassion grew to such a He had pronou'noea her nanic-but she
size, forgot
It open'd half the turnpike gates to That at tblfa moment Juan kncw it not
heaven—
(St Paul says, 'tis the toll which mustiM And penB1ve to hpr fnther's house she
be given) « went?
132 They made a fire,- but such a fire as thev JK^™f ^1^1^ fTfiS0.! p
Upon the moment could contrive with Betfer than her knew rnhftt, in fact, nhe
such meant,
Materials as were cast up round the bay,- Rue being wwer by a year or two :
fc' and -* ** to
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay In &™?e M "••* «*•> wrt of
A mast was ahnorrt crumbled to a crotch; nn.-j. &r.«™«^i : w-+ ~»« «,.~i «M
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in mieh » acquired in Nnture'^ g.>od old
raeh plenty, POUege>
»Be* llatneif SB SB '*f- nttitu*. 10
kind of long outer
LORD BYRON 593
174 And thus a moon rolTd oil, and i'air Few thing* surpass old wuie, aud tbey
Haidee may pi each
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took Who please, —the moic because they
Such plentiful precautions, that still he preach in vain,—
Remain M unknown within his craggy l^et us have* wine and women, mirth and
nook; laughter,
At last her fathei 'b prows put out to sea, Sermons and soda-water tlic day af tei
For certain merchantmen upon the look,
Not as of yore to carry off an lo, 179 Man, being icasnnable, miibt get di unk ,
Put three Ragusan ^esselb bound for Seio The best of life is but intoxication
Glory, the giape, hive, gold, in these are
175 Then came her freedom, for she had no sunk
mother, The hopes of all men, and of e\ery
So that, her father being at sea, she was nation ,
Fiee as a maiiied woman, or bueh other Without their sap, how bianchlcss weie
Female, as \\herc she likes may freely the trunk
pass, Of life's strange tiee, so iiuitful on
Without e\en the encunibiance oi a occasion'
biothei. But to i etui n.— Got \ciy drunk, and \\hen
The freest she that e\er gazed on glass You wake with headache, you shall see
1 speak of Chustian lands in this cum- n hat then
panson,
Where \ii\es, at leasl, are seldom kept in 180 Ring for your \alet-bid him cjuu'kly
cai rison bi ing
Some liock and soda-water, then you'll
176 Now she piolonged hei \isits and h«'i know
talk A pleasuie woithy Xerxes the great kmsr,
(For they must talk), and he had leaiut Foi not the blest sheibet, sublimed with
to say snow,
So much as to pioposc to take a \\alk,— Nor the fhst spaikle of the deseit spnng,
For little had lie uandoi M since the dtn Xor Biirgimdv in all its sunset glow.
On which, like a }umig flowei snapp'd After long tiavel, ennui, love, 01 slaiijuhtei,
from the stalk, Vie with that di might of hock and soda-
Drooping and do>\> on the beach he wntei
In},—
And thus they ^alk'd out in the afternoon, 181 The coast— I think it \\as the coast that T
And saw the sun set opposite the moon \Va« ,iust dc^eiibnm— Ye*?, it no* the
coast —
177 It \ios a uild and bicaker-bcaten coast. T.nv atfthis peiiod quiet as the sk\.
With cliffs a bine, and a broad Mmd> The sands unliimbled, the blue i\a\o*.
slioie, untost,
Guarded by shoals and rocks as b* nn And all was stillness, sa\e the sea-budV
host, cry
With heie and there a creek, whose And dolphin's leap, and little billou
aspect wore ciost
A bettei welcome to the tempest-tost , By some low lock or shehe. that made it
And rarely ceased the haughty billow's fiet
loar, Against the boundary it soaicclj wet
Save on the dead long summer days, which
make 182 And forth thev uandei M. hei sue beniu
The outstretch 'd ocean glitter like a lake. gone,
As I have said, upon an expedition,
178 And the small ripple spilt upon the beach And mother, brother, guardian, she had
Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your none,
champagne, Save Zpe, who, although with due pre-
When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers cision
reach, She waited on hei lady with the sun,
That spring-dew of the spirit! the Thought daily sen ice wa«* her only mis-
heart's iainf sion,
594 NINETEENTH CENTUKy ROMANTICISTS
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long Each kiss a heart-quake,— for a kiss's
tresses, strength,
And asking now and then for cast-off I think it must be reckon 'd by its length.
187 By length I mean duration, theirs en-
183 It was the cooling hour, just when the fared
rounded Heaven knows how long— no doubt they
Red sun sinks down behind the azure never reckon yd ;
hill9 And if they had, they could not have se-
Which then seems as if the whole earth it Oured
bounded, , The sum of their seusations to a second
Circling all nature, hiibh'd, and dim, and They had not spoken; but they felt al-
still, lured,
With the far mountain-crescent half sur- Ah if their souls and lips each otbei
rounded beckon 'd,
On one side, and the deep sea calm and ^hich, being jom'd, like swniming bees
chill, they clung—
Upon the other, and the rosy sky, Their hearts the flowers fiom whence the
With one star sparkling through it like honey spning
an eye.
IN And Ita Ihj wnnder'd fortb, and baud188
in hand,
CH« the shinmpr pebbles and tbe sbcll-,. ?he nlMrf ; ^ h<i ,^ ^
sa"nd TI'P twill!{bt Rl'W) wl'U'L
w^Wffass,^ s'd't u T"< ™Ehr cls an<1 dro"p""r
Tn JStfS* w.tb sparry roof, and Ar™™™' ""* """ to -* """"
11 jiriasH,
mi i 1 1 * i. ^ v, i— ~M u« As if there weie no life beneath the sky
TI.py t,,,,i 'd to rest; and, eaoh clasp d by ^ ^^ and ^ the|r ,rfe ^y ^
an arm, j
Yielded to the deep twilight's puiple
189 They fearM no eyes nor cars on tbat Innc
185 They look'd up to the sky, whose floating
' They felt no tenois from the ni^ht .
Spiead like a iosy ocean, vast and they were
blight, A11 ln a11 to eatl11 otlier» though then
They pa/ed upon the glittering sea below, speech
Whence the broad moon rose circling w«* broken words, they thought a
into sight , language there,-
They heard the waves splash, and the And all the burning tongues the passions
wind so low, t?ach . .. , A A
And saw each other's dark eyes darting ^Td ? onc ?!Ph *lie ^ "^erpreter
jlff|lt Of nature's oracle— first love,— that all
Into each other-and, beholding thk Which Eve has left her daufthters wnce
Tlieir lips drew near, and china: into a kiss , "er f a"
186 A lone, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and
|o\e, 199 Alas' the love of women* it is known
And beauty, all concentrating like rays To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
Into one focus, kindled from above; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,
Such kisses an belong to early days, And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to
Where heart, and soul, and sense, in con- bring
ceit move, To them but mockeries of the part alone,
And the blood's lava, and the pulse And their revenge is as the tiger's
a blaze, spring,
LORD BYRON * 595
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as To make us anderbiaud each good old
real maxim,
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they So good— 1 woiidei Castlereagh don't tax
feel. 'em.
200 They are right; for man, to man so oft 204 And now 'twas done— on the lone shoie
unjust, were plighted
Is always so to women , one sole bond Their hearts, the stars, their nuptial
AwaiU them, treachery ib all then trubt, torches, shed
Taught to conceal, their burbtmg hearts Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted •
despond Ocean then witness, and the ca\e their
Over their idol, till some wealthiei lu^t bed,
Buys them in uiamage— and what lests By their own feelings hallow 'd and united,
beyond T ' Their priest was Solitude, and the> \\e\e
A thankless husband, next a faithless wed
lo\ei, And they weie happy, foi to their young
Then dressing, nuibing, praying, and all's eyes
o\er. Each was an angel, and earth paradise
201 Sonic take a lovei, some take drains or
pta>eis, From CANTO III
Some mind their household, others dis- 1819-sto 1821
Mpntion, . 78 And now they1 weie di\eited by then
Some run away, and but exchange their Miito,
<'Hies, Dwarfs, dancing-girls, black eunuchs,
LoMiig the advantage of a \irtuous stn- and n poel.-
tion, Which made then new establishment corn-
Few dianj»es e'ei can better their affairs, plete,
Thens benur an unnatmal situation, The last was ol meat fame, and liked to
From the dull palace to the dirtv hincl show it.
Some play the devil, and then wnte a His veisemnielv wanted then dne feet—
novel. And foi lim theme— he seldom sung be-
lo\v it,
202 Hnulfc was Nature's bride, and knew not He being paid to satnizp or flatter,
this: As the psalm says, " inditing a good mat-
Haidee \vas Passion's child, born where tor "*
the sun
Showers triple light, and scorches* e\ en tli e 79 lie praised the piesent, and abused the
kiss past,
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters, she was Reversing the good custom of old days,
one An Eastern anti-jarobm1 at Inst
Made but to lo\e, to feel that slie ^ns He turn'd, piefening pudding to no
his praise—
Who was her chosen what was said or For some few years In* lot had been o'er-
done cast
Elscwheie was nothing She had noimlit By his seeming independent in his la>s
to fear, But now he snng the Sultan and the Pacha
Hope, caie, nor lo\e beyond,— her heait With truth like Southey, and uith \crse
beat Itere. like Crashaw
203 And oh ' that quickening of tht heait, that 80 He was a man who had seen main changes,
beat! And always changed as true as any
How much it costs UR' yet each rising needle;
, . . t"ro*) ., „ A , i Haidfe and Juan, who hold a feast during the
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, absence of iiaid^'e father
That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob IJw^^i****** 9outhey
Joy of Its alchemy, and to repeat « The ^takernV' Wordsworth. Coleridge, and
Fine truths; .even Cogence, too, has ^^a^lS^oVAr^llc
a tough job See Don Juan. Dedication, 1 (p 577)
596
NiNKTKKNTH CKNTUHY ROMANTICISTS
Hia polar star being one which lathci
rangeb,
And not the flx'd— he knew the way to
wheedle :
So vile he 'scaped the doom nhieh oft
avenges;
And being fluent (save indeed when
fee'd ill),
lie lied with such a fervoi of intention—
Tli 010 was no doubt ho enrn'd ln«* him cute
pension.
81 But he had genius —when n turn con 1 ha*
it,
The "Vateb mitabihb"1 lakes c-aie
That without notice few full moons shall
pass it ;
K\en good men like to make1 the public
But to niv subject—let me MT— \\li.U «as
itl-
Ohf— the tlmd canto— and the piottv
pair—
Then Io\es, and feasts, and house, and
diess, and mode
Oi hvmg in their in tula i abode
82 Their poet, a sad tiimnier,2 but no less
Tri company a veiy pleasant fellow,
Had been the favontc of full many a mess
Of men, and made them speeches when
half mellow ;
And though his mean in jr they could uneh
crue&s,
Yet still they deij>nM to lineup 01 to
bellow
The £>loiious meed of pnpulai applause
Of which the first ne'ei kwros ihe second
cause.
88 But now being: lifted into high society,
And havmc: pick'd up beteial odd* and
ends
Of f tee thoughts in his tra*els, foi \ai lety,
He deem'd, being in a lone u»le, ainont:
friends,
That without any danger of a i lot. he
Might for long lying make himself
amends;
And singing as he sung in his \\ai m \onth,
Agiee to a shoit aimistice with truth
84 He had traveled 'mongst the Aiahs
Turks, and Franks,
And knew the self-loves of the different
nations,
» irritable Mothmrer (Chapter 2 of Coleridge'*
Blonravhia W/crario IH on "The fluppraed Ir
rltaWllty of Men of Benin*")
• One who doe* not Adhere to one sot of opinion**
In nolltlcH
And ha\uig li\ed with people oi all ranks,
Had bomething ready upon most occa-
sions-—
Which got him a few pieseuts and some
thanks
He vaiied with borne skill his adulations.
To "do at Rome as Romans do,"1 a piece
Of conduct \\iis uhich he observed in
Greece
85 Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing,
lie gave the different nations something
national,
T\\as all the same to him— "God sa^e
the king,"
Oi ltCa ira,9'2 according to the fashion
all
His muse made mcicnipiit of anything,
Fiom the high KIK doi\n to the low
lationai ^
If Pindar sang horsc-i aces, what should
hinder
Himself fioin beinir as pliable as Pindui f
•
86 In Fiance, for instance, he would wiite a
chanson ,'
Tn England a six canto (juinto talc.
In Spnm he'd make a ballad 01 immune
on
The last A\,H — much the same in Poi-
tugal ,
In Oeitnan\, the Pegasus he'd piance on
Would bo olJ (JoetlM-'s— (stv \\hat s»ns
DcStacl),'
In Italv he'd ape the "TieeentMi""
In Oi-eece, he'd sing some soil of hvnm
like this t ' ye
Tlie isles of Greece, the isles of Greece f
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Polos rone, and Phoebus sprung*
Nternal summer gildn them yet,
Hut all, except their sun, IH set
The Scian and the Teian
The hero's harp, the low's lute.
HUM* found the fame A our shores refuse,
1 Rt Yuguflttnp, Epistle*, in. 14
- It will HUtccctl ( \ Houff of tli«< rrrnrh Itcrolu
tlonlHtR )
1 V reference to ColtrldKc'M pralno of frmthfj In
blfl Bioffraphia Literarta, 1
'* Madame DP Btnpl hnd rerpnth published a
book on Uermani. In which abo Raid that
Goethe rpprcficntpd tbo entire lltornturp of
Oprmanv
"Wrltora In tbo Italian htilo of tbo 14th c*n
turu
', of tbo Inland of SHo nnd Amurcnn, of
\slti Mlnoi
LORD
597
Their place of birth ulone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires 9 ' ' Islands of the Blest. ' '*
The mountains look nn Marathon —
And Marathon looks on the sea ,
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream M that Greece might still he 1 re* ,
For standing on the Persians' gra\e,
I could not deem imself a slave
A kmg2 sutc on the rocky hro\\
Which lookb o'er sea-bom Salaims,
And ships, by thousands, lav below,
And men in nations; — all \\ere hifli
He counted them at break of day —
And i\hen the Htm set where Tveie the* ?
And where aie they? and ithere art thou,
My (.oiintn ? On th\ voiceless sliore
Tlio heroic lay JB tuneless now —
The heroic bosom bents no more'
And must thv h re, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like minef
6
'Tin something, in the dearth of fame,
Though liuk'd among a fetter 'd race,
To feel at le»<>t a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse mv face,
For nhnt is loft the poet heref
For Greeks 11 bhi-li — for Greece a tear
Must v e but weep o *er ("hn s more blest f
Must we but blush f — Our fathers bled
Earth* lendei buck fiom out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
8
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah I no, — the voices of the dead
Bound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, ' ' Let one living head,
But one arise, — wo come, we come! "
'Tin but the In ing i*ho are dumb
In vain — in vain; strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine*
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Beta's vine!
Hark, rising to the ignoble call-
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
i Mythical inland* Mild to lie in the Western
Ocean, where the favorite* of the gods dwell
after (loath. In eternal |o\ SIH- Tloslod s
WurK* and Day*, 169
• Xerxwt. Klnu of Por*ln < 1S« 4(H Tl f >
10
You have the Pyrrhic dancei as yet.
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx* gone!
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave —
Think yc he meant them for a sla\ef
11
Fill high the bowl uilli Samiau \\ine '
Wo will not think of themes like these'
It made Anacreou'n nong divine.
He soi\ed — but sened 1'olycruten —
A tyrant, but our mastern then
Were still, at least, our countrymen
12
The tyrant of the Chersonese
N Was freedom 'a bent and bravest friend;
That tyrant AVHB Miltiaden!
Oh I that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Huch chains as his TV ere sure to bind
13
Fill high the bowl with Samian winet
On Huh 's rock, and Parga 's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric motheiR Itore,
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidant blood might own.
14
Trust not for freedom to the Franks —
They ha\e a king nho bujs and sells,
In native swords, and native rank*,
The only ho]x» of courage dwells,
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
15
Fill high the bowl with Samian winet
Our virgins dance beneath the shside—
T see their glorious black eyes shine ,
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think Ruch breasts must suckle slaves.
16
Place mo on Sunium's marbled steep,
Wheie nothing, save the \ta\es and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep,
There, froan-hkc, let me sing and die *
\ land of slaves shall ne 'er he mine—
Hash down ion cup of Samian wine'
87 Thus sung, or would, or could, or should
have Rinigt
The modern Gieek, in tolerable verse:
If not like Orpliens quite, when Greece was
young,
1 Vn ancient war dance la quick time
9 The phaliinx as used by P»rrhun, the great
Greek general (3rd cent B. C.).
'rraelnfi back to HercnleR. — i e, ancient Oreek
*TI»o swnn *n* said to sins melndlniiMix niuui
about to rllo
598
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Yet in these times he might have clone
much worse .
His stiam display M some feeling — light
or wrong,
And feeling, in a poet, is the so nice
We're told this great high priest of all
the Nine1
Was whipt at college— a harsh, sire— odd
spouse,
KOI the first Mrs Milton leit bib house.
88 Bnt woids aie things, and a small drop of
ink,
Palling like dew, upon a thought, pro-
duces
That which makes thousands, perhaps mil-
hons, think,
'Tis strange, the shoitest letter which
man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time ic-
«
A
Like Shakbpeaie's stealing deer,* Loid
Bacon V bribes,8
T.ike Titus' youth,4 and C'psai \ eaiheM
Bums (whom Doctor Currie well
descnbes) ,
Llke Cromwell's pranks, '-but altlunmh
amiable descriptions from Hi*
sciibes,
As most essential to their heio's stoi y,
T1"'y «1« »«t much eoiitnbute to hm gloiy
duces f , 93 All are not moralists, like Routhey. when
Frail man, when paper-even a ran like He ted t|| the woM of «iPafntlw_
this, lfl • »,,
Survives himself, his tomb, and nil that's ()l WonKKoith miew-isci!/ mihiitil, *h<i
then
Se™'n 'd llls Pe<llflr I**™** Wlth demo<i-
lfle>>
Or Coleiidge, lcmR before his fli«iity pen
w}*n? ThrMammq JWitsaiistociacy ,B
^ hen lie »nd So"««^. follnwini? Hie same
89 And when his bones arc dust, his grave a
blank
His station, generation, even his nation,
Become a thins, or nothing, fia%e to im.k
Tn chronological conimemoiation,
Rome dull MS obhwon long has sank,
Or grax en stone found in a barrack's
station
In digemg the foundation of a closet, 94 Slloh nanies flt reqont Cllt n convict
May tuin his name up, as a laie deposit. The ,eiy Botany Bay IW moru! geo«.
I1"1"'
. „
two paitneis (milhneis of
Tioy owes^o Homer what whist owes to
The present century was gi owing blind
To the cieat Marlborouulrs skill in
i
nuaito, by the way, is
°f tyP°g"
Until his late Life by Aichdeacon foxe
A- _ _ 1J f .. . n ,
91 Milton s the pnnce of poets— so we say;
A little heavy, but no less divine
An independent being in his day—
I^nrnM niniia fpmnprntp in Invp nnd
ijeam (i, pious, temperate in io\e ann
wine;
But his hfe falling into Johnson's wn>-
i ITc defoatPd the French in the Battle of Bleu-
helm, in 1704. Bee Honthey'a The Battle of
Blenheim, (p 400) , alao Addlaon'ft The Cam
paign
• JohnHon wrote a Life of Milton, pnhlUhed In
hi* Lit e» of the Englinh Poet*, 1770 RO
^Th^rt85«™u<<<?ii«Hiirto popuiariv «RHnriato.i
. J*lth ^hnkMiipro'H youth.
8IUi<oii wan rhiirRoil with Rocpptlnff brlhoR. and
WRH theioforo oxrlmled from PRrllament
4Tho youth of Tituh VeHiwKinnuH, Homan Km-
peror (TO-S1) like that of JulluH Oimr and
that of liiirim, %ns noted fur Its voluptuous
CroniwMl
not<Ml for rn!)l>ln*
"The name Rhon to u Hchemo for nn Ideal com-
mnnltv which Routhev, Tolprldge, and others
pinmird in 17»4 to MtaMiHii in America
T Wordsworth WBH appointed DiHtrlhutor of
nwr hR<1 nn*
" V rofrroncp to Wordnworth*B Pftrr HrH, the
hero of which in a bedlar.
•Coleridge hegun his contributions to Thr
VnrninQ Pont In 1798
w Coleridge married flarah Pricker, flouthev,
her Mgter Kdlth They were not milliner* at
the time of their marriage In 1705.
LORD BYRON
599
A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd The Excur- 99 If he must fain sweep o'er the etheieal
8ton,* plain,
Writ 111 a manner which u> my aveibion. And Pegasus luns lebtive in his '* Wae-
goii.11
95 Tie theie builds up a formidable dyke rimld ue not b lhe J||Bll ol Chailes,s
Between liib own and otlieiV intellect Wainf
But WoidbwoitL'b poem, and hu, follow- Or piay Me<J<!a foi. „ wngle draRont
cib, like Or it, too olabbie ioi his Milgar brain.
Joanna Southcote'h Shiloh,* and her He feai>d hls llw.k ,„ ^,ltme ^ a
*®"i nag on,
Are things which m this centuiy don't And he must needb m(mnt neaier to thf?
sti ike moon
The public mind,-so few are the elect , (<ould not the blockiiead ^ f or a balloon ,
And the new births of both their stale
viigimtieh 100 "Pedlars," and "Boats," and "Waff-
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divm- gons ' ' ' Oh f ye shades
ities. Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to
96 But let me to my story- I must own, That trash of such soit not alone e\ades
Jtl have any lault, it LS digression- (Contempt, but iiom the bathos' vast
Leaving my ]>eople to pioceed alone, abyss
While 1 soliloquize beyond expression pioatg s^uke uppermost, and these
But these me my addresses from the Jack Cades
W1 tj110116' Of sense and song above your graves
\\ Inch put off business to the ensuing may fo1S8_
se^sion Tne "httie boatman" an'd his "Peter
I'omeltmg each omission is a loss to Bell"
The woi Id, nol quite so great as Anosto ran sneer at inm who drew "Achito-
97 T know that what our neighbors call phel'"-
V ^gufurs "» 101 T ' our tale -The feast was over, the sla\es
(\\e'\e not so good a uonl, but ha^e gone,
the tlnng, Tlle dwarfs and dancing girls had all
Tu that complete perfection which msuies letiied
An epic fiom Bob Southey e^efv The Arab lore and poet 's song were done,
S])ring), And everv sound oi ie\eh> expiied,
Form not the tnie temptation which alluies ^pne jady and jier i0%er> \e^ aione,
The reader, but 'twould not be haul to The roj,y flood of '1wiilftht's 'sky ad-
^nnff mired.—
Rome fine examples of the epopte* Ave Mana' o'er the earth and sea,
Topiovcitsgranduigredieutis«intti5 That heavenhest hour of Heaven is
98 We lenm from Horace, i l Homer sometimes worthiest thee !
sleeps , f '« 102 Ave Maria ' blessed be the hour •
We feel without him, Wordsworth The time, the clime, the spot, where I
sometimes wakes,— go Off
To show with what complacency he creeps, H|ne fe!t that Inonieilt in lts fuiiest power
Wiih his dear "Waggoneis," aiound Sint o'er the eaith so beautiful and
his lakes 80ft,
He wislies for " n boat " to sail the deeps- Whlte 8wunff tne dpep M\ in the distant
Of ocean f— No, of air; and then he towei,
™kes Or the faint dvmer dav-hymn stole aloft.
Another outcry for a "a little boat,"7 And not a breath crept thiough the rosy
And drivels seas to set it well afloat air,
i Beep, 274. And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirrM
• Joanna Ro'nthcott WM a visionary who prophe ' w£th prayer.
Med that Bhe would give birth to a second wuu pia/w.
Rhlloh. or MesHlah. on Oct. 19, 1814. When f TharlWH Wagon, the constellation known ns
that time came, she fell Into a tranre anil the Dipper
died ten days later. 9 Pryden of whom Wordnworth waa not fond
1 tedtoua pasnaire^ 4eplc » languid weariness Hoe WonlRWorth'8 E**ay. Rvpplemrntai y tn
- XT— *^~ T Pf trr aril, at 1 **«• Prrfarr
000 NINKTUKNTH CKNTUKY ROMANTICISTS
103 Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! , From a true lover,— shadow 'd my mind's
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! eye.
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above 1 107 Oh, Hesperus! thou bnngest all good
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! things—
Those downcast eyes beneath the Al- Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
mighty dove— To the young bird the parent's brooding
What though 'tih but a pietured unapt1!- wings,
strike— The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd
That painting is no idol,— 'tis too like steer;
Whate'er oi peace about our hearthstone
104 Some kinder casuists aie pleased to sa>, clings,
In nameless print— that T have no deui- Whate'er our household gods protect of
tion; dear,
But set those persons down with me to Arc gather 'd round us by thy look of rest;
pray, Thou bring 'sf the child, too, to the mother'*
And you shall see who has the propeiest breast
notion
Of getting into heaven the shortest ivav, 108 Soft hour I which Makes the wish and melts
My altars are the mountains and the the heart
ocean, Of those who sail the Mas, on the first
Eaith, air, stars,— all that ^ptnms from Jay
the great Whole, When they fioin then sweet friends are
Who hath produced, and will ipceivo the torn apait;
soul % Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
iAe o ,1 *j. i-iii • j.i i* i A«. the far bell of vesper makes him start,
105 Sweet hour of twilight '-in ^the solitude Se<? 1o /, d . d , de_
Of the pine forest, and the silent •Jiot* *. J * * J
Which bounds Ravenna's m.momonal Ts thw a fanc>' which our reason scorns t
wood, ^jj i snrc]y nothing dies but something
Rooted wheie once the Adrian wa\e mourns f
flow'd o'er,
stood, ",...__ , Which ever the destroyer vet destrov'd,
Evergreen forest' which Boccaccio's Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, '
* * TX *? 9 i , i , j -i j M nations freed, and the world over-
And Dryden's layj made haunted ground joy'd
to me, ,.,.,... , Some hands unseon strow'd flowers upon
TTow have I loved the twilight hour and ^ tomb-
™e' Perhaps the weakness of a heart not
106 The shrill c-icafaV people of the pine, 7oid
Making their summer Ines one waselesa Of fee"»ff for some kimlness done, when
gone power
Were the sote echoes, sa\e mv steed's and IIad left ihe wrelph an nncorrupted hour.
bell's that lose the boughs110 Bllt I?™ digressing, what on earth has
along* Nero,
The spectie huntsman of Onesti's line,* m 0F ^."'J* like sovereign buffoons
His hell-dogs, and their chav, and the To do *>£ *•» transactionB of uiy hero,
fair throng More than such madmen 's fellow man—
Which learn M from this example not to thc. moon'st
fly Sure my invention must be down at zero,
And I grown one of many "wooden
A In Bavenna ROODM ' '
9 Theodore and Honorta, a tale of a Hpecter -.. *;;!,: -At . . « n
huntsman who haunted the region of Ra- Of verse (the name with which we Can-
venna, adapted from Boccaccio's The Deram- tabs1 please
•lo3£to 8> To dub the last of honors in degrees).
'Dryden'B Theodore IB Boccaccio1* Onnrtl Tho
specter merely appeared to Ono*tl ; It wan & Cantabrlalanii — f r , thow awmdatod with th4>
not of hlfl line ' rntvep*ftv of Tninhrldgp.
LOBD BYBON
601
111 I feel this tediousness will never do—
Tis bong too epic, and I must cat down
(In copying) ibis long canto into two;
They'll never find it out, unless 1 own,
The fact, excepting some experienced few ;
And then as an improvement 'twill be
shown:
111 prove that such the opinion of the
critic is
From Aristotle passim.-— See HOO/TUCTJS '
"From CANTO IV
1819-80 1821
1 Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless peihaps the end,
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems win-
ning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down
we tend,
Like Lucifer when hnrl'd from hea\en for
binning ,-'
Our sin the same, and hard an his 1o
mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar
too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what ue
are.
2 But Time, which brings all beings to their
level,
And sharp Adversity, ^ill teach at last
Man,— and, as we would hope,— perhaps
the devil,
That neither of their intellects aie vast •
While youth's hot wishes in oui led veins
revel,
We know not this— the blood fhros on
too fast-
But as the torrent widens townid the
ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion
3 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellou .
And wish'd that others held the same
opinion ;
They took it up when m> da>s piew mine
mellow,
And other minds ackmw lodged im do-
minion :
Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellin*
Leaf,"3 and Imagination droops hei
pinion,
And the sad truth which hover* o'er my
desk
Turns what was once romantic to bur-
toque.
• J
ft, V, 8. 2S.
4 And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep,
'Tis that our nature cannot always bnng
Itself to apathy, for we must steep
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's
spring,
Ere what we least wish to behold will
sleep.
Thetis baptized hei moital son m Styx;
A mortal mother \vould on Lethe fix l
5 Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of the
land,
And trace it in this poem every line;
I don't pietend that I quittf understand
My own meaning when I would be very
fine,
But the fact is that I have nothing
plann 'd,
Unless it ^ere to be a moment merry,
A novel word m my \ocabulary.
6 To the kind reader of oui sober clime
This \vay of wilting will api>eai exotic,
Pulci was sire of the half-serious ihyuie,
Who sanp: when chivalry was inoie Quix-
otic,
And re veil 'd in the fancies of the time,
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants,
kings despotic
But all these, save the last, being obsolete,
I chose a modern subject as more meet.
7 How I have treated it, I do not know ,
Perhaps no bettei than they have
treated me,
Who have imputed such designs as show
Not what they saw, but nhat
wish'd to see;
Rut if it gives them pleasure, be it so,
This is a liberal acre, and thoughts are
free:
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear,
Vnd tells me to resume my story here
8 Young1 Juan and his lady-love were left
To their own hearts' most sweet society,
K\en Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft
With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ,
he
Sigh'd to behold them of then hours
bereft,
Though foe to love; and yet they could
not be
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring,
Before one charm or hope had taken wing
* wonld chooi* Lethe v
602 NINETEENTH CENTUB? BOMANTIGIBTB
9 Their faces were not made for wrinkles, Which men weep over may be meant to
their save !
Pure bl^ to stagnate, theur gmt be^ „ &idfa md Jnm tho^t ^ of the dead_
The blank gray was not made to blast their ™» JSMll.^ ""* "* """'*
But hkMhe cbmes that know nor snow They *"»? "° £ault wlth Time« **• that
not hail '
They were all' summer: lightning might They MW not m themselves aught to con-
assail dcmn '
And shiver them to ashes, hut to trail Ea7ph was the other 's mirror, and but read
A long and snake-like life of dull decay J°y sparkling in their dark eyes like a
Was not for them-they had too little clay. 6™,
* And knew such brightness was but the re-
10 They were alone once more ; for them to be flection
Thus 'was another Eden ; they were never Of their exchanging glances of affection
Weary unless when separate -the tree M ^ f, pressure and the thrillmg
Cut from its forest root of years— the touch
T* S1?r * * 4 *u u-u * Tne Ieast glance better understood than
Damm'd from its fountain— the child from words
the knee Which still said ail, and ne'er could say too
And breast maternal wean 7d at once for- much
ever,— A language, too, but like to that of birds,
apart ^ Known but to them, at least appearing
Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart- As b™clo }mm a true Mnffi affordg;
,- m. . . LI- uui i. — Sweet playful phrases, which would seem
11 The heart— which may be broken- happy absurd
mi ^ey- i i L * it * * i To those who ha\e ceased to hear such, or
Thrice fortunate1 who of that fragile , , ^ f
, - lie tri iicaitl,"^
mould,
The precious porcelain of human clay, 15 All these were theirs, for they were chil-
Break with the first fall they can ne'er dren still,
behold And children still they should ha\e ever
The long year link'd with hea^y day on been,
day, They were not made in the real world to fill
And all which must be borne, and never A busy character in the dull scene,
told ; But like two beings born from out a nil,
While life's stranp* principle will often he A nymph and her beloved, all unseen
Deepest in those who long the most to die. To pass their lives in fountains and on
flowers,
12 "Whom the gods love die young" was said And never know the weight of human
of yore,1 hours.
And many deaths do they escape by this
The death of friends, and that which slays 18 Moons changing had roll'd on, and change-
even more— less found
The death of friendship, love, youth, all Those their bright rise bad lighted to
that is, wich joys
Except mere breath, and since the silent As rarely they beheld throughout their
shore round ;
Awaits at last eien those who longest And these were not of the *ain kind
miss which cloys,
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early For theirs were buoyant spirits, never
grave bound
MonaiKUT In TH* Exapaton, Fragment 4- By the mere senses; and that which de-
vPlaiihw. l"***'lV» 7 1llv Ptrop
i
Most love, 'possession, unto them appeared
8L% S W» JW^ittTS A «"« **» cach endearment more en-
Herodotus's Htotortw, 1, 81. dear'd.
LOBD BYKOM 603
17 Oh beautiful ! aud laie as beautiiul! And swept, as t'weie, aeiobb tlieir hearts'
But theirs wab lo\e ui which the mind delight,
delight b Like the wind o'er a haip-stung, or a
To lobe itself, when the old wen Id grows flame,
dull, When one is shook in bound, and one in
And we are hick of its hack bounds and bight :
sights, And thus some boding flash 'd through
Intrigues, adventures of the common either frame,
school, And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low
Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, sigh,
Where Hymen's torch but brands one While one new tear arose in Haidee'b eye.
strumpet more,
Whobe husband only knows her not a 22 That laige black prophet eje seeni'd to
whore. dilate
18 Hard words, harsh truth; a truth which A And follow far the i disappearing bun,
many know ^ " *"cir *ast ^ay °* a 'iaPPv "
Enough -The faithful and the iairy Wlth hls broa(l> briSht» and
pair, orb were gone;
Who iieA er found a single hoiu too slow, Jlian 8*™* on hej •" (»*^ "* f ate~ f
What wab it made thorn thus exempt He felt a e™*> but knowing cause for
from care* TT _none' . . , .
Yonn* innate feelings all have felt below, IIls Slan<* inquired of herb for some
Which perish in the rest, but in them _ . excuse
were For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse
Inherent— what we mortals call romantic,
And alwavs envy, though we deem it 23 She tuin'd to him, and smiled, but in that
frantic. sort
* A im» • • 11 * i«i- 1 j. Which makes not others smile, then
19 This is in others a factitious state, ^^^ 9^ aa^e .
An opium die-am' ot too much youth Wh«t«ep feeling 'bhook her, it seem'd
and leading, ghort
KiU was in I hem then nat ure or their fate: And m^a by her wjsdom or lier
No IMN els v 'or had set their young hearts } je
_, TTUf?'jn?' , , , When Juan' spoke, too— it might be in
For Hauler s knowledsre was bv no means pport—
* i?*"1' v * 11 i i Of this their mutual feeling, she re-
Arid Juan n as a bov of saintly breeding, plied—
So that there was no renson for their loves <<lf it ^}oM ^ S0f.l3ll(_lt cannot be_
More tmn for those of ni-htingales or Or I at least shall not sun-ne to see."
do\eb.
20 They gazed upon the «nnset . 'tis an hour 24 Juan would question further, but she
Dear unto all, but dcaicst to f/irir eyes, press M
For it had made thorn what they were the His lips to hers, nnd silenced him with
power this,
Of love had firM o'enahelm'd them from And then dismiss'd the omen from her
such skies, breast,
When happiness had been their on Ivdouer, Defying au&^iry with that fond kiss.
And twilight snw them ImkM in pas- And no doubt of 'nil methods 'tw the best •
sion's ties; Some people prof or wine— 'tis not
Charm 'd with each other, all things amiss;
charm M that brought T have tried both, BO those who would a
The past still welcome as the present part take
thought. May choose between the headache and the
21 I know not why, but in that hour tom>ht, heartache
Even as they gnzed, a sudden tremor ^
came 25 One of the two nccornmcr tn your choice,
BQ4 NINETEENTH CENT UK V BOMANT1C1BTH
But which to chooue, 1 leally haidly Juan, and buuddeiuig o'er hib irame would
know; creep;
And if I had to give a casting voice, And Haidee's sweet hpb muiurar'd like
For both Bides I could man} reat>ons a brook
show, A worldlebs music, and her face BO fair
And then decide, without gieat wrong tu Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with
either, the an ,
It were much better to have both than
neither. 30 Or ah the stirring of a deep clear stieam
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind
26 Juan and Jlaideo gazed upon each other Walks o'er it, was bhe shaken by the dream,
With swmnmug looks of speechless ten- The mystical usniper of the mind—
dernesb, () 'er powering us to be whate'er may seem
Which mix'd all feelings— fnend, child, Good to the soul which we no more can
lover, brothei — , bind :
All that the best can mingle and express Strange state of being f (for 'tis still to be) ,
When two pure hearts are pourM in out* Senseless to feel, and with seaPd eyes to
another, see.
And love too much, and yrt cannot 1m e
less; 31 She dream M of being alone on the son-
But almost sanctify the sweet excess bhoie,
By the immortal wish and power to blt^s Cham'd to a rock, she knew not hou.
but stir
27 MixM in each other's amis, and heart in She could not f mm tlie spot, and the Innd
heart, ™r
Why did they not tlien die*— ihey had Grew> a«d ««* wate ™** roughly.
lived too loner " threatening her;
Should an hour como to bid tliem breathe And o'er her upper lip the> sceni'd to
apart ; pour,
Years could but brinir them cruel tinntrs rntil she sobh'd for bieath, and soon
or wrong, thevweio
Tlie world was not for them, nor tlie Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and
world's art \utf\-
For beings passionate as Sappho 's wine . Bacl1 broke to di o\v n her, yet she could not
Love wan born ttiffc them, in them, so in- die
tense,
It was their very spirit— not a sense 32 Anon— she was leleased, and tlieu ^In-
stray 'd
28 They should have Ihed toother deep in 0 'er the sharp slnncrlcs ^th her bleednm
woods reel,
Tnseen as' sings the nightingale,' they A"d fumbled almost e^eiy step she made
_.„ s H And something rollM before her in a
fib 00+
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes Tm . , V*' , . „ . ,
Call 'dsoeial, haunts of Hate, and Vice, mich ^^ innst still pursue bnwv'ei
nn«l Cnrem arraid:
How lonelv wonr froob,,rn denture 'Twns wlnto and indislinct. nor stop,, M
broods! In
The Bwertwt sonp-Wnls nwtle in a pan . TTer P1™1™ nor ***• for *«" sh
The eagrleBoani alone; the pull and prow . . •"" P»<-P «.
Flock o'er their cnrrion, ft* l.kf men *n'1 "•"• hllt Jt ""I1** her »" hh"
33 The dream changed :-in a cave she stood,1
29 Now pillow^ cheek to cheek, in loving Were huZ with marble icicles ; the work
•IT i//?^ T A t- ^^* * i, Of aces on its waterwfretted halls,
Haidfc and Juan thrfrriesta took, ^m ^^ mijfht Wflflh>
A wntle slumber, but it was not deep, ^^ breed anfl |upk
For ever and anon a something shook
Jflpp flip Apftrrfptton of 1ho mrp In
of rern*at V 4 2« /7ir MtuM 4 121 ff
LOUD MY RON UQJ
Hei liair wab dripping, and the \eij Vengeance on him wbu \\o* the cause of
bails all:
Of her black ey es seem'd turn M to tears, Then Lambro who till now foiebore to
and mirk speak,
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop Smiled scornfully, and said, "Within
they caught, my call,
Which froze tn marble as it fell,— she A thousand scimitars await the word ,
thought Put up, yonnfr man, put up \oiu
swoid fl
34 And \\el, and cold, and lileless at hei led,
I'aleasthc loam that lioth'd on his dead 38 And Haidue clui.g aiound him, "Juan,
biow, 'tis—
Which she assa> 'd in xani to clcji (lio\\ 'Tib Lanibio— 'tih m> iathei f Kneel
sueet with me—
Weie once hei caies, how idle secui'd He will forgive us— jes— u must be— yes
they no\\ '), Oh' dearest tathei, in this agony
Lay Juan, 1101 could aught renen the beat Of pleabure and of ])ain— e\cn while I kiss
<)i Ins quenchM hcait, and the sea Thy garment's hem1 with tianspoit, can
dirges Inn it be
in hei sad ears like a meunnid's That doubt should mingle uith ni> filial
bonpr, joy?
And that biiet (lienni appeal M a lite too Deal with me as thou \\ilt. hut spaic this
long. boy "
35 And gating on the dead, she thought his 39 Hitrh and inscrutable the old man stood.
face ('aim in his voice, and calm within Ins
Faded, or altei M into somethiMjr new— eye-
Like to her fat hei 's featuies, till each trace Not always si«nis with him of calmest
Moie like and like to Lamhio's aspect mood
orew— lie look'd upon hei, but grave no ieph ,
With all his keen wniu look and Oiecian Then tuin'd to Juan, in whose cheek the
crrace; blood
And staitmp, she awoke, and what to Oft came and went, as theie icsohed In
uewl die;
Oh1 Poweis of TIea\enl what dark eve In aims, at least, he stood, in act to spimu
meets she there On the tirst foe whom Lamhio's eall might
'Tis— 'tis her fathei 's— fixed upon the brine
pairf
40 "Young: man, youi sword," so Lambro
36 Then shrieking, she most-, and shuekinp once more said
fell, Juan replied, "Not while this arm is
With jov and souow. hope and feai, to free "
see The old man's cheek grew pale, but not
Him whom she deem'd a habitant where with dread,
dwell And drawing1 from his belt a pistol, he
The ocean-bin led, risen from death, to he Replied, "Your blood be then on vour own
Pei chance the death of one she lo\ed too head "
well ; Then look'd close at the flint, as if to s-e
Dear as her father had been to Haide>. fTwas fresh— foi he had lately used the
Tt was a moment of that awful kind— lock—
T have seen such- but must not call to And next pi oceeded quiet Iv to cock
mind
41 Tt has a strange quick jar upon the ear,
37 Up Juan sprang to HaideVs bitter shriek, That »ockin|r of a pistol, when you know
And caught her falling, and from off the A moment more will bring1 the sight to bear
wall
Snateh'd down his sabre, in hot haste to '^fcEiB1^ S
wrenk FU* i/of /*<•«• 14 ift
606 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Upon your person, twehe >ai<Is off, .Show what the pasbions uie m their full
or so; growth.
A {gentlemanly distance, not too neai,
If you IHNO got a former friend for ioe, 46 The iathei paused a moment, then with-
But after being fired at once or twice, drew
The eai becomes nioie Irish, and less nice His weapon, and replaced it; but stood
still,
42 Lambro presented, and one instant more And looking on her, as to look her through,
Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's "Not /," he Haul, "have bought this
bieutli, stiangei'bill,
When Haulct? tluew herself her boy be- Not 7 have made this desolation • few
fore, Would beai such outrage, and foibeai to
Stein as her sue "On me," she cued, kill,
"let death But I must do my duty— how thou hast
Descend— the fault is mine, this iatal Done thine, the present touches for the
shoie past
He found— but sought not ] have
pledged m> iaith, 47 "Let him disaim, m, by my father's head,
I love him— T will die with him I knew His own shall loll befoie you like a
Youi natnie's firmness— know your danirh- ball ' "
ter'stoo." He raised his whistle as the wotd he said,
And blew, anothei ansuei \\ to the call,
43 A minute past, and she had been all tears, And rushing in disoideily, though Jed,
And tendeiness, and miancy , but mn\ And aini'd iiom boot to tuihan, one and
She stood as one who champion M human all,
fears— Some twenty of his tram came, lank on
Pale, statue-like, and stein, she woo'd rank,
the blow. Tie j»a\e the unid. "Aries! 01 slav the
And tall betond hei sex, anil then com- Fiank "
peers,
She (hew up to her height, as it to show 48 Then, with a sudden inmement. he with-
A fauei maik, and with a fix'd eve drew
seann'd His daughter, nhile com pi ens M within
Her father's face— but ne^ei stopp'd his his clasp,
hand 'Twixt hei and Juan interposed the crew .
In \ain she st niggled in her f athci 's
44 He ga/ed on hei, and she on him, 'twas grasp—
strange His amis weie like a serpent's coil* then
How like they look 'd ' the expression was flew
the same; Upon their picy, as daits an angry asp,
Seienely sa\age, with a little change The file of pnates sa^e the foremost, who
In the laige dark eye's mutual-darted Had fallen, with his nght shouldei half cut
flame , through
For she, too, was as one who could avenge,
Tf cause should be— a lioness, though 49 The second had his cheek laid open , but
tame , The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took
Her f ather 's blood bef ore ber father's face The blows upon his cutlass, and then put
Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race His own well in , so well, ere you could
look,
46 T said they were alike, their features and His man was floor M, and helpless at his
Their stature, differing but in se\ and foot,
years • With the blood running like a little brook
Even to the delicacy of their hand From two smait sabre gashes, deep and
There was resemblance, such as true ml—
blood wears ; One on the arm, the other on the head
And now to see them, thus divided, stand
Tn fiVd ferocity, when joyous tears, 60 And then they bound him where he fell,
And sweet sensations, should have wel- and bore
corned both, Juan from the apartment • with a sign
LORD BYRON Q07
Old Lambro bade them take him to the Yet could his corporal pangs amount to
shore, half
Where lay some ships which were to sail Of those with which bis Haidee's bosom
at nine. bounded !
They laid bun in a boat, and plied the oar She was not one to weep, and rave, and
Until they reach 'd some galliots,1 placed chafe,
in line ; And then give way, subdued because sur-
On board of one of these, and under rounded;
hatches, Her mother was a Moorish maid from Fez,
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the Where all is Eden, or a wilderness
watches.
55 There the large olive rams its amber store
51 The world is full of strange vicissitudes, In marble fonts; there pram, and flour,
And here was one exceedingly unpleas- »nd frj"t>
ant: Hush from the earth until the land runs
A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, °>er;
Handsome and young, enjoying all the But there, too, many a poison-tiee has
present, root,
Just at the verv time when he least broods And midnight listens to the lion 's roar,
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, And long, long deserts scorch the ramel '«
Wounded and chain 'd, so that he cannot i°°t>
move, "r heaving whelm the helpless caravan ,
And all because a lady felt in lo\e Aml a* the M^ ls> "° *he heart of man
56
Than *. - not «,ore P,o-
That I mart hue leoomse to blaok R and ]mfi
Bohea- dower-
8€noilSi Though sleeping like a lion near a source
53 Unless when qualified with tliee, Cognac " 57 Her daughter, tempered with a milder rav,
Sweet Naiad of the Phlejrethontu- nil14 Tj,ke summer clouds all silverv, smooth,
Ah f why the liver wilt thou thus attack, an4j fail.f
And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers Tl,, g]owly cha^rf Wltll thunder they dls.
*n' play
T would take refuge in weak punch, but Terror to earth, and tempest to the air,
•r rac!c . „ , iv . Had held till now her soft and milkv wav,
(Tn each sense" of the word), wliene PI But overwrought with passion and des-
I "" pair,
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim. The fire burst forth from her Numidian
Wakes me next morning with its svno- veins,
nym-6 Kven as the Simoom sweeps the blasted
plains
64 T leave Don Juan for the present, safe—
Not sound, poor fellow, hut severely 58 The last Right which she saw was Juan's
wounded , gore,
And he himself o'ermasterM and cut
I ^SS^&FSfuSS^ hT MllH ftnd mi" down :
• A kind of Fwnch hrandv His blood was running on the very floor
SwrJ'a^ tfMr '" ""**" Where lnte he trod* her *Mnflftil, her
at In! ft hefcAartift. ' own ;
608 NINKTKi^Til UJjJNTURV JtOMANTll'lBTb
Thus much she vie\\ 'd an instant and no Lay at ber heart, whote earliest beat still
more,— true
Her straggles ceased with one convulsne Brought back the sense of pain without the
groan ] cause,
On her sire's arm, which until now scarce For, for a while, the furies made a pause.
Her wtSig, fell she like a cedar fell'd M 8h* look'd on ™ny • f"* *lth vacant eye,
b On many a token without knowing what ,
59 A vein had buist, and her sweet lips' pure She saw them watch her without asking
dyes w"v»
Weie dabbled with the deep blood which And leck'd nol *ho aiound hei
*
ran o er ,
And her head droop 'd, as \\hcti the lily lies Not speechless, though she spoke not ; n«>t
Overcharged with lam her summon M awRh
handmaids bore Keheved her thoughts, dull silence and
Their lady to her couch with gushing: e\es, quick chat
Of herbs and cordials they produced were tned in \am by those who served,
then store, v •"» B«* ^ J§ , , , u
But she defied all means thev could employ N<> sign, have biealh. ol lumnir left the
Like one life could not hold, noi death de-
64 Hei handmaids tended, but she heeded not ,
60 Da}* lay die m that state unchanged, Her fathei ^vatch'd, she tmn'd her e\es
She had no pulse, but death seein M aWiu tiy "" froni l()ni" lo ^«»»~but all
still torgot—
», hideous sicn pifirUiiiiiM he, ,meK ."f11^!,111?} mith°Ut """Ti ^ Uy - u
j -j f At length those e>es, which thp\ \\«mld
( 'nrruption came not IH each mind to kill . f ai" Jf wejj«inft ,....,« , .
All hope, to bmk upon her s^eet face HnektooldthimghNnaxM iullnl feaiiul
bred meaning
Nen thoughts of hfe, for it seemM full oi ^ And then fl fe]ave ^(h{m^ ber ||f fl halj>f
.„ . 1°l u *i ii * i n « The haipei came, and tuned hi* institi-
She had so much, eaith muld nut Hnim tlie ^^
w^e At the first notes, ine^ulai and sharp,
lait And he beffan a lo11^ low lfeland son»
' ot •
And exer-dymp Gladmtor'8 an,
n exer-ymp amor8 an, M Anon her ^ wnn „ Wf the.wal,
Their oiiersy ike hfe formB all their fan P. In time to hih „,,, (une ,,e phan^ ^
^et looks not life, foi they an* >.till HIP theme
8ame And sung «>f love, the fiew name ulruek
62 She woke at length, but not a. sleeper* Her ree^tion, on her flash'd the
wake' dream
Rather the dead, for life seem M some- Qf what ghc waS( md ^ rf ye could ^
thing new, To be so bemsc, m a gushing stream
A Grange sensation which she must pm- ^ tearg ^y ^ fro^ her o,er,
T> ^ • i. * ii.- clouded brain,
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view Llke mountam migtg at jength ^ggo!^ m
Stmck not on memory, though a heavy
iff DRVW'« playing before Saul, /
i SPO fWMr 77flr«WV P/7//rfm*ir//», 4 140 (p 646). Ifl 10 2*J 8* also Brownlnjr *
LOAD BYRON 609
,G7 Short solace, vain relief !— thought came Through years or moons the inner weight
too quick, to bear,
And whirl 'd her brain to madness; she Which colder hearts endure till they are
arose laid
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, By age in earth . her days and pleamnes
And flew at all she met, as on her toes, were
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Bnef, but delightful— such as had not
Although her paroxysm drew towardb its staid
close,— Long with her destiny; but she sleeps
Hers was a frenzy which dibdain 'd to ia\ e, well1
Even when they smote her, in the hope to By the sea-bhore, whereon she loved to
save. dwell
68 Yet she betray 'd at times a gleam of sense ; 72 That isle is now all desolate and bare,
Nothing could make her meet her father's Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd
face, away;
Though on all other things with looks in- None but her own and father's grave is
tense there,
She gazed, but none she e^er could And nothing outward tells of human
retrace; clay,
Food sheiefused, and raiment, no pretenw Ye could not know where lies a thing so
A vail M for either, neither change of fair,
place, No stone is there to show, no tongue to
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give say,
her What was; no dirge, except the hollow
Senses to sleep— the power seeni'd gone sea's,
forever. Mourns o 'er the beauty of the Cyclades.
69 Twelve days and nights she wither 'd thus; 73 But many a Greek maid in a loving song
at last, Sighs o'er her name; and many an
\\ ithout a gioan, or sigh, or glance, to islander
show With her sire's story makes the night less
A part ing pang, the spirit from her passed : long;
And they who watch 'd her nearest could Valor was his, and beauty dwelt with
not know her:
ThcMerv instant, till the change that cast If she loved rashly, her life paid for
Hoi sweet face into shadow, dull and wrong—
slow, A heavy pnce must all pay who thus err,
Olti/ed o'er her eyes— the beautiful, the In some shape, let none think to fly the
black— danger,
Oh f to possess such lustre— and then lack ! For soon or late Love is his own avenger.
• •••••
70 She died, but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life, which might From CANTO XI
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of 18**'*s 1823
sin ; 58 Juan knew several languages— as well
But closed its little being without light, He might— and brought them up with
And went down to the grave unborn, skill, in time
wherein To save his fame with each accomplish 'd
Blossom and hough he wither 'd with one belle,
blight; Who still regretted that he did not
In vain the dews of Heaven descend above ihyme
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of Theie wanted but this requisite to swell
love His qualities (with them) into sublime:
Lady Fitz-Fnsky, and Miss Mama Man-
71 Thus lived— thus died she; never more on nish,
her Both long'd extremely to be song in
Shall sorrow light, or shame She was Spanish.
not made i ft* Jfecftef ft. TIT, 2, 23
610
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
M However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted aa an aspirant to all
The coteries, land, aa m Banquo's glass,1
At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about their average numeral ,
Also the eighty "greatest living poets/'
As every paltry magazine can show its.
65 In twice five years the "greatest living
poet,"
Lake to the champion in the flbty img,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show
it,
Although 'tis an imaginary thing.
Even I— albeit I'm sure I did not know it.
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be
king-
Was reckon 'd, a considerable time,
The grand Napoleon of the realms of
rhyme
56 But Juan wus my Moscow, and Faliero
My Leipsio, and my Mont Saint Jean
beeuib Cam ,2
"La Belle Alliance"8 of clunces cl 01*11 nt
zero,
Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise
again :
But I will fall at least as fell my hero;
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch
Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go,
With turncoat Southey for my turnkey
Lowe.
67 Sir Walter reign 'd before me; Moore and
Campbell
Before and after: but now grown rnoie
holy,
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly •
And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble
Beneath the very Reverend Rowley
Powley,
Who shoes the glorious animal with stiltfe,
A modern Ancient Pistol— by the hilts!4
58 Still he excels that artificial hard
Laborer5 in the same vineyard, thoush
the vine
1 The glass In which Macbeth saw Banquo and
his descendants as kings of Hrotland.— J/m
—e "Jli, 'Byron's heroes, Juan, Pallero. and
, were great literary disasters for him, HK
titles mentioned were disasters for Na-
Yields him but vinegar for his reward,— .
That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine;
That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor
bard;
That ox of verse,1 who plough* for
every line:—
Cambyses' roaring Romans8 beat at least
The howling Hebrews of Qybele's priest—
59 Then there's my gentle Euphues,* who,
they say,
Sets up for being a sort of moral me;
He'll find it rather difficult some day
To turn out both, or either, it may be.
Some persons think that Coleridge hath
the sway;
And Word&woith has supporters, two
or three;
And that deep-mouth M Bowtian4 "Sn\-
age Landor"
Ilnb taken for n swan rogue Southey vs
gander
60 John Keats, who was kill'd off by one
critique,6
Just as he really promised something
great,
If not intelligible, without Greek
Contrived to talk about the gods of
late,
Much as they might have been supposed
to speak.
Poor fellow! His was an untoward
fate;
'Tis Rtrange the mind, that fiery pailicle,6
Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an
article.
61 The list grows long of live and dead pre-
tendeis
To that which none will gain— or none
will know
1 Milman recently had boon appointed Professor
ot Poetry at Oxford.
9 The shouting soldiers in Croly's CotaZme, ^
2. rroly is Povtley of st. 57.
* Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall)* who
had been said ' - - *- — " ~
Review, Jan.,
Mess the betti
delicacy, and tondernpHR — wl
llgacy, horror, mockli
honor, and mixture of
deur.
'The Boeotians were proverbial for dullness.
Landor had recently published a volume of
Latin poems as the work of SaTagius Landor
Jeffrey, In The Bdinb
0 (Vol. 33.D. 153), to
better qualities of Wr - 1'—
POB
.nee,
t the prof-
of virtue ann of
ery and gran-
1 A
•The handsome Alliance A reference to the
Lake poets — Wordsworth, Coleridge, and
to the article on
i) ."See ~ '
«\J
T*r
Ravage was his middle name,
reference to the article on Sndymion in
~ view, April. 1818 (Vol. 19, PP
Byron's Vio Kill'd John Keuh
I Shelley 'A Preface, to Ada*ai<
, who Byron
nly thought wrote the critique whlrh
John Keats." Bee st 60 and n r»
i«) and
The article referred
p. 913). but
Bee Keatnfs letter to
, 1818
tts.
ina Keats, October,
roracVs Botim, II, 2, 79.
LOKD BYHON
The couquuiur at leabt, who, ere 'Tune
renderb
Being tired in time, and ueilhei least
nor last,
His last award, will have the long grass Left it before he had been treated very ill,
grow And henceforth iound himself more
gaily class 'd
Amongst the higher spirits of the day,
The sun's true son, no vapoi, but a ra>
,, . ,.
Uls monib ne pass d ui bubinesh— which
,1T dissected,
™as ^e ali buconebb, a labonoub noth-
ing
Tuat lettdb to l*«iude, the mobt miected
And Centaur Nessus garb of moital
Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cm-
ders.
If I might augur, I should rate but lo\v
Their chances.— they 'ie too nunieiou»,
like the thirty
Alock tyrants, when Koine's annuls waxM
but dirty '
62 Thib is the hteiary loner empiic,
Wheie the piatonan bunds- take up tin-
mattei,-
A "dreadful bade." like his who "uath-
erb samphire,"3
The insolent soldiery to boolhe and Hal-
jeif
With the wnie iecluigb as \<»uM «»a\ a
on our ^^ nw«* us he dejected,
And talk in tender horrors of our loath-
A „ , 1TJS
All kinds of toil, wne loi our country's
, \\cre 1 <nu*e ai home, and in good
„„ .
^ lllch S10^ 11G bettei, though 'tis time it
should
. , . , satl!e? , , , 66 Hih afteinoons he pate'd in visith, lunch-
I u ti> COJK lumons willi tl)«>sci .Jninwiiios,1 vim*,
And shew them trlml an inlellwhial wni Lounging, and boxing, and the twihghl
ls houi
63
muilh
With
l,.
not
Al, n«tu,al temixi'h teally aught but
And e\en my Muse's woibt lepiooi's a
smile,
And then she diops a Inief and modern
curtsy,
And glides away, a^nred she ne>er hints
ye
«* ,* -r , r i /. , -.1 i
64 My Juan, whom I left in deadly pen]
Amongst In i1 ]><'t»ts nml biue ladieb,"
<-.lu loim „ sllgbl acqnBlntall,e
67 Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the
world!
Then glare the lamps, then whirl the
wheel*, I hen loai
Tlmmgh street and square fast flashing
chanots huil'd
Lute haniess'd metoois, then along the
„ , m .
With some hinall prout through that field
*° ^tfte»
i For an nccuout of tlio body of pretenders to
^f^SM^^^
Iffi TkrfiJw v&S
th( Jfoman Empire, ch W
wiiS rf
of the Emperor. At
t'halk mimu's painting, then festoons aie
twirl 'd
Then roll the blazon tlnmdeis oi the
(looi,
Wllieh opens io thc Uiousand happy few
An eaithly Paiadise of "Or Molu.»»
£«or. IV, 6, 10
standing anm Before it WHH abolished iu
1820, It beoflmo ver\ powerful and turbulent.
• Uterarr pednnN Hoe p *5Kiht n 1
Tliere Ma,nds lhe noble Ilo8tes8' nor 8ha11
sink
Wlth,thc ««e*on«,dth curt8y . tha.e
the waltz,
The only danec wbich teaohes 81118 *° ^"^
t In Mooro's "phrnw " n bower IB a necret place
tor two.
^milled Bronco
g12 NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS
Makes one in love even with its very And watch, and ward,1 whose plans a
faults. word too much
Saloon, room, hall, overflow beyond their Or little oveitmns, and not the few
brink, Or many (for the number's sometimes
And long the latest of arrivals halts, such)
'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn 'd Whom a good mien, especially if new,
to climb, Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense,
And gain an inch of staircase at a time. or nonsense,
„ _ . . . -. Permits whatever they please, or did not
69 Thrice happy he who, after a survey long ^nce.
Of the good company, can win a corner,
A door that's tn or boudou out ot the? 74 Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome,
way, Noble, nch, celebrated, and a stranger,
Where he may fix himself like small Like other slaves of course must pay his
"Jack Homer," ransom,
And let the Babel round run ah it may, Before he can escape from so much
And look on as a mouiner, or a scorner, danger
Or an approver, or a mere spectator, As will environ a conspicuous man Some
Yawning a little as the night grows later. Talk about poetry, and "raek and man-
°ei,"-
70 Butthis won 't do, save by and by ; and he And Qf,imeeBt di8ea8e M to]1 and tronble
Who, hke Don Juan, takes an actne j Wlgh they ^m the ]rfe of , younp noble
share,
Must steer with care tlunngh all that ght-
teringsea 88 But "carpc diem,"J Juan, "caipe,
Of gems and plumes and pearls and carpel"
silks, to where Tomorrow sees another race as gay
He deems it is his proper place to be; And transient, and devout 'd by the same
Dissolving in the waltz to Home soft air, harpy.
Or proudher prancing with mercurial skill, "life's a poor player,"4— then "play out
Where Science marshals forth her own the play,
quadrille. Ye villains t"5 and above all keep a sharp
eye
71 Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views Much less on what yon do than what von
Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride, yOU ^y .
Let him take care that that which he pur- Be hypocritical, be cautious, be
sues , , , , Not what you seem, but always what you
Is not at once too palpably descried 8ee
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues
His haste; impatience is a blundering 87 But how shall I relate in other cantos
guide, Of what befell our hero in the land,
Amonspt a people famous for reflection, TO"di 'tis the common ciy and he to
Who hke to play the fool with circum- A vaunt as
gpection. A moral country * But 1 hold my
hand—
72 But, if vou can contrive, get next at sup- For I disdain to write an Atalantis;
per; But 'tis well at once to understand
Or if forestall 'd, get opposite and You are not a moral people, and vou
ogle:— know it
Oh, ye ambrosial moments' always upper Without the aid of too sincere a poet.
In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,1 aft _, , - .., Avni_
Which aits for ever upon memory's crap- M **?* ?™ "V? undcr^ntjsha11 *.
pgj, My topic, with of course the due restne-
The ghost of vanish 'd pleasures once in T^..t.lon ...
voeue! Ill Which is required by proper courtesy;
Can tender soul* relate the rise and fall AaA recolleot the work ta only flction»
Of hopes and f«m which shake a single JfK^h»«. me.™ „«/., rfuorrfrr
ball. * "Carne diem, quam minimum orwlulo postero "
—Horace, Odrn, I, 11, 8 (Relxe the day,
73 But these precautionary hints can touch 4 v^WV^aS M a" pnwll>ie }
Only the common run, who must pursue, • 1 Hmrv'fv, Yr, 4, 463.
1 goblin
LOBD BYRON
613
And that I sing of neither mine nor me,
Though every scribe, ui some slight turn
of diction,
Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'ei
doubt
jTfct'fl— when I speak, I don't hint, but speak
out.
89 Whether he mamed with the third or
fourth
Offspring of some sage husband-hunting
countess,
Or whether with some vngin of moie
worth
(1 mean in Foitune's uiatinnonial
bounties)
lie took to regularly peopling Earth,
Of which your lawful, awful wedlock
fount is—
Or whether he was taken in for damages,
.For being too e&cuisive in his homages,—
90 Is yet within the uniead events of time
Thus lai, go iorth, thou lay, which I
will back
Against the same given quantity oi ih>nie.
For being as much the subject of attack
As ever yei ^as any wink sublime,
By those who lo\e to say that white is
black
So much the better'— J mav stand alone,
But would not change my iiee thoughts foi
a tin one
WHEN A MAN IT \T1I NO FREEDOM TO
FIGHT POK AT HOME
18J4
When a man hath no freedom to fight for
at home,
Let him combat foi that of his neigh-
bois,
Ix't him think of the gloncs of Greece and
of Rome,
And «et knock M on Ins head foi his
labois
•
6 To do good to mankind 1-9 the chivalrous
phm,
And w always as nobly tequited;
Then battle for fieedoni wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get
knighted
THE WORLD IS A BUNDLE OF HAY
18*1 18.10
The world is a bundle of hay,
Mankind are the asses who pull ,
Each tugB it a different way.
And the greatest of all is John Bull
WHO KILL'D JOHN KEATSi
18*1 1830
"Who HUM John Keatsl"
11 1," sajs The Quatteily,
So savage and Taitaily,
11 'Twas one of my feats."
8 "Who shot the arrow!"
"The poet-pnest Mil man
(So leady to kill man),
Or Southey, or Bano\v."
FOR ORFORD AND FOR WALDEGRAVE
18*1 1830
For Orford and for Waldegme
You gne much more than me you gave;
Which is not fanlv to behaxe,
My Hurra} '
B Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
Be worth a lion fairlj sped,
A hie lord must be worth IILO dead,
My Murray!
And if, as the opinion goes,
10 Vcise hath a better sale than prose,—
(Vites. 1 should ha\e more than those,
My Murray I
But now this sheet is nearly ciamm'd,
So, if i/ou mil, J shan't be shamm'd,
16 And if jou won't,— you may be damn'd,
My Muriay
1HE VISION OF JUDGMENTS
18*1 1822
1 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate :
His keys were rusty, and the lock was
dull,
So little trouble had been given of late,
Not that the place by any means \\as
full,
But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight"3
The deuls had ta'en a longe'i, stioimci
pull,
And "a pull all together," as they wiv
At sea— \\hich div\v most souls another
2 The angels all uric singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, \vlnch too soon
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal
blue,
5 Poo Boron's 7)on Juan. TT, 00 ami n T fp
niO)
»8ce Ronthevs A Ffeton of Judgment (p 400)
• The French Revolution, which began in 1788
614
NINETEENTH CENTUH1' ROMANTICISTS
Splitting some planet with lU playful tail, 7 Let's skip a few biiort years of hollow
As boats are sometimes by a wantou whale.
3 The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care be-
low;
Terrwtiial business fill'd nought m the
sky
Sin e the reeoiding aiigel 's black bureau ,
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
"With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That lie had stripp'd off both his wings in
qnills,
And vet was in a i rear of human ill*
peace,
Which peopled earth no better, hell as
wont,
And heaven none— they form the tyrant's
lease,
With nothing but new names Sub-
scribed upon 't;
'Twill one day finish: meantime they 111-
ciease,
"With seven heads and ten horns,"
and all in front,
Like Saint John 's foretold benst ,l but oni s
are bom
Less formidable in the head than horn.
4 His business so augmented of late yeais,
That he was foiced, against his will 110 8 Jn the firbt yeai of freedom's second
doubt
(Just like those cherubs, eaithly mini—
ters),
For some source to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peeis,
To aid him ere he should be quite worn
out
By the increased demand foi his lemailo
Six angels and twehe saints weie named
his cleikb.
5 This was a handsome boa id— at least f«n
heaven;
And jet they had eten then enough to
do,
So many conquerors' cais weie daiK
dnven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew ,
Each day too blew its thousands six 01
seven,
Till at the crowning carnage, Wat ei loo,
They threw their pens down in divine
disgust—
The page was so besmear M with blood and
dust
dawn2
Died George the Third, although no
tyrant, one
Who bhielded tyrants, till each sense wnh-
diawn
Left him noi mental noi external sun
A better fanner ne'er biush'd dew from
lawn,
A worse king ne\er leit a realm undone f
He died— but Mi his subjects still behind,
One half as mad— and f 'other no IPRS blind.
9 He died!— his death made no great stir on
earth
II is burial made some pomp, theie was
piofusion
Of veKet, gilding, biass, and no great
deui tli
Of aught but tears— save those shed b>
collusion.
For these things may be bought at their
hue woith;
Of elegy theie was the due infusion-
Bought also, and the torches, cloaks, and
banners,
Heralds, nnd relics of old Gothic manners,4
8 This by the way t 'tis not mine to record f i , , , -, ^. ,
What angels shrink f lorn even the M>*\ IQ Fo,™ « a sepulchral melodrame Of all
._ rPliA PA.,*!. «..!.*. H..~1_ 9.1 J« ___ li ___ ___ A]
._
On this occasion his own work ahhorrM,
So surfeited with the infeinal ie\el
Though he himself had sharpen 'd even
swoid,
It almost quench M his innate thirst of
evil.
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves
insertion—
Tis, that he has both generals1 hi rever-
sion.)8
* Wellington and Napolron
»Tlin1 IB, hl^ hr rlRlit of fntnip
The fools who flock M to swell or see the
show,
Who cared about the coipne? The fnneial
.Afade the attraction, and the black the
woe.
Theie throbb'd not there a thought which
pierced the pall;
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid '
low,
1P^e Jtawtoffoft. 13
•The year 1820, In which the revolutionary
•pint broke out all over northern Europe
•That In, of the A«* of <'hl*nlrr, wMrh WAR
mrtiHl for ItM fllMplnv
LOBD BYRON 615
It seeui'd the mockery of bell to fold 16 God help us all ! God help ine tool I am,
The rottenness of eighty yean in gold. God knows, as helpless as the devil can
wish
11 So mix his hody with the dust ! It might And not a whit more difficult to damn,
Return to what it must far sooner, were ^m fc to bring to land a late-hook fd
The natuial compound left alone to fight fig^
Its way back into earth, and fire, and Or to thc butcher to purvey the lamb>
„ u fllr i , . . , -I u Not that l 'm flt f OT 8U<?h a noblc dlBh»
But the unnatiual balsams merely blight As one day will be that immortal fry
What nature made him at his birth, as Qf almost everybody born to die.
bare
As the mere million's base unnmmmied 16 Saint Petcr Mt ty the cclestial ^^
Yet all fa* spices but prolong decay.1 ^^ *" **"'
12 He's dead— and upper earth with him has A wondrous noise he had not heard of
done; Jate-
He's buned; save the undei taker's bill, A rushing sound of wind, and stream,
Or lapidary scrawl,1 the world is gone and flame,
For him, unless he left a German uill •- J" short, a roar of things extremely
But where's the proctor who will ask his great,
gonfs Which would ha\e made aught save a
In whom his qualities are reigning still, t MU|t exclaim ;
Kxrept that household virtue, most un- But he, with first a start and then a wink.
common, hmd, There's another star gone out, I
Of constancy to n bud, ugl> woman think f"
13 "God sn\e the kim»fM It is n large 17 But ere he could return to his repose,
economy A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his
In God to stive the like, hut il he will eyes-
Be saving, all the belter , tin not one am I At which St. Peter >awn M, and rnbliM his
Of those who think damnation better nose:
still • "Saint porter," saul the nimel, "pnthee
I hardly know too il not ijuite alone am I rise'"
Tn this small hope of bettenni? future ill Waving a goodly wing, uluc-h &w M, as
Bv e»ncnmseribin£, with some slight re- glows
strict ion, An earthly peacock 's tail, with hea\ enU
The eternity of hell 's hot juiisdiction. dyes :
, . _ _ . IT, To whl* thc s*1"* replied, "Well, what V
14 I know this is unpopulai , I know the matterf
'Tis blasphemous, I kmim OIIP may be i-js ijUC1fer come back ^uh all this
daimiM Hatter f"
Foi hoping no one else may e er be so ;
I know my catechism, I know we'ie -0 X£XT ff x, .. , , ft~
ciamnl'd 18 "No," quoth the cherub; "George the
With the best doctime till we <uiite o'ei- . . Third is dead "
**And who ts George the Thud* * le-
1 know that all save Kii|;Umilfs rlmiih M „„ P1*? the aPob'kl
haveshamm'd, "Mat George? vliat
Anil that the othei twite two liumliul -,, kl^i iT^n , ,f > i
churches Thc a»gel- 'Well ! he won 't find
And synagogues ha\e made a damn\l bad „ to jostle
"im on hl<?
head!
e, Oenn« ho»w »t Because the last «, «,w h«e had a
Hanorer BJFOD frequently sneered at the tussle, «
•A^SSSf .t George IV, who, w« thonrtt And ^ P>< Int°
capable of followlnsr the example of Geone II
$ir?gT«?ss5S?:s Jsssrissi Hn<1 h« not
of the court races
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTICIBT8
19 "He was, if I remember, king of France,1 With an old soul, and both extremely
That head of his, which could not keep blind,
a crown Halted betore the gate, and in his shroud
On earth, yet ventured m my face to ad- Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud.
vance
A claim to those of martyis— like my 24 But bringing up the rear of this bright host
own : A Spirit of a different aspect waved
' If I had had my sword, as I had once Hib wingb, like thunder-clouds abo\e some
When I cut ears off, I had cut him down , coast
But having but my keys, and not my brand, Whose barren beach with f i equent
I only knock 'd his head from out his hand. *ri ecks is paved ,
His brow was like the deep when tempest-
20 "And then he set up such a headless howl, toss'd,
That all the saints came out and took Fierce and unfathomable thoughts en-
hiniin, graved
And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by Eternal wrath on his immortal face,
jowl; And where he gazed a gloom pervaded
That fellow Paul— the panenii" The space.
skin
Of St Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 25 As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate
In heaven, and upon earth redeem 'd his Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin,
sm, With such a glance ot supernatural hate,
So as to make a martyr, never sped As made Saint Peter wish himself with-
Better than did this weak and wooden head. in ,
MJi^xi j-j. i. A i- i He patter 'd with his keys at a great rate,
21 "But had it come up here upon its sboul- And sweated through bib apostolic bkin
ders, Of rouise his percpiiarion Tins hut irboi,1
There would have been a different tale to Or some such other spiritual liquor
tell:
The fellow-feeling m the saint's beholders 26 The very cherubb huddled all together,
Seems to have acted on them like a spell, Lake bird* when boars the falcon; and
And so this very foolish head heaven they felt
solders A tingling to the tip of exery feathoi,
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, And forni'd a circle like Ouon'b belt
And seems the custom here to overthrow Around their poor old charge, who scarce
Whatever hab been wisely done below. ' ' knew whither
t_ .__ . , L A His guards had led linn, though they
22 The angel answer 'd, "Peter* do not pout gently dealt
The king who comes has head and all With rojal manes (for by many rioim,
entire, And true, we learn the angelh are all
And never knew much what it was about , Tones)
He did as doth the puppet— by its wne,
And will be judged like all the rest, no 27 As things were in this posture, the gate
doubt . flew
My business and your own ib not to Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges
inquire Flung over space an universal hue
Into such matterb, but to mind our cue— Of many-coloi 'd flame, until its tingeb
Winch is to act as we are bid to do. " Reach 'd even our speck of earth, and made
a new
23 While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, Aurora borealib spread its fringes
Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 0 'er the North Pole , the same seen, when
(leaving the fields of space, as doth the ice-bound,
swan By Captain Parry's crew, in "Melville's
Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, Sound."
or Inde,
Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them 28 And from the gate thrown open issued
an old man beaming
w w __ „ . . _ A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,
1Louh XVT, wbo was guillotined In January, . m ^
170:i »ethe«*l fluid that flowed In the veins of the
•upstart goda
LORD B1BON 617
Radiant with glory, like a banner stream- There was a high, immortal, proud regret
ing In eithei 's eye, as if 'twere less their will
Victorious from borne world-o'ei throw- Than destiny to make the eternal years
ing fight Their dale of war, and their "champ
My poor comparisons must needs be clog"1 the spheres.
teeming
With earthly likenesses, for heie the 33 But here they were in neutral space* we
night know
Of Hay obscmen our best conceptions, From Job, that Satan hath the power to
saving pay
Johanna Southcote,1 01 Bob Southey A heavenly \isit thrice a year or so;
raving And that the "sons of God,"2 like those
29 'Twas the archangel Michael, all men Muhfc m eoinl)any, and we might
know
The make of angels and archangels since Froni (he same ^ -n how Ute fl
There's scaice a nibble! has not one to Th(J dml()ffue M hdd Mwm t£ powerg
_, sllo.w> <,,,,,,,, , , Of Good and EYiI-bnl 'twould take up
From the fiends' leader to the angels' houiF
pnnce ;
There also aie some altai-pieces, though «4 A , ,, . . theolofflfi trflGt
1 really can't say that they luuoh evznoe 3* ^%£%f ffiftKS wrth Arab.c,
One 's inner not ions ol immortal spirits , T f , f . oii«oorv OP n f nrf
But let the oonnoissems explam «tar "SKS^SS^^IpA
lneilts From out the whole but such and such an
30 Michael flew foith in glory and in good , act
A goodly woik c.f him fiom whom all As sets aside the slightest thought of
gloi'y tuck^
And good aiist , the portal past-he stood , 'Tis every tittle tiue, beyond suspicion,
Before him the young <*« nbs and samls And accuiate as any other vision.
hoary—
(I say t/oung, be^^ing to be undersUwcl 36 The spirits were in neutral space, before
By looks, not yeais, and should be \civ The gate of heaven, like eastern thres-
soi ry holds is
To state, they were not older than St Peter, The place wheie Death's grand cause is
But merely that they seem'd a little argued o'er,
sweeter) . And souls despatch 'd to that world or to
31 The cherubs and the saints bow'd down And ther^re Mlchael and the other wore
mi Abelo.ie . . , .. - . A ci\il aspect , though they did not kiss.
That arch-angehc ueraich, the fiist Yet gtlH ^twe^n h/T)^^ and ^
Of essences angelical, who woie Brightness
Th^^m2 °f a R°df bUt thW "e>er There pa^M a "Ult"al fflanee °f
Pude in his heavenly bosom, in whose coie ^
No thought, save for his Maker's serv- oa _. . , . , f _ A . . _
ice duist ™ "ie -A.1"11"811^! bow'd, not like a modern
Intrude, however glorified and high , _ ***** „ . - ...
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. ., Bllt Wllh a ^rf ce{ul Onent»1 *"\ ,
17 ^ Pressing one i adiaiit arm just where below
32 He and the sombre, silent Spirit met— The heart in good men is supposed to
They knew each other both for goed and tend ;
' ill ; He turn 'd as to an equal, not too low,
Such was their power, that neither could But kindly; Satan met his ancient friend
forget With more hauteur, as might an old Cas-
His former friend and future foe; but tilian
still Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian.
« She believed that she was to give birth to a new
MpMlah SPO Byron'8 Don Juan, III, 95, 4, * cloned field for combat at a tourney
and n 2 (p 599) »Joft. 1:6
618 NINKPhENTll ClfiNTITUV HOMANTICTSTS
37 He merely bent his diabolic bio\\ That hell has nothing better left to do
An instant ; and then raising it, he stood Than leave them to themselves : so much
In act to assert his right or wrong, and more mad
show And evil by their own internal curse,
Cause why King George by no means Heaven cannot make them better, not I
could or should worse.
Make out a case to be exempt from woe
Eternal, more than other kings, endued 42 "Look to the earth, I said, and say again
With better sense and hearts, whom his- When thib old, blind, mad, helpleHR,
lory mentions, weak, poor worm
Who long have "pa\ed hell with their good Began in youth's first bloom and flush tu
intentions."1 leign,
The world and he both \voie a diffeienl
38 Michael began : "What wouldst tliou *ith , form,
this man, And much of cai ih and all the watery plain
Now dead, and brought before the Lord T Of ocean pall 'd him king • through many
What ill a storm
Hath he wrought since his mortal race His isles had floated on the abyss of time ,
began, ^ For the rough virtues chose them for then
That thou canst claim him! Speak1 clime.
and do thy will,
If it be just if in this eaithly span 43 "He came to his sceptre young; he leases
He hath been greatly failing to fulfil it old :'
His duties as a king and mortal, feay, Look to the state in which IK? found his
And he is thine ; if not, let him have way. ' ' realm,
«A «+r i. iiif i- i ,1. T. - * A And left it; and his annals too behold,
39 "Michael '" replied the Prince of Air, Uow to a niiuimi fiisl he gave the helm ,=
even here HOW grew upon his heart a thirst fm
Before the gate of him thou servest, must gold,
I claim my subject and will make appear The beggar's vice, which can but over-
That as he was my worshipper in dust, whelm
So shall he be in spirit, although dear The meaneHt hearts; and for the rest, but
To thee and thine, because nor wine 1101 glance
w 1]^ Thine eye aloncr Amonca and France
Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne
He reign 'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 44 TIS true, he was a tool fiom first to last
JA «T t_x _xi_ ^ L (I "axe thp workmen safe); but as a
40 ' 'Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was, £00]
Once, more thy master's, but I triumph So let hlm ^ collsumed. Froni out the
In this poor planet's conquest; nor ataO Of ages, since mankind have known the
Need he thou servest envy me my lot . j^jg
With all the myriads of bnght world* 0£ lrtonaichs-from the bloody rolls
which pass amass 'd
In worship round him, he may have Of flui aild Hiaiu,hter-from the Ciesar's
forgot school,
Yon weak creation of such paltry things : Take (he wolst { m& produce a mw
I think few worth damnation wne their Mnlc dwnfhfd Wlth gore, more cumber'd
with the ulain
41 "And these but as a kind of quit-rent,2 to ._ .,_ f _ _ _ , _ .
Assert my right as lord; and even had 45 He "« 7arr d w1h freedom and the
I such an inclination 'twere (as you „ ^tree: , , « .
Well know) superfluous , they are grown Natwjns as men» llonie ^bj^ts, f oreipn
BO bad *oes»
1 Ro that they utler M the word ' Liberty » '
>A proverb found In mcmt modern languageH.
It was a wylng of ftamuol Johnton^ Bee » George III reigned from 17AO to 1820.
Boewell's The Lite of ftmiffl John*** (Or- "John Stuart, Earl of Bute (1713-92), who as
ford ed. 1904) r 1, 591. Secretary of State and as Prime Minister ez
•fixed rent paid bv a tenant In commutation of oreim* a considerable Influence upon George
•erriees IV
LORD BYRON Gig
Found George the Third their first oppo- And cried, " You may the prisoner with-
nent. Whose draw:
History was ever stain M as his will be Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this
With national and individual woes? Guelph,1
I grant his household abstinence, I grant While I am guard, may I be damn'd xny-
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs self!
want,
50 "Sooner will I with Ccibeius exchange
46 "1 know he was a constant consort, own My office (and his is no sinecure)
He u a-, n decent sire, nnd middling lord Than see this loyal Bedlam bigot range
All this is much, ami most upon a throne, The azure fields of heaven, of that be
AH temperance, if at A picius ' board, sure ' ' '
Is moie than at an anchorite's mippei ~ " Saint I" replied Satan, "you do well to
shown. avenge
I grant him all the kindest can accord ; The wrongs he made your satellites en-
And this was well for him, but not for those dure ;
Millions who found him what oppression And if to this exchange you should be
chose given,
I'll try to coax our Ceiberus up to
47 "The New World shook him off, the Old heaven '"
yet gioans
Beneath what he and his piepaicd, il not 51 Here Michael interposed "Good saint!
Completed: he leaves hens on manv aiulde\ilf
thrones Pi ay, not so tast , you both outrun die-
To all his Mces, without nhat begot cietion
Compassion foi him— his tame virtues, Saint Petei f you weie wont to be more
drones civil !
Who bleep, 01 despots who ha\e now Satan' excuse this warmth of his ex-
forgot prebsion,
A lesson which shall be ic-taught them. And condescension to the \ulgar 's level
wake Even saints sometimes forget themselves
Upon the tin one* of enith, but let them in session
quake* Have vou got more to say*"— "No. M—
' ' If you please,
48 "Five millions ot the piunitive, who hold I'll tumble you to call your witnesses."
The faith which makes ye great on
earth,1 nnploieil " 52 Then Satan turn'd and ^aved his swarthy
A part of that \ast all the> held of old,— hand,
Freedom to wot ship— not alone your Which stirr'd with its electric qualities
Loid, Clouds faither off than we can understand,
Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter7 Although we find him sometimes in our
Cold Infernal thundei shook both sea and land
Must lie yoiu souK, if you have not skies;
abhorrM * In all the planets, and hell's batteiies
The foe to Catholic participation Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions
In all the license of a Chi i than nation As one of Satan's most sublime inven-
tions.2
49 "Truef he allowM them to prav God,
but as 53 This was a signal unto such damn 9d souls
A consequence of prayei, refused the As have the privilege of their damnation
law Extended far beyond the mere controls
Which would have placed them upon the Of worlds past, present, 01 to come; no
same base station
With those who did not hold the saints Is theirs particularly in the rolls
in awe.'9 Of hell assign 'd; but where their in-
But here Saint Peter started from his clination
place.
* The HOUH* of Hanover wan dpucendod from the
i Roman Catholic*, whom Oorao 111 rofuiMHl to Ouelpht. *****-
admit to political office »Soo P<irailtnc Lost. 0, 484 fl.
620
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Or business carries them in search of 68 But take your choice) ; and then it grew a
cloud;
And so it wab— a cloud of witnesses
But such a cloud! No land e'er saw a
crowd
Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw
these,
They shadow 'd with their myriads space,
their loud
And varied cries were like those of wild
geese
(If nations may be liken 'd to a goose),
And lealized the phrase of "hell broke
loose " 1
. game,
They may lange freely— being damn 'd the
same
54 They're proud of this— as very well they
may,
Tt being a sort of knighthood, or gilt
key
Stuck in their loins,1 or like to an
"enh*"2
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry
I borrow my comparisons from clay, .
Being clay myself Let not those spirits
Offended with such base low likenesses;
We know their posts nre nobler far than
these
•
55 When the great signal ran from heaven to
hell—
About ten million times the distance
reckon 'd
From our sun to its earth, as we can tell
How much time it takes up, even to a
second,
For every ray that tiavels to dispel
The fofip of London, through which,
dimly beacon M,
The weathe^x-ks are gilt some thrice a
If that the 'summe, is not too severe-
Here crash 'd a sturdy oath of stout John
Bull,
Who damn d away his ryes ns hereto-
fore •
There Paddy brogued "Bv Jnsus!"-
' ' What 's your wull 1 ' '
The temperate Scot exclami'd the
French ghost swoie
In Certain terms I shan't tianslate in full,
As the first coachman will, and 'midst
the war,
The voice of Jonathan was heard to e\-
press,
president i& going to war, I guebs ' '
there we.e the Spaniard, Dutch,
hhual of shade8,
Ere, paoT'd up foi tbeii journey, they
beein it
But then their telegraph » k*« Bubhme,
"n '
*"**
agauwt the Rood kmpr's
"' *"* ""
'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their
own clime
The sun takes up some years for every ray
To reach its goal— the devil not half a day.
57 Upon the verge of spare, about the size
Of half-a-crown, a little speck appeal 'd
(I've seen a something like it in the sjcies
In the -dEgean, ere a squall) ; it near'd,
And, growing bigger, took another guise;
Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer 'd,
Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the
grammar
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza
stammer 5—
1 A gold key In an Innlgnla of the office of Lord
Chamberlain and of other court official*,
•right of entry
spades
AH summon M by this grand "su
to
if kings mayn 't be damn M like me or
61 men Michael saw this host, he first gn*w
pale,
As angeis ca!lf next> j,^ jfa]ian <W1.
ne tum 'd all colors— as a peacock's tail,
Qr sunset streaming through a Gothir
skylight
jn some 0\& abbey, or a trout not stale,
Qr distant lightning on the horizxm by
night,
Qr a fresh rainbow, or a grand review
Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue.
Paradise Lout, 4, Gift Other referracen
are dted in MurpiyB 4 3V«r K»f,li*h Diction-
*W nnaer »e», 10
LOBD BYRON 621
82 Then he addreosM Lmisclf to Satan All the cosfumeb hince Adam's, light or
"Wb>~ wrong,
My good old fucnd, for such I deem you, Fium E>c'b fig-leaf doun to the petticoat,
though Aliuobt db beauty, oi days leb-> lemotc
Our difteicnt paiticb make us light bo j>li\,
1 ne'er mistake you ioi a pctsonal ioe, 67 riie S1J1111 l<>«kM aiound upon the ciowdb
Our difference is polttit al, and 1 Assembled, and exclaim 'd, ' ' My f i lendb
Ti ust that, whateA er may occm below, f" all
You know my great respect for >ou and llui ^pheies, we shall eateh cold amongst
thlb these clouds,
Makes n,e legict whate'ei you do amibs- **» let's to busmen why this geneial
call 7
63 " Win, my deal Lncifei, would you abuse lf ili«w me fieehtildnii I bee in shrouds,
My calf for witnesses 7 1 did not mean f And tlb fo' a" election that they bawl,
That you should half of earth and hell Wh<*\& a candidate with untum'd coat'1
pioduce; Saint Petei , may 1 count upon your vote!"
'Tis eim supeifluous, since two honest, 6g <,Sir>,, hpfl Michao1 „ miptake;
m /.' i , these things
Tine testimonies aie enough ije !«•* Alf? o£ a 1()nn^ hl and w,]d( we d||
Our time, nay, oui eteinity, bet^m. Abmc M mf|ie t ' f|| ul rf L
The accusation and defence if^e Is the tribunal met so now > «,u know "
Ileai both, 'twill Hhctehoiii immoitality <<Thfl|| £ I|IM|II|C n,ose gei|fleilieil Wllh
"
,
64 Satan jeplied, "To me themattei is Said Wllkes <<a]e clieillbh and <hat
Inditieient, in a peisonal point nL \ie\\ ^^j bejovv
I can lune fitty bettei souls than this Ij<K)ks nuicll hke Q the Tlnl(]f lmt lfj
\\ ith far less trouble than \\e ha\e gone niy mil|fj
thioiigh Asooddealolder-Blebsine'ishebhmH"
A li ratly, and T mriely aigued his
Late majesty of Britain's case with you 69 "He is what von behold him, and his doom
t pon a point of form von mav dispose Depends upon his deeds," the Aimd
01 him, l?Ae kings enough below, God ^ndj
knows !>l "If you ha\e aught to anaign in him, the
tomb
66 Thus spoke the Demon (Into call M "multi- (h\cs license to the humblest bcpg.ii 9b
I ami"1 head
Hv multo-scnbbhng Southev) "Then To lift itself against the loftiest M—
we'll call '4Some,"
One 01 t\\o prisons of the nmimls i»luced Said Wilkes, "don1! v.ut to see them
Aiound inn congirss, and disfiniM1 \\ith laid in lead,
all FOT such a libeit>— and 1 foi one,
The irst," quoth Michael "Who nm> be Have told them what 1 thought Iwneath the
PC» graced sun."
As to speak first? theie's choice enough
— who shall 70 "Abort the sun irpeat, then, what thou
It be?" Then Satan answered, "Theic hast
aie many; To uigc ngamst linn," said the Aich-
But you may choose Jack Wilkes ns A\ t«ll ,is anjjel ' ' Wh> , ' '
any " Kephed the spmt, "since old s<«oies aie
past.
66 A meiiy, cock-evcd, cuiious-lnokmg sjuitc Must I turn e\idence? In faith, not I.
Upon the instant staited from the Besides, T beat linn hollou at the last,2
inronp, , nvron ^n\\^ Ron t he v a tmncnat and D ipnegade
Dress 'd in a fashion now forgotten quite, for transferring hi* niitMdflncp to the Ton
For all the fashions of the flesh stick V"|p7n77T Bt ala° /)°" J"**' Dodiclltl011
loner * In 1772 WHkofl had t>eon ftuccpmiful as a Mom
T*» iioAnlA in flip npTt wnrlH • whore nnite hor of Parliament In pa"slnR a motion to r\
Hy ]>eople in tne next worm, wnere nnue pimK(1 flom thp ^rnr^ thp lo^0|IIt|0n lindpl
vihlch ho had boon ox |>ollcd from thp House In
i flonthev 1 V9*1nn nf Tiiditmcnt . r» 70 17(M
622 MNJBTJSENTli CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
With all bib Lordb and Commoub : 111 the 75 The shadow came— a tall, thin, gray-hair 'd
sky figure,
I don't like ripping up old stories, since That look'd as it had been a *hadc on
His conduct was but natural in a prince. earth ;
Quick in its motions, with an air of \ igor,
71 " Foolish, 110 doubt, and wicked, to oppress But nought to mark its breeding or its
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling , birth ;
But then I blame the man himself much Now it wax'd little, then again grew
less biggei,
Than Bute and Gialton, and shnll IK- With now an air of gloom, 01 wivajje
unwilling mirth ,
To see him punish 'd here for then excess. Hut as you ga/ed upon its ieatuies, the}
Since they weie both damn M long ago, ('hanged every instant— to wltat, none
and still in could say.
Their place below: for me, I ha\e foi-
given, 76 The mine intently the ghosts gazed, the less
And vote his 'habeas corpus 'into henven " Could they distinguish whose the fea-
tuies wen*:1
72 "Wilkes," said the Devil, "I understand The Devil himself seein'd puzylcd even to
all this; uness,
You turn'd to half a couitier ere yon Thev>aned liken dieain— now heie, now
died, theie,
And seem to think it would not be amiss And s^ernl people swoie fiom out the
To grow a whole one on the other side pi ess,
Of Charon's ferry, you forget that feis The\ knew him peifeelh , and one could
Reign is concluded, whatsoe'er betide, sweat
He won't be smereisni more you'\e lost lie \\as his hithei , upon Dtluch unothei
your labor, " Was sine he vns his nmlhci V cousin's
For at the best he will be but your neigh- biothei
77 Anothei, Uml lie uns a duke, m knight,
73 "However, I knew what to think of it, An ointoi. a lawyei, 01 a pnest,
When I beheld you in your jesting wa>, A nabob,-1 a mnn-midwitc, but the wight
Flitting and wlimpeiing round about the Mjsfenous changed Ins countenance af
spit least
Wheie Belial, upon duty for the da\, As oft as they their minds, though in full
With Fox's laid1 was basting William sight
Pitt, He stood, the puzzle only was inci eased ,
His pupil , I knew what to think, I saj The man was a phantasmagoiia in
That fellow even in hell bieeds farlhei ills , Himself —he was so volatile and thin.
I '11 have him gaga Jd— 'twas one of his own . .. mi L _ ^ _ _ . ,
bills.2 '° The moment that vou had pronounced him
one,
74 "CallJunius!" From the crowd a shadow Presto! his face changed, and he was
stalk 'd, another,
And at the name theie was a geueial And when that change was baldly well
squeeze, put on,
So that the very ghosts no longer walk M It Mined, till I don't think Ins o\\n
In comfoit, at then own aenal ease, mother
But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but ID (If he had a mother) would hei son
be balk 'd, Have known, he shifted so fiom one to
As we shall see), and jostled hands and t'other,
knees, Till guessing fiom a pleasure giew a task,
Like wind compress 'd and pent within a At this epistolary "Iron Mask "
bladder,
Or Idee a human colic, which is sadder ' ^^SSKSSSKfSS&S
* A reference to the corpulence of Fox Tho Hut Includes Burko, FranciH, T<»oke, Wll
• A reference to the Treason and Sedition bills of mot, and others The mithorahlp baa not yt>t
1795 known OB the Pitt and Grenvllle Acts l*en determined
which aimed at restricting the llhertv of the Juo>ornnr of n Hindu province mnn of grout
prcflg and the liberty of speech * ralth
LORD BYBON
623
79 For sometimes he like Cerberus would 83 " My charges upon record will outlast
seem—
' ' Three gentlemen at once ' M (as bagel}
Bays
Good Mrs Malaprop) ; then you might
deem
That he was not even one ; now many
rays
Were flatting round him , and now a thick
Bteam
Hid him from sight— like fogb on Lou-
don days:
Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to peo-
And certl»3teThke Sir Philip Fiance
80 I've an hypothesis- 'tw quite my •awn ,
I never let it out till now, for lear
Of doing people barm abou( i tin , th™*
And injuring •™**™*" «•£«• .
btown
It is- » wtb public, lend tlnne ea, -
'TiB, that what Jumufe we are \urnt to call
Was reall,,, truly, nobody at all.
The brass of both his epitaph and
tomb. ' '
"Repent'st thou not," said Michael, "of
some past
Exaggeration? something which may
doom
Thyself if false, as him if hue? Thou
wast
Too bitter— is it not sol— in thy gloom
Of passion f" — "Passion I" cried the
phantom dim,
"I loved my country, and I hated him
"What T have written, T have written •' U*t
The refct be on hih head or mmef" So
QH „ jg*Jfa n b „ d ^ k.
inirvet
A ^wtad . ^^ ^
Th«, Hatnn said to Michael, "Don't forget
T° cal1 Oeor8<! Washin8ton' «nd Joh»
iSnkhn^-but at this time tl».
nofc a phantom
v cjy f?f
81 I don Ft tee \\herefore lettciR should not be
Wntten \vithont hands, since ve duly 85 At length with jostling, elbowing, and the
\iew
Iheiu written without heads, and hooks
we see,
Ate iill'd as well without the lattei
too:
And really till we fh on homebody
For oeitain suie to claim them as ln^
due,
Their author, like the Nigei 's niuuth. will
bother
The world to say if 1hrrc be mouth or
auth°r*
82 "And who and what art thouV ' the Aich-
may consult my title-
Kepi JTb mighty shadow of a shade
" If I have kept my secret half an age,
aid
Of cherubun appointed to that post,
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made
His way, and look'd as if his jouiney
cost
Some tioublc. When his burden down he
laid,
"What's this?" cneil Michael; "why,
'tis not a ghostt"
"I know it," quoth the incubus;2 "but lie
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me.
86 ' ' Confound the renegado ' I have sprain 'd
My lowing, he's so he^y , one would
JJf ^ "^ hls neck ™e
But Jo Je^oint : while hoveung o'e,
™ "'1
Confi Michael, "George Be,, o,
And Raping, caught this fellow at a
Aughtferl" Juniusanswer'd,"You No les« on history than the Holy Bible.
had better ^,^,
Fii*t ask him for Ms answer to niy letter:
*** **"**' IVf " 298
"The former is the devil's scripture, and
Thfl latter yours> ^^ Michaei . ^ the
Belong t"all of us, you understand
624 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTB
I snatch M him up just as you see him Nun Di, non homines1— you know the
there, rest."
And bright him off for sentence out of ^ A ^^ ^ ^^ throilghout ^
IVe jcarcely been ten minutes in the whic^M to hold all m in de.
At least a quarter it can hardly he- _, testation;
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." The angels had of course enough of song
J When upon service; and the generation
88 Hero Satan said, "I know this man of old, Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not
And have expected him for some time long
here ; Before, to profit by a new occasion .
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, The monarch, mute till then, exclaim 'd,
Or more conceited in his petty sphere- "What I what!
But surely it was not worth while to fold Pye come again f No more— no more of
Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus that!'9
We hadThl poor wretch safe (without fl3 Th« ^V1* ^w; *n U»>™«*1 «w(* ,
beinc bored ( onvulsed the skies, as during a debate,
With carriage) coming of his own accord Wl/°n Tastlereagh has been up lonK enough
B ' w (Before he was nibt minister of htate,
89 "But since he's here, let's see what he has I mean—the slaves hear now) . some cited
done" "Off' off'"
"Donef" ciied Asmodeus, "he antici- As at a farce, till, grown quite des-
pates perate,
The very business you are now upon, The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose
And scribbles as if head clerk to the (Himself an author) only foi his prose
Fates
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 94 Thf varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave,
When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, *«°°? d,cal hke • vulture in the face,
prates?" 1 " J"T a "°°k nose and a hawk 's eye, which
"Tx>t's hear," quoth Michael, "what he . ?avejl , ,
has to say *mart and sharper-looking sort of grace
You know we're bound to that in every To hls whole **!>«*. whl<lh» ^ougb rathcM
"
way "
Was by no means so ugly as his case,
90 Now the baid, glad to got an audience, Rut that, indeed, \\IIH hopelesv as can be,
which Quite a poetic felony "de sc " 2
By no mean* often was his cane below,
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and 95 Then Michael blew his hump, and btillM
pitch *l|e »olse
His voice into that awful note of woo With one still gieutei , as is yet the mouV
To all unhappy heareis within reach °» c«lftl1 bendes, except some grumbling
Of poets when the tide of rhyme \ in \oice,
flow; Which now and then will make a slight
But stuck fast with hw first hexameter.2 mioml
Not one of all whow gouty feet would stir IV™ deem cms silence, few will Iwice
. Lift up their lungs when fanly over-
91 But ere the spaviird dactyls could be crow VI,
spurr'd And now the baid rould plead his own bad
Into recitative, in great dismay cause,
Both cherubim and seraphim weie lieaid With all the attiludeb of self -applause
To murmur loudly through their long
array, 96 He said (I only give the heads)— he Raid,
And Michael rose ere he could get a won! He meant no harm in bnibbbng; 'twab
Of all his founder'd verses under way, hib wav
And cried, "For God's sake, stop, my Upon all topics; 'twas, beside*, his bread,
friend1 'twere best— i neither pods nor men nor bookseller* have
1 Bee Number *, 22 28 granted to poet* to he mediocre — Homoe, 4 r*
' rottioa
,
• Houthev'R 4 VMofl of Judgment wan written rottioa 372
in rincttllc hexiunetei meamire. Bee p 409 'felony npon hlmnHf, — f t . «alci«lo
LOBD BYRON
525
Of which he butter M both sides, 'twould
delay
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to
dread),
And take up lather inoie time thnn a
day,
To iiHine his woiks— lie would but cite a
few-
Wat Tiflet —Rhymes on Blenheim- Water-t
loo
97 He had written praisw ol' a regicide,1
He had written praises of all kings what-
ever ,
lie had written I'm republics far and wide,
And then against them bitterer than
For pantibocracy3 he once had ciied
Alond, a scheme less moral than 'twas
de\er,
Then piew a hearty a i it i- jacobin4—
ITad tin n M his cnat— and would ha\e
limi'd his skin
With notes aud prei'ace, all that most
allures
The pious puichafcei , and thcic'b no
ground
For tear, for 1 can choose my own le-
viewers
So let me ba\e the propei documents.
That 1 may add you to my other saints. "
100 Satan bow'd, and was silent "Well, if
you,
With amiable modesty, decline
My offei, what Bays Michael! There are
Whose nit-moil h could be mideiM more
di\ me
Mine ih a pen of all woik, not so new
As it uas once, but I would make you
bliine
Like youi uun tiumpet Bv the wav, my
own
Has more of biass in it, and is ab well
blown.
**>""* tnunpets. here's my
98 He had sunp against all battles, and aSam101 "Bllt £Wne *
In their hierh piaise and gloiy, lie had T won
e&][*ft Now you shall jud^c all ]Hio]»le, jes,
Reui-wini? "the ungentle ciafl." ' and
^
lMise a critical e'er era wl'd—
Fed, paid, and pampei M b^ the very men
By whom hjs muse and nunalb had been
ma n I'd •
He hnd wntten much blank Acrse, and
And m«,,c of both ihau anylnnly k,,,,«s
99 lie had written W«*l« 's hfe -hr.r lui n-
T. HiLn'11"'^,, I'm n-nilv to wulo
To Satan, hii. I m undy to w.iu
In twoSu volumes moely bound,
i Ono of Soirtfci-vV mirlT pr«nK IK entitled In-
«rrJp*toii Jar the ^|^artmfllt «i» CJrjMifwio
^M^^'^W:1 *" **"*•
• in M'fflf T*i«r, »rtttiii in 1794. aoothrr f\
ublic
the downfall of the 1-rontli lie
_ , y«»Ji
Jud^e with inv .indmiieiit. and by my deci-
Slon
Be abided who shall entei beacon «.i lull.
l ^ «11 thcw tlnups by inhution,
limes piesent, past, to come, liea>en,
1P»» a"d]a11' . _ . n
Alphonso2 \\hen T thus see
.
rf
<]|fw forjli nn MR
l'« suasion on Ilic p^l oj deMls. Mints,
m anuels. mnr «ould fclnp tin- biimit. M
He '«* «'e filht •*'« »— •* thc
Bl^a» llie ?o»rtll. the nlmle simitual
Had \anish 'd, With A ailPty of soenls,
AmbroRMl and -ulphum™, as they
sprang,
I^c IiRhtmnff. off f,o,n h,s ",uelod,ous
twatlff IM
opposed to democratic, or revolutionary,
•t&a&uy^Tkf Life of ffenrjf KWte White
M808V, 1, 21 The term gentle craft In now
frequently applied to tbe »port of angling,
formerly It was applied to the trade ofahoe-
making Hoe DekkerN The Bhoemnlfr** ffoli
day or a f'tamifff Corned v of the Qmtle Craft
• Bouthev became a reanlar contributor to The
Quarterly Jfrtfetf In 180f»
^^^otheralOS Those grand heroics acted as a spell •
in imerua it The angels stopp'd their ears and plied
their pinions;
i TTI* A VMon of Judgment. Bee p. 400.
""King Alphoniw, npeaklng of the Ttolomean
HVBtem, na14 that had he been innnulted at the
creation of tbe world, be *ould have spared
the Maker <*omo nhmirdltlen * — Bvron
^John Aubrey (1020-07), Wftornatrirft T pon
InrioK-*; ~ —
which f
Hcott's l.
i Nub/Crfi (1RR7). 81 The passage In
the expreaitlon occurs IB quoted In
Tkc Antifrarv, & 0.
NINETEENTH CENTUEY BOMANTIOIBT8
The devils rail howling, deaf en 'd, down to
hell;
The ghosts fled, gibbering, for then own
dominions
(Fur His not yet decided where they due 11,
And I leave every man to his opinions) ,
Michael took refuge in his trump —but, lo '
His teeth were set on edge, he could not
blow!
104 Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known
For an impetuous saint, upiaihed his
keys,
And at the filth hue knock 'd the poet
down ,
Who fell like Phaeton, but moie at ease,
Into his lake, foi there he did not drown ,
A different web being by the Destinies
Woven for the Laureate's final wreath,
whene'er
Reform shall happen eitliei heie 01 theie
105 Tie fli-st sank to the bottom —like his works
But soon rose to the surface— like him-
self;
For all corrupted things nie buo> 'd like
corks,
By their own rottenness light as an elf,
Or wisp that flits o'er a moiass he links,
It may be, still, like dull books on n
shelf.
In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or
"Vision,"
As Welborn says— "the devil turn'd pie-
cisiau " ]
106 As for the rest, to come to the conclusion
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone
Which kept my optics free from all delu-
sion,
And show'd me what I in my turn have
shown;
AH I saw farther, in the last confusion,
Was, that King George slipp'd into
heaven for one;
And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,
T left him practicing the hundredth psalm
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE KOAD
BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA
18tl 1880
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in
story;
The days of our youth are the days of our
glory;
1 MuMlnger A TVrtf Wan to Pay Old Drtfe, I,
And the myrtle and ivy1 of sweet two-and-
twentv
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so
plenty.
3 What are garlands and ciowns to the brow
that is wrinkled ?
'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew
besprinkled
Then away with all such from the head
that is hoary !
What eaie I for the wreaths that can only
give glory '
Oh Fame'— if I e'er took delight in thy
praises,
10 'Twas less foi the sake of thy high-
sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright ejes of the tleni one
discover,
She thought that I was not umvoithy lo
love her.
77*f'rr' chiefly 1 sought thee, th*>n> unlj I
found thee,
Her glance was the best of the ia>s that
surioundthee,
n When it spaikled o'ei au^ht that \\as
bright in my storv,
I knew it was love", and I felt it \\as glory
ON THIS DAT I COMPLETE MY
THIBTT-SIXTH TEAR
1824
9Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to imne
Vet, though I cannot be behned,
Still let me love!
5 My days are in the yellow leaf,2
The flowers and fruits of love ate gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone '
The fire that on my bosom preys
10 Is lone as some volcanic isle ,
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
% A f uncial pile.
The hope, the feai , the jealous care,
The exalted pod ion of the pain
n And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not AIM— and 'tis not fare—
Such thoughts should shako my soul, nor
now,
»The myrtle *a* a eymbol of lovo, the Ivv. of
in friendship
fV,2,22
constancy in friendship
•BeeJrarftr«AfV,2,22
PEBCY UY88HE BHELLEY
627
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
20 Or binds his trow.
The sword, the banner, and the Held,
Glory and Greece, around me see !
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,1
Was not moie free.
26 Awake! (not Greece— she 10 awake!)
Awake, my spirit ' Think through whom
Thy life-blood tiackh its paient lake,-'
And then strike home !
Tiead thofee rowing passions down,
30 Unwoithy manhood !— unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, wlnj livet
The land of honorable death
35 Is here :— up to the field, and give
Away thy breath '
Seek out— lews often sought than found—
A soldier's gra\e, foi thee the best,
Then look around, and choose thy gtound,
40 And take thy rest
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
(1792-1822)
QUEEN MAB
1812 18i;t
From SECTIO.N II
If solitude hath ever led thy steps
To the wild ocean 's echoing shoie,
And thou hast hngeied llieie,
I'll til the him 's biuad oib
Seemed testing on the huinished wa\e,
Thou must lunc mtuked the lines
Of purple gold that motionless
Hung o'ei the sinking spheie.
Thou must ha\e marked the billowy
clouds,
Edged with intolerable radiancy,
Touei mg like locks of jet
Cioutied luth a diamond wreath.
And yet there is a moment,
When the bun'b highest point
15 Peeps like a star o 'er ocean 's western edge.
When those far clouds of featheiy gold,
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam
Like islands on a dark blue sea ;
lThe killed or wounded Spartan wns carried
from the battle-field on hid shield.
9 Byron's motber wan a descendant of .Tamos I ;
his father traced his ancestry to hoi OCR ot tho
time of the Nnrman Conquert
Then has thy fancy soaied above the earth,
20 And furled its weaned wing
Within the Fairy's fane.
Yet not the golden islaudb
Gleaming m yon flood of light,
Nor the featheiy curtains
25 Stretching o 'ei the sun 's hi ight couch,
Nor the burnished ocean-^aves
Pa\mg that goigeous dome,
So fair, so wondeiful a sight
As Mab's ethereal palace could affoid
3° Yet likest evening's vault, that fneiy Hall!
As IIea\eu, low lestmg on the A\a\e, it
spiead
Its flooiB of flashing light,
Its vast and azure dome,
Its fertile golden islands
35 Floatuig on a uhci hea,
Whilst suns their minghnt* bcanutms darted
Through clouds of circumambient darkness,
And peaily battlements aiouncl
Looked o'er the immense of Heaxen
The magic car no lougei moved.
The Fauy and the Spnit
Entered the Hall of Spells
Those golden clouds
That rolled in glitteiing billo\vs
Beneath the azuie canopy
With the ethereal footsteps trembled not ,
The light and cinuson mists.
Floating to stiaius of tlmllmg im-loth
Tlnough that unearthly duelling.
r>0 Yielded to e\eiy movement of the will,
Upon their passive swell the Spirit leaned,
And, for the vaiied bliss that
around,
Used not the glorious pnxilege
Of vntue and of wisdom
45
10
«* "Spirit'" the Fairy said,
And pointed to the goigeous dome,
"This is a wondrous sight
And mocks all human grandeur,
But, were it virtue's only meed to dwell
00 In a celestial palace, all lesigned
To pleasuiable impulses, unmuied
Within the prison of itseli, the will
Ot1 changeless Natuie would be unfulfilled
Lea in to make others happy. Spirit, come !
63 This is thine high reward -—the past shall
rise;
Thou shalt behold the present ; I will teach
The secrets of the future."
The Fairy and the Spirit
Appioached the overhanging battlement.—
70 Below lay stretched the universe '
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTiClSTb
80
There, iar as the remotest line
That bounds imagination's flight,
Countless and unending orbs
In mazy motion intermingled,
Yet still fulfilled immutably
Eternal Nature's law
Above, below, aiound,
The circling systems toimed
A wilderness of harmony,
Each with uiideviatmg aim,
In eloquent silence, thiough the depths of
space
Pursued its wondrous way.
There was a little light
That twinkled in the mibty distance:
None but a spirit's eye,
Might ken that rolling orb ;
None but a spirit's eye
And in no other place
But that celestial dwelling, might behold
90 Each action of this earth's inhabitants
But matter, space, and time
In those aei ial mansions cease to act ,
And all-pievailing wisdom, when it leaps
The hdi \est of its excellence, o'ei bounds
95 Those obstacles of which an earthly soul
Fears to attempt the conquest
The Fairy pointed to the earth.
The Spirit's intellectual eye
Its kindred beings recognized.
100 The tlnongmg thousands, to a passing
view,
Seemed like an ant-hill's citizens
How wondeifuP that even
The passions, prejudices, mteiests
That suay the meanest being— the weak
touch
106 That moves the finest nerve,
And m one human brain
Causes the faintest thought, becomes H
link
In the great chain of Nature '
"Spirit! ten thousand years
Ha\e scarcely passed aw«\.
Since, in the waste where now the
di inks
185 HIS enemy's blood, and, aping Europe's
sons,
Wakes the unholy song of war,
Arose a stately city,
Metropolis of the western continent
There, now, the moggy column-stone,
190 Indented by Time's unrelaxing grasp,
Which once appeared to brave
All, save its country's rum,—
There the wide finest scene,
Rude in the uncultivated loveliness
196 Of gardens long run wild,—
Seems, to the unwilling sojournci, whose
steps
Chance in that desert has delayed,
Thus to have stood since earth was what
it is.
Yet oiice it was the busiest haunt,
200 Whithei, as to a common centre, flocked
Strangers, and ships, and merchan-
dise
Once peace and freedom blessed
The cultivated plain :
But wealth, that curse of man,
205 Blighted the bud of its prospeiity •
Vntue and niisdom, tiuth and libeity,
Fled, to return not, until man shall know
That they alone can give the bliss
Worthy a soul that claims
210 Its kindred with eternity
215
220
"There's not one atom of yon earth
But once wa*» living man,
Nor the minutest drop of ram,
That hangeth in its thinnest cloud,
But flowed in human veins,
And fiom the binning plains
Where Libyan monsteis yell,
Fiom the most gloomy glens
Of Greenland's sunless clunc,
To whete the golden fields
Of feitile England spread
Their hanest to the day,
Thou canst not find one spot
Whereon no city stood
225 "How strange is human
I tell thee that those living things
To whom the fragile blade of glass,
That spnngeth in the morn
And perish eth ere noon,
IR an unbounded world ;
I tell thee that those viewless beings,
Whose mansion IR the smallest pa i tide
Of the impassive atmosphere,
Think, feel, ami live hko man :
235 That their affections and antipathies,
Like his, produce the lav> s
Ruling their moral state;
And the minutest throb
That through their frame diffuses
240 The slightest, faintest motion,
IR fixed and indispensable
AA the majestic laws
That rule yon rolling orbs."
PEBCY BTSSHE SHELLEY
629
From SECTION V
ltrr ., ,. ,
' ' Hence commerce springs, the venal inter-
*\j. II Ti jU?e XT A u
(>J«' t1181 human ait or Nature ywld
VN ^i? demand, **"
And natuial kindness hasten to supply
Fron, the full foun.am of ,ts h,,nm.l
,, \e'n i j • j j A • i j
Forever .stifled, drained, and tainted now
( ouiuierre ' beneath whose poison-bi eath-
"""
"The haimoiiy aiid happiness of man
80 Yields to the wealth oi nations , that wh Hi
'
le«s 8B
His natuie to the heaven o± its piide,
kbaiteied for the poison of hit soul,
The wei&hl tbat ^ to Carth h" towenn*
ul of selfish
Extinguishing all iiee and generous love
()f £ * d da ^ thp ,
That ^ klnd,eg m
ld
The doors of prematnic and violent death
To pi'img iainine and tull-ffd disease,
no T,, .11 ,hat sha,es the lol ,,1 hu.nnn hlo,
Which, poisoned body and soul, soaioe
T! , Id™JJhthe'hain . . . .
Thai lenal hens as „ S.K-S and olanks be-
* ' romintn CP has si>t the niai k of selfishness,
The signet oi its all-enslimiifg pouei
ri"1 rpon a shining me, and called it t»old
Bet'oie A\h<ist« imam* ho\\ the vulg.ii
gieut.
Thf* ^alnlv nch, the miseiable proud,
The mob of peasants, nobles, pnests, and
knms,
And with blind feelings ie\eience the
po\\ei
60 That irrmds them to the dust ot misery
Hut in the temple of their hneling hearts
Gold is a Inmc god, and rules in scorn
All faitlily things but viitne
"Since tyrants by the sale of human life,
cr' Heap luxinies to then sensualism, and
fame
To their wide-wasting and insatiate pude,
Success has sanctioned to act editions woi Id
The mill, the disgiace, the \\oe of wai
His hosts of blind and uniesistmg dupes
70 The despot numbeis, fiom his cabinet
These puppets of his schemes he moves at
will,
E\en as the slaves by force or famine
driven,
Beneath a vulgar master, to perform
A task of cold and brutal drudgery;—
7B Haidened to hope, insensible to fear,
Scarce living pulleys of a dead machine,
Mere wheels of work and articles of trade,
That grace the pioud and noisy pomp of
wealth !
rnqualifletl, unmnigled, umedeemed
' v l)C)(ins>'
()f
j
A j
tonlv
, that
'
« After the ruin of their hearts, can
The hUep pojgon ol a nitj|m ,; woe
C1an tum tlie nsoiship of the semle mob
To thuir corrupt and glaring idol, fame.
Fiom \ n tue, ti ampled by its iron tread,
100 Although its dazzling ])edestal be laised
Amid the honois of a hmb-stiewn field,
With desolated dwellings smokmtr round
The man of ease, who, by his wai in fiieside,
rj\» dewls of chantable intei course,
i«B And baie fulfilment of the common laws
Of decency and prejudice, confines
The stnigg ling nature of his human heart,
Is duped b> then cold sophistry, he sheds
A passing tear perchance upon the wieck
HO Of eaithly peace, when neai his dwelling's
dooi
The frightful wa^es aie din en,— when his
son
]s murdeied by the t.Mant, or lehgion
Dnves his wife unine mad Hut the poor
man,
Whose hie is misery, and fear, and care;
H"> Whom the mom \\akens hut to fi nit less
toil,
Who e\cr heais his famished offspung's
scieam,
Whom then pale mothei 's uncomplaining
gaze
Forever meets, and the pioud rich man's
eye
Flashing command, and the heart-bieakinss
scene
12° Of thousands like himself ;— he little heeds
The rhetoi ic of tyi anny , his hate
Is quenchless as 'his wrongs, he laughs to
scorn
The vain and bitter mockery of words,
680 NINETEKNTll CKNTUBY UOMANT1C18TS
*
Feeling the horror of the tyrant's deeds, But mean lust
126 And unrestrained but by the arm of power, Has bound its chains so tight about the
That knows and dreads his enmity. earth,
That all within it but the virtuous man
' ' The iron rod of penury still compels Is venal : gold or fame will surely reach
Her wretched slaves to boiv the knee to 17° The price prefixed by Selfishness, to all
wealth, But him of lesolute and unehanginn
And poison, with unprofitable toil, will ;
130 A life too void of solace to confirm Whom, noi the plaudits of a servile crowd,
The very chains Ihnt bind him to Ins doom Nor the Mle joys of tainting luxury,
Natuie, impartial in munificence, Can bribe to yield bis ele\ated soul
lias gifted man with all-mibdning will 175 To Tyranny 01 Falsehood, though they
Matter, with all its transitory shapes, wield
185 Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, With blood-red hand the sceptre of the
That, weak from bondage, tremble as they world.
tread.
How many a rustic Milton has passed by,
StMinLlrt SIWeehleS" 10npngS °f h18 "There is a nobler gloiy, winch aurvives
<h'011K" that lnhvnTlth "f
"Yet eve^heart oonta,ns
germ-1
fame' "•" hope °f
160 Science and train, and virtue's dwarllws 22, ^ pll]v|iaw> but a hfp of re8olllte ,
Were hTa weak and .nexperienoed boy, K^rfinZS'ft hZf
Proud, sensual, nn impassioned, nn imbued PT T
With pure desire nnd universal lo\e.
Compared to that high being, of cloudless
IBB Untainfe*™.. elevated will. Rea^nCuch .lores f«, H» eternal weal
Which Death (who even would linger lone;
in awe
Within his noble presence, and beneath "But hoary-headed Selfishness has felt
His changeless eyebeam) might alone sub- 26° Its death-blow, and is tottenni; to the
due gme:
Him, every slave now diagging throncgh A bnghtci mom awaits the human day,
the filth When e\eiy transfer of eaith's natuinl
lfl° Of some corrupted city his sad life. Rifts
Pining with famine, swoln with luxury Sliall be a commerce of good words and
Blunting the keenness of his spiritual works; %
Reuse When poverty and wealth, the thnst of
With narrow schemings and unworthy fame,
cares, r'5 The fear of infamy, disease and woe,
Or madly rushing through all violent War with its million horrors, and fierce
crime, hell
I*6 To move the deep stagnation of his soul.— Shall live bnt in the memory of Time,
Might imitate and equal. Who, like a penitent libertine, shall start,
. - . , ^ , ^**, t L^k back, and shudder at '
iflM» Godwin'* An Enquiry Con J— •-•*«— t >
, 1 ri (p 21«h, BRIT >
HlftiLLKY
631
SECTION VIII
"The present and the past thou hast
beheld:
It was a desolate sight Now, Spirit,
learn
The becrets of the future.— Time!
Unfold the brooding pinion of thy gloom.
c Render thou up thy half-devoured babes
And from the cradles of eternity,
Wheie millions he lulled to their poi honed
sleep
By the deep mm muring stream of passing-
things,
Tear thou that gloomy slnoud — Spin!,
behold
10 Thy glorious destiny1"
Joy to the tipiiit came
Through the wide rent in Time's eternal
\eil,
Hope was seen beaming 1 hi ouch the mists
of feai
Eailh •was no longer Hell,
15 Lme, freedom, health, had i*i\en
Their ripeness to the manhood of its pi line,
And all its pulses beat
Symphomous to the planetary spheres:1
Then dulcet music* swelled
20 Concordant with the life-strings of the
soul;
It throbbed m sweet aud languid beatnms
there,
Catching new life from transitoiy death,—
Like the vague sighing of a mud at e\enf
That wnkcs the wavelets of the slumbeimt*
sea
26 And dies on the ci eat ion of its breath,
And sinks and uses, fails aud swells by
fits
Was the pine stream of feeling
That sprung from these sweet notes,
And o'ei the Spuit's human sympathies
3° With mild and gentle motion calmly
flowed
Joy to the Spirit came,—
Such joy as when a lovei sees
The chosen of his soul in happiness,
And witnesses her peace
SB Whose woe to him were bitterer than death,
Sees her nufaded cheek
Glow mantling in first luxury of health,
Thrills with her lovely eyes,
Which like two stars amid the heaving
main
*o Sparkle through liquid bliss.
» The ancient* believed that the movement of the
cetartlal npherofl produced manic
Then in her triumph spoke the Fauy
Queen:
"I will not call the ghost of ages gone
To unfold the frightful secrets of its lore;
The present now is past,
4~ And those events that desolate the earth
Have faded from the memory of Time,
Who dares not give reality to that
Whose being I annul. To me is given
The wonders of the human world to keep,
:'° Space, matter, time, and mind. Futurity
Expose* now its treasure ; let the sight
Kene\\ and strengthen all thy failing hope.
() human Spmt! spur thee to the goal
Wheie uitue fixes universal peace,
55 And 'midst the ebb and flow of human
things,
Show somewhat stable, somewhat certain
still,
A lighthouse o'er the \sild of dreary wa\es.
"The habitable eaitli is lull of bliss,
Those wastes of frozen billows that were
hurled
bu By e\ei lasting snowstorms louud the
poles,
Where mattei daied not vegetate or live,
But ceaseless tiost iimiiil the vast solitude
Bound its bioad zone oi stillness, are un-
, loosed ,
And liaginnt zephyis tlicie from spicy
isles
65 Ruffle the placid ocean -deep, that rolls
its bioad, bright singes to the sloping
sand,
Whose loar is \.akened into echouigs sweet
To nun nun thiough the llea\eii-biea thing
groves
And melodire with man's blest nature
there.
70 «< Those deserts oi immeasurable sand,
Whose age-collected tenors scarce allowed
A bud to li\c, a blade of tfiass to spring,
Where the shnll chirp oi the gieen lizard's
lo\e
Bioke on the snltiy silentness alone,
7B Now teem with countless rills and shady
woods,
Coinfields and pastui'etx and white cot-
tages,
And where the startled wilderness beheld
A savage conqueror stained m kindred
blood,
A tigress sating with the flesh of lambs
80 The unnatural famine of her toothless
cubs,
Whilst shouts and bowlings through the
desert rang,
632 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled 12° And Autumn proudly bears her matron
» lawn, grace,
Oflei ing swwt mceiiHe to the bumibe, smiles Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of
To see a babe before his mother's door. Spring,
*6 Sharing his morning's meal Whose \irgin bloom beneath the ruddy
With the green and golden basilisk1 fruit
That comes to lick his feet. Reflects its tint, and blushes into love,
"Those trackless deeps, where many a « The lion now forgets to thirst for blood •
weary sail 125 There might you see him sporting in the
Has seen above the illimitable plain, sun
W Morning on night, and night on morning Kwifo the dreadless kid,1 his claws are
rise
sheathed,
Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer His leeth are harmless, custom's force has
spread made
Its shadowy mountains on the sun-bnght n,s natine as the natme of a lamb
*rca, Like passion's finit, the nightshade's
Where the loud roarings of the tempest- tempting bane
waves no Po^ons no more the pleasure it bestows-
So long ha\e mingled with the gusty wind All bitterness is past, the cup of joy
In melancholy loneliness, and s^ept Tnminpled mantles to the goblet's brim,-'
The desert of those ocean solitudes And courts the thirsty lips it fled before.
But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing
mi _ ne> "But chief, ambiguous man, he that can
The bellowing monster, and the rushing know
_T ,8*<M:m' . , , 13r> Moie miheiy, and dream more joy than all ;
Now to the sweet and many-minglm* Wjose kee£ senRatlons thulf £lthm bl8
sounds breast
100 of kindliest human impulses respond To {e Wlth a loftjer lnfitinct ^
bTem '^ gaiden-isles 1-BldinR their powei to pleasure and to
With lightsome clouds mid •Jiimnv seas Yet raiam?' sharpening, and refining each ;
. . .. ^f,611/, . , , , 14° Who stands amid the ever-varying world,
And fertile valleys, lesonant with bliss, The bjMm or the glory of ^ ^h;
inr St11? ^n Wi>(MJS ^"^"JW "j0 wa\e' He chief perceives the change, his being
105 Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps to notes
_ ^ore, m The giadual renovation, and defines
To meet the kisses of the flow're<8 theie Each movement of h* progress on his
"All things are recreated, and the flame
Of consentaneous- love inspues all lite 1ir .._- . . . ^ . ,
The fertile bosom of the earth sixt,s 14C "Man, where the gloom of the long polar
suck night
HO To myriads, who still grow beneath her Lowers o'ei the snow-clad rocks and
care frozen noil,
Rewaiding her with their pine perfectness Where scarce the haidiest hoib that braves
Basksinmoonhght
Health floats amid the penile atmoRpherc. Shiaiik with the plants, and darkened with
115 Glows in^he fruits, and mantles on the ll§ ^^ffi^^^u.^
No ^deform the beaming brow of ISS^*^^
Nor scatter in the fre^hnesR of its pride ^££^^
The foliage of the ever-verfant trees; nt co™Sfler, o£ the *"** ***** roamed
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair, „ Who8CaS ^ ^^^ wew his
IA fabuloiiq Merpent, or lliard, wbose breath or own:
• braonions J Bee Ifatah, 11 :M. • flee Ptalmt, 28 5.
PEfcCY BY88HE SHELLEY 633
. His life a feverish dream of stagnant woe, Her snowy standard o'er this favored
Whose meagie wants, but scantily fulfilled, clime :
Apprised him ever of the joyless length There man was long the hain -bearer of
Which his short being's wietchedness had sla\es,
reached, 193 The mimic of &ui rounding misery,
160 Hib death a pang which iaimne, cold and The jackal of ambition 's hon-rage,
toil The bloodhound of religion 's hungry zeal.
Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital
spark ' ' Here now the human being stands adorn-
Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought mg
All was inflicted heie that Earth's revenge This loveliest earth with taintless body
Could wreak on the inf ringers of her law; and mind ,
1*5 One curse alone was spared— the name 20° Blessed from his birth with all bland im-
of God. pulses,
Which gently in his noble bosom wake
"Nor where the tiopics bound the realms All kindly passions and all pure desires
Of <jay Him, still from hope to hope the bliss
With a broad belt of mingling cloud and . Sur8UV?ff , ., i , i.
flanie Which from the exhaustless lore of human
Where blue mists through the unmoving OAr weal
atmospheie Dawns on the virtuous mind, the thoughts
Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and fed that rise
"0 Unnatural vegetation, wheie the land J» time-desti oying infiniteness, pft
Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and J*llh self-enshrined eternity, that mockb
disease ™"e unprevailmg hoanness of age ;
Was man a nobler bem*> , slavery And nian« on<ie fleetui£ °'er the transient
Had crushed him to his countiy's blood- soene
stained dust " "Wift as an un remembered vision, stands
Or he wn« bartered for the fame of power, Tmmoi tal upon earth no longer now
"5 Which, all internal impulses destroying, IIe blaf the lamb that look" him in tlie
Makes human will an aiticle of trade, • L & i i 1-1 a i
Or he was chanted with Christian* for And horribly demurs his mangled flesh,
their cold Which, still avenging Natuie's broken
And draped to distant isles, where to the ai. la^;
aound 21j Kindled all putud humois in his frame,
Of the flesh-mangling scourge, he does the £n ™! l^ons, and all .am belief,
work Hatred, despair, and loathing in his mind,
180 Of all-polluting luxury and wealth, Thp 8*™" «* m™"< '^Hi. dlbea^ and
Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads XT , mme . , , , . .
The long-proti acted fulness of their woe, 220 *•« lonpep now the winded habitants,
Or he was led to legal butchery, 22° That ln the woodh tlieir bweet lnes ™ff
To turn to worms beneath that burning _. «away;1 ., „ , . lf
Bun Flee from the ioim of man, but gatlier
»5 Where kings first leaprued against the rights . milld'
. , , ^ .
of men ^n" P|l||lp »|W1 s«"",v fealhiMs on the
And pneBts first tiaded with the name of ._. . ll1a"«Js . . . , l ,
God.1 Which little ciiimieii shot eh in fiiendly
spoi \
-Evea where the milder zone afforded TuwilJ*** dieadlcSS part"eiS °f ihelp
A nmn i u i. ii 225 Al1 thinps arc ^oid of terror Man has
A seeming sheltei, yet contagion theic. j0^
Availed to arrest it« progress, or create And "2™J dawn' t1101^ late' uP°n the
That peace which first in bloodless victory Peace ohee); thp mjml health nn(tvain
waved • thefratne;
Hn Africa, the lonrce of the Britlgh sUve trade 2l<1° Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here,
634
NINETEENTH CENTURY KOMANTIClBTti
Reason and pusaion ceabe to combat theie,
Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth ex-
tend
Their all-subduing eneigies, and wield
The soeptie of a vast dominion there;
2S5 Whilst every shape and mode of matter
lends
Its ioice to the omnipotence of mind,
Which from its daik mine drags the gem
of truth
To decorate its paradise of peace "
MUTABILITY
1815 1810
We are as clouds that veil the midnight
moon ,
How lestlessly they speed, and iileimi,
and quiver,
Streaking the darkness ladiantly'— yet
soon
Night closes lound, and they ate lost
forever
5 Or like forgotten lyi.es whobe dissonant
strings
Give \aiums i espouse to eaHi \nr\nn:
blast,
To whose fiail fiame no second motion
brings
One mood or modulation like the last
We rest— a dream has power to poison
sleep,
10 We rise— one wandenng thought pol-
lutes the day,
We feel, conrene 01 icnsnn, lmi«h 01
weep,
Embrace fond woe, ni cast 0111 eaies
away
It is the same f — For, be it joy or worrow,
Tlie path of its depaitme still is free
l' Man's yesteiday may ne'er br like his
morrow;
Nought nmv enduie but Mutability
TO
1815
Ohf theic arc spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees*—
5 Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely
feet.
1 ThlB poem IR thought to be addrnwod to Rhrt-
lev'R own spirit, nlthonvn Mm Hhollor -*-•—
thnt It 1* Rddro-Mod to - '
With mountain winds, and babbling
And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,
Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.
And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
16 Another's wealth :— tame sacrifice
To a fond faith! still dost thou pmef
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or hps, may answer thy
demands?
Ah ! where f 01 e didst thou build thine ho}>e
~° On the false earth's inconstancy f
Did thine own mind affoid no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee,
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in then
wiles f
25 Yes all the faithless smiles aie fled
Whose falsehood left thee broken-
hearted;
The i^loiy of the moon is dead ,
Night's ghosts and di earns lime nm\
departed ,
Tlnne own soul still is tiue to thee,
30 But changed to a foul fiend through miser}
This fiend, whose ghastly piesenrc e\ei
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dieam not to chase,— the mad endea\oi
Would scoumc thee to se^eiei paims
*~> Re as thou art Thy settled late,
Dark as it is, nil change would aggia\ate
TO WORDSWORTH
1815 1816
Poet of Natuie, thou hast wept to know
That t limps depart which nevei may le-
tnrn :
(In Id hood and >nulh. friendship and lo\e's
first fiUrw.
Ha\e fled like succt dieams, Icming tliee
to mourn
5 These common woes 1 feel One loss m
mine
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did
shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight
roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
10 Above the blind and battling multitude
Tn honored poverty thy voice did weave
PERCY BY88HE SHELLEY
635
Songs coiificrate tu tiutli and kbeuy,— 16 And
Deserting these, Uiou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst
tube
cheiibhed these my kindred, then
forgive
This boast, beloved biethreu, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favor now !
FEELINGS OP A REPUBLICAN ON THE
FALL OF BONAPARTE
1813 1816
T hated thee, fallen tyinnti T did groan
To think that a most unambitious ulave,
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the
grave
Of Liberty Thou mightst ha\e built thv
t hi one
6 Where it had stood e\ei. no\\ thou didst
prefer
A fiail and blood v pomp winch Time has
swept
lu fragments \i\\\ HI iK obli\ 1011 Mnssnci t*
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep ka\c
crept,
Tieason and Sln\erv, Rapine, Feai, and
Lust,
10 And stifled thee, their mimstei I knm\
Too late, since thou and Fiance are in tin*
dust,
That Vntue owns a moie denial Im-
Than Force 01 Fiaud old Custom, le«nl
Crime,
And bluody Faith the foulest birth of Time
ALASTORi
o»
Tnr SPIRIT or SOLTTUDF
1815 1816
Earth, Ocean, An , beloved brotherhood '
If oiu gient Mother has imbued mv Mini
With aught of nntmal pietv to feel
Your lo\e, nnd lecompense the boon with
mine ,
5 If dewy mom, and odorous noon, and
e^en,
With sunset and its got genus ministers,
And solemn midnight 's tingling silentness
If Autumn fs hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And Winter lobingr with pure snow and
ci o\\ ns
10 Of stany ice the trmy w-s and baie
bouirlis ,
If Spring's voluptuous panting* when she
In eat lies
Her fiist sweet kisses, have been dear to
me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
* l/Mfo» Is a tireok word meaning ail ycnlus,
It i«* here mnilf HynonymonH * 1th the spirit of
Mother of this unfathomable woild!
Favoi my solemn &ong, IVir 1 have loved
20 Xhee ever, and thee only, I have watched
Thy shadow, and the daikness of thy
steps,
And my heait evei gazes on the depth
01 thy deep my st cues. I have made my
'bed
In chainels and on coffins,1 wheie black
death
23 Keeps record of the ti opines won fioin
thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate question-
ings
Of thee and thine, b;s forcing some lone
ghost,
Thv messen&fei, to lender up the tale
01 \\hat we aie In lone and silent houis
!0 When night makes a ueird sound of its
own stillness,
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his \eiy liic on some dark hope,
lime I mixed a \\fii I talk and asking looks
With my most innocent knc, until stianue
tears
3" I luting with tho^e bieathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmed night
To render up thy charge' and, though
ne'ei yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuaiy,
Enough fiom incommunicable dream,
10 And twilight phantasms, and deep noon-
day thought,
Has shone within me, that seienely now
And mo\eless, ns a long-foi gotten lyie
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some inysteuous and desctted iaue.
ir> I ^ait thv bieath, Oient Paient, that my
sham
M«\ modulate with muimui's of the nu,
And motions of the fore<»t8 nnd the sea,
And \oice of Imni; bcnii>s, nnd w<nen
h> inns
Of nioht and day, nnd the deep lieait n(
man
r'° Theie uas a Poet whose untimeh touib
No human hands with pious leverence
reared,
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o 'er his mouldering boues a pyi amid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilder-
•Nalnn*
s snlil In linrr clnnr thin
636 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
56 A lovely youth,— no mourning maiden Frequent1 with crystal column, and clear
decked * shrines
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chryso-
wreath,1 lite.
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep — 9G Nor had that scene of ampler majesty
Qentle, and brave, and generous,— no lorn Than gems or gold, the varying roof of
bard heaven
Bieathed o'er his dark fate one melodious And the green earth, lost in his heart its
sigh • claims
60 He lived, he died, lie sung, in solitude To love and wonder, he would linger Ions?
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate In lonesome vales, making the wild his
notes, home,
And virgins, as unknown he passed, have 10° Until the doves and squirrels would par-
pined take
And wasted ioi fond lo\e of his wild From his innocuous hand his bloodless
eve* food,
The fire of those soft oibs has ceased to Lured by the gentle meaning of Ins looks,
burn, And the wild antelope, that staits when-
65 And Silence, too enamored of that \oice. e'er
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell The thy leaf lustles in the biake,-' sus-
pend
By solemn vision, and bright silver i05 Her timid stops to naze upon a form
dream, Moic ginceful than her own
His infancy was n in hired Every wght
And sound fium tne vast earth and am- His wandeiing btep
bient air, Obedient to high thoughts, has \isited
70 Sent to his heait its choicest impulse* The awful nuns of the days of old
The fountains of divine philosophy Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the
Fled not his thirsting lips and all nf great, n asle
Or good, 01 lovely, which the sacred past no Wheio stood Jeiusaleiu. the fallen trmeis
In truth or fable con sen at es, he felt Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids,
75 And knew When eai ly youth had passed, Memphis and Thebes, and what sue 'ei ol
he left * strange,
His cold fireside and alienated home Sculptured on alabaster obelibk,
To seek strangle huths in undisro^ ei ed Or jasper tomb, 01 mutilated sph>n\,
lands 116 Dark ./Ethiopia in her desert hills
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness Conceals Among the ruined temples
Has lined his fearless steps; and he there,
has bought Stupendous columns, and wild images
80 With his sweet voice and eyes, from sa\a«e Of more than man, where marble dac-
men, moils'1 watch
Hib rest and food Nature's most seciet The Zodiac's bta/en nivsk<i>,f and dcMd
steps men
He like her shadow has pmsued, wheie'ei 12° Hang their mute thoughts on the mute
The red volcano overcanopies walls aiound,
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice He lingered, poring on memorials
83 With buinm&r smoke, or wlieie bitumen Of the world's >outh, through the long
lakes burning day
On black baie pointed islets ever beat Garal on those speechless shapes, 1101,
With sluggish suige, 01 where the seciet when the moon
caves Filled the mvsteuous hnllb with floatiui*
Rugged and dark, winding among the shades
springs 125 Suspended he that task, but e\er gazed
Of fire and poison, inaccessible , prowrte(1 th ^
90 To avance or pride, their starry domes « thicket
Of ^iomrm/1 on/1 nf cmld ovnand ahnw * SupPl nnturnl boInffH lif Cilivk lllUlinldftl «>n
Of diamond and ol gold expand abo\e jj^, aH howi^ portion iietwwu «od* and
Numberless and immeasurable halls, men.
4 Mythological flgurpR nrranRCKl In tho fHHblnn nl
1 Tho cyproM IB AD emblem of mourning , H is a the isodlac, on the wall», columiiK, rtc of the
common tree in graveyards temple of Denderab. a city in Upper Egypt.
PERCY BY8S1M3 SHELLEY 637
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant Of her pure mind kindled through all her
mind frame
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he A permeating fire, wild numbeib then
saw She laised, with voice stifled in tremulous
The thrilling1 secrets of the birth of time. sobs
ift'i Subdued by its own pathos hei fan hands
Meanwhile an Ainb maiden brought his Were baie alone, sweeping from some
food, strange harp
180 Tier daily poition, from hei i'nlhci \ Stiange symphony, and in their blanching
tent, \eins
And spread her matting foi his couch, The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale
and stole The beating oi hei licait >\as heaul to
From duties and jepose to tend his fill
steps— * 17° The pauses of her music, and her breath
Enamoied, yet not dainig for deep awe Tumultuously accoided with those fits
To speak her love— and watched his nightly Of intermitted song Sudden she rose,
sleep, As if her heait impatiently endmed
185 Sleepless heiseli', to ga/-c upon his hjis Its bursting bin I hem at the sound lie
Paited in slumber, whence the lemilnr tinned,
bieath 175 And saw by the warm light of their own
Of innocent dreams arose; then, when life
red mom Hei glowing limbs beneath the sinuous
Made palei the pnle moon, to her cold veil
home Of wo\en wind, her outspread arms now
Wildered, and \vnn, and panting, she le- baie,
tinned Her daik locks floating in the breath of
night,
HO The Poet, wandeung on, through Arable Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips
And Peisia, and the wild Cauimman lso Outsti etched, and pale, and quiveimg
waste, eageily
And o'ei the aenal mountains winch pour TIis strong heart sunk and sickened with
down excess
Indus and Ox us fiom then ic\ ca\es Of ICAP He leaied his shuddering limbs
In joy and exultation held his \\u>, and quelled
146 Till in the \ale of Cashniiie, iar within His gasping breath, and spiead his arms
Its loneliest dell, \\\\e\e od<»ious plants to meet
entwine Her panting bosom she drew back awhile,
Beneath the hollow rocks a natuial bowci, 18r» Then, yielding to the n resistible joy,
Beside a spaikhng millet he stretched With frantic gesiuie and slioit bieath less
His languid limbs. A Msion on Ins sleep ciy
150 Theie came, a dicam of hojies that ne\ei Folded Ins frame in her dissohmg arms
yet Now blackness \eiled his dizzy eyes, and
Had flushed his cheek He dreamed a night
\eiledmaid Lnohed and swallowed up the Msion;
Sato neai him, talking in low solemn sleep,
tones. 10° Like a daik flood suspended in its couise,
Her \oice uas like the \ou»e of his own Rolled back its impulse on Ins \acant
Mml brain
Heaul in the calm of thought, its music
long, Housed by the shock he started from
ir>r» Like wo\en sounds of streams and bieezes, hi& tiance—
held The cold white light of moinmg, the blue
His inmost sense suspended in its web moon
Of man> -colored woof and shifting hues. Ijow in the west, the cleai and garish hills.
Knowledge and truth and virtue weie hei ln5 The distinct > alley and the \acant woods,
theme, Spread round him wheie he stood
And lofty hopes of divine liberty, Whither have fled
160 Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, The hues of heaven that canopied his
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood bower
638 N1NKTMKNTI1 CKNTUHY KOMANTICISTS
Of yesternight? The sounds that soothed 23B Through tangled swamps and deep pre-
his sleep, , cipitous dells,
The mystery and the majesty of Earth, Startling with careless step the moonlight
200 Tne joy, the exaltation f His wan eyes snake,
Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly He fled. Red morning dawned upon his
As ocean's moon looks on the moon in flight,
heaven Shedding the mockery of its vital hues
The spint of sweet human love hap sent Tpon his cheek of death He wandered on
A vision of the sleep of him who spumed 24° Till \ast Aornos seen from Petra's steep
205 ncr choicest epfts He eagerly pursues Hung o'ei the low horizon like a cloud,
Bevond the lealnis of dream that fleeting Through Balk, and where the desolated
shade , tombs
Tie o\erleaps the l>ounds Alas1 Alas' Of Parthian km#s scatter to every wind
Weie limbs, and breath, and bem? intei- Then \\astmg dust,1 mildly he wundcu'd
twined on,
Thus treacherously f Lost, lost, forever 245 Day after day a weary waste of hours,
lost, Beating within his life the brooding care
210 Tn the wide pathless desert of dun sleep. That ever fed on its decaying flame.
That beautiful shape r Does the dnik mite And now Ins limbs were lean; his scat-
of death teied hair,
Conduct to thy mysterious paiadise, Serai by the autumn of strange suffering,
O Sleep? Does the biisrht aich of mm- 2"° Sung dupes in the wind, his listless hand
bow clouds Hun? like dead bone \\ii\m\ its withered
And pendent mountains seen in tlie calm *kin,
lake Life, and the hist it* that consumed it,
21 "» Lead onl.v to a black and wateiy depth. shone.
While death's blue Miult, with loatlihcst As in a furnace burning secretly,
\apors hung, Fioui his daik eyes alone The cottagers.
Where every shade which the foul siav 2"'5 Who niinisteied \\ith human chanty
exhales His human wants, beheld with wondering
Hides its dead eye fnim the detested da\ , awe
(Conducts, 0 Sleep, to thv deliirliltul Their fleeting \isitant The inountameei ,
realms t , Rncoimteimg on some dizzy precipice
.•so fins doubt with sudden tide flowed on Jus Tliat spectial fonn, deemed that tlic
heart ; Spint of Wind
The insatiate hope \\lurh it awakened, 26° With lightning eyes, and eager breath,
stung and feet
HIR biain even like despair Disturbing not the drifted snow had
paused
While daylight held In its caieer the infant would conceal
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference His troubled visage in his mother's robe
With his still soul At night the passion Hi tenoi at the glaie of those wild eyes,
came, -f'5 To icmembcr then strange light in mom
--"> Like the fieice fiend of a disteinjieied a dieam
dieam, Of aftertimes; but youthful maidens.
And shook him from his rest, and led him taught
forth Bv nature1, would interpret half the woe
Into the darkness.— As an eagle giasped That wasted him, would call him with false
In folds of the green serpent, teels hei names
breast Hi other, and friend, would press Ins pallid
Burn with the poison, and pieeipitates band
210 Through night and dav, tempest, and 27° At parting, and watch, dim tlmnmh leais.
calm, and cloud, the path
Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind Of his departure from their father's dooi
flight
O'er the wide aery wilderness, thus driven At length upon the lone Chorasmian
By the bright shadow of that lovely dieam, shore
Beneath the cold glaie of the desolate He paused, a wide and melancholy waste
night, i \t Vrhnln n rtrt In As««vr!n
I'KUCY IIYUUHK B11KLLKY
Of putrid marshes, A strong impulse The day was fair and sunny , sea and sky
urged Drank its inspiring radiance, and the
*7* His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was wind
there, 31° Swept strongly from the shore, blackening
Beside a sluggish stieam among the ieedh the wriVes.
It rose as he approached, and, with strong Following his eager soul, the wanderer
wings Leaped in the boat; he spread his cloak
Scaling the upwaid sky, bent its bught aloft
course On the baie mast, and took Ins lonely seat,
High o\er the immeasurable ninin And felt the Ixiat speed o'er the tranquil
280 His eyes pursued its flight —"Thou hast sea
a home, 3r> Like a torn cloud befoic the hiniicane
Beautiful bird; thou \oyagesl to thine
4 home, As one that in a siKei vision floats
Where thy sweet mate will twine hei Obedient to the sweep of odorous \unds
downy neck Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly
With thine, and welcome thy retain \\i\\\ Along the daik and mffled waters fled
eyes 32° The straining boat. A whirlwind swept
Bught in the lustre of their own fond joy. it on,
286 And what am 1 that I should lini»ei lieie, With fierce uusts and precipitating foicc,
With voice far sweeter than thy dying Through the white ridges of the chafed sea
notes,1 The waves niose Higher and highei stil!
Spint more vast thnn thine, fiunie mote Their fierce necks wiithed beneath the
attuned tempest's scoinge
To toauty, wasting these surpassing 325 i^e c^ipcnts stiuffglnu* in a vultuie's
poweis grasp
Tn the deaf air, to the blind emtli. and Calm mid leioicmj* in the fearful war
. heaven Of \\.i\e mining on nave, and blast on
2<*° That echoes not my thoughts f ' ' A gloomy blast
smile Descending, and hlnck flood on whnlpool
Of desperate ho]>e wnnkle<l his quneiint* du\en
lips A\rith dmk obliterating course, he sate
For sleep, he knew, kept must iclentlessl\ iso AS jf ^ieir ^im weie tue minw(efs
Its piecious charge, and silent death e\- Appointed to conduct linn to the light
posed, Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate,
Faithless peihaps as sleep, a shadowy hue. Holding the steady helm E\emng came ou ,
295 \\nth doubtful smile mocking its own The beams of sunset huim then ininbmv
strange chaims hues
IH5 High Jnnd the shifting domes of sheeted
Startled by his own thoughts, he looked spray
around. That canopied hm path o'er the \\a<*te
There \\as no fair fiend near him, not a deep,
sight Twilight, asccndm&r sloulv from the east,
Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. Entwined in duskier uictiths hei bunded
A little shallop floating near the shore locks
300 Caught the impatient wandering of his O'er the fair front and radiant e\es of
gaze. Day;
It had been long abandoned, for its sides 34° Night followed, clnd with stnis On e\oiv
On]>ed wide with manv u rift, and its frnil side
joints More horribly the multitudinous streams
Swayed with the undulations of the tide Of ocean's mountainous unste to mutual
A restless impulse urged him to embark war
806 And meet lone Death on the drear ocean'* Rushed in dark tumult thundeiing, as to
waste, mock
For well he knew that mighty Shadow The calm and spangled sky The little
loves boat
The slimy caverns of. the populous deep 34B Still fled before the storm; still fled, like
"M *° "ll* Pwltowil wlHin Down ttteep cataract of n w.ntry nver;
£40 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Now pauung on the edge of the riven A pool of treacherous and tremendous
wave; calm.
Now leaving far behind the bursting mass Seized by the sway of the ascending
That fell, convulsing ocean : safely Bed— stream,
350 As if that frail and wasted human form, With dizzy swiftness, round, and round,
Had been an elemental god and round,
Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose,
At midnight 39° Till on the verge of the extremes! curve,
The moon arose • and lo ! the ethereal cliffs Where, through an opening of the rocky
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone bank,
Among the stars like sunlight, and around The waters overflow, and a smooth spot
865 Whose caverned bane the whirlpools and Of glassy quiet mid those battling tides
the waves Is left, the boat paused shuddering —
Bursting1 and eddying irresistibly Shall it sink
Rage and resound forever —Who shall 39B Down the abyss T Shall the reverting
sa\ef— stress
The boat fled on,— the boiling torrent Of that resistless gulf embosom itf
drove,— Now shall it fall!— A wandering stream
The crags closed round with black and of wind,
jagged arms, Breathed from the west, has caught the
360 The shattered mountain overhung the sea, expanded sail,
And faster still, beyond all human sjwed, And, lo ! with gentle motion, between
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth . banks
wave, 40° Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream,
The little boat was driven A cavern there Beneath a woven grove it sails, and, harkf
Yawned, and amid its slant and winding The ghastly toirent mingles its far roar,
depths With the breeze murmuring in the musical
865 Ingulfed the rushing sea The boat fled woods.
on Where the embowering trees recede, and
With unrelaxmg speed —"Vision and leave
Love'" 40B A little space of preen expanse, the cove
The Poet cried aloud, " I ha\e beheld Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow
The path of thy depaiture Sleep and flowers
death Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes,
Shall not divide us long '" Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave
Of the boat's motion marred their pensive
The boat pursued task,
870 Ti,e windings of the cavern. Daylight 41° Which nought but vagrant bird, or wanton
shone wind,
At length upon that gloomy river's flow, Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay
Now, wheie the fiercest war among the Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet
waves longed
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream To deck with their bright hues his withered
The boat moved slowly. Where the moun- hair,
tain, riven, But on his heart its solitude returned,
876 Exposed those black depths to the azure 41R And he forbore. Not the strong impulse
sky, hid
Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell Tn those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound shadowy frame
That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass Had yet ]>erf ormed its ministry • it hung
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud
chasm; Gleams, hovenng ere it vanish, ere the
880 Stair above stair the eddying waters rose, floods
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 42° Of night close over it.
With alternating dash the gnarldd roots
Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant The noonday sun
arms Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass
Tn darkness over it I' the midst was left, Of mingling shade, whose brown magnifi-
886 Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud, cence
PERCY BYS8HK 8HKLLKV
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge 46° And each depending leaf, aud every speck
eaves, Of azure sky darting between their chasms ;
Scooped in the daik babe of their aciy Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves
rocks, Its portraiture, but Rome inconstant star
425 Mocking its moans, respond and roar for- Between one f ohaged lattice twinkling fair,
ever. 465 Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,
The meeting boughs and implicated1 leaves Or gorgeous insect floating motionless,
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led Unconscious of the day, eie yet his wings
By love, or dream, or god, or imghtiei Ha\e spiead their glories to the gaze of
Death, . noon
He sought in Natuie's dearest haunt, some
bank, Hither the Poet came His eyes beheld
430 Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark 47° Their own wan light through the reflected
And dark the shades accumulate The oak, lines
Expanding its immense and knotty arms, Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth
Embraces the light beech The pyramids Of that still fountain , as the human heart,
Of the tall cedar overarching, frame Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,
486 Most solemn domes within, and fai below, Sees its own treacherous likeness there
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, He heard
The ash and the acacia floating hang 475 The motion of the leaves—the grass that
Tremulous and pale Like restless Rer- spmng
pents, clothed Startled and glanced and tieinbled c.»\en to
I» rainbow and in ine, the parasites, feel
440 Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow An unaccustomed presence— and the sound
aiound Of the sweet brook that fiom the secret
The gray trunks, and, as gamesome in- spinigs
f ants' ejes, Of that dnik fountain rose. A Spirit
With gentle meanings, and most innocent seemed
wiles, 48° To stand beside him— clothed in no bright
Fold their beams round the hearts of those robes
that love, Of shadowy siher or enshrining light,
These twine their tendnls with the wedded Bon owed iiom aught the Msible woild
boughs, affoids
445 Uniting their close union , the woven l<?a\es Of grace, or majesty, or mystery,—
Make net-^ork of the dark blue light of But, undulating woods, and silent well.
day, 1R5 And leaping iivulet. and evening gloom
And the 'night's noontide clearness, urn- Now deepening the dai k shades, foi npeec'h
table assuming,
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy Held commune with him, as if he and it
lawns Were all that was , only— when his regard
Beneath these canopies extend their swells. Was raised by intense pensiveiiesR— two
410 Fragiant with pei fumed heibs, and eyed eyes,
with blooms 4qo Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of
Minute yet beautiful One darkest glen thought,
Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined And seemed with then seiene and azure
with jasmine, smiles
A soul-dissolving odoi, to invite To beckon him.
To some moie lovely mystery. Through
the dell, Obedient to the light
455 Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, That shone within his soul, he went, pur-
keep suing
Their noonday watch, and sail among the The windings of the dell.— The rivulet
shades, 496 Wanton and wild, through many a green
Like vaporous shapes half -seen ; beyond, a ravine
well, Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent fell
wave, Among the moss with hollow harmony
Images all the woven boughs above, Dark and profound Now on the polished
'infer* oven stones
642 NINETEKNTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
It danced, like childhood laughing BB it Yet ghastly Fur, as fast years flow av
went: The smooth brow gathers, and the
500 Then, through the plain in tranquil wan- grows thin
deringB crept, 53B And white, and where ii radiate dewy eyes
Reflecting every herd and drooping- bud Had shone, gleam stony 01 tor— so from
That overhung its quietness.— " 0 stream ! his steps /
Whose source is inaccessibly profound, Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful
Whither do thy mysterious waters tendf shade
BOB Thou imagest my life Thy darksome still- Of the green groves, with all their odoi ous
ness, winds
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow And musical motions. Calm, he still pui-
gnlfs, sued
Thy searchless fountain, and invisible 540 The stream, that with n lamei volume
course now
Have each their type in me: and the wide Rolled through the labyrinthine dell ; and
sky, there
And measureless ocean may declare as soon Fretted a path through its descending
510 What oozy cavern or what wandenng cloud curves
Contains thy waters, as the universe With its wintry speed. On every side now
Tell where these living thoughts reside, rose
when stretched Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms,
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall **6 Lifted their black and barren pinnacles
waste Tn the light of evening, and, iK precipice
I9 the passing wind I" Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above,
Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawn-
Beside the grassy shore ing caves,
515 Of the small stream he went, he did im- Whose windings gave ten thousand various
press tongues
On the green moss his tremulous step, that 6>>0 To the loud stream Lnf where the pass
caught expands
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs Tts stony jaws, the abrupt mountain
As one breaks,
Roused by some joyous madness from the And seems, with its accumulated crags,
couch To overhang the world for wide expand
Of fever, he did move; yet, not like Beneath the wan stars and descending
him, moon
B2° Foi-getful of the grave, where, when the w Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty
flame streams,
Of his frail exultation shall be spent, Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous
He must descend With rapid steps he gloom
went Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow Mingling their flames with twilight, on the
Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now verge
r>25 The forest 's solemn canopies wete changed Of the remote horizon The neai scene,
For the uniform and lightsome evening r'60 Tn naked and severe simplicity,
sky Made contrast with the universe A pine
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy
and stemmed Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant
The struggling brook tall spires of blast
windlestrae1 Yielding one only response, at each pause
Threw their thin shadow* down the rugged 665 In most familiar cadence, with the howl
slope, The thunder and the hiss of homeless
580 And nought but gnarled roots of ancient streams
pines Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad
Branchless and blasted, clenched with river,
grasping roots Foaming and hurrying o'er its nigged
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was path,
here, Fell into that immeasurable void
« \ tpaam *tnlX a** for mukinir ropw G7° Scattering its waters to the passing winds.
PERCY BY88HE B11KLLEY 643
Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine Guiding its irresistible career
And torrent were not all ;— one silent nook In thy devastating omnipotence,
Was there. Even on the edge of that vast Art king of this frail world, from the red
mountain9 field
Upheld by knotty toots and fallen rovk^, 0|C Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital,
575 It overlooked in ite serenity The pat i lot's sacied couch, the snowy bed
The dark eaith, and the bending vault of Of innocence, tjie scaffold and the throne,
stars A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls
It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to smile His brother Death. A rare and regal prey
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped 62° He hath prepared, prowling around the
The fissured stones wit li its entwining arms, world ;
W° And did embower with leaves forever green, Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and
And berries daik, the smooth and e\en men
space Go to their graves like flowers or creeping
Of its in violated floor; and here worms,
The children of tlic autumnal whirlwind Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine
bore, The nnheeded tribute of a broken heart.
In wanton sport, those bright leaves whose
decay, 62r> When on the threshold of the green
686 Red, yellow, or etheieally pale, recess
Rivals the pride of summei. 'Tin the haunt The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew
Of every gentle wind, whose bieath can that death
teach Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled,
The wilds to love tranquillity One step. Did he resign his high and holy soul
One human step alone, has e\er broken To images of the majestic past,
->»o The stillness of its solitude —one voice 68° That paused within his passive being now,
Alone mspiied its echoes,— e\ en that \oiee Take winds that bear sweet music, when
Which hither came, floating among the they breathe
winds, Through some dim latticed ehambei. He
And led the loveliest among human foinis did place
To make their wild haunts the depomtnn . JIis pale lean hand upon the nigged trunk
r><r> Of all the giare and beauty that endued " Of the old pine. Upon an ivied stone
Its motions, render up its majesty, 635 Reclined his languid head; his limbs did
Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm, rest,
And to the damp Jea\es and blue cavern Diffused and motionless, on the smooth
mould, bnnk
Nurses of rainbow fl<n\eis, and bi anchiui; Of that obscurest chasm ,— and thus he lay,
moss, Sun endei in? to their final impulses
(l°° Commit the colors of that \arvm» cheek. The hoxennpr powers of life Hope and
That SIHW\ btea^t. those daik and dioop- Despair,
ing eyes 84° The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or
fear
The dim and horned moon hmijr low, and Mai red his repose, the influxes of senae,
poured And his own being unalloyed by pain,
A sea of lustie on the horizon 's veijre Ye* feebler and more feeble, calmly fed
Thai oxer flowed its mountains. Yellow The stream of thought, till he lay breathing
mist there
6°6 Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and *46 At peace, and faintly smiling His last
di ank sight
Wan iiifMiiiliglil e\en to fulness • not a Mar Was the gieat moon, which o'er the west-
Shone, not a sound was lieaid, the veiy em line
winds, Of the Hide world her mighty horn sus-
Danpei 's gi 1111 playmates, on that piecipiee ] tended,
Slept, clasped in his embrace.— O, storm of With whose dun beams inwoven darkness
death * seemed
*"> Whose sightless speed divides this sullen To mingle Now upon the jagged hills
night* e60 It rests, and still as the divided frame
And Hum, colossal Skeleton,1 that, still Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood,
That ever beat in mystic sympathy
£44 NJNKTKENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
With Nature's ebb and (low, grew feebler Robes in its golden beams,— ah ! thou bast
still: fled!
And when two lessening points of light The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful,
alone 69° The child of grace and genius. Heartless
656 Gleamed through the darkness, the alter- things
nate gasp Are done and said i' the world, and many
Of his faint respiration scarce did stn worms
The stagnate night*— fill the minutest lay And beasts and men live on, and mighty
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his Earth
heart. Fiura *ea and mountain, city and wildei-
Jt paused— it fluttered But when heaxen ness,
remained In \espei low 01 joyous orison,
660 Utterly black, the murky shades involved 69C Litts still it* solemn voice:— but thou ait
An image, silent, cold, and motionless, fled—
As their own voiceless earth and vacant air Thou canst no longer know or love the
Even as a vapor fed with golden beams shapes
That ministered on sunlight, eie the west Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee
865 Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame— Been purest ministers, who are, alas !
No sense, no motion, no divinity— Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips
A fragile lute, on whose harmonious btnngs 70° So t> \\eet ex en in Ilien silence, on those*
The breath of heaven did wander— a bright eyes,
stream That image sleep in death, upon that form
Once fed with many-voiced \\aves— a dieani Yet safe fiom the worm's outrage, let no
670 Of youth, which nfeht and time have tear
quenched forever— Be shed— not even in thought. Nor, when
Still, daik, and dry, and unremcmberecl those hues
now. Are gone, and those dn most lineaments,
SM. * **> •> t •, , * 7a6 Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone
™?V°uMeclea/S w™d,?US *lch«ray' ,1 In d* frai1 I"""** «* tois simple strain,
Which wheresoever it fell made the earth Let not faith xerse, mourning the memoiy
_-r Al ,ge??L ,,. , , , Of that which IH no more, 01 painting's woe
\\ itb bright flowerR, and the wintry bourf.s Or ^pt^, Rpeak in feeble imagery
OTK ™~ exhale "° Their own cold powers Art and eloquence,
WB ppom vernal blooms fresh fragrance! Oh, And all the shoWB 0, the wmld nife frai,
that God, and vain
Pi of use of poisons, nould concede the To fl J(|hs ft||| tnrng fhnr , fctg fo
chalice1 ^afa
Which but one living man has drained.-1 It is a woe too "deep foi terns, "» ^lien all
,r ,wi°?0?!f, .i « , .. , IB reft at onP«> wh^n s°nie surpassing
Vessel of deathless wrath," a slave that Spirit,
fe.els . . .. ... , .. 715 Whose hffht adorned the \\orld around it,
No proud exemption in the blighting curse leaves
«0p bears, over the world wanders fonder, ThoMe w!lo ienia5n ^^ not W)l|N 0|
Lone as incarnate death! Oh, that the groans,
** , dream1 Tl,p pa8m0nate tumult of a clinging hope;
Of dark magician in hit, visioned ca^e, But le degpair and ^^ lrnnquillltv/
Raking the cinders of a crucible Nature's vait frame, the wri> of human
For life and power, even when his feeble things,
m OL . h.an* , A , .. . . 72° Birth and the grave, that are not as they
**B Shakes in its last decay, were the true law wera '
Of this so lovely world ' But thou art fled
Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY
« That la, of Immortality *816 1817
Thc awful *«**w of some unseen Powei
Floats though unseen among UF, viritum
This vai:ious world Wlth
ing Jew, see Thr Encwloixrdia Britannic* Wing
<• See Komani. 0 22. l Wordiworth Ode: Intimation* of
•Of Immortal youth 204 (p 30*i)
PEBCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
645
As summer winds that creep trpm flower to
flower}
r> Like moonbeams that behind some piny
mountain shower,
It visits with inconstant glance
Each human heart and countenance ,
Like hues and harmonies of evening,—-
Like clouds in starlight widely
spiead, —
10 Like memoiy of mubic fled, —
Like aught that for its grace may be
Dear, and yet dearer for its mysteiy.
Spnit of Beauty, that dost conseciate
With thine own hues all them dost shine
upon
15 Of human thought or form, where art
thou gone f
Why dobt thou pass away and leave 0111
state,
This dim \ast vale tit ten is, \acant and
desolate?
Ask why the sunlight not forever
Wea\es rainBows o'ei yon mountain-
nver;
-° Wh> aught should fail and fade th«il onto
is shown;
Why ieai and dream and death and
birth
Cast on the daylight of this eaitli
Such gloom, why man has such a
scope
For lo\e and hate, despondency and hope!
-B No voice fiom some subhmer woild hath
To sage or poet these lesponses1 given ;
Therefoie the names of Demon,-' Ghost,
and Hea\en.
Hemain the records of their vain en-
deavor-
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might
not avail to sevei,
30 From all we hear and all we sec,
Doubt, chance, and mutability
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains
driven,
Or music by the night wind sent
Through strings of some still instru-
ment,
36 Or moonlight on a midnight stieam,
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet
dream.
Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds
depart
1 RenponsM to these questions,
•A supernatural being of Greek mythology
ceived as holding a petition botwoon grxfa
con-
and
nvn
And come, foi some unceitain moments
lent
Man were mimoital, and omnipotent,
40 Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou
ait,
Keep with thy glorious train firm <*tate
within his heart
Thou messenger of sympathies
That was and wane in lovers' e>e^ -
Thou, that to human thought art nourish-
ment,
46 Like darkness to a dying flame,
Depart not as thy shadow came f
Depart not, lest the grave should be,
Like lite and fear, a daik reality.
While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and
sped
50 Th lough many a listening chamber, cave
and ruin,
And starlight \\ood, with fearful steps
pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead
I called on poisonous names with which our
youth is fed ,
1 was not heanl— I saw them not—
65 When, musinsr deeply on the lot
Of life, ut that s\\eet time uhen winds are
wooing
All vital things that wake to bring
News of birds and blossoming-
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ,
80 I shrieked, and clasped my hands in
ecstasy !
1 \o\\ed that I would dedicate my powers
To thee and thine— have I not kept the
vow T
With beating heart and streaming eyes,
even now
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours
6"» Each from his voiceless grave : they have
in visioned bowers
Of studious zeal or love's delight
Outmatched with me the envious
night—
They know that ne\cr joy illumed my brow
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst
free
70 This world from its dark slavery,—
That thou, 0 awful Loveliness,
Wouldst gne ^ lint e'er these words cannot
express.
The day becomes more solemn and serene
When noon is past; there is a harmony
75 In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,
Which through the summer is not heard or
seen,
646
NINETEENTH CENTUB7 ROMANTICISTS
As if it could not be, as if it had not been !
Thus let thy power, which like the
truth
Of nature on my passive youth
80 Descended, to my onward life supply
Its calm— to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee,
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind
To ieai hiiiibelf, and line all human kind
MONT BLANC
LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHVUOUNI
1816 1817
The everlasting universe of things
Flows through the mind, and rolls lib lapid
waves, '
Now dark— now ghtteini" — now leflerting
gloom-
Now lending splendoi, wlieio i'mni swift
springs
5 The source of human thought us tubule
brings
Of waters,— with a sound hut half its m\n,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume
In the wild woods, among the mountains
lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap forever,
10 Where woodb and winds contend, and a
vast river
Over 'its rocks ceaselessly bursts and laves
Thus thou, Ravine of Ai\o— daik, deep
Ravine—
Thou many-colored, iuan> -\oiml \ale,
Over whose pines, and ciags, and ca veins
sail
15 Fast cloud-shadowb and sunlieamb a\\ t'ul
scene.
Where Power in liken ew? of the AM e comes
down
Fiom the ice-gulfs that gild Ins senot
throne,
Bm feting through these daik mountains like
the flame
Of lightning through the tempest! thou
dost he,—
20 Thy giant brood of pines aiound llu-c
clinging,
Children of elder time, in whose devotion
The chainless winds still come and evei
came
To drink their odors, and their mighty
swinging
To hear— an old and solemn harmony ;
96 Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the
sweep
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil
Robes some unsculptured image; the
strange sleep
Which when the voices of the desert fail
Wraps all in its own deep eternity,—
80 Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commo-
tion,
A loud, lone bound no othei sound can
tame;
Thou art penaded with that ceaseless mo-
tion,
Thou art the path of that unresting sound,
Dizzy Ravine I and when 1 gaze on thee
36 T seem as in a trance sublime and strange
To muse on my own separate fantasy,
My own, my human mind, which passively
Now lendeis and recehes fast influencing*.
Holding an uni emitting interchange
10 With the clear universe of things aiound,
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wan-
doling wings
Now float above (h> daikness, and now ie*t
Wheie that or thou art no unbidden guest,
In the still cave of the witch Poesy,
46 Seeking among the shadows that pass by-
Ghosts of all things that are—some shade
of thee,
Some phantom, some faint muige, till the
bieast
Fiom which the> fled recalls them, tliou nil
theie*
Some say that gleams of a remoter world
50 Visit the soul in sleep,— that death ib
slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts out-
number
Of those who ^ake and li\e.— I look on
high,
Has some unknown Omnipotence unfurled
The veil of life and death* or do I he
65 In dream, and docs tlie mightiei woild oi
sleep
Spieacl far aiound and inaccessibly
fts circles T For the voiy spnit fails,
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to
steep
That vanishes among the viewless gales '
60 Far, far above, piercing the in fin He sky,
Mont Blanc appeals.— still, sno\\>,'aml
serene-
Its subject mountains then unenithK
forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales
between
Of frown floods, unfathomable deeps,
65 Blue as the overhanging heaven, that
spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps ,
A desert peopled bv the storms alone
PEBCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 547
Save *heu the eagle brings some hunter's And wall impregnable of beaming ice.
bone, *Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin
And the wolf tracks her there. How hid- Is there, that from the boundaries of the
eously sky
70 Itb shapes aie heaped aioundr rude, bare, Kolls its perpetual stream, >ast pines are
and high, strewing
Ghastly, and scaired, and riven.— Is this J1° Its destined path, or in the mangled soil
the scene Branchless and shattered stand , the rocks,
Where the old Eaithquake-dremon taught drawn down
hei young From yon remotest waste, lune enerthiown
Ruin 1 Wei e these then toys? or did a sea The limits of the dead and living win Id,
Of fiic fin elop once this silent enow? Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place
75 None can leply— all seems eternal now 115 Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its
The wilderness lias a mysterious tongue spoil,
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so Their food and their retreat forever gone;
mild. So much of life and joy is lost. The lace
So bolcum, soseieue, that man may be, Of man flies fai in dread, his woik and
But for Fiich faith, with nature reconciled , dwelling
*o Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's
repeal stream,
Large codes of fraud and woe; not under- 12° And their place is not known. Below, vast
stood caves
By all, but which the wise, and great, and Shine m the lushing torrents' restless
good t gleam,
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. Which from those secret chasms in tumult
welling
The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the Meet in the vale, and one majestic ri\ei,
sti earns, The breath and blood of distant lands, f or-
** Ocean, and all the living things that dwell ever
Within the denial1 earth , lightning, and 125 Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves
ram, Breathes its swift vapors to the circling an
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane ,
The torpoi of the yeai when feeble dreams Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:— the
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep power is thei e,
90 Holds every future leaf and flower, the The still and solemn power of many sights,
bound And many sounds, and much of life and
With which from that detested trance they death
leap; 18° In the calm darkness of the moonless
The uoiks and ways of men, their death nights,
and birth, In the lone glare of day, the snows descend
And that of him and all that his may be;— Upon that mountain, none beholds them
All things that i?une and breathe with toil theie,
and sound Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking
9& Are born and die, revolve, subside, and sun,
swell Or the star-foams dart through them,
Power dwells apait in its tranquillity, winds contend
Remote, serene, and inaccessible . 135 Silently there, and heap the snow, with
And this, the naked countenance of earth. bieath
On which I gaase, even these primeval Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home
mountains The voiceless lightning in these solitudes
loo Teach the adverting mind The glaciers Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods
creep Over the snow. The secret strength of things
Like snakes that watch their prey, from 14° Which governs thought, and to the infinite
their far fountains, dome
Slow rolling on ; there, many a precipice, Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal powei And what were tliou, and earth, and stars.
Have piled— dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, and sea,
106 A city of death, distinct with many a towci If to the human mind's imaginings
formal Silence and solitude were vacancy t
648
NINETEENTH CENTUEY BOBIANTIOI8T8
LINE81
1819 1823
The cold earth slept below;
Above the cold sky shone;
And all around, with a chilling sound.
From caves of ice and fields of snow,
6 The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.
The wintry hedge was black ;
The green grass was not seen ;
The birds did rest on the bare thoin's
breast,
J0 Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.
Thine eyes glowed m the glare
Of the moon's dying light,
15 As a fen-fire's beam on a sluggish stieani
Gleams dimly— so the moon shone there,
And it yellowed the strings of thy
tangled hair,
That shook m the wind of nierht
The moon made thy lips pale, beloved ;
20 The wind made thy bosom chill ,
The night did shed on thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thon didst he
Where the bitter breath of the naked
sky
Might visit thee at will
TO MARY*
DEDICATION TO THE REVOLT OF ISLAM
2817 1818
So now my summer task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, mine own heart's
home;
As to his Queen 'some victor Knight of
Faery,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted
dome,
6 Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become
A star among the stars of mortal night,
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite
With thy beloved name, thou child of love
and light
10 The toil which stole from thee so many an
Sour,
Is ended,-and the fruit is at thy feet!
No loncrer where the wood? to frame a
bower
iThln tvw»m 1< thonrht to refer to Iho flp«th of
8hf*11«»v'«( fli**t wife Hnrrlrt, who drowned
hnvpif in Novrmhpr l*lft
•llarr Wollnton^craft Godwin. Bbolloy'M
With interlaced branches mix and meet,
Or where with sound like many voices
sweet,
15 Waterfalls leap among wild islands green,
Which framed for my lone boat a lone
retreat
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall T be
But beside thee, where still my heart has
ever been.
Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear
friend, when first
20 The clouds which wrap this woild from
youth did pass
I do remember well the hour which burst
My spirit's sleep. A fresh May-dawn it
was,
When I walked forth upon the glittering
grass,
And wept, I knew not why , until there rose
25 From the near schoolroom, voices, that,
alas!
Were but one echo from a world of woes—
The harsh and grating strife of tyrants
and of foes.
And then I clasped my hands and looked
around,
But none was near to mock my streaming
eyes,
80 Which poured their warm drops on the
sunny ground-
So, without shame, I spake:-"! will be
wise,
And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies
Such power, for I grow wearv to behold
The selfibh and the strong still tyrannize
*5 Without reproach or check " I then con-
trolled
My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was
meek and boll
And from that hour did I with earnest
thought
Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of
lore;
Tet nothing1 that my tyrants knew or
taught
40 I cared to learn, but from that secret store
Wrought linked armor for my soul, before
It might walk forth to war among man-
kind;
Thus power and hope were strengthened
more and mere
Within me, till there came upon my mind
& A *en v of loneliness, a thirst with which I
pined
BV8H11E SHELL KY 649
Alas, that love should be a blight and snare To fill our homes with smiles, and thus
To those who seek all sympathies in one f are we
Such once I sought in vain; then black Most fortunate beneath hfe'b beaming
despair, morn;
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown 80 And these delights and them, have been
50 Over the world in which I moved alone .!— to me
Yet never found I one not false to me, The parents of the song I consecrate to
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy thee.
Wlthered mine' that
Aught b*. bfeless clod, unUl re™d by ,B
Though it might shake the Anarch Cus-
58 Thou friend, whose presence on my wintry tom's reign,1
heart And charm the minds of men to Truth's
Fell, like bright spring upon some herb- ow" sway
less plain , Holier than was Araphion'sT I would fain
How beautiful and calm and free thou Reply in hope-but I am worn away,
wert 80 And Death and Love are yet contending
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal for their prey.
™ r> C?ain 41 * j * u * ^ j And wha* a** thouf I know, but dare not
Of Custom thou didst bmst and rend in speak'
AA * * twfain/ » . . . ., , , Time may interpret to his silent years
«0 And walked as free as l,BI,t the clouds Yct fa ^ {^ of th th* htfnl
among, dbeek
Which many an en^ons slave then breathed ^ in the' liRht thine ample forehead
in vain wears
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit 95 And in lh ' sweelegt mil and ^ th
sprung ^ear^ '
To meet thee fi cm the TVOCS which had And in thy » ^ speech> a prophecv
begirt it long ' Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears :
No more alone thiough the world's wilder- And *™J* thine **• even in thv soul
« AlthonTl trod the paths of high intent, A """P of vestal fire burnin& Eternally
1 .lourneyed now no more corapanionless, 100 They say that thou wert lovely from thy
Where solitude i*. like despair, I went. birth,
There is the wmdoro of a stern content of glorious parents,2 thou aspning child
When Pcnerty can blight the just and I wonder not -for one then left this earth
£°°dy . Whose life was like a setting planet mild,
™ When Infamv dares mock the innocent, which clothed thee in the radiance unde-
And cherished friends turn with the raul- filed
titude 105 Of its departing glory; btill her fame
To trample thm was ours, and we un- Shines on thee, through the tempers dark
shaken stood f and wild
VT , Which shake these latter days; and thou
Now has descended a serener hour, canst claim
And withnconatant fortune, friends le- ^ ^^ from (hy gire> of an immortal
76 Though suffering leaves the knowledge and
the power One voice8 came forth from many a mighty
Which says *—Let scorn be not repaid with spirit,
scorn. uo Which was the echo of three thousand
And from thy ride two gentle babes are years; .
born i Custom Is here conceived an the destroyer of
tnie relations between men
i A reference to the veer before he met Mary ' William Godwin and Mar? Wollitonecraft
• She and Shelley clonrd on July 28, 1814 dl«- each the aqthor of political and aoclal writ-
regarding Rhellpv R marriage to Harriet Went Ing* of Importance.
brook. " The yolce of Truth
650
NlNKTKtiNTII UKNTURV ROMANTICISTS
And the tumultuous world stood mate to
hear it,
AB some lone man who in a desert hears
The music of his home:— unwonted fears
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race,
115 And Faith, and Custom, and low-thoughted
cares,
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space
Left the torn human heart, their food and
dwelling-place
Truth 's deathless voice pauses among1 man-
kind!
If there must be no response to my cry—
1W If men must rise and stamp with fury
blind
On his pure name who loves them,— thou
and I,
Sweet friend f can look from our tran-
quillity
Like lamps into the world's tempestuous
night,—
Two tranquil stars, while clouds are pass-
ing by
126 Which wrap them from the foundering
seaman 's sight,
That burn from year to year with unextin-
guished light
DEATH
J8J7 1824
They die— the dead return not Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them
over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard
eye.
They are the names of kindred, friend,
and lover,
6 Which he so feebly calls; they all are
gone-
Fond wretch, all dead * those vacant names
alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain,
These tombs,— alone remain
Misery, my sweetest friend, oh, weep no
more!
10 Thou wilt not be consoled— I wonder
not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's
door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and
this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transi-
tory,—
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is
hoary;
is This most familiar scene, my pain,
These tombs,— alone remain.
LINES TO A CBITIO
J8J7 182$
Houey from silkworms who can gather,
Or silk from the yellow beet
The grass may grow in wilder weather
As soon as hate in me.
6 Hate men who cant, and men who pray,
And men who rail like thee ,
An equal pension to repay
They are not coy like me
Or Reek some slave of power and gold,
10 To be thy dear heart '* mate ;
Thy love will move that bigot cold
Sooner than me, thy hate
A passion like the one T prove
Cannot divided be ;
15 T hate thy want of truth and love-
How should I then hate thee?
OZYMANDIAS
1817 1818
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and tmnklw lepw
of stone
Stand in the deseit Neai them, on tlio
sand,
Half mink, a shattered vi««ge lies, uhnsf
frown,
5 And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold wnn
mand,
Tell that its sculptor well those pastum**
read
Which yet survive, stamped on these life-
less things,
The hand1 that mocked them, and tin-
heart2 that fed •
And on the pedestal these words appear :
10 'My name is Ozymandms, king of kings:
Look on my woiks, ye Mighty, and de-
spair!1
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away ' '
THE PAST
IBIS 1824
Wilt thon forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould f
6 Blossoms which were the joys that fell.
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain
Forget the dead, the past f Oh, yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge
for it;
i Of the sculptor > Of Oaymandtan.
PERCY BYS8HE SHELLEY
651
Memones that make the heart a tomb,
10 Regrets which glide through the spirit's
gloom,
And with ghastly whispers tell
That joy, once lost, is pain
ON A FADED VIOLET
1818 1821
The odor from the flower is gone,
Which like thy kisses breathed on mo
The color from the flower is flown,
Which glowed of thee, and only thee*
5 A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
11 lies on my abandoned bieast.
And mocks the heart, which yot is warm,
With cold and silent rest.
I \\cep, -mv teais ICM\C il not1
10 1 Hf»h,— it breathes no more on me ,
Its mute nnd uncomplaining lot
Is surli as mine should bo
LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE
EUGANEAN HILLS
J818 1819
Manv n uieen isle needs must he
In the deep, wide sea of misery,
Or the manner, \\orn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
B Day nnd night, and night and day,
Drifting1 on his dieary way,
With the solid daikness black
(' losing lound his vessel's track.
Whilst above, the sunless sky,
10 Big with clouds, hangs heavilv,
And behind, the tempest fleet
Humes on with lightning ieet.
Rninir sail, and coid, and plank,
Till the ship has almost diank
W Death from the o'ei -brimming deep,
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dieamei seems.to lie
Weltenng thiouuh eternity.
And the dim low line before
20 Of a daik and distant shore
Still leredes, as ever still
Longing with divided will
Hut no power to seek or shun,
He is e^er drifted on
25 O'er the unreposmg wave
To the haven of the crave.
What, if there no friends will greet T
What, if there no heait mil meet
His with love's impatient beat!
30 Wander wheresoe'er he may,
Can he dream before that day
To find refuge from distress
In friendship's smile, in love's caress!
Then 'twill wreak him little woe
Whether such there be or no;
Senseless is the breast, and cold,
Which lelenting love would fold;
Bloodless are the veins, and chill,
Which the pulse of pain did fill ,
40 Every little living nerve
That from bitter words did swerve
Round the tortured lips and brow.
Are like sapless leaflets now
Frozen upon December's bough
13 On the beach of a northern sea
Which tempests shake eteiually,
As once the wietch there lay to sleep,
Lies a solitary heap,
One white skull and seven dry bones,
50 On the maigin of the stones,
Wheie a few gray rushes stand,
Boundai ies of the sea and land
Noi is heard one \oice of wail
But the sea-mews, as they sail
6r> O'er the billows of the gale,
Or the whirlwind up and down
Howling, like a slaughteied town,
When a king in gloiy ndes
Thiough the pomp of fratucides
'|0 Those niibuued bones aiound
Theie is many a mouiniul sound,
Theic is no lament for him,
Like a sunless \apoi, dim,
m Who once clothed with life and thought
*"' What now mines nor minimus not
•
Ay, many flowering islands he
In the wnteis of wide agon>
To such a one this morn was led
My bark by soft winds piloted
70 'Mid the mountains Euganean
I stood listening to the paean
With uhioh the legioned rooks did hail
The snn 's upi ise majestical ,
^ (iatheiin? round with wings all hoar,
7r> Through the dewy mist they soar
Like grav shades, till the ea'stein heaven
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even,
Flecked with fire and azure, he
In the unfathomable skv,
80 So then plumes of purple pram,1
Starred with drops of golden rain,
(Jleam abo\e the sunlight woods.
As in silent multitudes
On the morn ing's fitful gale
86 Through the broken mist they sail.
And the vapois cloven and gleaming
Follow, down the dark steep streaming,
Till all is brieht, and clear, and still,
Hound the solitary bill
i color
652
NiNKTKKNTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
90 Beneath is spread like a gieen sea
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair,
Underneath Day's azuie eyes
96 Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitnte's destined halls
Which her hoai> sue1 now pa\es
With his blue and beaming wa\es
100 Lof the sun upspnngs behind,
Broad, led, radiant, half-reclined
On the le\el quivering line
Of the waters crystalline,
And before that chasm of hghl,
1°r> As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome, and spue,
Shine like obelisk* of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion
From the altai of daik ocean
110 Tn the sapphne-tinted skies,
As the flames of sacrifice
From the marble shrines did rise,
As to pieice the dome of gold
Where Apollo spoke of old
115 Sun-girt City, thou hast been
Ocean's child, and then his queen ;*
Now is come a darkei day,'
And thou soon must be his pie\,
If the power that raised thee heio
120 Hallow BO thy wateiv biei
A less drear ruin then than now,
With thv eon quest -hi nnded hi 09
Stooping to the slaA e of sla\ es
From thy throne among the wa\es,
125 Wilt thou be, uhen the sea-nie\\
Flies, as once before it fie*,1
O 'er thine isles depopulate,
And all is in its ancient state,
Save where many a palace gate
**0 \^]th green sea-flowers overgrown
Like a rock of Ocean's own,
Topples o'er the abandoned sea
Aft the tides change sullenly
The fisher on his watery way,
186 Wandering at the close of day,
Will spread his sail and seize his onr
Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead bhould, from their sleep
Bui-sting o'ei the starlight deep,
u° Lead a rapid masque of death
_ .
• \ referent* to tb* old annual custom of throw
Ing a rlnc Into the ocean In representation of
the marriage of Venice and the ftea. Bee
WbrdnwortlN On the Extinction of the Vene-
tian RrimWc fp 28«)
• At this time, 18lft. the greater part of northern
Italy, Including the old free dtta, was under
the oppremilve domination of Aurtria, the
"Celtic Anarch • of 1 152
4 Before the founding of tho rlt?
O'ei the waters of his path.
Those who alone thy towers behold
Quivering through aerial gold,
As 1 now behold them here,
146 Would imagine not they were
Sepulchre*, wheie human forms,
Like pollution -nourished worms,
To the corpse of {neatness cling,
Muidered, and now mouldeiinu
1 >0 But if Freedom should awake
In her omnipotence, and shake
Fioiu the Celtic1 Anarch's hold
All Hie keys of dungeons cold,
Wheie a hundred cities lie
ir'r> Chained like thee, inglorious! v»
Thou and all thy sister band
Might adoi n this sunny land,
Twining memories of old time
With new vutues 11101*6 sublime,
160 If not, perish thou and they I—
Clouds which stain tiuth's rising day
By hei sun consumed away—
Knith can spate ye while like flnueis,
m In the waste of years and hours,
lfi"» Fiom your dust new nations spiins*
With more kindly blossoming
Perish I let there only be
Floating o 'er thy healthless sea.
As the garment of thy sky
170 Clothes the world immortally.
One lemembinnce, moie sublime
Than the tattered pall of tune.
Which sen ice hides thv usage wnn;—
That a teinpest-cleaung s\uur
"i Of the songs of Albion.
Dm en fiom his ancestral sti earns
By the might of evil dreams,
Found n nest in thee, and Ocean
Welcomed him with such emotion
180 That its joy grew his, and sprung
Fiom his lips like music flung
O'er a mighty fhundei-fit.
Chastening terror. What though yet
Poesy's unfailing rner,
18P> Which through Albion winds foie\ei
Lashing with melodious wa\e
Many a sacred poet 's grave.
Mourn its latest nursling fled f
What though thou with all thy dead
100 Scarce can for this fame repay
Aught thine ownl oh, rather say
Though thy pins and slaveries foul
Overcloud a sunlike soulT
As the ghost of Homer clings
196 Round Seaman der's wasting springs;
As divinest Shakespeare's might
1 Celtic N here applied to northern harharlann
not natlveft of Italv
9 \ roferpnrp to Jtvron
PERCY BY8SHE SHELLEY
653
Fills Avon and the world with light
Like omniscient power which he
Imaged 'mid mortality ;
200 As the lo\e from Petrarch 's urn,
Yet amid yon hills doth hum,
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart
Sees things unearthly ,— so thou ait,
Mighty spirit! so shall be
205 The city that did lefuge thee,
Lo, the sun floats up the sky
Like thought-winged Libert},
Till the mineral light
Seems to lc\cl plain and height ,
210 Fiom the sen a mist has spread,
And the beams of morn lie dead
< )n the towers of Venice now,
Like its glory long ago.
By the skirts of that gray cloud
215 Many-domed Padua proud
Stands n peopled solitude,
'Mid the ban est-shining plain,
Wheie the peasant heaps his giam
.In the gainei of Ins foe,
220 And the milk-white o\en slow
With the purple Miitage strain,
Heaped upon the ('leaking vain,1
That the brutal Celt may swill
Diunken sleep with sin age null,
-2B And the sickle to 4hc swoid
Lies unchanged, though many a lonl.
Like a weed whose shade is poison,
()\cn>io\is this legion's foison,-'
Sheaxes of \\hom aie upe to come
2<l° To destruction's liui \est-home
Men must reap the tilings tlu-> so\v,
Foice fiom force must e\ei flow,
Or uoise, but 'Hs a bittei woe
That love or reason cannot change
235 The despot 's lagc, the bluxe's ic\engc
Padua, thou \\itlnn whose walls
Those mute guests at festivals,
Son and mothei, Death and Sin,
Played at dice for Ezzehn,
240 Till Death cned, " I win, I win !" •
And Sm cursed to lose the wager,
But Death piomised, to assuage hei,
That he would petition for
Her to be made vice-empeior,
246 When the destined years wcie o'ei,
Over an between the Po
And the eastern Alpine snow,
Under the mighty Austrian 3
Sin smiled so as Sin only can,
no And since that time, ay, long before,
•plenty; rich harvwt
• See G<r fatten*. 0 7.
'
ee <r . .
«Bee rolerldgo'H THr Jffimr o/ (Ai
*tH. M804
Both La\e ruled from shoie to shore,—
That incestuous pair, who follow
Tyrants as the sun the swallow,
As Repentance follows Crime,
235 And as changes follow Time.
In thine halls the lamp of teaming,
Padua, now no more is burning,
Like a meteoi, whose wild way
Is lost o\er the gia\e oi day,
J6° Tt gleams betiayod and to betid}
Once i emotes t nations came
To adore that sacred flame,
When it lit not many a health
On this cold and gloomy earth .
J66 Xow new fires from antique light
Spring beneath the wide world 's
But then spark lies dead in thee,
Tiampled out by T.Manny.
As the Non\ay woodman quells
-'"° In the depth of piny delis,
One light flame among the biakes,1
While the boundless foiest shakes,
And its mighty ti links are toin
By the hie thus lowly bom .
~7' The spaik beneath his feet is dead,
He staits to see the flames it fed
Howling through the darkened sky
With a mjiiad tongues victoiiouslj,
And sinks down in feai so thou,
JNO () Tyranny, beholdest now
Light aiound thee, and thou heaiest
The loud flames ascend, and feaiest.
Grovel on the earth , ay, hide
In the dust thy puiplc pude '
283 Noon descends aiound me now:
'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
When a soft and pin pie mist
Like a vaporous amethyst,
Or an air-dissolved star
200 Mingling- light and fragrance, far
Fiom the cuived hon/on's bound
To the point of heaven's profound,1
Fills the ovei flowing sky,
And the plains that silent lie
"°B Underneath, the leaves unsodden
Where the infant Fiost has tiodden
With his morning-winged feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet ,
And the red and golden vines,
noo pjercmp with their trellised lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing: from this hoary tower
Tn the windless air; the flower
505 Glimmering at my feet ; the line
i thickets
•ThntN totheiPQlth.
654
NINETEENTH OENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
Of the olive-sandalled1 Apenmne
In the south dimly islanded ;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun ,
910 And of living things each one ,
And my spirit, which so long
Darkened this swift stream of bong,—
Interpenetrated he
By the glory of the sky*
815 Be it love, light, harmony,
Odor, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
Or the mind which feeds this verse
Peopling tbe lone universe
320 Noon descends, and after noon
Autumn's evening meets me soon,
Leading the infantine moon,
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister
MB Half the crimson light she brings
From the sunset's radiant springs'
And the soft dreams of the morn
(Which like winged winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies
380 Mid remembered agonies,
The frail bark of this lone being)
Paw, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, Pain,
Sits beside the helm again
3W Other floweimg isles must be
In the sea of life and agony
Other spints float and flee
O'er that gulf even now, perhaps,
On some roek the wild wo\e wraps,
340 With folded wings they waiting sit
Foi my baik, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove,
Wheie for me, and those I kne,
May a windless bower be built,
345 par from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell mid lawny hills,
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
350 And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine
Wo may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,
Envying us. may even entice
356 To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
360 On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves;
i cowed with ollre trem at tb«» hue
While each biuathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
366 With its own deep melodieb,
And the love which heals all strife.
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things m that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood,
370 They, not it, would change, and soon
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again
STANZAS
WRITTEN IK DEJECTION, MCAR NVPLES
1818 1824
The sun is warm, the feky is clear,
The wa\efi are dancing fust and
!•„ i 4. .
Drignt;
Blue isles and snowy mountain-* weai
The purple noon's transparent might ,
6 The breath of the moist earth it light
Aiound its unexpended buds
Like many a \oice of one delight,
The winds the buds the ocean floods
The City's AOICC itself, is soft like Soli-
tude's
10 I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds
strown ; *
T see the waves upon the bhoie,
Like light dissolved in stai -showerh,
thrown •
I sit upon the sands alone,—
15 The lightning of the noontide ocean
h flashing lound me, and a tone
A uses from its nieasiued motion,
How sweet ? did any heart now shaie in
my emotion
Alasf I have nor hope nor health,
20 Nor peace within nor calm a found,
Xoi that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,1
And walked with inwaid gloij
downed—
Xoi fame, nor power, nor line, nui
leisure
25 Others T «ee whom these sin round-
Smiling they live, and call life pleas-
ure,—
To me that cup has been dealt in anothei
measure.
* NnmomnR port* ami philosopher* have found
consolation In <*olltudc ft* Cowper'a Tin
Tank, 2 (p. 147) . Byron'* Child? T/oroWV
totyrtow, 4, 177 S fp 548) , Kraft's Ko*net
to Solitude (p 714) . also. P*» Qnlncev'B The
of rftflrffttflft* ip 1089)
PEBOY BY88HE BHELLEY
655
Yet now debpair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
30 I could he down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must
bear,
Till death like sleep might bteal ou me,
And I might feel in the warm air
33 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Bieathe o'er my dying brain its last
monotony.
Some might lament that T were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost henit, too soon grown
old,
40 Insults \\ith this untimely moan,
They might lament— for I am one
Whom men love not,— and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
45 Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in
memoiy yet.
LTVK8 WRITTEN DURIXG THE
TASTLEREAGII ADMINIS-
TRATION
1819 iwii
foi psrs ore cold in the tomb-
Stone* on tlio ] t,i \enipi it aie duinli
A l>oi i ion v aie <lewl in the womb.
And then mother look pale, like the tle.it h-
\\hite shoio
r> Of Albion, fiee no niuic.
TToi son*' arc as stones in the
I hey an» masses of senseless clay—
They aie hodden, and move not
Tht1 alKntion with which /I/IP travailc'li
10 Is Labei t}, smitten to death.
Then trample and dance, thou Oppres-
soi f
Koi thy victim is no redicsser—
Thou ait sole lord and possessor
<>l hei corpses, and clods, and aboil' i^
they pave
15 Th> path to the gia\c.
TIearest thou the festival din
Of Death and Deduction and Sin.
And Wealth ciying Havoc! within?
'Tis the Bacchanal triumph that make*
Truth dumb,—
20 Thine Epithalamnmi.
Av, marry thy ghastly wife1
Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife
Spread thy couch in the chamber of
Life;
Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and Hell be
thy guide
25 To the bed of the bride!
THE MASK OF ANABCHY
WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MAS8ACIU.
AT MANCHESTER!
1819 1832
As I lay asleep in Italy,
There came a voice from over the sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poes>.
6 I met Murder on the way-
He had a mask like Castlereagh ,
Very smooth he looked, yet grim ;
Seven bloodhounds followed him.
AH were fat , and well they might
10 Be in admirable plight.
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew,
Which from his wide cloak he drew.
^ Next came Fraud, and he had on,
13 Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell;
And the little children, who
Round his feet plaved to and fio,
-° Thinking eveiy tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them
Clothed with the Bible as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next
25 On a crocodile rode by
And many more Destruction F played
In this ghastly masquerade.
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Lake bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
30 Last came Anarchy; he rode
On a white hoi^e splashed with blood :
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.2
And he wore a kingly crown ;
^ TH his hand a sceptre shone,
On his brow this mark I saw—
"I AM Gon, AVD KING, AND LAW!"
With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
40 Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.
i V mara-mpettai of citizens who were eager for
parliamentary reform* was attacked by sol-
dieri In 8t Peter'a Field, on Aug. 1*. 1*™
\ few pernnna were killed and several ban-
666
NINETEENTH CKNTUBY ROMANTICISTS
And a mighty troop around
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword
46 For the service of their Lord.
And, with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England, proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.
W O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed that pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down,
Till they came to London town
And each dwellei, panic-stricken,
W Felt his heart with terror sicken,
Heanng the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy
For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in aims like blood and flame,
60 The lined murderers, who did sin?
"Thou art God, and Law, and King
"We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swoids are cold,
65 Give us glory, and blood, and gold."
Lawyers and pnests a motley crowd,
To the earth then palp bio^s bowed ,
Like a bad praver not over loud,
Whispering— "Thou art La* ami God1"
TO Then all cried with one aceoid.
"Thou art King, and God, and Lntd ,
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now ! ' 9
And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
w Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
For he knew the palaces
Of our kings were right h his ,
80 His the sceptre, crown, and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe
So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Towei,
And was proceeding with intent,
w To meet his pensioned Parliament,
When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said ;
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:
90 "My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!
"He has had child after child,
** And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me
Misery, oh, Misery ! ' '
Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
100 Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fiaud, and Anaichy;
When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,—
Small at first, and weak, and frail
106 L^ the vapor of a vale,
Till as clouds pro* on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in tbundei to the skj
110 It grew— a Shape arraved in mail
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose giam1
Was as the light of sunny rain
On its helm, seen far away,
115 A planet, like the Morning's, lay,
And those plumes its light lamed through,
Like a shower of crimson dew
With sfep as soft as wind it passed
O'er the heads of men— so fast
120 That they knew the piesence theie,
And looked— but all was empty air.
As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
As stars from Night 's loose hair are shaken,
As waves aiise when loud winds call,
125 Thoughts sprung wher'ei that step did
fall.
And the prostiate multitude
Looked— and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most seiene.
Was walking with a quiet mien ;
180 And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth ,
The Horse of Death, tameless as wind,
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.
188 A rushing light of clouds and splendor,
A sense, awakening mid vet tender,
i color
PEBCY BYBBHE SHELLEY
657
Was heard and felt, and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose,
As if their own indignant Earth,
"0 Which gave the sons of England birth,
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And, shuddering with a mother's throe
Had turned e\ery drop of blood,
By which hei face had been bedewed.
146 To an accent un withstood,
As if her heail had cried aloud
"Men of England, heiis of glory,
Heroes of unwntten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
150 Hopes of her, and one another
"Rise like hon-» after slumber t
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to eaith like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
165 ye are many, they aie few.
"What IH Fieedoml— Ye can tell
That which Slavery is too well,
For its very name has pioun
To an echo of your own
160 " 'TIS to work, and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to dav
In your limbs, as in a cell,
For the tyrants' use to dwell,—
Hold to something from the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.
" 'Tib to be a slave in soul,
186 And to hold no strong contiol
Over your own Tulls, but be
All that others make of ye
"And at length \ihen ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain,
190 'Tis to see the Tyi ant's crew
Ride over youi AVIVCS and you—
Blood is on the grass like dew !
"Then it is to feel revenge,
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
196 Blood for blood— and wrong for wrong-
Do not thus when ye are strong7
"Birds find iest in narrow nest,
When weaiy of their winged quest;
Beasts find fare in woody lair,
200 When storm and snow ai e in the air.
"Horses, oxen, have a home,
When from daily toil they come ,
Household dogs, when the wind ioars.
Find a home within warm doom
205 "Asses, swine, have litter spread.
And with fitting- food are fed .
All things have a home but one—
Thou, 0 Englishman, hast none'
"So that yc foi them are made "This is Slavery; savage men,
Loom, and plough, and swoid, and «pade 210 Or wild beasts within a den.
With or without your own will, bent Would endure not as ye do-
To theii defence and nouiiRhment. But such ills they never knew.
" 'Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,1
170 When the winter winds are bleak—
They are dying whilst I speak
" 'Tis to hunger for such diet
As the nch man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that he
175 Surfeiting beneath his eye.
let the Ghost of Gold
Take from toil a thousandfold
More than e 'ei its substance could
In the tyiannies of old;
180 "Paper coin1— that forgery
Of the title-deeds which ye
i See Macbeth. I, 3. 23 m ^ _^v
^ Paper currency In England was worth consid-
erably Ion than gold, hut was declared to bo
of equal value by the Honne of Common* In
181<V Hee fohbett'ii Rural JMrfr*. Kennlngton,
Jan 4, 1822 (p 1002)
"What ait them, Freedom? Oh, could
slaves
Answer fiom their living1 graves
215 This demand, tyrants would flee
Like a dream's dim imagery.
"Thou ait not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
*20 Echoing: from tlie cave of Fame
"For the laborer thou art bread
And a comely table spread.
From his daily labor come
In a neat and happy home
225 "Thou art clothes, and fire, and fond
For the trampled multitude:
No— in counti ies that are fieo
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see
658
NINETEENTH CENT UK Y RQMANT1C1BTB
**° "To the nch thou ail a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.
"Thou ait Justice— ne'er for gold
235 May thy righteous laws be sold.
As laws are in England , thou
Shield 'st alike the high and lo\\
"Thou art Wisdom— i'leemen ne\ei
Dream that God \\ill damn forexei
840 All who think those things untrue
Of which priests make such ado
"Thou art Peace— nevei by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted lx».
As tyrants wasted them, when all
246 Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul '
"What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood t
It availed, OLibeity'
To dim, but not extini^iush thee
260 "Thou art Lo^e— the nch have kissed
Thy feet, and like hmr following Christ.
'Give their substance to the fiee
And through the lough woilcl follrw thee,
"Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
255 War for thy belovfrl sake
On wealth and wai and fraud, whence thc\
Drew the power which is then prej
"Science, Poetry, and Thought
Aie thy lamps, the\ make the hit
*«° Of the dwellers in a cot
Such thev curse then Makei not
"Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou— let deeds, not words, express
265 Thine exceeding loveliness
"Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free.
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.
*7° "Let the bine sky overhead,
The creen earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be,
Witness the solemnity.
"From the corners uttermost
176 Of the bounds of English coast ;
1 A reference to the French Revolution and to
„ the_ rnif on of the power* against Prance
From eveiy hut, village, and town,
Where those, who Jive and suffer, moan
For others' misery or their own ;
"From the workhouse and the prison,
280 Where, pale as corpses newly iibcn,
Women, children, young and old,
Groan for pain, and weep f 01 cold ,
"From the haunt* oi daily life,
Where is waged the daily strife
2x5 \vith common wants and common cares,
Which sows the human heart with tares
"Lastly, from the palaces,
Where the miiimur of dishes*.
Echoes, like the distant sound
290 Of a wind alive, around
"Those piison-hallH of wealth and fashion,
Wheie some few feel such compassion,
Kor those who R roan, and toil, and wail,
As must make their href In en pale,—
295 "Ye who suffci woes untold.
Or to feel 01 to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With ft pi ice of blood nnd
"Let a \afet Assembly IMI,
800 And with 51 eat solemn ih
Oeclaie with measuied molds that ye
A ic. as God has made >r. free'
4 'Be your stiong and simple wouls
Keen to wound as fehai penod swoi ds ;
"•""' And wide as targes1 let them be.
With their shade to cover 3 c
"Let the tyrante pour around
AVith a quick and staitlmg sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
810 Troops of armed emblazon ly J
"Let the chaiged artillery drhc,
Till the dead air seems aln e
With the clash of clanging wheels
And the tramp of horses' heels
"6 "Lettheflxfcdba\onct
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright pomHn English blood,
Looking keen as one for food
"Let the horsemen fs scimitars
120 Wheel and flash, like sphcrelesn stai*
' iblelda
•with shields, standards, etc. decorated with
hrllllnnt flguroM or picture*
PEKCY BYttfcJHE tiHELLEY
Thirsting to echpse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning
"Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
326 With folded arms, and looks which aie
Weapons of unvanquished war
"And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armed steeds,
Pass, a disregarded shade,
330 Through your phalanx undismayed.
"Let the laws of youi own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand,
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiteis of the dispute —
385 "The old laws of England-th«^
Whose re\ereml heads with ape aie pay,
Children of a wisei day,
And what* solemn \oice must he
Thine own echo— Libeity1
340 "On those who hist should uolatc
Such sacied heialds in then state,
Rest the blood that must ensue ,
And it will not lest on you
"Anil if then the hiantfl daie,
345 Let them rule among von theie,
Slash, and stab, and maun, and hen
What they like, that let them do
"With folded aims and stench
And little tear, and less
350 Look upon them as they sla"\ .
Till their rage lias died away.
"Then they will retuin \Mth shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus «hed will speak
355 ln hot blushes on then cheek
"E\ery woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand .
They will hardly dare to preet
Then acquaintance in the street
360 "And the bold, tine waniois
Who tune hugged Danger in nai*.
AVill turn to those who would bo iiee,
Ashamed of such base company
"And that slaughter to the Nation
**5 Rhall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar
"And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
870 Ringing through each heart and biam,
Heard again — again— again !
"Rise like lions after slumbei
In nnvanquishable numbei !
Shake, your chains to earth, like de\\
375 Winch in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many, they are few ! f '
SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND
1819 1839
Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low!
Wherefore weave with toil and caie
The rich robes your tyrants \ieai '
5 Wheiefoie feed, and clothe, and sa^e,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
I ham vour sweat— nay, dnnk your blood 1
Wherefore, bees of England, foige
10 Many a weapon, chain, and sconigc,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced pioduce of youi toil
Ha\e vc leisme, comfort, calm,
Sheltei, food, lore's gentle balmt
13 Oi what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your teai T
The *eed yc sow, another leaps,
The wealth ye find, another keeps,
The lobes ye it cave, another weais,
20 The aims ye forge, anothei beais
So>\ seed,— but let no tyrant leap,
Find wealth,— let no impostor heap;
\\Yau' inbes,— let not the idle \\cui ,
Foigge anus,— in your defence to beai
-" Shi ink to youi cellais, holes, and cells,
In halls ye deck, another dwells
Why shake the chums ye \i rought ? Ye see
The «-tecl ve tempeiecl glance on jc
With plough and spade, and hoe and loom,
30 Tince \oui Qrave, and build youi tomb,
And wea\e yoni ^mdmg-sheet, till fan
Kiip land be t>our
ENGLAND IN 1819
^819 1839
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying
king,1
Piinces, the die$>s of then dull race, who
flow
HI. Klnc of England (17601820)
660 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Through public scorn— mud from a muddy Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven
spring; and Ocean,
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
6 But leech-like to their fainting country Angels of rain and lightning, there aie
cling, spread
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
blow; 20 Like the bright hair uplifted from t'-o
A people starved and stabbed in the un- head
tilled field;
An army, which hberticide and prey Of some fierce Meenad, even from the dim
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who verge
wield; Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
10 Qolden and banguine laws which tempt The locks of the approaching1 storm. Thou
and slay; dirge
Religion Christies, Godless — a book
sealed. Of the dying year, to which this closing
A Senate— Time's worst statute unre- night1
pealed,— 26 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Arc ma\es, fioni which a glouou* Phan- Vaulted with all thy congregated mmht
torn may M c . . .
Burst to illumine our tempestuous day. Of vapors, from whose solid atmospheie
Black lain, and fire, and hail will burst:
ODE TO THE WEST WIND oh' hear!
1819 1820
III
r\ -u «r * iif i *i u u. * A Thou who didst waken fiom ins summer
0 wild West Wind, thou breath of An- dreams
mi. *mm'b 1Tng' *i s° Tll« Wue Mediteirnnean, wlieie he lav,
Thou, fiom whose unseen piebeiice the Lulled by Hlp coll of hlg C1yst&jjino
leaves dead streams
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchantei '
fleeing, Reside a pumice-' isle in Baup's ba\,
„ M , . , . , , „ , An(* saw ln sleeP °w palaces and toweis
\ellow, and black, and pale, and hectic- Quneimp within the wave's intensci da\,
red*
5 Pestilence-stricken multitudes- 0 thou. *5 All oveipjown with azuie moss and flowers
Who chaiiotest to their dark wintry bed So sweet, the ^IIM? Jamts pietunng them !
thou
The wingM seeds, where they lie cold For whose path the Atlantic's level
and low, powers
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall Cleave themselves into chasms, while far
blow below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which
10 Her clanon o'er the dreaming earth, and wear
fill 40 The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
(Driving sweet buds like fl«»cks to feed in
air) Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with
With living hues and odors plain and hill • fear,
And tremble and despoil themsehes* oh,
Wild Spirit, which art immns every- hear!
where;
Destroyer and preserver, hear! oh, hear! iv
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
H If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee,
1B Thou on whose stream, mid the steep 4B A wave to pant beneath thy power, and
sky's commotion, share
eartb'8 decayinB lea>es ;«,?* ci""* <v*" — th
'A light, porou*. volcanic fmbfltnnrp
1'KRCY BYSBliE HHELLEY
6G1
The impulse of thy strength, only less
free
Than thou, 0 uncontrollable I If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comiade of th> wanderings
heaven,
60 As then, when to outstnp thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would no 'CM
lime
As thus with thee in pinyer in inv sme
nm]
Oh, lift me as a wave, u leal1, a cloud1
I fall upon the thorns of life' I bleed f
r>" A heavy weight of houis has chained and
bowed
One too like thee tameless, and swift, and
proud.
Afake me thy lyre, even as the foiest is
AVhat if my leaves are falling like its
o\\n!
The tumult of thy mighty hai monies
60 Will take from both a deep, autumnal
tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit
fierce,
Ah spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Dn\e my dead thoughts ovei the unixeise
Like witheied lea\es to quicken a new
birth!
ft* And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as fioni an unextingiiished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among man-
kind'
Be through my lips to una wakened eaith
The trumpet of a piophecyf O Wind.
™ If Wmtei comes, can Spnnar be far be-
hind f
THE INDIAN 8EKENADK
1810 1822
T arise fiom di earns of theo
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright*
I aiise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me— who knows how*
To thy chamber window, sweet !
The wandering airs, they faint
10 On the dark, the silent stream;
The champak1 odors fail
Like sweet thoughtb in a dieam,
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
r» As I must die on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art '
Oh, lift me from the grass9
Idle' I faint* I fail'
Let thy love in kisses ram
20 On my lips and eyelids pale
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast,—
Oh f press it close to thine again.
Where it will break at last.
LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY
1819 1810
The fountains minjrle with the river
And the rive is with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a svteet emotion,
"' Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one spmt meet and mingle
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
10 And the waxes clasp one another;
No sistei-flowei would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother,
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
16 What are all these kissings worth
If thon kiss not met
THE POET'S LOVER
1819 1862
I am as a spirit who has dwelt
Within his heait of heaits, and I ha\e felt
Ilis feelings, and ha \e thought his thoughts,
and known
The inmost converse of his soul, the tone
6 Unheard but in the silence of his blood,
When all the pulses in their multitude
Image the trembling calm of summer seas.
I have unlocked the golden melodies
Of his deep soul, as with a master-key,
10 And loosened them and bathed myself
therein-
Even as an eagle in a thunder-mist
Clothing his wings with lightning.
i An Indian trpp of the mmrnolla family
6G2
MINKTKENTii CENTURY HOMANT1C1BTS
PBOMETHEUS UNBOUND
A LYRICAL DRAMA IN TOUR ACTS
1818-19 1820
DRAUJLTJti PER8OXJJ
PHOVPTHFI S
DKMOGOlUlU*
JUFITFR
TUB K A iu n
OCRAX
A POLIO
MRRCDRI
HrnriT i s
ASIA 1
I'ANIHKA VOceanldos
lONi, J
THE PHANTASM OF Jf 1M1I II
Till Rl'lttIT OP THE RAHUL
THI- SPIUIT OF nih MOON
MlMRITK Or THE llolltth
ACT 1
SCENE —.4 Eanne of Icy Rocks in Me
Indian Caucasus PROMETHEUS is dw-
coieted bound 1o the Pie&pice PAN-
THEA and JOXE are seated at his feel
Time, night. Dmmg the bcenr, worn-
ing slowly breads.
Promeilieus Monarch of Gods and
Demons,1 and all Spirits
But One,2 who throng those bright and
rolling worlds
Which Thou and I alone of living things
Behold with sleepless eves' regard this
Earth
5 Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom
them
Requitest for knee- WOT ship, pia\ei, and
I >iaise,
And toil, and hecatombs* of hioken heaiK
With fear and self -contempt and ban en
hope
Whilst me, who «nn Iliv foe, eyeless in
hate,
10 Hast thou made leigii and timnipli, to th\
scorn,
O'er mine own nnseiy and th\ A am le-
venge
Tlnee thousand A en is of slepp-un«helteted
houis,
And moments n\e dmded by keen pangs
Till they seemed yeaiR, tortuie and soli-
tude,
15 Scorn and despan ,— these aie mine em-
pire —
More glorious fur than that which thou
surveyest
From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty
God'
Almighty, had T deigned to Hhare the
shame i
Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here
20 Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling moun-
tain,
1 Rnpornataral being* of Greek mythology con-
ceived •* holding a position between god*
and men
> Promethean himself See 1 265.
of ffrml nnmhwi
Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without
herb)
Insect, or beast, 01 shape or sound of life.
Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, forever!
No change, no pause, no hope' Yet I
endure
-* 1 nsk the Eaith, l^e not the mountains
felt!
1 ask von Hea\cn, the all-beholding; Sun,
Has it not neon? The Sea, in storm or
calm,
Heaven's ever-changing shadow, spread
below,
IIa\e its deaf waves not heaid my agony t
80 Ah me' alas, pnm, pain e\er, foiever'
the crawling: glacieis pierce me with the
spears
Of their moon-f leezmf? crystals , the bright
chains
Eat with their buming cold into my bones
Heaven's wingfcl hound,1 polluting 1'ioin
thy lips
Vl His beak in poison not his own, tears up
Mv heait , mid shapeless sight* come wan-
dering; by.
The jrhastly people of tho lealm of dream,
Mockiii!? me and the Knrtliqnnke-fiends
Hie chained
Tn wiench the iixpts hom my quneimi;
wounds
40 When the rocks split and close again
behind
While from their loud ahvsses hnwlmu
throng
The ^enn of the stoim, inking- the rape
Of whnlwiud, mid afllict me with keen
hail
And yet to me welcome is day and nipht.
4r> Whethei one bienks the hnai -frost of the
mom,
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other chimV
The leaden-colored east , for then the\
lead
The wingless, crawling hours, one amon<>
whom—
As some dark priest hales the reluctant
victim—
r>0 Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the
blood
From these pale feet, which then might
trample thee
Jf they disdained not such a prostiate
slave.
Disdain! Ah, no! Ipitytbee, What ruin
1 The vultare, which, according to ancient Htory,
dally tore the rntralfc of Promotheui
nvssiiH SHELLEY
G63
Will built tbee undefended through the
wide Heaven !
r'B How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with
tenor,
Gape like a hell within ! I speak in giief ,
Not exultation, for I hate no more,
As then ere misery made me wise. The
curse
Once breathed on thee I would lecall. Ye
Mountains,
<»° Whose iiiany-voieM Echoes, through the
mist
Of cat ai ads, flung the thunder of that
spell!
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling
frost,
Which vibrated to hear me, and then ciept
Shuddering thiough India! Thou scrcnest
> Air,
05 Through vt Inch the Sun walks but 111113
without beams!
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised
wings
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed
abyss,
As tlumdei, louder than your own, made
lock
The 01 bed world' If then my words had
power,
70 Though I am changed so that aught CM!
u ish
Is dead \\ithm; although no memory be
()i what is hate, let them not lose it nowf
What was that cureef for ye all heard me
speak.
First Voice (from the Mountains)
Thrice thiee hundred thousand years
<r» O'er the Eaithquake's couch ne stood
Oft, as men convulsed with feais,
We ticmhlcd in om multitude
Second Voice (from the Springs)
Thundci bolts had paiched our watei,
We had been stained with bitter blood,
80 And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of slaugh-
ter,
Thio' a city and a solitude.
Third Voice (from the Aw)
T had clothed, since Earth uprose,
Its wastes in colors not their own,
And oft had my serene repose
R& Been cloven by many a rending groan.
Fourth Voice (from the Whirlwinds)
We had soared beneath these mountains
Unresting ages; nor had thunder,
Xor yon volcano's flaming fountains,
Nor any power above or under
<JO Ever made us mute with wonder.
First Voice
But ne\ei bowed out suo\\y ciest
As at the M»ice of thine unrest.
Second Voice
Never such a sound before ^
To the Indian waves we boie
% A pilot asleep on the howling sea
Leaped up from the deck in agony,
And heard, and cned, "Ah, woe is me ? "
And died as mad as the wild leaves be
Third Voice
By such dread words from Earth to Heaven
100 My still realm was never riven :
When its wound was closed, there stood
T)aikness o'ei the dav like blood
Fourth Voice
And we shrank back for dreams of rum
To frozen caves oui flight pursuing
105 Made us keep silence— thus— and thus—
Though silence is us hell to us
The Earth. The tongueless Ca\enis of
the eiaggy hills
( 'i led "Misery f ' ' then , the hollow llea\ on
leplied
' ' Misery ! ' ' And 1 he Ocean 's pui pie wa\ es,
110 Climbing the land, houled to the lashinu
winds,
And the pale nations heaid it, "Miseiy1"
Prometheus I heaid a sound of voices
not the \ oice
Which I ga\e foith. Mothei, thy sons and
them
Scorn him, without \ihose all-end mm g will
116 Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jo\e,
Both they and tbou had ^anlshed, like thin
mist
Tin oiled on the morning mud Know ye
not me.
The Titan T He \t ho made his agony
The barrier to your else all-conqueiing foe *
110 O rock-embosomed Ian us, and snow- fed
sti earns,
Now seen atlmait frore1 vapors, deep be-
low,
Through whose o 'ershadowing woods T
wandered once
With Asia, drinking life from her loved
eyes;
'frown
664 NINETEENTH CKNTUHV KOMANT1CIST8
Why scorns the spirit which informs1 ye, And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted
now 16° Their prostrate brows from the polluting
126 To commune with mef me alone, who dust,
checked, And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread
As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteei, Grew pale, until his thunder chained tbee
The falsehood and the force of him who here.
reigns Then— see those million worlds which burn
1 Supreme, and with the groans of pining and roll
slaves ^ Around us— theii inhabitants beheld
Fills your dim glens and liquid wilder- J6~' My sphered light wane in wide Heaven,
nesses: the sea
130 Why answer ye not, still f Brethren! Was lifted by strange tempest, and new
The Earth. They dare not flre
Prometheus. Who dares 1 for I would From earthquake - rifted mountains of
hear that curse again. bright snow
Ha, what an awful whisper rises up ! Shook its portentous hair beneath Heav-
9Tis scarce like sound : it tingles through ^ en's frown,
the frame Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains ,
As lightning tipgles, hovering ere it strike 17° Blue thistles bloomed in cities; foodies*
iss Speak, Spirit ' from thine inorganic voice toads
I only know that thon are moving near Within voluptuous chambers panting
And love. Howcuisedlhiml crawled:
The Earth. How canst thou heai When Plague had fallen on man and beast
Who knowest not the language of the dead T and worm,
Prometheus. Thon art a living spirit, And Famine; and black blight on herb
speak as they. and tree;
140 The Earth. I dare not speak like life, And in the corn, and vines, and xneadow-
lest Heaven 's fell King grass,
Should hear, and link me to some wheel of 175 Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds
pain Draining their growth; for my wan breast
More torturing than the one whereon I roll. was dry
Subtle thou art and good, and though the With grief; and the thin air, my breath,
Gods was stained
Hear not thin voice, yet thou art more than With the contagion of a mother's hate
Ood, Breathed on her child's destroyer; ay, I
146 Being wise and kind : earnestly hearken heard
now. 18° Thy curse, the which, if thou reinemberest
Prometheus. Obscurely through iny not,
brain, like shadows dim, Yet my innumerable seas and streams,
Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon
I feel wide air,
Faint, like one mingled in entwining love , And the inarticulate people of the dead.
Yet 'tis not pleasure. Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate
The Earth. No, thou canst not hear 1RB In secret joy and hope those dreadful
160 Thou art immortal, and this tongue is words,
known But dare not speak them
Only to those who die. Prometheus. Venerable mother !
Prometheus. And what are thou, All else who live and suffer take from
O melancholy Voice? thee
The Earth. I am the Earth, Some comfort; flowers, and fruits, and
Thy mother ; she within whose stony \ ems, happy sounds,
To the last fibre of the loftiest tree And love, though fleeting; these may not
156 Whose thin leaves trembled in the frozen be mine.
air, 19° But mine own words, I pray, deny me not.
Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, The Earth. They shall be told. Eie
When thou didst from her bosom, like a Babylon was dust,
dond The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child,
Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy ! Met his own image walking in the garden.
* animates That apparition, sole of men, he saw.
PEBCY BYttttHK ttHLLLEV 665
1B5 For know there are two worlds of life and 28C A sceptre of pale gold
death: To stay steps proud, o'er the slow
One that which thou beholdest; but the cloud
other His veined hand doth hold.
Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit Cruel he looks, but calm and strong,
The shadows of all forms that think and Like one who does, not suffers wrong.
live,
Till death unite them and they part no 24° Phantasm of Jupiter. Why have the
more; secret powers of this strange world
200 Dreams and the light imaginings of men, Dnven me, a frail and empty phantom,
And all that faith creates or love desires, hither
Terrible, strange, sublime, and beauteous On direst storms? What unaccustomed
shapes. sounds
There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing Aie hovering on my lips, unlike the voice
shade, With which our pallid race hold ghastly
'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains; all talk
the gods 245 In darkness? And, proud sufferer, who
206 Are there, and all the powers of nameless art thouf
worlds, Prometheus. Tremendous Image, as thou
Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, and art must be
beasts; He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his
And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom, foe,
And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne The Titan. Speak the words which I would
Of buitnng gold. Son, one of these shall hear,
utter Although no thought inform thine empty
210 The curse which all lemember Call at will voice.
Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, 25° The Earth. Listen ! And though your
Hades or Typhon, or what mightier Gods echoes must be mute,
Fiom all-prolific Evil, since thy rum Gray mountains, and old woods, and
Have spuing, and trampled on my pros- haunted springs,
trate sons. Prophetic caves, and isle - surrounding
215 Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge sti earns,
Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak.
shades, Phantasm A spirit seizes me and speaks
As rainy wind through the abandoned gate within
Of a fallen palace. 23S It teais me as fire tears a thunder-cloud
Prometheus. Mother, let not aught Panthea See how he lifts his mighty
Of that which may be evil, pass again looks! the Heaven
"20 My lips, or those of aught resembling me Darkens above.
Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appeal ' lone. He speaks ! 0 shelter me !
Prometheus I see the curse on gestures
lone proud and cold,
-
Yet through their silver shade appears, Wntt«i nVnn » somll- VP* «nMt- Oh
235 And through their lulling plumes aiw, Ni'tten as on a soioll yet speak. Oh,
A Shape, a throng of sounds ; ™a
May it be no ill to thee Phantom
0 thou of many wounds! W.MJ T JA«V, *i™i «.,*ii . ««!«,
Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, Fiend'. *d ef* thee ! Wlth a ealm'
230 Ever thus we watch and wake M ^ ^ cangt
Pmthea Foul Tyrant both of Gods and human-
The sound is of whirlwind underground, kind,
Earthquake, and fire, and mountains 2*R One only being shalt thou not subdue.
cloven ; Rain then thy plagues upon me here,
The shape is awful like the sound, Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear;
Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. And let alternate frost and fire
666
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
Eat into me, and be thine ire
270 Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned
foniib
Of f mies, driving by upon the wounding
storms.
Ay, do thy worst. Thou ait omnipotent
O'er all things but thyself I gave thee
power,
And my own will. Be thy swift mis-
chiefs sent
275 To blast mankind, from you etheieal
tower.
Let thy malignant spirit move
Tn darkness over those I love
On me and mine I imprecate
The utmost torture of thy hate,
280 And thus devote to sleepless agony.
This underlining head while thou must
reign on high.
But thou, who art the God and Loid
Othou
Who fillest with thy soul this world of
woe,
To whom all things of Earth and Hea\ en
do bow
286 In fear and worship— all-prevailing
foef
T curse thee ' let a sufferer's cun&e
Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse ,
Till thine Infinity shall be
A robe of envenomed agony;1
2*° And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain.
To cling like burning gold round thy dis-
solving brain.
Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse,
111 deeds, then be thou damned, be-
holding good ,
Both infinite as is the universe,
296 And thou, and thy self -torturing soli-
tude
An awful image of calm power
Though now thou sittest, let the hour
Come, when thou must appear to be
That which thou art internally;
800 And after manv a false and fruitless crime
Scorn track Ihy lagging fall thiough
boundless space and time.
Prometheus. Were these my words, O
Parent)
The Earth. They were thine.
Prometheus. It doth repent me • words
are quick and vain ;
Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine
BOB I wish no living thing to suffer pain.
The Earth
Misery, Oh, misery to me,
That Jove at length should vanquish
thee.
Wail, howl aloud, Laud and Sea,
The Earth's rent heart shall answei ye
J1° Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead,
Your refuge, your defence lies fallen and
vanquished !
First Echo
Lies fallen and vanquished !
Second Echo
Fallen and >aftquished '
315
820
325
lone
Feai not 'tu» but some pacing spatm,
The Titan is umanquibhed btill.
Hut see, wheie through the axure chasm
Ot yon forked and snowy hill
Trampling the slant winds on high
With golden-sandalled feet, that glow
I nder plumes of purple dye,
Like lobe-ensanguined ivory,
A Shape comes now,
Stretching on high from his right hand
A sei pent-cinctured wand.1
Panthea
'Tis Jove'b world- wandei ing herald,
Mercury
»A reference to the rtilrt of Ne«n»
poisoned Hcrcnlei
which
lone
And who are those with hydia
And iron wings that climb the wind.
Whom the frowning Ood represses,—
Like vapois steaming up behind,
880 Clanging loud, an endless crowd 1
Panthea
These are Jove's temper-walking hounds,
Whom he gluts with groans and blood,
When chanoted on sulphurous cloud
He bursts Hem en's bounds
lone
MB Are they now led from the thin dead
On new pangs to be fedf
The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud
Ftrat Fury. Ha! I went life!
Second Fury. Let me but look into
his eyes!
' The rod entwined wltb two nerpents and car-
ried by Mercury
PEBOY BY8SHE SHELLEY QffJ
Third Fury. Th* hope of toi luring him Be it not so ! there is a secret known
smells like a heap To thee, and to none else of living things,1
840 Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. Which may transfer the sceptre of wide
First Fury. Barest them delay, 0 Hei- Heaven,
aid f take cheer, Houndb The fear of which peiplexes the Supreme
Of Hell: what if the Son of Maia1 soon J75 Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp hib
Should make us food and sport— who can throne
please long: In intercession, bend thy soul in piayer,
The Omnipotent? And like a suppliant in some gorgeous
Mercun/. Back to your towei s of iron. fane,
846 And gnash, beside the sti earns of fire, and Let the will kne*l within thy haughty
wail, heart :
Your foodless teetb Geiyon, arise! and For benefits and meek submission tame
Gorgon, 3SO The fiercest and the mightiest.
Chimera, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of Prometheus Evil mind*
fiends Change good to their own nature. I gave
Who ministeied to Thebes Heaven's poi- all
soned wine,- He has, and in letuin he chains me here
Unnatural love, and more unnatuial Years, ages, night and day: whether the
hate . Sun
860 These shall perform your task Split my paiched skin, or in the moony
Fust Fwy Oh, mercy1 mercy f night
We die with our desire dnve us not back ! 38B The crystal-winged bnow cling round mj
Mercun/ Crouch then in silence hair.
Awful Sufferer! Whilst my beloved race is trampled down
To thee unwilling, most unwillingly By his thought-executing ministers -
I come, by the great Fathei 's will driven Such is the tyrant's recompense "Tla just
clown, He who is evil can lecene no good ,
356 TO execute a doom of new menge 39° And for a \\oild bestoued. 01 a fnend lost,
Ala*»f 1 pitv thce, and hate myself He can feel hate, fear, -hame, not grati-
That I can do no more aye from thy tude:
sight He but requites me foi his own misdeed.
Reluming, for a season, llea\en seems Kindness to such is keen reproach, which
Hell, bieaks
So thy worn form pursues me night and With bitter stings the light sleep of Re-
day, \enge.
860 Smiling leproach. Wise ait thou, firm and 3M Submission, thon dost know I cannot try:
good, For what submission but that fatal word,
But mainly Ttouldst stand forth alone in The death-seal of mankind's captivity,
stnfe Like the Sicilian's ha it -suspended sword,8
Against the Omnipotent; as yon cleai Which trembles o'er his crown, would he
lamps accept,
That measuie and divide the weary years 40° Or could I yield f Which yet I will not
Fiom which there is no refuge, long have yield.
taught Let others flatter Crime where it ate
366 And long must teach. Even now tin Tor- throned
turer arms In biief Omnipotence, secure are they
With the stiange might of unmiagmed For Justice, when triumphant, will weep
pains ( down
The powers \Uio scheme slow agonies in Pity, not punishment, on her own wrongs,
Hell, 403 Too much avenged by those who err. T
And my commission is to lead them wait,
here,
Ov what mnrp nnhtla fnnl or flflVflm fiends ' Prometheus knew that Jupiter would be over
«*A « wnat more suoue, lorn, or savage nenas thrown ^ Byron.8 p^ctheut, m-si u>
*70 People the abyss, and leave them to their .122).
task • Bee WmrLwiv IILSi 4.
iaa*' "The sword which wmi impended on a tingle
hair over the head of Damocles while he wai
.jx propounded a riddle to theThebana, seated at a royal banquet, to rebuke him for
lied all passers-by who could not solve his constant praises of the happiness of
DeQrincey'B The fipMurt JMMfo. kings
($8 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Enduring thus, the retributive hour *40 Lest thou behold and die : they come— they
Which since we spake is even nearer now. come-
But hark, the hell-hounds clamor: fear Blackening the birth of day with countlesb
delay: wings,
Behold! Heaven lowers under thy Fa* And hollow underneath, like death.
ther 's frown. First Fury. Prometheus !
UO Meicury. Oh, that we might be spared . Second Fury. Immortal Titan !
I to inflict Third Fury. Champion of Heaven 's
And thou to suffer ! Once more answei me slaves I
Thou knowest not the peiiod of Jove'b Prometheus. He whom borne dreadful
power 1 voice invokes is here,
Prometheus. I know but this, that it 4l5 Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible
must come. forms,
Mercury. Alas! What and who aie ye? Ne\er yet there
Thou canst not count thy years to come of came
pain ! Phantasms so foul through monster-teem-
416 Prometheus. They last while Jove must ing Hell
reign : nor more, nor less From the all-miscreative biain of Jo\e,
Do I desire or fear. Whilst I behold such execrable shapes,
Mercury. Yet pause, and plunge 45° Methinks I grow like what I contemplate,
Tnto Eternity, where recorded time, And laugh and stare in loathsome sym-
Even all that we imagine, age on age, pathy.
Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind First Fury We are the ministers oi
4*° Flags weanh in its unending flight, pain, and £ear,
Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelterless; And disappointment, and mistrust, and
Perchance it has not numbered the glow hate,
years And clinging ciime, and as lean dog>
Wliich thou must spend in torture, un- ^ pursue
reprieved! 4r>"' Through wood and lake some stiuck and
Prometheus Perchance no thought can sobbing fawn,
count them, yet they pass.. \Ve track all things that weep, and bleed,
*26 Mercury. If thou might 'st dwell anioni; and live,
the Gods the while When the great Knu> hetia>« them to uui
Lapped in ^ oluptuous joy f will
Ptometheufi. I would not quit Prometheus. 0 many fearful natures in
This bleak i a vine, these uiuepentant pains one name,
Mercun/ Alas1 I wonder at, yet pity I know ye, and these lakes nnd cchoe*-
thee know
Prometheus Pity the self-despising 46° The darkness and the clangor of join
slaves of Heaven, wings
*° Not me, within whose mind sits peace But why nioic hideous than your loathed
serene, selves
As light in the sun, throned. How vain is Gather ye up in legions from the deep?
talk! Second Fnttf We knew not that Sis-
Call up the fiends. leis, lejoice, iejoieef
lone. Oh, sister, look! White the Prometheus. Can aught exult in Us de-
Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow- fonnity?
loaded cedar, 46r> Second Fiitn. The beauty of delight
How fearfully God's thunder howls be- makes lovei s glad,
hind! (lazing on one another* so aie we
485 Mercury. T must obey Ins words and As fiom the io*e which the pale priestess
thine. Alas! kneels
Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart * To gather for her festal crown of flowers
Panthea See where the child of Heav- The aerial crimson falls, flushing her
en, with winged feet, cheek,
Runs down the slanted sunlight of the470 So from our victim's destined agony
dawn. The shade nhich is our form invests us
Inn? Dear «5«ter, close thy plumes over round ;
thine eve«. Else we are shapeless a* our mother Night
PEBCY BYSSHE BI1KLLEY
6G9
Prometheus. I laugh your powei, and
his who sent you here,
To lowest scorn.1 Pour forth the cup ot
pain.
475 First Fury. Thou thinkest we will rend 51°
thee bone from bone,
And nerve from nerve, working like fire
within t
Prometheus. Pain is my element, as
hate is thine; 31<i
Ye rend me now I care not.
Second Fury. Dost imagine
We will but laugh into thy hdless eyes!
480 Prometheus I weigh not what yc do,
but what ye suffer,
Being evil Cruel was the power which 52°
called
You, or aught else so wretched, into light
Third Fury Thou think 'st we will h\e
through thee, one by one,
Like animal life, and though we can ob-
scure not
486 The soul which bums within, that A\P will
dwell
Beside it, like a vain loud multitude
Vexing the self-content of wisest men
That we will be diead thought beneath tin
biain, MB
And foul desire round thine astonished
heart,
490 And blood within thy labyrinthine A ems
Crawling like agony?
Ptometheus Why, ye are thus no\i ,
Yet am I king over myself, and rule
The tortunng and conflicting throngs
within,
As Jo\e mles you ulien Hell glows muti-
nous
530
Chorus of Funes
495 Prom the ends of the earth, from the ends
of the earth,
Where the night has its giave and the
morning its birth,
Come, come, conic f
Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream of
your mirth,
When cities sink howling in nun , and yc
500 Who with wingless footsteps trample the 535
sea,
And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's
track,
Sit chattering with joy on the foodlcss
wreck;
Come, come, come !
Leave the bed, low, cold, and red,
505 Strewed beneath a nation dead ,
* Sen VarM*, IV. 1, 79-80
Leave the hatred, as in ashes
Fire is left for future burning*
It will burst in bloodier flashes
When ye stir it, soon returning:
Leave the self-contempt implanted
In young spirits, sense-enchanted,
Misery's yet unkmdled fuel :
Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted
To the maniac di earner; cruel
More than ye can be with hate
Is he with fear
Come, come, come !
We aie steaming up from Hell's wide gate
And we burthen the blasts of the atmos-
phere,
But vainly we toil till ye come here
lone. Sistei, I heai the thunder of new
wings.
Panthea These solid mountains qimer
with the sound
K\en as the ti emulous an then shadows
make
The space within my plumes moie h'nck
than night.
First Fury
Your call was as a winged car
Driven on whirlwinds fast and far;
It rapped us fiom led gulfs of war.
Second Fury
From wide cities, famine-wasted;
Third Fury
Groans half heard, and blood nntasted ;
Fourth Fury
Kingly conclaves stem 'and cold,
Where blood with gold is bought and
sold,
Fifth Fury
From the furnace, white and hot,
In which—
A Fury
Speak not whisper not :
I know all that ye *ould tell,
But to speak might break the spell
Which must bend the Invincible,
The stern of thought ;
He yet defies the deepest power of HelL
Tear the veil '
A Fury
Another Fury
It is torn.
870 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Chorus lane. Hark, stater! what a low yet
The pale stars of the morn dreadful groan
M0 Shine on a misery, dire to be home. 0™** unsuppressed is tearing up the heart
Dost tbou faint, mighty Titan 1 We laugh 58° Of the good Titan, as storms tear the deep,
thee to scorn. And beasts hear the sea moan in inland
Dost thou boast the clear knowledge thou eaves.
waken Mst for man f Barest thou observe how the fiends torture
Then was kindled within him a thn st which him f
outran Panthea. Alas! I looked forth twice,
Those perishing wateis, a thiist of ficicc but will no more.
fever, lone. What didst thou see f
p'« Hope, love, doubt, desire, which consume PQ. Panthea A woful sight: a youth
him forever. r ' Wlth patient looks nailed to a crucifix.
One came f orl h of pent le woi I h1 !**'• What next t
Smiling on the sanguine earth ; Ptmtofa The heaven around,
His words outlived him, like swift poison the earth below,
Withering up truth, peace, and pity ^Vas pwpled with thick shapes of human
BBO Look! wheie round the wide horizon* death,
Many a million-peopled city All horrible, and wrought by human bands ,
Vomits smoke in the bright an. And ROme appeared the ^ork of human
Mark that outcry of despair I rnA hearts,
fT5s his mild and gentle ghost *90 P»r men were slowly killed by frowns and
5« Wailing for the faith he kindled smiles :
Look again I the flames almost And other sights too foul to speak and live
To a glow-worm's lamp hn\e dwin- ^fere wandering by Let us not tempt
died- worse fear
The survivors round the embers By looking forth • those groans are grief
Gather in dread enough.
560 Joy, joy, joy ' Fury. Behold an emblem • those who do
Past ages crowd on thee, but each one endure
remembers, Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and
And the future is claik, and the piesent m chains, but heap
spread Thousandfold torment on themselves and
Like a pillow of thorns foi thv slnnibprless him.
head Prometheus Remit the anguish of that
lighted stare;
Semichorus I Close those wnn lips; let that ihoni-
_. « . , , « wounded brow
etc ^I^o'WoMy agony flow Sli earn not with blood; it mingles with
665 From his white and qmvenng biow thy tears!
Grant a little respite now: GOO FIX, fix those tortured orbs in peace and
See! a disenchanted nation death
gP™«? J*8 d*T from desolation , So th gick jhrocs shake not (bat crucifi
™ T°Ji?thJltkllliat^I§-??llSt€i < Ro thofie pflle fl"8"» Plfly uot wifh thy
670 And Freedom leads it forth, her mate , goI4
Alegioned band of linked brothers Qh horlib^ , ^ name I ^U not speak-
Whom Love calls children- It hath ^^ ajcurge j ^^ j s(Hf"
„ . ^ TT 6ft6 The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the
SemichorusII
Tis another's • Whom thy slaves hate for being like to
See how kindred murder kin* thee,
'Tis the vintage-time for Death and Sin Some hunted by foul lies from their heart 's
675 Blood, like new wine, bubbles within home,
Till Despair smothers An early-chosen, late-lamented home, ^
The struggling world, which slaves niul As hooded ounces cling to the driven
tyrants win. hind;1,
M» ft« FURIM ««**, except one 1<T^&&?flfi1>iff jfflffij
li kept hooded, or blindfolded, until the i
* A rpfcwncr to rhrl«t IB
PERCY BVSfcHE 011ELL1S7
671
610 Some linked to corpses in unwholesome
cells: •
Some— bear I not the multitude laugh
loud f —
impaled in hngeiing lire and mighty
realms
Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles,
Whose sons are kneaded down in common
blood
61 r> By the red light of then own burn ing-
homes.
Fury. Blood thou canst see, and fho,
and canst hear groans ,
Worse things, unheard, unseen, remain be-
hind.
Prometheus Worse t
Fury In each human heart terror
sun i\es
The rum it has gorged . the loftiest fear
«20 All that they would disdain to think ucie
tine*
Hypocrisy and custom make their minds
The fanes of many a worship, now out-
woi n
They dare not devise good foi man's estate,
• And yet they know not that they do not
* dare *
«2B The pood want power, but to weep ban en
tears
The powerful goodness want . worse need
for them
The wise want lo\e, and those who lo\e
want wisdom ,
And all best things aie thus confused to ill
Many aie shone; and rich, and would lie
just,
fi™ But live among their snffenng fellow-men
As if none felt • they know not what they
do
Prometheus Thy * ords ai e like a cloud
of winged snakes ,
And yet I pity those they toi tuie not
Furu Thou pitiest them? I speak no
1 more ' [ Vanishes
Piometheu* Ah woe'
635 Ah woet Alaal pain, pain ever, forevei !
I close my teailess eyes, but see nioic
clear
Thy woiks within my woe-illumed mind.
Thou subtle tyrant ! Peace is in the giave
The giave hides all things beautiful and
good :
*40 I am a God and cannot find it there,
Nor would I seek it: foi, though diead
re\ enge,
This is defeat, fleice King, not victoi j
The sights with which thou torturest gnd
my soul
With now endiiinnee, till the hour arrives
*45 When they bball be no type* of things
which air.
Panthea. Alas! what sawest thou t
Prometheus. There are two woes—
To speak, and to behold, thon spaic me
one.
Names are there, Nature's sacred watch-
uords, they
Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry ,
6™ The nations, tlnonged mound, and ciied
aloud,
Vs with one voice, Truth, Libeity, and
Love !
Suddenly fierce confusion fell from hea\eii
Among them • there was stufe, deceit, and
fear
T> rants rushed in, and did divide the spoil
fi55 Tins was the shadow of the tiuth I saw
The Earth. I felt thy torture, son, with
such mixed joy
As pain and virtue grve. To cheer thy state
I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits,
Whose homes are the dim caves of human
thought,
fieo And who inhabit, as buds wing the wind,
Us woi Id-sun ounding ether' they behold
Beyond that twilight leahn, as in a glass,
The future- may they speak comfort to
thee!
Panthea Look, sister, where a troop of
spirits gather,
G65 Like flocks of clouds in spring's delight-
f ul weather,
Thronging in the blue an !
lone. And see! moie come,
Like fountain-vapors when the winds are
dumb,
That climb up the ravine in scatteied lines
And haik! is it the music of the pines t
P|7° Is it the lake t Is it the watei fall f
Panthea. 'Tis somet Inn JT sadder, tweet ei
far than all
Chorus of Spmts
Fioin unremembered ages we
Gentle guides and gnaidians be
Of heaven-op pressed mortality;
And we breathe, and sicken not,
The atniospheie of human thought .
Be it dim, and dank, and giay,
Like a storm-extinguished day,
Ti a\ ell 9d o 'er by dying gleams ,
Be it bright as all between
Cloudless skies and windless streams,
Silent, liquid, and serene ;
As the biids within the wind,
As the fish within the wave,
As the thoughts of man 'B own mind
Float through all above the gnne;
__
ff7"'
6gr>
672
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
690
We make there our liquid Ian,
Voyaging clondlike and unpent
Through the boundless element :
Thence we bear the prophecy
Which begins and ends in thee !
lone. More yet come, one by one •
air around them
Looks radiant a* the air around a star.
the
615
700
706
710
715
720
726
730
First Spirit
On a battle-trumpet's blast
I fled hither, fast, fast, fast,
'Mid the darkness upward cast
From the dust of cieeds outworn,
From the tyrant's banner torn,
Gathering 'round me, onward boine,
There was mingled many a cry-
Freedom! Hope' Death' Victory'
Till they faded through the sk\ ,
And one sound, above, around,
One sound beneath, around, abn\c,
Was moving; 'twas the soul of love,
'Twas the hope, the prophec> ,
Which begins and ends in thee
Second Spirit
A rainbow 's arch stood on the «ea,
Which rocked beneath, immovably ,
And the triumphant storm did flee,
Like a conqueror, swift and pioud,
Between,1 with many a capti\e cloud,
A shapeless, dark and lapid crowd,
Each by lightning nven in hall
1 heard the thunder hoarsely laugh
Mighty fleets were strewn like chaff
And spread beneath a hell of death
0 'er the white watei 8. I aht
On a great ship lightning-split,
And speeded hither on the sigh
Of one who gave an enemy
His plank, then plunged aside to die.
Third Spirit
1 sate beside a sage's bed,
And the lamp was burning red
Near the book where he had fed,
When a Dream with plumes of flame,
To his pillow hovering came,
And I knew it was the same
Which had kindled long ago
Pity, eloquence, and woe ;
And the world awhile below
Wore the shade, its lustre made.
It has borne me here as fleet
AH Desire's lightning feet :
arch and wa
740
745
750
755
I must ride it back ere morrow,
Or the sage will wake in sorrow.
Fourth Spirit
On a poet 'slips I slept
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept ;
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses.
But feeds on the aenal kisses
Of shapes that haunt thought's
wildei nesses.
He will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
Nor heed nor see, what things they be ,
But from these create he can
Foiins more real than living man,
Nurslings of immortality !
One of these awakened me,
And I sped to succor thee.
lone
Behold 'st thou not two shapes from the
east and west
Come, as two doves to one beloved nest,
Twin mu slings of the all-sustaining an
On swift still wings glide down the
atmosphere?
And, hark ' their sweet, sad voices ' 'tis
despair
Mingled with love and then dissolved in
sound.
1'anthea. Canst thou speak, sister T all
my words are drowned
lone Their beauty gives me voice See
how they float
760 On their sustaining wmgb of bkyey giam,1
Change and azure deepening info gold-
Their soft smiles light the air like a star's
flre
Chorus of Spirits
Hast thou beheld the form of Lovet
Fifth Spirit
As over wide dominions
I sped, like some swift cloud that wings
the wide air's wildernesses,
766 That planet-crested Shape swept by on
lightning-braided pinions,
Scattering the liquid joy of life from
his ambrosial8 tresses-
His footsteps paved the world with light;
but as I passed 'twas fading,
And hollow Ruin yawned behind : great
sages bound in madness,
i color
•fflvlnolyboautifol
PERCY BY8BHE SHELLEY 673
And headless patriots, and pale youths Languish, ere yet the responses are mute,
who perished, unupbraidmg, 806 Which through the deep and labyrinthine
770 Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, soul,
till thou, 0 King of sadness, Like echoes through long caverns, wind
Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to and roll.
recollected gladness Prometheus. How fair these an born
shapes ! and yet I feel
Sixth Spirit Most vain all hope but love, and thou art
Ah, sister' Desolation is a delicate thing . 1<ar»
It walks not on the earth, it floats not on M0 *£*} who, when my being overflowed,
the air 81° Wert like a golden chalice to bnght wine
But treads with lulling footstep, and fans Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust.
with silent wing A11 ihine* are stl11- Alw» ! how heavily
"6 The tender hopes which in their hearts This quiet morning weighs upon iny heart ,
the best and gentlest beai , Though I should dream I could even sleep
Who, soothed to false repose by the fan- ,ir T_ , ™tb gnef
ning plumes above If "lumber were denied not. I would fain
And the music-stirring motion of its soft £f what li ifi m,v destiny to be,
and busy feet, The savior and the strength °* suffering
Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the . . man» , ,« * ,
monster Love "r smk mto *"e original gulf of things
And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as fl9n There is no agony, and no solace left,
he whom now we greet Earth can console, Heaven can torment no
more.
Chorus Panthea Hast thou forgotten one who
•76A mi i T> • r tit u watches thee
™ Though Rum now Love's shadow be, The eo,d dark m^t ^ s, b t
Following him, destroyingly, wljen e *
On Ifcatli i '» white and winged steed,' The ^^ of ^ t falfa on herf
Which the fleetest cannot flee, Prometheu,. I said all hope was vain
TK M TranT^ff doW1i 50tl? flTf and W6ed> but Iota • thou lovest
ft .1™ 'th±Sd?11( "25 7Ja"'fc^ ^p^ m trath; but thc east-
Like a tempest through the air, ern ^&r lo(|lu> whlte
Thou (.halt quelH this horseman gi un, A d ju™ waifs m that far Indian vale
Woundless thoi^-h in heart or limb. jft^ ^^" mSd oiee
^ . 0 A i t i ,1 And desolate and frozen, like this ra\nne;
Prometheus Spmts' how know ye this But now im&tieA mih 'fair flowers ftncj
shall beT herbs>
83° And haunted by sweet airs and sounds,
which flow
TOO Tn the atmosphere we breathe, Among the woods and waters, from the
As buds grow red when the snow-storms ether
flee, Of her tiansforrmng piesence, which
From Spring gathering up beneath, would fade
Whose mild winds shake the elder-brake,3 If it were mingled not with thine Fare-
And the wandering herdsmen know well '
WB That the white-thorn soon will blow :
Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, ACT II
When they struggle to increase, SoBNE T -Morning A lovely Vale m the
Are to us as soft winds be Indian Ca^ agm AgIA alone
To shepherd boys, the prophecy
800 Which begins and ends in thee Asia Fi nm all the blasts of heaven thou
hast descended
lone Where are the Spirits fled t Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which
Panthea Only a sense makes
Remains of them, like the omnipotence Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes,
Of music, when the inspired voice and lute And beatings haunt the desolated heart,
thoa
674
NINKTtitiNTli I'UNTUJtY ROMANTICISTS
Cradled m tempests, tbou dost wake, 0
Spring!
0 child of many winds* As suddenly
Thou comrot as the memory of a dream,
Which now is sad because it hath been
sweet;
10 Like genius, or like joy which riseth up
As from the earth, clothing with golden
clouds
The desert of oui life
This is the season, thu> the day, the houi ,
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sinter
mine,1
16 Too long desired, too long delaying, come1
How like death-worms the wingless mo-
ments crawl '
The point of one white star is quivenng
still
Deep in the orange light of widening morn
Beyond the purple mountains- through a
chasm
30 Of wind-divided uiist the darker lake
Reflects it now it wanes it gleams again
As the waves fade, and as the burning
threads
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air
'Tis lost ' and through yon peaks of cloud-
like snow
23 The loseate sunlight quivers hear I not
The ^Eohan miiMC of her sea-green plumes
Winnowing the crimson dawn T
[PANTHLA enters
I feel, 1 see
Those eyes which burn through smiles that
fade in tears,
Like stars half-quenched m mists of silver
dew.
30 Beloved and most beautiful, who wearest
The shadow of that soul3 by which I
live,
How late thou art! the sphered sun had
climbed
The hea; my heart was sick with hope,
before
The priutless air felt thy belated plumes
SB Panthea Pardon, great sisteH but my
wings weie faint
With the delight of a remembered dream,
As are the noontide plumes of summer
winds
Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to
sleep
Peacefully, and awake refreshed and calm
*° Before the sacred Titan's fall and thy
Unhappy love had made, through use and
Ah they bad grouii to thine erewhile I
alept
Under the glaucous1 caverns of old Ocean
46 Within dim bowers of green and purple
Both love and woe familiar to my heart
iPanthea
floul of Prom*th«jn
Our young J one's soft and milky aims
Locked then, as now, behind my dark, moist
hair,
While my shut eyes and cheek weie pressed
within
The folded depth of her life-breathing
bosom :
r'° But not as now, since I am made the wind
Which fails beneath the music that 1 beai
Of thy most wordless converse, since dis-
solved
Into the sense with which lote talks, my
rest
Was troubled and yet sweet; my waking
hours
55 Too full of caie and pain
ASM. Lift up thine e>t*s
And let me lead thy dream.
Panthea As I ha\e said
With our sea-bister at his feet 1 slept
The mountain mists, condensing at oui
voice
Under the moon, had spiead then MIOW^
flakes,
*° From the keen ice shielding our linked
sleep
Then two dream* came One, I remember
not
But in the othei his pale wound-worn limbs
Fell from Prometheus, and the axure night
Giew radiant with the glory of that form
65 Which lives unchanged within, and his
\oice fell
Like music whuli makes giddy the dim
biam,
Faint with intoxication of keen joy •
"Sister of her whose footsteps pave the
world
With loveliness— more fair than aught but
her,
70 Whose shadow thou art— lift thine eyes on
me"
I lifted them: the o\ei powering light
Of that immortal shape was shadowed
o'er
By love; which, from his soft and flowing
limbs,
And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint
eyes,
75 Steamed forth like \apormiR fire, an at-
mosphere
green (Oliuciw wan a ** god, orlg-
Inally a flaberman, who hemim* Immortal by
tilting magic wa-w )
PERCY BYSfcllti 81IKLLKY 575
Which \viapped me in its all-dibhoh ing ll3 Con ti acted to two cncleb undeiueath
power, Their long, Hue Jashes, daik, far, measure-
As the wuiui utlier of the inoiuiug sun less,
Wrap&eie il chiukb some cloud ot wandei- Oib within oib, and lino tli rough line in-
ing dew. wo\eii.
I saw nut, heard nut, moved not, only loll Pantlu a. Why lookest thou as if a spirit
80 IIis presence flow and mingle through in> passed!
blood Asia. Tlicie is a change, beyond their
Till it became his hie, and Ins giew mine, inmost depth
And I was thus absoibed, until it passed, 12° I see a shade, a shape 'tis he, anayed
And like the vupois when the &un sinks In (he suit light ol his own smiles, \\hiuh
down, spiead
Gathering again in diops upon the pines, Like ladiance 1'iom the cloud-suiioundcd
86 And ti emulous as they, in the deep nigh I moon.
My being wab condensed, and as the ia>s 1'ionietheus, it is thine! depart not yet r
Of thought were slowly gatheied, 1 rould Say not those smiles that we shall meet
hear again
His voice, m hose accents lingeied eie tlie\ 12C Withni that blight pimhou which then
died beams
Like iootsteps of weak melody tli^ n.inie Shall build on the waste woildT The
90 Among the mun> sounds alone 1 licaul dream is told.
Of what niiiiht be ailiculate, thoiiuli still What sha]>e is that between us! Its rude
1 listened tliiougli the night ulii'ii MUIIK] hail
was none. lioughens the Hind that lifts it, its regaid1
lone wakened then, and said to me Is \i ild and quick, yet 'tis a thmp: of air,
"Canst thou dnuie what troubles me to- n« Koi thiough its giay lobe gleams the
ing lit ? golden dew
9& I always knew what I desired beioie, Whose stars the noon has quenched not.
Noi ever iound delight to wish m \nm Dream. . Follow' Follow!
But now I cannot tell thee what 1 seek , Panthea. It is mine other dieam
I know not; something sweet, since it is Asia. It disappeais.
sweet I'anthea. It passes now into my mind.
E% en to desire ; it is thy sport, false sistt-i , Methough t
100 Thou hast di&cineied some enchantment As uo sate heie, the flonei -infolding
old, buds
AVhose spells lia\e stolen mv spnit as I 1 r» Buisi tin jon light u ing-blasted almond-
slept tiee,
And mingled it with thine im milieu just When swift fiom the uhite Seytluan wil-
now deinesg
We kissed, T felt within thy paited lips A itmd swept forth ui inkling the Karth
The sweet an that sustained me, and the \\ith frost'
\\aimth . I looked, and all the blossoms were blown
i°<> Of the life-blood, foi loss of which 1 faint, down;
Quivered between oui interim miiitr anus " But on each leaf \vas stamped, as the blue
1 answeied not, for the Eastein siai !>iew bells
pale, IID Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's wntten gnef,2
But fled to thee OH, FOLLOW, FOLLOW !
At>ia Thou speakest, but tli> woids A*ia. As you speak, >our words
Are as the an* T feel them not Oh, lift Fill, pause b> pause, my own forgotten
HO Thine e\(s, Hint I may read his wntten sleep
soul! With shapes Met bought among these
Panthea. 1 lift them though they droop lawns together
beneath the load We wandeied, underneath the young gray
Of that they would express; what canst dawn,
thou see 145 And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds
But thine own fairest shadow imaged xiook;aHpcct
there? * The ' Intorjpctlon 41 (ww), thought to be
Tlnne eyes aw like Ihe deep, bine, jMJjfc «gn»'tffWyf
boundless heaven d^ntnflv Jcilloci by Apollo
676
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Were wandering in thick flocks along the
mountains
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind,
And the white dew on the new-bladed
185
Just piercing the daik earth, hung silently ,
160 And there was more which I remember
not:
But on the shadows of tlje morning clouds,
Athwart the purple mountain slope, was
TH ritten
FOLLOW, OH, FOLLOW! as they vanished
by;
And on each heib, f 1*0111 which Heaven's
dew had fallen,
163 The like was stamped, as with a withering
fire,
A wind arose among; the pines , it shook
The clinging music from their boughs, and
then
Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell
of ghosts,
Were heard OH, FOLLOW, FOLLOW, FOL-
LOW HE!
"0 And then I said : "Panthea, look on me "
But in the depth of those beloved eyes
Still I saw, FOLLOW, FOLLOW !
Echo. Follow, follow1
Panthea. The crags, this clear spunir
morning, mock our voices
As they were spiut-tongned
Amu It is some being
1W Around the crags What fine clear sounds f
Oh list i
Echoes (unseen)
Echoes we • listen '
We cannot staj .
As dew-stars glisten
Then fade away—
Child of Ocean!
190
145
200
205
170
ITS
ISO
ASM. Hark* Spirits speak. The liquid
responses
Of their aerial tongues yet sound.
Panthea I hear.
Echoes
Oh, follow, follow,
As our voice recedeth
Through the caverns hollow,
Where the forest spreadeth;
(More distant) '
Oh, follow, follow!
Through the caverns hollow,
As the song floats thou pursue,
Where the wild bee never flew,
Through the noontide darkness deep,
By the odor-breathing sleep
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves
At the fountain -lighted caves,
While our music, wild and sweet,
Modes thy gently falling feet,
Child of Ocean !
Asia. Shall we pursue the sound f It
grows more faint and distant.
Panthea. List ! the strain floats nearer
now.
Echoes
In the world unknown
Sleeps a voice unsi>oken ,
By thy step alone
Can its rest be broken ,
Child of Ocean '
Asia. How the notes sink upon the
ebbing wind !
Echoes
Oh, follow, follow »
Through the «>u\eins hollow,
As the song floats thou pursue,
By the woodland noontide dew ,
By the forest, lakes, and fountains,
Through the many-folded mountains,
To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms.
Where the Earth reposed from spasms,
On the day when he and thou
Parted, to commingle now.
Child of Ocean '
Asia. Come, sweet Panthea, link thy
hand in mine,
And follow, ere the \oices fade away
SCENE II.— A Forest, intermingled with
Bocks and Caverns. ASIA and PANTHKA
pass into it. Two young Fauns are sit-
ting on a Rock listening
Semichorus I of Spirits
The path through which that lovely twain
Have passed, by cedai, pine, and yew,
And each daik tree that ever grew,
Is curtained out fiom Heaven's wide
blue;
; Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain,
Can pierce its interwoven bowers,
Nor aught, save where some cloud of
dew,
Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze,
Between the trunks of the hoar trees,
PEBCY BY88HE BHELLKY
677
-°
Hangs each a pearl in the pale 5B
flowers
Of the green laurel, blown anew,
And bends, and then fades silently,
One frail and fair anemone :
Or when some star of many a one
That climbs and wanders through steep
Hab found the cleft through which alone
Beams fall from high those depths upon
Ere it is borne away, away,
By the swift Heavens that cannot stay,
It scatters drops of golden light,
Like lines df rain that ne'er unite*
And the gloom divine is all around,
And underneath is the mossy ground.
Semuhonts II
There the voluptuous nightingales,
26 Are awake thi ough a 11 the hi oad noon-
day.
When one with bliss or sadness fails
And through the windless nj-
boughs,
Sick with sweet love, dioops dying
away
On its mate's music-panting bosom ;
30 Another fiom the swinging blossom,
Watching1 to catch the languid clot*
Of the last strain, then lifts on high
The wings of the weak melody
Till some new strain of feeling bear
85 The song, and all the woods ui e mute ,
When there is heard tluough the dim
air
The rush of wings, and using- theie
Like many a lake-surrounded flute,
Sounds overflow the listenei 's brain
*° So sweet, that joy is almost pain.
Semichoius I
Theie those enchanted eddies plav
Of echoes, nmsir-tongued, which diaw,
By Demogorgon's mighty law.
With melting rapture, or sweet awe,
45 All spirits on that secret waj ,
As inland boats are dnven to Ocean
Do* n streams made strong with moun-
tain-thaw:
And first there comes a gentle sound
To those in talk or slumber bound.
M And wakes the destined soft emo
tion,-
Attracte, impels them; those who saw
Say from the breathing earth behind
There steams a plume-uplifting wind
Which drives them on their path, while
they
Believe their own swift wings and feet
The sweet desires within obey:
And so they float upon their way,
Until, still sweet, but loud and strong,
The storm of sound is dnven along,
60 Sucked up and hurrying: as they fleet
Behind, its gathenng billows meet
And to the fatal mountain1 bear
Like clouds amid the yielding air.
First Faun. Canst thou imagine where
those spirits live
65 Which make such delicate music in the
woods f
We haunt within the least frequented caves
And closest coverts, and we know these
wilds,
Yet ne\er meet them, though we hear them
oft:
Where may they hide themselves f
Second Faun. 'Tis hard to tell :
70 I have heard those more skilled in spirits
say,
The bubbles, which the enchantment of the
sun
Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers
that pave
The oozy bottom of clear lakes and pools,
Are the pavilions where such dwell and
float
73 Under the green and golden atmospheie
Which noontide kindles through the woven
leaves ;
And when these burst, and the thin fiery
air,
The which they bieathed within those
lucent domes,
Ascends to flow like meteors through the
night,
80 They rule on them, and rein their headlong
speed,
And bow their burning crests, and glide m
fire
Under the waters of the earth again.
First Faun. If such live thus, luue
others other lives,
Under pink blossoms or within the bells
85 Of meadow flowers, or folded violets deep,
Or on their dying odors, when they die,
Or in the sunlight of the sphered de\\ t
Second Faun. Ay, many more which
we may well divine
But, should we stay to speak, noontide
would come,
90 And thwart" Silenus find his goats un-
drawn,
i The mountain at which Atta and Panthea ar-
rive In the next wne
'perverse; stubborn
678
NINETEENTH CENTUM Y KOMA&TIC18T8
And grudge to tsmg those wu»e and lovely
songs
Of Fate, and Chance, and God, and Chaos
old,
And Love, and the chained Titan's woful
doom,
And how he shall be loosed, and make the
earth
96 One brotherhood: delightful strains which
cheer
Our solitary twilights, and which charm
To silence the unenvying nightingales.
SCENE III— A Pinnacle of Rock among
Mountains. ASIA and PASTHEA
Panthea. Hither the sound has boine
us— to the realm
Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal,
Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm.
Whence the oracular vapor is hurled up
6 Which lonely men drink wandering in
their youth,
And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or joy,.
That maddening wine of life, whose dregs
they dram
To deep intoxication; and uplift,
Like Maenads who cry loud, Evoe ' E\ <* "
10 The voice which is contagion to the woild
Asia. Fit throne for such a Power1
Magnificent!
How glorious art thon, Earth! And it
thoube
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still,
Though evil stain its work, and it should
be
18 Like its creation, weak yet beautiful,
I could fall down and worship that and
thee.
Even now my heart adoreth. Wonderful '
Look, sister, ere the vapor dim thy bram
Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist,
80 As a lake, paving in the morning sky,
With azure waves which burst in silver
light,
Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on
Under the curdling wind*, and islanding
The peak whereon we stand, midway,
around,
28 Xncinctured by the dark and blooming
forests,
Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illumined
caves,
And wind-enchanted shapes of wandei-
ing mist;
And far on high the keen sky-cleaving
mountains
From icy spires of sun-like radiance fling
IA Bacchanalian exclamation.
The- <la\\ii, a* hiled Ocean's dazzling
Firm bume Atlantic islet scattered up,
Spangles the wind with lamp-like watei-
dvops
The vale is girdled \\itli then walls, a
howl
Of cat ai acts fimu tlien thau-clo\en la-
vines,
3r' Satiates the listening wind, continuous,
\ast,
Awhil as silence Hnik1 the iiishin?
snow !
The sun-awakened a valance! whose mass,
Tin ice ufted by the htoim, had patheied
theie
Flake after flake, in IUM\ en-defying
minds
40 AH thought by thought is piled, till some
great tinth
Is loosened, and the nations echo lound,
Shaken to their roots, as do the moun-
tains no\\
Paitthea. Look h<w tlio gnstt\ st»«i ot
mi&t is bieakin«:
In crimson foam, e\en at out f eot f it
rises
45 As Ocean at the enchantment of the momi
Round foodless men wiecked on sonn>
oozy isle
Asia. The fragments of the cloud au*
scattered up,
The wind that lifts them discnl wines m\
hair;
Its billows now sweep oVi mine eyes; m\
brain
50 Oiows dizzy; I see shapes within the inist
Panthea A countenance \iilh beckon-
ing smiles theie bums
An azure fire within its golden locks1
Another and another hark! they speak'
Song of Spints
To the deep, to the deep,
f B Down, down I
Through the shade of sleep,
Through the cloudy strife
Of Death and of Life;
Through the veil and the bar
*0 Of things which mem and aie
Even to the steps of the remotest throne,
Down, down!
While the sound whirls around,
Down, down !
65 As the fawn draws the hound,
As the lightning the vapor,
As the weak moth the taper,
Death, despair; love, sorrow;
PEBCY BYStiHE BHELLEY
679
7U
75
Time both; today, tomorrow;
As bteel obeys the spirit of the stone,
Down, down!
Through the gray, void abysm,
Down, down !
Where the air is no prism,
And the moon and stars are not,
And the ca\ era-crags wear not
The radiance of Heaven,
Nor the gloom to Earth given,
Where there is one pervading, one
alone,
** Down, down!
In the depth of the deep,
Down, down!
Like veiled lightning asleep,
Like the spark nursed in embers,
* The last look Love remembers,
Like a diamond, which shines
On the daik wealth of mines,
A spell is treasuied but for thee alone.
Down, down!
90 We Lave bound thee, we guide thee ;
Down, down !
With the bright 1'oini beside thee,
Resist not the weakness,
Such strength is in meekness
96 That the Eternal, the Iinmoital,
Must unloose through life's portal
The snake-like Doom coiled underneath
his throne
By that alone.
SCENE IV —The Cave of Demogorgon.
ASIA and PANTHEA.
Pantliea What veiled form sits on
that ebon throne 9
Asia The veil has fallen
Pantile a I see a mighty darkness
Filling the seat of power, and rays of
gloom
Dait lounri, as light from the meridian
sun
5 Ungazed upon and shapeless, neither limb,
Nor form, nor outline, \et we feel it is
A living Spit it.
Demogorgon Aide what thou wouldst
know
\sta. What ennst thou tellt
Dcmogoigou. All things thou dar'st
demand.
Asia. Who made the living world T
Demogorgon. God.
Ana. Who made all
10 That it contains? thought, pawion, reason,
will.
Imagination 1
Demogorgon. God: Almighty God.
Ana. Who made that sense which,
when the winds of spring
In rarest visitation, or the voice
Of one beloved heard in youth alone,
15 Fills the faint eyes with falling tears
which dim
The radiant looks of unbowailing flowers,
And leaves this peopled earth a solitude
When it returns no morel
Demogorgon. Merciful God
Asia. And who made terror, madness,
crime, remorse,
20 Which form the links of the great chain
of things,
To every thought within the mind of man
Sway and drag heavily, and each one reels
Under the load towards the pit of death
Abandoned hope, and love that turns to
hate;
26 And self-contempt, bitterer to drink than
blood,
Pain, whose unheeded and familiar speech
Is howling, and keen shucks, day after
day;
And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell?
Demogorgon. He reigns.
Ana Utter his name; a world pining
in pain
80 Asks bat his name; curses shall drag him
down.
Demogorgon He reigns.
Asia. I feel, I know it1 who!
Demogorgon He reigns
Asia Who reigns T There was the
Heaven and Earth at first,
And Light and Love; then Saturn, from
whose throne
Time fell, an envious shadow: such the
state
35 Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his
sway,
As the calm joy of flowers and living
leaves
Before the wind or sun lias witheied them
And ficmiwtal worms, but he refund
The birthright of then being, knovledjre,
power,
40 The skill which wields the elements, the
thought
Which pierces this dim universe like light,
Self-empire, and the majesty of love;
For thirst of which they fainted Then
Prometheus
Gave wisdom, which is strength, to Ju-
piter,
45 And with this law alone, "Let man be
free/1
680
NINETEENTH QBNTUBY BOMANTICISTB
Clothed him with the dominion ol wide
Heaven.
To know nor faith, nor love, nor law ; to be
Omnipotent but fnendleas/is to reign;
And Jove now reigned, tor on the race
of man
W First famine, and then toil, and then dis-
ease,
Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen
before,
Fell; and the unreasonable seasons drove
With alternating shafts of frost and
fire,
Their shelterless, pale tribes to mountain
caves1
w And in their desert hearts fierce wants he
sent,
And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle
Of unreal good, which levied mutual war,
So ruining the lair wherein they raged
Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned
hopes
M Which sleep within folded Elysian flowers,
Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth,1 fadeless
blooms,
That they might hide with thin and rain-
bow wings
The shape of Death ; and Love he sent to
bind
The disunited tendrils of that vine
66 Which bears the wine of life, the human
heart;
And he tamed fire which, like some beast
of prey,
Most terrible, but lovely, played beneath
The frown of man; and tortured to his
will
Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of
power,
70 And gems and poisons, and all subtlest
forms
Hidden beneath the mountains and the
waves.
He gave man speech, and speech created
thought,
Which is the measure of the universe;
And Science struck the thrones of earth
and heaven.
76 Which shook, but fell not, and the har-
monious mind
Ponied itself forth hi all-prophetic song,
And music lifted up the listening spirit
Until it walked, exempt from mortal ear* ,
i Nepenthe wan a magic draff which ctuned for-
KetfnlneM of sorrow (Oft/fluy, 4, 221), Molv
wan the herb riven by HermPB to (T
to counteract the apella of Circe (C
10, 302 ff) Amaranth wan an
flower »mpp™«Ml ne\er to fade
Lort, 8, Bftftff).
Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet
sound ;
80 And human hands first mimicked and then
mocked,
With moulded limbs more lovely than its
own,
The human form, till marble grew divine;
And mothers, gazing, drank the love men
see
Reflected m their race, behold, and perish.
86 He told the hidden power of herbs and
springs,
And Disease drank and slept. Death
grew like sleep.
He taught the implicated1 orbits woven
Of the wide-wandering stars; and how
the sun
Changes his lair, and by what secret spell
90 The pale moon is transformed, when her
broad eye
Gazes not on the mterlunar2 sea
lie taught to rule, as life directs the hmbb,
The tempest-winged chariots of the Ocean,
And the Celt knew the Indian Cities then
95 Were built, and through their snow-like
columns flowed
The warm winds, and the azure ether
shone,
And the blue sea and shadowy hills weie
seen.
Such, the alleviations of his state,
Prometheus gave to man, for which he
hangs
100 Withering in destined pain but who rains
down
Evil, the immedicable plague, which, while
Man looks on his creation like a Ood
And sees that it is glorious, drives him on,
The wreck of his own will, the scorn of
earth,
105 The outcast, the abandoned, the alone 1
Not Jo\e- while yet his frown shook
heaven, ay, when
His adversary from adamantine chains
Cursed him, he trembled like a slave
Declare
Who is his master f Is he too a slave t
110 Demogorgon. All spirits are enslaved
which serve things evil:
Thou knowest if Jumter be such or no
Ana. Whom calledst them Gfodf
Demogorgon. I spoke but as ye speak,
For Jove is the supreme of living things
Ana Who is the master of the slave T
Demogorgon If the abywn
115 Could vomit forth its secrets— but a voicr
•TTiat lOn the Interval between the old moon
and the no*
PEBCY BY8SHE BHELLEY
681
IB wanting, the deep truth is imageless;
For what would it avail to hid thee gaze
On the revolving world t What to bid
apeak
Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and Change!
To these
180 All things arc subject but eternal Love
Asia. So much 1 asked before, and
my heart gave
The response thou hast given ; and of such
truths
Each to himself must be the oracle
One more demand, and do thou answer
me
126 As mine own soul would answer, did it
know
That which I ask Prometheus shall arise
Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing world :
When shall the destined hour arrive?
Demogorgon Behold f
Asia. The locks are cloven, and
through the purple mght
130 j <*ee cars diawn by rainbow-winged
Bleeds
Which tiample the dim winds; in each
there stands
A wild-eyed chauoteei urging their flight
Some look behind, as fiends pursued them
there,
And yet 1 see no shapes but the keen
stars
185 Others, with burning eyes, lean forth,
and dnnk
With eager lips the wind of their own
speed,
As if the thing they lo\ed fled on before,
And now, e\en now, they clasped it.
Their bright looks
Stream like a comet's flashing hair, they
all
Sweep onward
140 Demogorgon These are the immortal
Hours,
Of whom thou didst demand. One waits
for thee.
Asia A spirit with a dreadful coun-
tenance
Checks its dark chariot by the craggy
gulf
Unlike thy brethren, ghastly charioteer,
l« Who ait ihout Whither wouldst thou
bear met Speak I
Spmt, I am the Shadow of a destiny
More dread than is my aspect; ere yon
planet
Hnfl Ret, the darkness which ascends with
me
Shall wrap in lasting night heaven's
knij?!esR throne
160 Asia. What meanest thont ,
Pauthea. That terrible Shadow floats
Up from its throne, as may the lurid
smoke
Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the sea.
Lo' it ascends the car, the coursers fly
Tei lifted, watch its path among the stars
Blackening the night '
155 Asia Thus I am answered strange!
Panthea See, near the verge, another
chariot stays;
An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire,
Which comes and goes within its sculp-
tured rim
Of delicate strange tracery; the young
Spirit
160 That guides it has the dove-like eyes of
hope,
How its soft smiles attract the soul! as
light
Lures winged insects through the lampless
air.
Spint
My coursers are fed with the lightning,
They dnnk of the whirlwind fs stream,
And when the red morning is bnght-
'nmg
They bathe in the fresh sunbeam,
They ha\e strength for their swift-
ness I deem,
Then ascend with me, daughter of
Ocean.
166
I desire— and their speed makes night
kindle,
170 I fear— they outstrip the typhoon;
Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can
dwindle,
We encircle the earth and the moon.
We shall rest from long labors at
noon:
Then ascend with me, daughter of
Ocean.
SCENE V —The Car pauses within a Cloud
on the top of a snowy Mountain. ASIA,
PANTHEA, and the SPIRIT OF THE HOUR.
Spmt
On the brink of the night and the
morning
My coursers are wont to respire,
But the Earth has just whispered a
warning
That their flight must be swifter than
fire:
* They shall drink the hot speed of
desire!
682
NINETEENTH CUM TUB V BDMANT101BT»
Asia. Thou breathes! on their nostrils,
but my breath
Would give them swifter speed.
Sptnt. Alas* it could not.
Panthea. 0 Spint! pause, and tell
whence is the light
Which fills this cloud f the bun IB yet
un risen.
10 Sptnt. The sun will rise not until
noon. Apollo
Is held in heaven by wonder; and the light
Which fills this vapor, as the aerial hue
Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water,
Flows from thy mighty sister.
Panthea. Yes, I feel-
15 Asia. What is it with thee, sister!
Thou art pale.
Panthea. How thou art changed* T
dare not look on thee,
I feel but jsee thee not. I scarce endure
The radiance of thy beauty Some good
change
Is working in the elements, winch suffer
20 Thy presence thus umeiled. The Nereids
tell
That on the day when the clear hyaline1
Was cloven at thine uprise, and thou
didst stand
Within a veined shell, which floated on
Over the calm floor of the crystal sea\
25 Am one: the ./Etgean isles, and by the shores
Which bear thy name,— love, like the at-
mosphere
Of the sun's fire filling the living world,
Burst from thee, and illumined earth and
heaven
And the deep ocean and the sunless caves
so And all that dwells within them, till gnef
cast
Eclipse upon the soul from which it
came*
Such art thou now; nor is it I alone,
Thy sister, thy companion, thine own
chosen one,
But the whole world which seeks thy
sympathy.
85 Hearest thou not sounds i' the air which
speak the love
Of all articulate beings Y Feelest thou not
The inanimate winds enamoured of theef
List! [Music.
Asia. Thy words are sweeter than
aught else but his
Whose echoes they are: yet all love is
sweet,
40 Given or returned. Common as light is
love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
(a poetic tram)
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining
air,
It makes the reptile equal to the God .
They who inspire it most are fortunate,
46 As I am now; but those who leel it most
Are happier still, after long bufferings,
As I shall soon become.
Panthea List ! Spirits sjwak
Voice in the Air, singing
Life of Life! thy lips enkindle
With their love the breath between
them;
60 And thy smiles befoie the^ dwindle
Make the cold air fire; then screen
them
In those looks, whete whoso gazes
Faints, entangled in their mazes
Child of Light! thy limbs aie binning
Through the \est which seems to hide
them,
As the ladiant lines of morning
Through the clouds ere th<»v <li\i<l<
them;
And this atmosphere dixinest
Shrouds thee wheresoe'ei thon shmest
Fair aie others, none beholds thee,
But thv voice sounds low and lemlei
Like the fanest, i'oi it folds thee
From the sight, that liquid spleurioi.
And all feel, yet see thee never,
As I feel now, lost forever!
Lamp of Earth f uheie'ei thou moves!
Its dim shapes ate clad with bright-
ness,
And the souls of whom thou Invest
Walk upon the winds with lightness.
Till they fail, as I am failing,
Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing*
65
70
Asia
My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet smetfng :
75 And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside a helm conduct mg it
Whilst all the winds with inelod> me
ringing.
It seems to float ever, forever,
Upon that many-winding river,
80 Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses!
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around.
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading
sound
PEBCY BYSSHK SHELLS
683
86 Meanwhile thy spmt lifts its pinions
Ju music's most seiene dominions,
Catching the winds that tan that happy
heaven.
And we sail on, away, afar,
Without a com Be, without a star,
**° But, by the inbtinct oi! sweet music driven ,
Till through Eiybian garden islets
By tbee, most beautiful of pilots
Where never mortal pinnace glided,
The boat of my desire is guided
96 Realms where the air we hi eat he is lo\e,
Which m the winds and on the w«i\es dnth
move,
Harmonizing this eaith with uhat we feel
above.
We hate passed Age's icy caves,
And Manhood's dark and tossing waves,
100 And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to
betray •
Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee
Of shadow-peopled Infancy,
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner
day;
A paradise of vaulted bowers,
lor> Lit by rlownwaid-gazmg flowers,
And watery paths that wind between
Wildernesses calm and green,
Peopled by shapes too bright to see,
And rest, haxmu; beheld; somewhat like
thee;
110 Which walk upon the sea, and chant
melodiously f
ACT III
SCENE I —Heaven JUPITER on Ins
Throne; THETIS anrf Hie other
Deities assembled.
Jitpiter. Ye congiegated powers of
heaven, who share
The glory and the stiength of him >e
serve,
Kejoice1 hencet'oith ] am omnipotent
All else had been subdued to me. alone
r> The soul of tyian, like une\tinguished ihe.
Yet bums town ids heaven wiih fieice re-
])ionch and doubt,
And lamentation, and reluctant pi aver,
Hulling up insuriection, which might
make
Our antique empire insecure, though built
10 On eldest faith, and hell's ooexal, fear;
And thousrh my curses through the pen-
dulous air,
Like snow on herbless peaks, fall flake by
flake,
And cling to it f though under my wiath 's
night
It climb the crags of life, step atter
step,
15 Which wound it, as ice wounds unsan-
dalled feet,
It yet remains supreme o'er misery,
Aspiring, unrepressed, yet soon to fall .
Even now ha\e I begotten a shange
wondei,
That fatal child, the terror of the 'earth,
20 Who waits but till the destined hour ai-
n\e,
Beanng from Demogorgon's vacant throne
The dieadful might cf ever-living limbs
Which clothed that awful spirit unbeheld,
To redesceud, and trample out the
spaik.
2"J Pour ioith heaven's wine, Idiean Gany-
mede,
And let it fill the dvdal1 cups like fire,
And from the flower-inwoven soil divine,
Ye all-triumphant harmonies, arise,
Vs dew from eaith under the twilight
stars
30 Hi ink ' be the nectar circling through your
veins
The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods,
Till exultation buist in one wide voice
Like music fiom Elysian winds.
And thou
Ascend beside me, veiled in the light
35 Of the desire which makes thee one with
me,
Thetis, bright image of eternity!
When thou didst cry/ 'Insuffei able might f
Uodf Spaie mef I sustain not the quick
flames,
The penetrating presence, all my being,
40 Like him whom the Numidian seps did
tha*
Into a dew with poison,2 is dissolved,
Sinking through its foundations,1' e\en
then
Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a
third
Mightier than either, which, unbodied
now,
<"' Between us floats, felt, although unbeheld.
Waiting the incarnation, which ascends.
(Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wheels
(Jiidincr* the winds*) from Oemogorgon's
throne. s
Victory! victory' Feel'st thou not, 0
world,
1 marrelouily formed
* Th* soldier Ha bell us, who died from the bite of
a wva kind of poisonou* serpent SPO I.m'-
anN Pfcarmffa, 9, TOR ff.
684
N1NKTKKNTI1 CENTURY KOMANT1CIBTS
50 The earthquake of his chariot thundering
up
Olympus T
[The Car of the HOUR amvc*.
DEMOGOBGON descends, and moves
towards the Throne of JUPITBB
Awful shape, what ait thouf Speak1
Demogotgon. Eternity Demand no
dnei name.
Descend, and follow me down the abyss
1 am thy child, as thou wert Saturn's
child;
66 Mightier than thee' and we must dwell
together
Henceforth in darkness. Lift thy light-
nings not.
The tyranny of hea\en none may retain,
Or reassnme, or hold, succeeding thee:
Yet if thou wilt, as 'tis the deBtm>
60 Of trodden worms to writhe till they aie
dead,
Put forth thy might
Jupiter. Detested prodigy'
E\en thus beneath the deep Titaman
prisons1
I trample thee! Thoulingerestf
Mercy* mercy f
No pity, no release, no lespitel Oh,
65 That thou wouldst make mine enemy my
judge,
Even wheie he hangs, seared by my long
revenge,
On Caucasus! he would not doom me thus
Gentle, and just, and dieadless, is he not
The monarch of the world f What then
art thout
No refuge! no appeal!
70 % Sink with me then,
We two will sink on the wide waves of
ruin,
Even as a Milture and a snake outspent
Drop, twisted in inextricable fight,
Into a shoreless sea Let hell unlock
76 Its mounded oceans of tempestuous fiie,
And whelm on them into the bottomless
void
This desolated woi Id, and thee. and me,
The conqueror and the conquered, and the
wreck
Of that for which they combated.
Aif Ai»
80 The elements obey me not I sink
Dizzily down, ever, forever, down.
And, like a cloud, mine enemy above
Darkens my fall with victory' Ai, Aif
'When the Titans were overcome by Jupiter,
they were imprisoned In an abyss a
tame, the lowest portion of Hade*.
*V m VS.?' *
is below Tar
fwoef woef
SCENE II.— The Mouth of a great Rwer
in the Island Atlantis. OCEAN w dw-
covered reclining near the shore;
APOLLO stands beside him.
Ocean lie fell, thou sayest, beneath
his conqueror's frown f
Apollo. Ay, when the stnfe was ended
which made dim
The orb I rule, and shook the solid stars,
The terrors of his eye illumined heaven
6 With sanguine light, through the thick
ragged skirts
Of the victorious darkness, as he fell •
Like the last glare of day's red agony.
Which, from a lent among the fiery
clouds,
Burns far along the tempest- wnnkled
deep.
10 Ocean. He bunk to the abyss f To the
daik void!
Apollo An eagle so caught in some
bursting cloud
On Caucasus, his thunder-baffled wings
Entangled 111 the \\liulwind, and his e>es
Which ga/ed on the undnzzhng sun, nm\
blinded
15 By the white lightning, while the pon-
derous hail
Beats on bis struggling form, which suik*
at length
Pi one, and the aeiial ice clings ovei it
Ocean Hencef oith the fields of hea\ en-
reflectine; sea
Which are my realm, will hea\e, unstained
with blood,
20 Beneath the uplifting winds, like plains
of corn1
Swayed by the summer an , my streams
will flow
Round many -peopled continents, and
round
Fortunate isles, and from their glassy
thrones
Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs shall
mark
23 The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see
The floating bark of the Jight-laden moon
With that white star, its sightless pilot ^
crest,
Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing sea ;
Tracking their path no more by blood and
groans,
80 And desolation, and the mingled voice
Of slavery and command; but bv the
light
Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating
odorp,
'wheat
PERCY BYbttHE bHELLEY
685
And music soft, and mild, free, gentle
\ oices,
And bweetebl music, such as spints love.
35 Apollo. And 1 shall gaze not on the
deeds which make
My mind obscure with sorrow, as eclipse
Darkens the sphere I guide; but list, I
hear
The small, clear, silver lute of the young
Spirit
That bits i1 the morning star.
Ocean Thou must away ,
40 Thy bleeds will pause at even, till when
farewell
The loud deep calls me home even now to
ieedit
With assure calm out of the emeiald urn's
Which stand forever full beside my throne
Behold the Neieids under the green sea,
i5 Their wavering limbs borne on the wind-
like stream,
Their white aims lifted o'er their stream-
ing hair
With garlands pied and starry sea-flower
crowns,
Hastening to en ace their mighty sister's
joy [A sound of waves ts heard
It is the unpastured sea hungering for
calm.
30 Peace, monster; I come now. Farewell
Apollo Farewell
SCENE III. — Caucasus. PROMETHEUS,
HERCULES, TONE, the EARTH, SPIRITS,
ARIA* and PANTHEA, borne in the Car
M ith lite SPIRIT OF THE HOUR HERCU-
LES unbinds PROMETHEUS, who descends.
Hercules. Most glorious among Spints,
thus doth strength
To wisdom, courage, and long-suffering
love,
And thee, who art the form they animate,
Minister like a slave.
Prometheus. Thy gentle words
5 Are sweeter even than freedom long de-
sired
And long delayed
Asia, thou light of hie,
Shadow of beauty unbeheld ; and ye,
Fair sister nymphs, who made long years
of pain
Sweet to remember, through your love and
care:
H Henceforth we will not part. There is a
cave,
All overgrown with trailing odorous plants
Which curtain out the day with lea VPS nml
flowers,
And paved with veined emerald, and a
fountain
Leaps in the midst with an awakening
sound.
AJ From its curved roof the mountain's
frozen tears
Lake snow, or silver, 01 long diamond spu es,
Hang downwaid, raining forth a doubtful
light,
And there is heard the ever-moving air,
Whispeiing without from tree to tree, and
birds,
20 And bees, and all aiound are mossy seats,
And the lough walls are clothed with long
soft grass ;
A simple dwelling, which shall be our own ,
Where we will sit and talk of time and
change,
As the world ebbs and flows, ouisehes un-
changed.
25 What can hide man from mutability T
And if ye sigh, then T will smile , and thou,
lone, shalt chant fragments of sea-music,
Until I weep, when ye shall smile away
The tears she brought, which yet were
sweet to shed.
30 We will entangle buds and flowers and
beams
Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, and
make
Strange combinations out of common
things,
Like human babes in their brief innocence;
And we will search, with looks and words
of love,
35 For hidden thoughts, each lovelier than the
last,
Our unexhausted spnits; and like lutes
Touched by the skill of the enamored wind,
Weave harmonies divine, yet ever new,
From difference sweet where discord can-
not be;
40 And hither come, sped on the charmed
winds,
Which meet from all the points of heaven,
as bees
From every flower aerial Enna feeds
At their known island-homes in Himera,
The echoes of the human world, which tell
48 Of the low voice of love, almost unheard.
And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, and
music,
Itself the echo of the heart, and all
That tempers or improves man 9s life, now
free;
And lovely apparitions— dim at first,
60 Then radiant, as the mind arising bright
From the embrace of beauty (whence the
forms
686 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Of which these are the phantoms) casts on 90 Circling. Hencefoi th the many children
them iaii
The gathered rays which aie reality— Folded in niy sustaining anus, all plants,
Shall visit us, the piogeny immortal Ami creeping forms, and insects lambow-
66 Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, winged,
And arts, though nnimagined, yet to be. And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human
The wandering voices and the shadows shapes,
these Which diew disease and pam fiom m> wun
Of all that man becomes, the mediators l>oeoin,
Of that best woiship love, by him and us *'r> l)i anting the poison oi despair, shall t«kii
60 Given and le turned, swift shapes and And mtei change sweet nut i mien t, to me
sounds, which glow Shall they become like sistei-nntelopes
Moie fair and soft as man glows wise and Kv one tan dam, sniro -white and swill .is
kind, wind,
And, veil by veil, e\il and eiroi fall Nuised umonu lilies near a briinmnm
Such vntue has the cave and place aiouiid stieam
[Turning to the SPIRIT OP THE HOUR. lml The dew-mists of m\ sunless sleep shall
For thee, fair Spint, one toil icmams float
lone, I ndei the stuis like balm, night -folded
63 One hei that cuived shell,1 which Piotmis floweis
old Shall suck innMt lining hues in then ir
Made Asia's nuptial boon, bieatlung with- l*ose ,
in it And men and hensts in happj dieams shall
A v oice to be accomplished, and \i Inch thou yat hci
Didst hide in grass under the hollow lock St length ioi the coming dov, and .ill iK
lone Thou most desired Hum, mote ,lov ,
loved and lovely 106 And death shall be the last emhiau1 d
70 Than all thy sisteis, tins is the mystic shell . her
See the pale azure fading into silver Who takes tho life she gave, even a- a
Lining it with a soft yet glowing light mother
Looks it not like lulled music sleeping Folding hei child, savs, "Ix»u>e me not
theie! again "
Spirit. It seems in truth the lairest sliell Asia. Oh, mothei f v\hciefoio spenk the
of Ocean name of death ?
?6 itB sound must be at once both sweet and Cease they to love, and move, and bie«ithc,
strange and speak,
Prometheus Go, borne over the cities of 110 Who diet
mankind The baith It would avail not to icplv ;
On wbnlwind-footed coinsers, once again Thou ail immortal, and this tongue i*
Outspeed the sun around the orbed woild , known
And as thy chanot cleaves the kindling But to the uncominunicatnii? dead
air, Death is the veil which those who Ine tall
80 Thou breathe into the many-folded shell, life ,
Loosening its mighty music ; it shall be ^ They sleep, and it is lifted and meann hilc
As thunder mingled with clear echoes* then 11B In mild variety the seasons mild
Return; and thou shall dwell beside oui With rainbow-skirted showeis, and odoious
cave. • winds,
And thou, 0 Mother Earth!— And long blue meteois cleansing the dull
The Earth. I hear, I feel , night,
85 Thy lips are on me, and their touch runs And the life-kindling shafts of the keen
down sun 'B
Even to the adamantine central gloom All-pieicinu bow, and the dew-mmuled iam
Along these marble nerves; 'tis life, 'tis 12° Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence
J°* .. . ._ ""'Id,
through
And through my withered, old, and icy Shall clothe the forests and the fields, ay,
frame ' even
The warmth of nn immortal youth shoot* The crag-built deserts of the barren deep,
down With ever-living leaves, and fnnta, and
1 trumpet flowers
PERCY BYSHHE SHELLEY
687
And then! there is a cavern where my
spirit
125 Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy
pain
Made my heart mad, and those who did
inhale it
Became mad too, and built a temple there,
And spoke, and were oracular, and lured
The emng nations round to mntual.war,
180 And faithless faith, such as Jove kept with
thee;
Which breath now rises, as amongst tall
weeds
A violet 's exhalation, and it fills
With a serener light and crimson an
Interne, yet soft, the rocks and woods
around ;
*8C It feeds the quick growth of the serpent
vine,
And the daik linked i\y tangling wild,
And budding, blown, or odor-faded blooms
Which stai the \vmds with points of col-
ored light,
As they lain through them, and blight
j^olden globes
140 Qf fmit, suspended in their own gieen
heaven,
And through then veined leaves and amber
The flowers whose purple and translucid
bowls
Stand e\er mantling \\ith aenal dew,
The dnnk of spnris; and it circles round,
145 Like the HO ft \vu\ing wings of noonday
di earns,
Jnspning calm and happy thoughts, like
mine,
Now thou ait thus restored. This cave is
thine.
Arise! Appeal!
[A SPIRIT roes in the likeness
of a winged child.
This is my torch-bearer,
Who let his lamp out in old time uith
gazing
160 On eyes from which he kindled it aneu
With love, which is as fire, sweet daughter
mine,
For such is that within thine oun. Run,
wayward,
And guide this company beyond die peak
Of Bacchic Nysa, Mfenad-haunted moun-
tain,
155 And beyond Indus and its tribute nveis,
Trampling the torrent streams and glassy
lakes
With feet unwet, unweaiied. undelaying,
And up the green ravine, across the vale,
Beside the windless and crystalline pool,
160 Where ever lies, on unerasing waves,
The image of a temple, built above,
Distinct with column, arch, and ai chit rave,
And palm-like capital, and over-wrought,
And populous most with living imagery,
166 Piaxiteiean shapes,1 whose maible smiles
Fill the hushed air with everlasting lo\e
It is deserted now, but once it boie
Thy name, Prometheus; there the emulous
youths
Bore to thy honor through the divine gloom
170 The lamp which was thine emblem; even
as those
Who bear the untransnutted torch of hppe
Into the grave, across the night of life,
As thou hast borne it most triumphantly
To this far eroal of Time. Depart, fare-
well.
175 Beside that temple is the destined cave.
SCENE IV.— A Forest. In the Background
a Cave. PROMETHEUS, ASIA, PANTHEA,
IONE, and the SPIRIT OF THK EARTH.
lone. Kistei, if is not earthly, how it
glides
Under the tones! how on its head there
bums
A light, like a gieeii star, uhose emerald
beams
Are twined with its lair haii ' how, as it
moves,
5 The splendoi drops in flakes upon the
glass!
Knowest thou itf
Panthea. It is the delicate spint
That guides the eaith thiough hca\en.
Fioui afar
The populous constellations call that light
The loveliest ot the planets, and some-
times
10 It floats along the spray of the salt sea,
Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud,
Or walks through fields 01 cities \\Iuie men
sleep,
Or o'er the mountain tops, 01 down the
nvers,
Or through the gieeii waste'^ildeinehs as
now,
15 Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove
reigned
It loved our sister Asia, and it came
Each leisuie hour to dunk the liquid light
Out of her eyes, for which it said it thirsted
As one bit by a dipsas,** and with her
* That IB, shapes aft perfect as the statues of
I*m\iteleh, the famous Greek sculptor (5th
» A kind of i?rpent . Its bite caused Intense thirst.
.
Sec Lucan s yfcarsaHa, 9, 610
688 NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
*° It made a childish confidence, and told her Than any voice but thine, sweetest of all;
All it had known or seen, for it saw much, A long, long sound, as it would never end;
Yet idly reasoned what it saw; and called And all the inhabitants leaped suddenly
uei — Out of their rest, and gathered in the
For whence it sprung it knew not, nor streets,
do 1— 60 Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while yet
Mother, dear mothei The music pealed along. I hid myself
The Spirit of the Earth (running to Within a fountain in the public square
ASIA). Mother, dearest mother; Where I lay like the reflex of the moon
** May I then talk with thee as I was wont! Seen in a wave under green leaves; and
May I then hide my eyes in thy soft aims, soon
After thy looks have made them tired of 65 Those ugly human shapes and visages
joyf Of which I spoke as having wrought me
May I then play beside thee the long noons, pain,
When work is none m the bright silent airf Passed floating through the air, and fading
w Asia. I love thee, gentlest being, and still
henceforth Into the windb that scattered them; and
Can cherish thee unenvied Speak, I pray , those
Thy simple talk once solaced, now delights. From whom they passed seemed mild and
Spirit of the Earth. Mother, I am grown lo\ el> f onus
wiser, though a child 70 After some foul disguise had fallen, and
Cannot be wise like thee, within this day ; all
85 And happier too; happier and wiw both Were somewhat changed, and after bnef
Thou knowest that toads, and snakes, and surprise
loathly worms, And greetings of delighted wonder, all
And venomous and malicious beasts, and Went to their sleep again . and when the
boughs dawn
That bore ill berries in the * oods, were evei Came, wonldst thou think that toads, and
An hindrance to my walks o'er the green snakes, and efts,1
world ; 7K Could e 'er be beautiful f yet so they were,
40 And that, among the haunts of humankind, And that with little change of shape or
Hard-featured men, or with pioud, angry hue.
looks, All things had put then evil nature off.
Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake,
smiles, Tpon a drooping bough with nightshade
Or the dull sneer of self-loved ignorance, twined,
Or other such foul masks, with which ill 80 I saw two assure halcyons2 clinging down-
thoughts ward
46 Hide that fair being whom we spirits call And thinning one bright bunch of amber
man ; berries,
And women too, ugliest of all things evil With quick long beaks, and in the deep
(Though fair, even in a world wheie thou there lay
art fair, Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky;
When good and kind, free and sincere like So, with my thoughts full of these happy
thee), changes,
When false or frowning made me sick at 8r> We meet agam, the happiest change oi all
heart Asia. And never will we part, till thy
w To pass them, though they slept, and I chaste suter,8
unseen. Who elides the frozen and inconstant
Well, my path lately lay through a great moon,
city Will look on thy more warm and equal
Into the woody hills surrounding it ; light
A sentinel was sleeping at the gate; Till her heart thaw like flakes of April
When there was heard a sound,1 so loud, snow
it shook 90 And love thee.
K The towers amid the moonlight, yet more Spirit of the Earth. What! as Ada
sweet laves Prometheus f
'The wand of the ilKiJl Bee BC. 3, 64 fl. (p. 'flwfc 'kingflshtn
686). "Diana (Artemis), goddew of the moon.
PEBCY BY8SHJE SHELLEY 689
Aria. Peace, wanton, thou art yet not To move, to breathe, to be; I wandering
old enough. went
Think ye by gazing on each other 'H eyes Among the haunts and dwellings of man-
To multiply your lovely selves, and fill kind,
With sphered fire the interlunar airf And first was disappointed not to bee
Spirit of the Earth. Nay, mother, while Such mighty change as I had felt within
ray sister trims her lamp uo E\]ne**ed in uutwaid things; but soon 1
'Tis hard I should go daikhm*.1 looked,
Asia. Listen; lookf And behold, tin ones were kinglet*, and
[A. SPOO* o, THE Hou* *** Qne JX even as apirits do-
Prometheus We feel what thou hast None fawned, none trampled, hate, dis-
heard and seen : yet s]>eak dam, or fear,
Spin* of the Hour. Soon an the hound Self-love or self -con tempt, on human bi ows
had ceased whose thunder filled 186 No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell,
The abysses of the sky and the wide earth, "All hope abandtm ye who entei heie," «
100 There was a change; the impalpable thin None frowned, none trembled, none with
air eager fear
And the all-circling sunlight weie tians- Gazed on another's eye of cold command,
formed, Until the subject of a tyrant's will
As if the sense of love dissolved in them no Fta'arne, WOISP fate, the abject of his own,
Had folded itself round the sphered world Winch spuried him, like an outspent hoise,
My vision then giew clear, and T could see to death.
105 Into the mysteries of the unnerse,2 None wrought his lips in truth-entangling
Dizzy as with delight I floated down ; lines
Winnowing the lightsome air with languid Which smiled the lie his tongue disdained
plumes, to speak v
My courseis sought their birthplace m the None, with film sneer, tiod out in his o\ui
sun, heart
Where they henceforth will live exempt 1*5 The spaiks of love and hope till theie
fioin toil, remained
"° Pastuiim? floweis of vegetable fire; Tlmse bitter ashes, a soul self -consumed,
And wheie my moonhke car will stand And the wretch crept a vampire among
within men,
A temple, pazed upon by Phidian form Infecting all with his own hideous ill ;
Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and me, None talked that common, false, cold,
And you fair nymphs looking the love we hollow talk
feel,- wo \vhich makes the heart deny the yes it
115 In memory of the tidings it has borne,— bieathes,
Beneath a dome fretted with graven Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy
floweis, With such a self -mistrust as has no name
Poised on twelve columns of resplendent And women, too, frank, beautiful, and kind
stone, As the free hea>en which rains fresh light
And open to the bright and liquid sky and de\\
Yoked to it by an amphifcbamic* snake !•• Oh the wide earth, passed; gentle, radiant
12° The likeness of those winged steeds will forms,
mock Fi nin custom 's evil taint exempt and pure .
The flight from which they find repose. Speakmcr the wisdom once they could not
Alas, think,
Whither has wandered now my paitial Looking emotions once they feared to feel,
tongue And changed to all which once they daied
When all remains untold which ye would not be,
hear? "0 Yet being now, made earth like heaven;
As I have said, I floated to the earth ; nor pnde,
U* It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame,
i in the dark Thc Bitterest of thoge drops of treasured
•Bee WonlHWorth's Wnw £0MM0i a .Fnv M ««• gall,
4fto?e Tlntnn Albry. &Bff (p 238)
• having a hend it each end and capable of « Th* Inscription on tho giito of Tfotl. In Dante'fl
moving forward and backward Ittfunu l, u
690
NINETKEVTH CENTURY BOMANTlblSTS
Spoiled the sweet taste of the nepenthe,
love
200
Thrones, altai*, judgment -seats, and pim-
ons, wherein,
165 j|jid beside which, by wi etched men weie
borne
Sceptres, haras, swoids, and chains, and
tomes
Of reasoned wioim, glozed on b> is»no-
rance,
Weie like ihohe inonstnms and baibaiie
shapes,
Tlie ghosts of a no-more-iemembeied fame,
170 Which, fioin their unwoin obelisks, look
forth
In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs
Of those who were then coiirjuemis,
mouldering round,
These imaged in the pnde of kin i>s and
priests 5
A dark yet mighty faith, a i>owei as wide
175 As is the world it wasted, and are no\\
But an astonishment , even so the tools
i And emblems of its last cnptwit} ,
Amid the dwellings of the peopled eaith.
Stand, not o'ei thrown, but untegaided
now.
180 And those foul shaj>es, abhorred by god
and man,—
Which, under many a name and many a id
form
Strange, savage, ghastly, dark, and exe-
nable,
Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world,
And which the nations, panic-stricken,
served 15
"5 With blood, and hearts broken by long
hope, and love
Diagged to his altars soiled and gailand-
And slain amid men's unreclaiming tears, 20
Flattering the thing they feared, which
feaf was hate,—
Fiown, mouldering fast, o'er their' aban-
doned shrines.
l»o The painted veil, by those who were, called
life,
Which mimicked, as with colors idly spread,
All men believed or hoped, w torn aside ; »
The loathsome mask has fallen, the man
remains
Sceptreless, free, uncircumscnbed, but man
i'6 Equal, unclassed, tnbeless, and nationless,
Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the
king
Over himself; just, gentle, wise; but man 80
Passionless-no, yet free from guilt OP
pain,
Which were, for his will made or suffered
them;
Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like
slaves,
From chance, and death, and mutability,
The clogs of that which else might o\ ei soar
The loftiest star of nnascended hea\cnv
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane
ACT IV
SUENF —A Pa it of tlic Forest neat tltr
Cave of PROMETHEUS PANTHEA and
IONE are sleeping: they awaken grad-
ually dunng the first Song
Voice of unseen Spu its
The pale stars aie gone* '
For the sun, their srvuit ghepheid,
To then folds them compelling.
In the depths of the dawn,
Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing aiia^. ami
they flee
Beyond his bine dwelling,
A*» fawns flee the leopard
Rut wheie aie ye?
A Tiain of dart Fotms and Miadous
passes by conft/scdly, singing
Here, oh here !
We beai the biei
Of the Father of uiau\ a cancelled }c»i f
Specties \\e
Oi the dead Houi she.
We bear Time to his tomb in Eteinity
Stiew, oh, stiew
Hair, not yew fl
Wet the dusty pall with teais, not dew *
Be the faded floweih
Of Death 9s baie boueis
Spread on the corpse oi the Km^ <•!
Hours !
Haste, oh, haste f
As shades are chased.
Trembling, by da\, fioin heaven's blue
waste
We melt away,
Like dissolving spray,
From the children of a diviner day,
With the lullaby
Of winds that die
On the bosom of theii own haimony!
lone
What dark forms were theyf
1 The yew \n ao emblem of mourning , It IB a
common tree hi graTeinriK
V PKRCY BY88HE SHELLEY
691
Panthea
40
<•>
With the spoil which their toil
Raked together
Fiom the conquest but One1 could foil
j
0
Have they passed!
Panthea
They haxe passed,
They oiitspeeiJed the blast,
While 'tis said, they are fled
I°ne
Whithei, oh, ulutheiT
Panthea
To the dnrk, in the past, to the dead
Voice of unseen Spirits
Bright clouds float in heaven,
Deu-stais gleam on caith,
Waxes assemble on ocean,
They aie fpitlieied and dinen
By Ihe storm oi delight, by the panic i.f
J olppi fr / i
Thej hhake mill emotion,
They dance in tlieir mirtli
Like the notes oi a spint from land and
lone
Panthea.
Where are their chanoU?
» • i -» rr
Semichorus of Hours
The voice of the Spirits of Air and of
Earth
Have diawn back the figured curtain of
sleep
Which covered our being and darkened oui
Mrth
«o In the deep.
i p,ol)M tin i,v
.... *
In the deepT
6rj
tiemichorus II
Ob ! below the deep
Semichorua I
An hundred ages we had been kept
Cradled in visions of hate and caie,
And each one who waked as his brother
slept,
Pound the truth—
Semichorus 11
Worse than his visions were!
Semichorus I
We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep .
We have known the voice oi Love m
dreams;
We lia\e felt the wand oi Powei, and
leap—
Semichorus II
As the billows leap in the mornin?
beams!
Chorus
m PJcree with song heaven 's silent light,
Enchant the Day that too swiftly flees,
To cbeck ltR *SJlt ere the cave of
.,
thc
deer
„ , ,
Houi>s were «°unds
"""
'Vcal*
the Spirits o£ mieht
the clonds ami ^nbeams un,te-
Unite!
^ whppp fl|p gpirits of fte
human mind,
Wiapped in sweet sounds as in bright
veils, appioach
Chorus of Spirits
We join the throng-
Of the dance and the soup,
8B By the whirlwind of gladness borne along;
As the flyimjr-flsh leap
p^ the Tnd5an deepf
And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep
£92 NINETEENTH GENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Chorus of Hours Come, swift Spirits of might and of
™™ S5 <Wt «™ theP&iid the music of mirth,
A* ™* of a thou8flDd 8treara8 ™b
And y?Sf are as love which is veiled To « ~ of 8Plendor and
Chorus of Spints
Chorus of Spirits 135 Qur gpoil fe won>
We come from the mind Our task is done,
Of human kind, We are free to dive, or soai, or i uu ;
95 Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and Beyond and around,
blind ; Or within the bound
Now 'to an ocean 14° Which clips1 the world with darkness
Uf clear emotion, round.
A heaven of serene and mighty motion.
We '11 pass the eyes
From that deep abyss Of the starry skies
100 Of woudei and blisb, I „ to the hoar deep to colonize :
Whose caverns ate crystal palace*; Death, Chaos, and Night,
From those skyey towers 146 from the sound of our flight,
Where Thought \ crowned po*ei s Shall flee, like mist from a tempest 's might
Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours !
105
no ™™™'"
From the temples high . . .„,..,
Of Man 's ear and eye, And our «"g™ff sliall build
Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy ; ^ „ A In the void 's loose field
From the murmuring* 15° A world for thc sPint of Wisdom to wield ,
115 Of the unsealed spnngs We wl1' takc our plan
Where Science bedews her dwdal wingK From the nw world of man.
And our work shall be called tno Pronn*-
Years after years, thean
Through blood, and tears,
And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, anil Chorus of Hours
i'»o w ™»A*A «.«/! fiAW Break the dance, and scatter the song;
eWadW '" Let some depart, and some ren»in.
Where the bud-blighted flowers of happi- Senuehoru I
ness grew.
We, beyond heaven, are driven along:
Our feet now, every palm,
Are sandalled with calm, ftemichorus 11
And the dew of our wines is a rain of balm, „ A, , .._,,,.
And, beyond our eyes, I 8 the enchantments of earth retain :
The human love lies, . _
Which makes all it gazes on, Paradise. Semichorus I
Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free,
Chorus of Spirits and Hour* With the Spirits which build a new earth
Then weave the web of the mystic 1ftR , . ««* sea,
measure ; ^n" a *ieavwi wbere yet heaven could never
From the depths of the sky and the ends ^
of the earth, > embraces ;
PERCY BY88HE SliELLEY 698
Semichoru* 11 And where two runnels of a rivulet,
N sisters
ip
With the piwen, of a world of perfect Who P"rt ™Ul 8*'hs that *«* ™? meel m
Bullies,
200 Turning their dear disunion to.an isle
Semichorua I Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad
We whirl, singing loud, round the gather- Two ^ ndianee float upon
i7ft mi. i. mg 8p j'li. u * A ^ i i The ocean-hke enchantment of strong
"° Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds sound,
appear ... ,« Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet,
From its chaos made calm by love, not fear. 205 lTnder the ^^nd and through £e ^nt-
less air.
Semuskorus II lone. I see a chariot like that thinnest
We encircle the ocean and mountains of ^atA *r «_ * ,i_ *r ,1. ,
enrth In which the Mother of the Months1 is
And the happ> ioinih of its death and buth bonje .
Change to the nuisir of our sweet mirth S?.111? llght mto her w®stern cavc'
When she upspungs from interlunar
Chorus of Hours and Spirits 210 0>er JS™Vnrf«I an orblike canopy
175 Bieak the dance, and scatter the song; Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods,
Let some depart, and some remain ; Distinctly seen through that dusk aery veil,
Whcrexei \u» fly we lead along Hegard8 like shapes in an enchanters
In leashes, like stai beams, soft yet strong, glass;
The clouds that are heavy with love's Its wheels aie solid clouds, azure and gold,
sweet lam. 215 Such as the genii of the thunderstorm
Pile on the floor of the illumined sea
180 Pantliea. Ha ! they are gone ' When the sun rushes under it; they roll
lone. Yet feel you no delight And move and grow as with an inward
From the past sweetness 1 wind;
Fanthea. As the bare green hill Within it sits a winged infant, white
When some soft cloud vanishes into rain, 22° Its countenance, like the whiteness of
Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny bright snow,
watei Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost,
To the unpa\ ihnned sky ! Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-
Jone. Even whilst we speak flowing folds
185 New notes arise. What is that awful Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl
sound t Its hair is white, the brightness of white
Panthea. 'Tis the deep music of the light
tolling world1 22R Scattered in strings, yet its two eyes aie
Kindling within the strings of the waved heavens
air Of liquid darkness, which the Deity
JEolian modulations. Within seems pounng, as a Rtoim is pouted
lone. Listen too, From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy
How e\eiy pause is filled with under-notes, lashes,
I** Clear, silver, icy, keen awakening tones, Tempeiing the cold and radiant air around,
Which pierce the sense, and live within the 2t<0 With flre that is not brightness; in its
soul, hand
As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal It sways a quivering moonbeam, from
air whose point
And gaze upon themselves within the sea A guiding pcwer directs the chariot's prow
Panthea. But see where, through two Over its wheeled clouds, which as they roll
openings in the forest Over the grass, and flowers, and waves,
105 Which hanging branches overoanopy, wake sounds,
.The andont. boiieTed that the movement of 28B Sweet as ^ging rain of silver dew.
the celeitlal upheren produced miwlc 'Diana (Artemis) • appear
394 N1NKTKKNTH CKNTUKY BOMANTIC1ST8
Panthea. And from the other opening 27G Which whul as the orb whirls, swifter
in the wood than thought
Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, Filling the abyss with sun-like lightnings,
A sphere,1 which is as many thousand And perpendicular now, and now trans-
spheres, \P186y
Solid as ciyrtal, yet tlnough all its mat* Pierce the daik soil, and us tliej pieicc and
240 Flow, as thiough empty space, music and pass,
light , Make baie the secrets of the earth's deep
Ten thousand oibs imolvmp and nnolyed, liewt ,
Purple and azuie, white, green, and golden, 28° Infinite mines of adamant and gold,
Sphere within spheie; and eveiy spun' A uluelchh1 htoues, and ununagined gems
between And caverns on crystalline columns poised
Peopled \iith unimaginable shapes, With \egetable silvei o\erspread;
-*5 Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless Wells of unfathomed fire, and water-
deep, springs
Vet each inter-tianspiciinus,- and they 28C Whence tlie gieat sea, e\en as a child, is
whirl led,
Over each other with a thousand motions, Whose vapors clothe earth's monaich
Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning, mountain-tops
And with the force of self -destroy ing With kingly, ermine snow. The beams
swiftness, flush on
250 Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on, And make appear the melancholy ruins
Kindling with mingled sounds, and many Of cancelled cycles; anchom, 1>eaks of
tones, ships,
Intelligible woids and music wild. 29° Planks turned to marble, qurseis, helnih,
With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb and spears,
Grinds the bright brook into an azuie And goigon-headed targe*,5 and the wheck
mist ' Of scythed chanots, and the emblazomy
2r'5 Of elemental subtlety, like light; Of ti opines, stnndaids, and armoiial
And the wild odor of the forest flowers, beasts,
The music of the living grass and an, Hound which death laughed, sepulchied
The emeiald light of leaf-entangled beams emblems
Round its intense yet sell-conflict ing speed, 295 Of dead destruction, ruin within ruinf
260 Seem knead* d into one aerial mass The wrecks beside oi many u city ^ast,
Which diowns the sense. Within the orb Whose population which the earth grew
itself, over
Pillowed upon its alabaster arms, Was mortal, but not human ; see, they he,
Like to a child overwearied with sweet toil, Their monstrous works, and uncouth skele-
On its own folded wings, and wavy hair, tons,
-*5 The Spirit of the Karth is laid asleep, 30° Their statues, homes, and fanes; prodi-
And you can see its little lips are moving, #IOUH shapes
Amid the changing light of their own Huddlexl in giay annihilation, split,
smiles, Jammed in the haid, black deep; and over
Like one who talks of what he loves in these,
dream. The anatomies of unknown wmg&d things,
lone. 'Tis only mocking the orb's liar- And fishes which were isles of living scale,
mony. 3A& And serpents bon> chains, twisted aiound
270 Panthea And from a stai upon its fore- The iron crags, or within heaps of dust
head, shoot, To which the tortuous strength of their lust
Like swords of azure fire, or golden spears pangs
With tyrant-quelling myrtle1 overt win ed, Had crushed the mm ciags; and over these
Embleming heaven and eaith united now, The jaggdd alligator, and the might
Vast beams like spokes of some invisible 31° Of earth-convulsing behemoth,8 which once
wheel Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy
'Theetrth. shores,
* transparent within
n V reference to the story of HarmodluB and 1 priceless
ArlfttOftlton, Athenian heroes who hid their • shields bearing the Image of the head of Mo
swords under myrtle branched at the time of C!UK«, ooi>of thoCJorgonw
their attack upon Hlpniirchim, the trrant of *A very large animal* prohaMv the hlppnnotn
Athena. In 514 R r. mun
PERCY BY8BUK SHELLEY 696
And weed-overgrowu continents of earth, And spbnter and knead down my chil-
Increased and multiplied like summer dren's bones,
worms All I bring forth, to one void masts batter-
On an abandoned corpse, till the blue ing and blending,—
globe'
315 Wrapped delude1 ininid it like a cloak, and I'ntil each ciati-likc 1 0111*1, and storied
they column,
Yelled, gasped, and won* abolished, or **5 Palace, niul obelisk, and temple solemn,
some God My imperial mountains ci owned with
Whose throne was in a comet, passed, and cloud, and snow, and fire,
cried, My sea-like forests, every blade and
"Be not1" And like mv words they were blossom
no more Which finds a gra\e 01 cradle in mv
bosom,
The Earth Weie stamped by thy strong hate into a
The joy, the tiuimph, the delight, the lifeless mire •
320 Thess, ouiikflrmft bursting0 How^rt^
The 4±7exult«tion not to be con- ^ jSSX^
A- i— * «•—•
355 B l the
Ihiinder-ball
Moon
Brother nm.e. ralni wanderer, Th<1 snow ,rf ^ mountain«,
ttfa?
«*i L ' A . i t A spirit fiom my lieait biust*. foitli.
V\ hioh peneli ates my i i «»n f lame, 360 lf (rf, Wl(h ^^g^ bll ,b
310 w £i ''""TJ, ^"lm i ^me' Mv cold bate bosom Oh ' it must be thine
380 ^"
Gazing on thee 1 feel. 1 know,
The Earth Qreen staiks |mist foltjlf an(
Ha! ha! the caverns of my hollow floweis pro\\,
mountains, And li\ ing shapes upon my bosom mo\e
My cloven flre-cra«s, sound-exultmu Musicals in the sea and an,
fountains. Wmjrwl clouds soar heie and theie,
Laugh with a \ast and inextinguishable T>«rk with the ram new buds are dreaming
laughter _ °^"
The oceans, and the deseits, and the Tis hne, all love'
abysses,
And the deep an 's unmeasured wilder- The Earth
news, 870 ft interpenetrates my granite mass,
Answer from all their clouds and billows. Through tangled roots and trodden clay
echoing after. do*th pasg
... , , .. , . . Into the utmost leaves and dehcatest
They cry aloud as I do Sceptred curse,2 flowers •
rJ™0 M*°?T ffreen mand ""I8 ^J?6 . Tpon the winds, among the clouds 'tis
Threatened^ to muffle round with black spread,
destruction, sending It wakeg a 'hfe m thc forgottcn dead,-
A solid cloud to ram hot thunderstones. w Th<?v breathe a gpint up from fheir ob.
»Tbe«Mi "Jupiter scurest bowers;
696 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
And like a storm bunting its cloudy His will, with all mean passions, bad
prison delights,
With thundei, nurl with whirlwind, has And selfish cares, its trembling satellites,
atiseii A spint ill to guide, but mighty to obev,
Out of the lampless caves of unimagmed Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose
being helm
With earthquake shock and swiftness 41° Love rules, through waves which dare
making shiver not overwhelm,
380 Thought'* stagnant chaos, uniemo\ed Forcing life's wildest shores to own its
forever, sovereign sway.
Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-van-
quished shadows, fleeing, All things confess his strength. Through
the cold mass
Leave Man, who was a many-sided Of marble and of color his dreams
mirror, pass—
Which could distort to many a shape of Bright threads whence mothers weave the
error, robes their children wear,
This true fair world of things, a sea re- 41B Language is a perpetual Orphic1 song,
fleeting love , Which rules with daedal harmony a
38G Which over all his kind, as the sun's throng
heaven Of thoughts and forms, which else sense-
Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and less and shapeless were
even,
Darting from starry depths radiance and The lightning is his slave; heaven's nt-
hf e, doth move : most deep
Gives up her stars, and like a flock of
Leave Man, even as a leprous child is sheep
left, 42° They pass before his eye, are numbered,
Who follows a sick beast to some warm and roll on '
cleft The tempest is his steed, he strides the
390 Of rocks, through which the might of air;
healing springs is poured , And the abyss shouts from her depth
Then when it wanders home with rosy laid bare,
smile, "Heaven, hast thou secrets f Man unveils
Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile me; I have none "
It is a spirit, then, weeps on her child
restored. The Moan
u«« MI n«f «„«! o ~ii.ii «f i,«v^ The shadow of white death has passed
th ht 426 rrom ^ Path fa heaven at k8t'
3»B Of love and might to be divided not, A dm^Awiid * «*d frost and
Compelling the elements with adamantine And ^'^ my newly.woven
The Snqtdet republic of the maze 43° "* vales more deeP'
Of planets, struggling fierce towards heav- „, „ ,
en 's free wilderness. 2 M Jfcflfl*
As the dissolving warmth of dawn may
400 Man, one harmonious soul of many a fold
soul, A half unfrozen dew-globe, green, and
Whose nature is its own divine control, gold,
Where all things flow to all, as riven to And crystalline, till it becomes a wingtd
the sea; mist,
Familiar acts are beautiful through love. And wanders up the vault of the blue
Labor, and pain, and grief, in life's day,
green grove
Sport like tame beasts; none knew how « "£•?*» ,1533. ft1*1** *** ftoloni Owek
™
gentle they could be ! » uSj here I™l» Innocent MUM of torar*.
PEBCY BY8BHK SHELLEY
697
446
485 Outlives the moon, and on the sun 's last
ray
Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and
amethyst.
The Moon
Thou art folded, thou art lying
In the light which is undying
Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile
divine;
440 All suns and constellations shower
On thee la light, a life, a power,
Which doth array thy sphere; thou pour*
est thine
On mine, on mine I
The Earth
1 8pm beneath my pyiamid of night,
Which points into the heavens dreaming
delight,
Murmuring victorious joy in my enchanted
sleep;
As a youth lulled in love-dreams family
sighing,
Under the shadow of his beauty lying,
Which round his rest a \vatch of hgh^and
warmth doth keep.
The Moon
As in the soft and sweet eclipse,
When soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
High hearts aie calih, and brightest eyes
are dull ;
So when thy shadow falls on me,
Then am I mute and still, by thee
*•* Covered; of thy love, Orb most beautiful,
Full, oh, too full!
Thou art speeding round the sun
Brightest world of many a one ,
Green and azuie sphere which shinest
400 With a light which is divinest
Among all the lamps of Heaven
To whom life and light is given ;
I, thy crystal paramour
Borne beside thee by a power
466 Like the polar Paradise,
Magnet-like of lovers' eye*;
I, a mofet enamored maiden
Whose weak brain is overladen
With the pleasure of her love,
470 Maniac-like around thee move
Gazing, an insatiate bride,
On thy form from every side
Like a Mronad, round the cup
Which Agave lifted up
478 In the weird Cadmoan forest.
Brother, wheresoe'er thou soared
T must hurry, whirl, and follow
450
Through the heavens wide and hollow r
Sheltered bv the warm embrace
480 Of thy soul from hungry space,
Drinking from thy sense and sight
Beauty, majesty, and might,
As a lover or a chameleon
Grows like what it looks upon,
486 As a violet's gentle eye
Gazes on the azure sky
Until its hue growb like what it beholds,
As a gray and watery mist
Glows like solid amethybt
490 Athwart the western mountain it enfolds,
When the sunset sleeps
Upon its snow—
The Earth
And the weak day weeps
That it should be so.
496 0 gentle Moon, the voice of thy delight
Falls on me like thy clear and tender light
Soothing the seaman, borne the summer
night,
Through isles forever calm ;
0 gentle Moon, thy crystal accents pierce
BOO The caverns of my pride's deep universe,
Charming the tiger joy, whose tramplings
fierce
Made wounds which need thj balm.
Panthea. I rise as from a bath of
sparkling water,
A bath of azure light, among dark rocks,
cos Out of the stream of sound.
lone. Ah me ! sweet sister.
The stream of sound has ebbed away from
us,
And you pretend to rise out of its wave,
Because your words fall like the clear, soft
dew
Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's
limbs and hair
610 Panthea. Peace! peace! A mighty
Power, which is as darkness,
Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky
Is showered like night, and from within the
air
Bursts, like eclipse which had been gath-
ered up
Into the pores of sunlight: the bright
visions,
515 Wherein the singing Spirits rode and
shone,
Gleam like pale meteors through a watery
night.
lone. There is a sense of words upon
mine eai.
Panthea An universal sound like words :
Oh, list!
ggg NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANT1CIBTB
Demogorgon A confused Vom
Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul, We hear: thy words waken ObEvkm.
KO Sphere of divines! shapes and har-
monies, Demogorgon
Beautiful orb! gathering as thou dost roll Spirits, whose homes are flesh- ye beasts
The love which paves thy path along the aua birds,
skies : 546 Ye worms, and fibh , ye living leaves and
The Earth buds ;
. . lightning and wind , and ye untameable
I hear: I am as a di op of dew that dies. herds,
Meteors and mists, winch thiong an 's
Demogorgon solitudes.—
Thou, Moon, which gazeat on the nightly
Earth * yotce
625 Vfitk wonder, as it gazes upon thee , Thy voice to us ib wind among still woods
Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the
sw if t birth Demogoiyon
Of birds, is beaut>, luxe, calm, harmon> Man> who ^ once a degpot and a gla,0f
55° A dupe and adecener, a decay,
ihe Moon A tiaveller fiom the ciadle to the gia\e'
I hear9 I am a leaf shaken by theo r Through the dim night of this immoital
day
Demogorgon ^Q
Ye KinttVf suns and Star8> DflpmonB and S*)eak tliy 8tron* words m»y never
.,„ ,.,, ",,?. . . , paw»awa>
030 Etheiial Dominations,1 \uio posses
Elvsian, windless, fortunate abodes Demogorgon
Beyond Heaven's constellated wildei- .„..,, ,.
nP8S This is the day which down the void abysm
5:'B At the Eaith-bom'h spell*1 yawns i'oi
A You e from above Hea^ en >h despotism,
^ « i, , .1 ^ll(* Conquest is dragged captne
Our great Republic hears: we are blest, thiough the deep
and bless tane, fiorn lU awful throne of patient
power
Uemogorgon In the Wlfee heait( flom tlie lafil g,ddy hour
Ye happy dead, whom beams of brightest Of dread endurance, from the slippery,
\eibe bteep,
Are clouds to hide, not colors to porti ay, B<>° And narrow verge of crag-like agonj,
Whether your nature is that universe springs
Which once ye saw and Buffered— And folds over the world its healing wings
A Voice from beneath Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endur-
ance,-—
_, , . .. . 0* «» they Thcge are the Mito of t,Jflt most fiin|
^ horn we ha\e left, we change and pass assurance
Which bars the pit ovei Destruction's
Demogorgon strength;
Of tarf; tta. »*«,. .,-
fretted domes lengtn>
To the dull weed some sea-worm battens
on-
1 See Wordnworth'M She JTa* a PJttinfnm of De-
1 A high order of angel* Bee Para<H*r Lo*t. *!, liuht 24 fp 20fi)
,192, H. 601, 772, etc. -"The Mpnll of I»r«m«
PERCY BYWBHL bHELLEY
570 To suffer woes which Hope thmkb infinite , That the light of its tremulous bells i&
To forgive wrongs darker than death or been
night; Thiough their pavilions of tender green,
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent ,
To love, and beai , to hope till Hope 25 And the hyacinth puiple, and white, and
creates ' blue,
Prom its own wreck the thing it contem- Which flung from its bells a sweet peal
plates; anew
:'7B Neither to i-hange, nor ialtei, 1101 ic- Of music so delicate, soft, and intense,
pent;— It was felt like an odor within the sense,
This, like thy gloiv, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and f lee , And «« 10he llke u «y™l* to tue buth ad'
Tins m alone Life, Joy, Empnc, and diessed,
Yictoiy' • Which unveiled the depth of her glowing
breast,
after ioW> to tue fainting air
~~ ™ ™.
THE ENSIT PLANT Tbe ^ of her ^^y and love lay baie f
PART FIRST And the wand-like lily, which bfted up,
A Sensitive Plant in a Saiden RI ew, ,. ^ * .^T^ ri* moonlit-colored cup,
Andtheyoiingwmdsfeditwithsiherdew. % Ml the fiery star, uhich w , iU eye,
And it opened its fan-like 1m es t« the Gazed through clear dew on the tender sk3 ,
And cffl them beneath the kisses of And the j«*amme faint, and the s*eet
MitrVit tuberose,
JNlffni The sweetest flower for scent that blo*s,
r A i ji o t\ 11 And all i are blossoms fi om e\ery clime
And the bpiniK aiose on he Qnnlni Ian, 4o Glew ln lhat ^ltien in 1>erfect ^,me
Like the Spn it oi Ln\ e i ell 4»\ ei j \\ hoi c» , * i i
And each flower and herb on Kaith's dark And on thc stieam whose lliconfeltant ]^{)m
breasi "\yas pranked, under boughs of einlxiwri-
Rose f loin the dieains oi its winti^ icst. ing blossom
With golden and gieen light, slanting
But none e\er tieinbled and pant oil with thiough
1A , ^^IISS Their hea\en of nianj a tangled hue,
10 in the {» in don. tlio field, 01 the \Mldcuicss,
Like n doe in the noontide with love's « Biond \\alei-lilies lay tiemulously,
s^eel Mmit, And staiiy n^ei-buds glimmered "by.
As the companion !<** Sensilnc Plant And mound them the soft stream did
^hde and dance
The <?nt>tt<lr<>}>, and then the violet, With a motion oi «weet sound and indi-
Aiose f nun the giound \\ii\i \\ann lam ance
wet,
15 And (lieu bieuth ^as mixed with fiesli And the sinuous paths of la\\n and ol
odoi, sent moss,
Fnmi thr tin I1, like the \oice and the "|0 Which led tlnoui»h thc garden along and
instiument. across,
Some open at once to the sun and tlic
Then the pieil >\ind-fUmeis' and Hie tulip bieeze,
tall, Some lost among bovicis of blossoming
And naicissi, the fairest among them all. tree*,
Who iraac <»H their eje* m the Mi emu's
recess, AVeie all pined with daisies and delicate
30 Till they die of then own dcm lo\ c>lmt»ss , bells,
As fair as the fabulous asphodels,1
And the Naiud-hke lily of the vale, BB And flow 'rets which, drooping as day
Whom youth makes so fair, ami passion drooped too,
*" Pa0* ' \Riihodeln (daffodil*) norr Mid to cover the
flpldfc or EhMlnni th<» nlioflr of tli<»
1 iiii*>iiHin««s *fn»ni Crook arc/to*, nind) nftor dcnth
700 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and "° The quivering vapors of dun noontide,
blue, Which like a sea o 'er the warm earth glide,
To roof the glow-worm from the e^emug In which every sound, and odor, and beam,
dew. Move, as ieeds in a single stream;
And from this undefiled Paradise Each and all like ministering angels were
The flowers (as an infant's awakening 96 For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to hear,
eyes Whilst the lagging houib of the day went
60 Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet by
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), Like windier cloud* o'ei a tender bky.
When Heaven 's blithe winds had unfolded And when evening descended from Heaven
them, above,
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem. ,And the Earth was all lest, and the air was
Shone smiling to Hea\en, and every one all love,
65 Shared joy m the light of the gentle sun, 10° And delight, though let* bright, was far
moi e deep,
For each one was interpenetrated And the day's veil fell from the world of
With the light and the odor its neighbor sleep,
shed,
Like young lovers whom youth and love And the beasts, and the budb, and the m-
make dear sects weie dz owned
Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmos- In an ocean of dreams without a sound,
phere. Whose * BA es ne\ er mai k, though they e\ er
impiess
70 But the Sensitive Plant which could give 103 The light sand which paves it, conscious-
small fruit ness,
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to
the root, «)nl\ meihead the sweet nightingale
Received more than all, it loved more than K\ei sang more sweet as the day might
ever, fail,
Where none wanted but it, could belong And snatches of its Elysian chant
to the giver,— Were mixed with the di earns of the Sensi-
tive Plant) ,—
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright
flower; no The Sensitive Plant was the earliest
75 Radiance and odor are not its dowei , Upgatbered into the bosom of rest ;
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart w A sweet child weary of its delight,
full, The feeblest and yet the favorite,
It desires what it has not, the beautiful ! Cradled within the embiace of Night.
The light winds which from unsustaining PART SECOND
Shed the music of many umrmurings; There was a Power in this sweet place,
80 The beams which dart from many a star An Eve in this Eden , a ruling Grace
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar. Which to the flowers, did they waken 01
dream,
The plumed insects swift and free, Was as God is to the starry scheme
Like golden boats on a sunny sea,
Laden with light and odor, \vlnch pass c A lady, the wonder of her kind,
86 Over the gleam of the living grass; Whose form was upborne by a lovely
mind
The uhseen clouds of the dew, which lie Which, dilating, had moulded her mien
Like fire in the flowers till the sun ndes and motion
high, Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the
Then wander like spirits among the ocean,
spheres,
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it Tended the garden from mom to e\ei\-
bears; 10 And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven,
PEROT BY88HE SHELLEY
701
Like the lamps of the air when Night
walks forth,
Laughed round her footsteps up f rum the
Earth !
She had no companion of mortal race,
But her tremulous breath and hei flushing
face
« Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep
fiomhereyes,
That her dreams were less slumber than
Paradise •
As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake
Had deseited Heaven while the stars *ere
awake,
As if yet around her he lingering were,
20 Though the veil of daylight concealed him
from her.
Her steps seemed to pity the grass it
TM cssc'd
You might hear, by the heaving of her
breast,
That the coming and going of the wind
Brought pleasure there and left passion
behind
28 And wherever her airy footstep trod,
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod
Erased its light vestige, with shadowy
sweep,
Like a sunny storm o'er, the daik green
deep.
I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet
80 Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet ,
I doubt not they felt the Rpmt that came
From her glowing finders through all their
frame.
She sprinkled bright water from the
stream
On those that were faint with the sunny
beam ;
85 And out of the cups of the heavy flowers
She emptied the rain of the thunder-
showers.
She lifted their heads with her tender
hands,
And sustained them with rods and osier-
bands;1
If the flowers had been her own infants,
she
40 Could never have nursed them more ten-
derly.
iwfllow-bandi
And all killing insects and gnawing worms,
And things of obscene and unlovely forms,
She bore in a basket of Indian woof,
Into the rough woods far aloof,—
45 Tn a basket, of grasses and wild-floweis
full,
The freshest her gentle hands could pull
For the poor banished insects, whose 111-
tent,
Although they did ill, was innocent
But the bee, and the beamhke ephemens1
50 Whose path is the lightning's, and soft
mi ™ths that kiss
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm
r , not, did she
M&e her attendant angels be.
And many an antenatal tomb,
Where butterflies dream of the life to
come,
w She M* clinging round the smooth and
dark
EdSe ol the odorous cedar bark.
m, . * .
This fairest creature from earliest spring
Thus moved through the garden mmiRter-
. .. Jt in& A
,0 All the sweet season of Hummertide,
6° And ™ the first leaf lookcd brown-she
dicdl
pvRT ipHIRD
Thiee days the flowers* of the garden fan,
Like stars *hen the moon is awakened,
ueie,
Or the waves of Bale, ere luminous
She floats up through the smoke of Vesu-
vius
* And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant
Felt the sound of the funeral chant,
And the steps of the beaiers, heavy and
slow,
And the sobs of the mourners, deep and
low,
The weary sound and the heavy breath,
10 And the silent motions of passing death,
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank,
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank;
The dark grass, and the flowers among the
grass,
Were bnght with tears as the crowd did
paw,
»A delicate Innect with net-veined wings
702 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
15 From tbeh &igbb the wind caught a mourn- 50 Between the time of the wind and the
£ ul tone, snow
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for All loathhest weeds began to grow,
groan. Whose coarse leaves were splashed with
many a speck,
The garden, once fair, became cold and Like the water-make's belly and the toad's
foul, back.
Like the corpse of hei who had been its
soul, And thistles, and nettles, and darnels'
Which at first was lovely as if m sleep, _ rank,
20 Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap '"' And the dock, and henbane, and heinl<>< k
To make men tremble who never weep dank,
Stretched out its long and hollow shank.
Swift summer into the autumn flowed, And stifled the air till the dead wind
And frost in the iiust of the mom ing stank. N
rode,
Though the noonday t>un looked clear and And plants, at whose names the verse feelh
bright, loath,
26 Mocking: the bpoil oi the secret night Filled the place with a monstrous under-
growth,
The rose-leases, like flakes of crimson 60 Pnckly, and pulpous, and blistcnng, and
snow, bine,
Paved the turf and the moss below Luid, and starred with a hind dew
The lilies weie clioopui!*. and white, and
wanv And agarics,2 and fungi, with mildew and
Like the head and the skin of a dying man mould,
Started like mist from the wet giound
20 And Indian plants, of scent and hue cold ,
The sweetest thut ever weie fed on dew. Pale, fleshy, ah if the decaying dead
Leaf by leaf, day after day, *"' With a spirit of growth had been ani-
Were mabt»ed into the common clay mated f
And the leases, brown, yellow, and gray, Their moss lotted off them, flake by flake,
and led, Till the thick stalk stuck like a murderei '•»
85 And while with the whiteness <>f what is stake,
dead, Where lags of loose flesh yet hemhle on
Like troops of ghosts on the ilrv wind high,
passed ; Infecting the winds that wandei b}
Their whist line noise made the birds
aghast. 70 Spawn, weeds, and filth, a loprons scum,
Made the running rnulet thick and dumb,
And the gusty winds waked the winged And at its outlet flags huge as stakes
seeds, Dammed it up with roots knotted like
Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, water-snakes.
40 Till they clung round many a sweet
flower's ft em, And hour by hour, when the air was still,
Which rotted into the eaith with them 7B The vapors arose which have stiength to
kill,
The water-blooms undei the rivulet At mom they were seen, at noon the> uoie
Fell from the stalk* on which they weie felt,
set; At night they were darkness no stai could
And the eddies drove them heic and tlieio, melt.
4D As the winds did those of the upper air.
And unchious meteors from spray to spray
Then the rain came down, and the broken Crept and flitted in broad noonday
stalks 80 Unseen ; every branch on which they aht
Were bent and tangled across the walks ; By a venomous blight was burned and bit.
And the leafless network of parasite bowers , A Wnd flf
Massed into ruin, and all sweet flowers. • \ kind of fungus
PKKC'Y BYSSHE SHELLEY
703
The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid,1
Wept, and the tears within each lid
Of its folded leaves, which together grew,
85 Were changed to a blight of frozen glue
For the leaves soon fell, and the branches
soon
By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ,
The eap shrank to the root through e\eiv
pore
As blood to a heart that will beat no moie
90 For Winter came the wind was his whip
One choppy fingei was on his lip =
He had torn the cataiacts from the hills
And they clanked at his girdle like man-
acles;
His breath was a chain which without a
sound
95 The earth, and the air, and the vatei
bound ,
He came, fieieely dmeii, in his rhaiiot-
throne
By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone
Then the weeds A\ Inch weie foimsoi Innm
death
Fled f 10111 the frost to the earth beneath
100 Their decay and sudden flight from host
Was but like the \anishmg oi a ghc*t '
And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant
The moles and the dormice died lor want
The birds diopped stiff from the fiozen an
105 And were caught in the bi am lies naked
and baie
First theie came down a thawing rain
And its dull drops froze on the boughs
again,
Then there steamed up a freezing dew
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew .
110 And a northern whirlwind, wandeun?
about,
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child
out,
Shook the boughs thus laden, and hea\y.
and stiff,
And snapped them off with his rigid guff **
When Winter had gone and Spring came
back,
116 The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ;
J jccunied (Bee J/«5ert I, .% 21 )
• flee M orbf f fc. I. 3, 44-45.
•claw
But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and
docks, and darnels,
Rose like the dead from their ruined
charnels.
CONCLUSION
Whether the Sensitive Plant, 01 that
Which within its boughs like a spuit sat,
Ere its outward form had known decay,
Now felt this change, I cannot say.
r' Whether that lady's gentle mind,
No longer with the form combined
Which scattered love, as stars do light,
Found sadness, where it left delight,
T daie not guess, but in this life
10 Of error, ignorance, and strife,
Where nothing is, but all things seem,
And we the shadows of the dream,
It is a modest cieed, and yet
Pleasant if one considers it,
'•'» To own that death itself must be,
Like all the rest, a mockery
That garden sweet, that lady fair,
And all sweet shapes and odors theie.
In truth have nexer passed awa>
J<l 'Tis we, His ours, are changed , not they
For k»e, and beauty, and delight,
There is no death nor change • theii might
Exceeds our organs, which euduie
No light, being them&ehes obscure
THE CLOUD
1820 1820
T bring fresh showers for the thirsting
floweis,
Fiom the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
"' From my wings are shaken the dews that
waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's
breast,
As she dances about the sun,
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
10 And whiten the green plains under.
And then again I dissolve it in rain.
And laugh as I pass in thunder
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast :
15 And all the night 'tis my pillow white;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast
704
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Sublime on the towera of my skyey bowers,
Lightning my pilot site;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
20 It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the pin pie sea,
*s Over the rills, and the crags, and the lulls,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or
stream,
The Spirit he loves remains,
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue
smile,
M Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor
eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,1
When the morning star shines dead ;
86 As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and *wingp.
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings
And when sunset may breathe, from the
lit sea beneath,
40 Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy
nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
46 That orb&d maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like
floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
6° Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent '<*
thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer,
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
u When I widen the rent in my wind-built
tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me
on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.3
I bind the sun's throne with a burning
zone,1
*> And the moon 's with a girdle of pearl ;
* fhrlnff broken cloud ' girdle
•The (ten.
The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel
and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Prom cape to cape, with a bridge-like
shape,
Over a torrent sea,
66 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,—
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I
march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to
my chair,
70 Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing be-
low.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky ,
76 I pass through the pores of the ocean and
shores;
I change, but I cannot die
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with then
convex gleams
80 Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,1
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost
from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
TO A SKYLARK
1890 1820
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
5 In profuse strain 8 of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou spnngest
Like a cloud of fire,
The blue deep thou wingest,
10 And singing still dost soar, and soaring
ever gingest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bnght'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
" Like an unbodied joy1 whose race IB jut
begun.
Monfrvd, 1, 2* 55 (iSt&H).
PEBCT BY88HE SHELLEY 705
The pale purple even Rain-awakened flowers,
Melts around thy flight ; All that ever was
Like a star of heaven, • 60 Joyous, and clear, and fre&h, thy music
In the broad daylight doth surpass:
20 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill
delight, Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine •
Keen as are the arrows 1 ha\e never heard
Of that silver sphere, Praise of love or wine
Whose intense lamp narrows '* That panted forth a flood of lapture so
In the white dawn clear divine.
25 Until we hardly see-we feel that it is
there. Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
All the earth and air Matched with thine would be all
With thy voice u. loud, But an empty vaunt,
As, when night is bare, 70 A thing wherein we feel there is some
From one lonely cloud hidden want
30 The inoon rains out her beams, and heaven
is overflowed v What objects are the fountains
__ Of thy happy strain!
What thou art we know not; What flcidg or waves> 01 mountains!
What is most like theef What shapes of sky or plain t
From lambow clouds there flow not 76 what love of thine own kind! what igno-
Drops so bright to see ranee of paint
85 As fiom thy presence showers a rain of
melody With thy clear keen joyance
4° To sympathy with hopes and fears it
heeded not: _ , . ,
Waking or asleep,
Like a high-born maiden ' ™™ of d^th ™«f t deem
In a palace tower, ™mgs more true and deep
Soothing her love-laden „ n Than we mortals dream,
Soul hi secret hour 85 Or how «J> d ^ nfot<8 fl™
« With music sweet as love, which overflows crystal streana'
her bower: _ . . „ .
We look before and after,
Like a glow-worm golden ^ And pme for what is not •
In a dell of dew, Our sincerest laughter
Scattering unbeholden Oft ^ Wlth s0106 Pam ^ Draught;
Its aerial hue Our sweetest songs are those that tell of
50 Among the flower* and grass, which screen saddest thought
it from the view'
Yet if we could scorn
Like a rose embowered Hate, and pride, and fear;
In its own green leaves, If we were things born
By warm winds deflowered, Not to shed a tear,
Till the scent it gives *5 I know not how thy joy we ever should
65 Makes faint with too much sweet those come near.
heavy- winged thieves:
Better than all measures
Sound of vernal showers Of delightful sound,
On the twinkling grass, Better than all treasures
706
NINETKENTIJ CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
That in books are found,
100 Thy skill to poet were, then aeorner of
the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
106 The world should listen then— as I am
listening now.
TO
ISS0
1824
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden,
Thou needest not fear mine,
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burthen thuie '
6 I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,
Thou needest not fear mine,
Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.
AEETHTJSA
18*0 1824
Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acrocerauman mountains,
From cloud and from crag,
5 With many a jag,
Shepherding1 her bnght fountains
She leapt down the rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams,—
1° Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams;
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing
15 Tn murmurs as soft as sleep ;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
Ab she lingered towaidb the deep.
Then Alpheus bold,
20 On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook ;
And opened a chasm
Tn the rocks— with the gpasra
All Erymanthns shook.
26 And the black south wind
It unsealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
3° The bars of the springs below.
And the beard and the hair
Of the River-god were
Been through the torrent's sweep,
As he followed the light
« Of the fleet nymph's flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.
''Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair ! ' '
40 The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer;
And under the water
The Earth's white daughter
46 Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream •—
Like a gloomy stain
60 On the emerald mam
Alpheus rushed behind,—
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
65 Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearled thrones;
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
60 Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams
Weave a network of colored light ;
And under the caves,
65 Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest's night —
Outspeeding the shark.
And the swordfish dark,
Tnder the ocean foam,
70 And up through the rifts '
Of the mountain chfts
They passed to their Don an home
And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains,
75 Down one vale where the morning bask&,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
80 From their cradles steep
Tn the cave of the shelving hill ;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of asphodel;1
85 And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore,—
Like spirits that he
In the-Mure sky
90 When they love bnt live no more.
i daffodil*
PERCY DYSSHE SHELLEY
707
HYMN OP APOLLO
1824
The sleepless Hours who watch me as I be,
Curtained with star-mwoven tapestries
Firwi the broad moonlight of the sky,
Fanning the busy dreams from my dim
eyes,
6 Waken me when their mother, the gray
Dawn,
Tells them that dreams dnd that the moon
is gone.
Then I arise, and climbing Heaven 'b blue
dome,
1 walk over the mountains and the waves,
Louring my lobe upon the oceun ioain,
10 My footsteps pave the clouds with lire ,
the raxes
Aie filled with my bright presence, and the
air
Lea\cs the green Earth to mv embraces
bare
The sunbeams are my shafts, vuth winch T
kill
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the
da> ,
15 All men who do or ex en imagine ill
FI> IUP, diul fiom the gloiy of uiv lay
Good nniuK and open actions take new
might,
Until diminished by the reign of Night
I feed the clouds, the i am bows, and the
flowers
20 With their ethereal colors, the moon's
globe
And the pure stars in then eternal bowcis
Are cinctured with mv power as with a
robe,
Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may
shine
Aie portions of one power, which is mine
25 T stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven,
Then with unwilling steps I \\andcr
down
Into the clouds of the Atlantic e\en,
Foi giief that I depart they weep and
frown
What look is more delightful than the
smile
80 With which T soothe them from the west-
ern islet
I am the eye with which the Universe
Beholds'itself and knows itself dnine,
AH harmony of instrument or verse,
All prophecy, all medicine are mine,
36 All light of Art or Nature;— to my song
Victory and praise in its own right belong.
HYMN OP PAN
18*0 1824
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Wheie loud waves arc dumb
5 Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bellb of thyme,
The buds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale1 abo\ e in the lime,
10 And the lizaids below in the grass,
Weie as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my &weet pipings.
Liquid Pen e us was flowing,
And all daik Tempe lay
15 In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and the
waves,
20 To the edge of the moist rner-lawns,
And the bunk of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
25 T sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the daedal2 Earth,
And of Heaven— and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth ,—
And then I changed my pipings,—
30 Singing how down the vale of Msenalus
1 puisned a maiden and clasped a reed n
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed.
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
Vl If emy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings
THE QUESTION
1822
T dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare winter suddenly was changed to
spring,
And gentle odors led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmur-
ing
5 Along a shelving bank of turf, which Hy
1 dcadas ; locusts * manrelonsly formed
* \* Pan was about to embrace tbe nymph
Hvrlnx, who van fleeing from him. she wan
transformed Into reeds Fan named his flute
after her Bee Ovid's JfrfflmorpftoMU, 1,
601 ff
708
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Under a copse, and hardly dared to
Its green arms round the bosom of the
stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou might-
est in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers1 and violets,
10 Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the
earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxslips, tender bluebells, at whose
birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall
flower2 that wets-
Like a child, half in tenderness and
mirth—
15 Its mother's face with heaven-collected
tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice,
it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglan-
tine,
Green cowbind8 and the moonlight-
colored may,4
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups,
whose wine
20 "Was the bright dew, yet drained not by
the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wander-
ing astray j
And flowers, azure, black, and streaked
with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
25 And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple
pranked with white ;
And starry river buds among the sedge;
And floating water-lilies, broad and
bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
80 \Vilh moonlight beams of their own
watery light;
And bulrushes and reeds of such deep
green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober
sheen.
Methonght that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
16 That the same hues, which in their natural
bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
i anemone* (from Greek AMMOI, wind)
•Probably, the tulip to* Shelley's The
ttrr Plant, 1, 17 (p. 600)
•haw
Kept these imprisoned children of the
Hours
Within my hand,— and then, elate and
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
40 That I might there present itl— Oh, to
whomf
THE TWO SPIRITS : AN ALLEGORY
18SO 1824
First Spirit
O thou, who plumed with strong desire
Wouldst float above the earth, beware !
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire—
Night is coming I
6 Bright are the legions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there-
Night is coming!
Second Spirit
The deathless stars are bright above ;
If 1 would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day f
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where'er they mo\e ,
The meteors will linger round my flight.
And make night day.
10
16
First Spirit
But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy raint
See, the bounds of the air are shaken—
20 Night is coming!
The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the
plain—
Night is coming!
Second Spirit
*B I see the light, and I hear the sound ;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark.
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day; ^
And thon, when the gloom is deep and
stark,
s° Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound.
My moon-like flight thou then mayst
mark
On high, far away.
•bryony
awthorn
Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
85 O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice
PERCY BY8BEE SHELLEY
709
Mid Alpine mountains;
And that the languid storm pursuing
That winged shape, forever flies
Bound those hoar branches, aye renew-
ing
40 Its aery fountains.
Some say when nights are dry and clear,
And the death-dewb bleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day;
46 And a silver shape like his early love
doth pass,
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair,
And, when he awakes on the fragrant
grass,
He finds night day.
AUTUMN. A DIBGE
1820 1824
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is
wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flow-
ers are dying,
And the Year
On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of
leaves dead,
6 Is lying.
Come, Months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest aray;
Follow the bier
10 Of the dead cold Year,
And like dim shadows vtatch by her sep-
ulchre
The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is
crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is
knelling
For the Year,
16 The blithe swallows are flown, and the liz-
ards each gone
To his dwelling;
Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and gray ;
Ix»t your light sisters play—
20 Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead cold Year,
And make her grave green with tear on
tear.
THE WANING MOON
1824
And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy
veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain.
6 The moon arose up in the murky East,
A white and shapeless mass.
TO THE MOON
18KO 1824
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the
earth,
Wandering companion less
Among the stars that have a different
birth,-
5 And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy f
Thou chosen sister of the spirit,
That gazes on thee till in thee it pities
DEATH
1810 1824
Death is here, and death is there,
Death is busy everywhere,
All aiound, within, beneath,
Above, is death— and we are death.
5 Death has set his mark and seal
On all we are and all we feel,
On all we know and all we fear,
• ***••
First our pleasures die— and then
10 Oui hopes, and then our fears— and when
These are dead, the debt is due.
Dust claims dust— and we die too
All things that we love and cherish,
Lake ourselves must fade and perish;
15 Such is our rude mortal lot-
Love itself would, did they not.
THE WORLD 'B WANDERERS
1810 1824
Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night
Will thy pinions close now?
* Tell me, moon, thon pale and gray
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way,
In what depth of night or day
Seekest thou repose now Y
Weary wind, who wanderest
1 Like the world's rejected guest.
Hast thou still some secret nest
On the tree or billow t
710
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
TIME LONG PAST
1870
Like the ghost of a dear f nend dead
Is Time long past.
A tone which is now fore\ei fled,
A hope which is now forever past,
* A love so sweet it could not last,
Was Tune long past.
There were sweet dreams in the night
Of Time long past
And, was it sadness or delight,
10 Each day a shadow onward cast
Which made u& wish it yet might last—
That Time long past
There is regret, almost remorse,
For Time long past
15 'Tis like a child 's beloved corse
A father watches, till at last
Beauty is like remembrance, cast
From Time long past
AN ALLEGORY
18KO 1824
A poital as of shadowy adamant
Stands yawning on the highway <>f the
life
Which we all tread, a ca\ein huge and
gaunt,
Around it rages an unceasing1 stnfe
6 Of shadows, like the restless clouds tliat
haunt
The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted
high
Into the whn Iwinds of the upper sk>
And many pass it by with careless tread,
Not knowing that a shadowy [ ]
10 Tiacks e\ery traveler e\en to \\lieic the
dead
Wait peacefully for their companion
new;
But others, by more curious humor led,
Pause to examine,— these are \ery few,
And they leam little there, except to know
16 That shadows follow them where'er (hey
go-
THE WITCH OF ATLAS
1890 1824
To MARY*
ON HIE OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM,
UPON THE SPORE OP ITS CONTAIN-
ING NO HUMAN INTEREST
How, my dear Mary, are yon critic-bitten
(For vipers kill, though dead) by some
review,
i Shelley's wife.
That you condemn these verna I have writ-
ten,
Because they tell no story, false or true!
5 What, though no mice are eaught by a young
kitten,
May it not leap and play as grown cats do,
Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one
time,
Content thee with a visionary rhyme.
What hand would crush the silken-winged fly,
10 The youngest of inconstant April's min-
ions,
Because it cannot climb the purest sky,
Where the swan sings, amid the sun's
dominions f
Not thine Thou knowest 'tis its doom to
die.
When Day shall hide within her taihght
pinions
16 The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile,
Serene as thine, \\hich lent it life awhile
To thy fair feet a MingM Vision* came,
Whose date should have been longer than
a day,
And o'er thy head did beat its wings for
fame,
20 And in thy Bight its fading plumes dis
play;
The matery bow burned in the evening flame,
But the shower fell, the swift Sun went
his way —
And that is dead. Oh, let me not believe
That anything of mine is fit to live*
2.". Wordswoith informs UH he was nineteen ycais
Coiisidei mg and retouching Peter Bell t
Wittering his laurels with the killing tears
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to
Hell
Might pierce, and their wide branches blot
the spheres
30 Of heaven with dewy leaves and floweis.
this well
May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to
foil
The over-busy gardener 's blundering toil
My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature
As Buth or Lucy,2 whom his graceful
praise
M Clothes for our grandsons — but she matches
Peter,
Though he took nineteen years, and she
three days
In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre
She wears; he, proud as dandy with his
stays,
Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress
40 Like King Dear's "looped and windowed
ragged nets "i
1 The Revolt of /riant. *hlth also *an dedicated
to Shelltv't wife
3 Sec Wordsworth's Ruth and Lucy Or*y (p.
241)
°Kino Lear, Til, 4, 3]
PERCY BYS8HE BBLELLEY
711
If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow
Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate
Into a kind of sulphureous yellow:
A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at,
45 In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello
If yon unveil my Witch, no priest nor
primate
Can shnve you of that sin,— if sin there be
In love, when it becomes idolatry.
1 Before those cruel Twins, whom at one
birth
Incestuous Change bore to her father
Time,
Error and Truth, had hunted from the
Earth
All those bright natures which adorned
its pi line,
And left us no tiling to believe in, worth
The pains of putting into learned
rhyme,
A Lady- Witch theie lived on Atlas' moun-
tain
Within a cavern, by a secret fountain
2 Her mother was one of the Atlan tides
The all-beholding Sun had ne'er be-
holden
In his * ide voyage o 'er continents and seas
So fair a oreatuie, as she lay enf olden
In the warm shadow of her loveliness,
He kissed her with his beams, and made
all golden
The chamber of gray rock in which she
lay-
She, in that dieam of joy, dissolved away.
S 'Tis said, she first was changed into a
vapoi ,
And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit,
Like splendor-winged moths about a taper,
Round the red west when the sun dies
m it :
And then into a meteor, such as caper
On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit :
Then, into one of those mysterious stars
Which hide themselves between the Earth
and Mars.
4 Ten times the Mother of the Months1 had
bent
Her bow beside the folding-star,2 and
bidden
With that bright sign the billows to indent
The sea-deserted sand — like children
chidden,
At her command they ever came and
went—
i Diana (ArtanlH), ff<$dtmi of the moon.
•An evening star which appear* about folding
time.
in that cave a dewy splendor hid-
den
Took shape and motion: with the living
form
Of this embodied Power, the cave grew
warm.
5 A lovely lady garmented in light
From her own beauty; deep her eyes as
are
Two openings of unfathomable night
Seen through a temple's cloven roof,
her hair
Dark; the dim brain whirls dizzy with de-
light,
Picturing her form; her soft smile*
shone afar,
And her low voice was heard like love, arid
drew
All living thingb towards this wonder new.
6 And first the spotted camclopard1 came
And then the wise and feailess elephant ;
Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame
Of his own volumes intervolved. All
gaunt
And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made
tame,
They drank before her at her sacied
fount ,
And every beast of beating heart grew
bold,
Such gentleness and power even to behold.
7 The bnnded lioness led forth her young,
That she might teach them how they
should forego
Their inborn thnst of death, the paid2
unstrung
His smews at her feet, and sought to
know
With looks whose motions spoke without
a tongue
How he might be as gentle as the doe.
The magic circle of her voice and eyes
All savage natures did unparadise.
8 And old Silenus, shaking a preen stick
Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew
Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick
Cicadas* are, drunk with the noonday
dew;
And Dryope and Faunus followed quick,
Teasing the god to sing them something
new;
Till in this cave they found the Lady lone,
Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone.
* giraffe • leopard » locusts
712 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
9 And universal Pan, 'tis said, was. there, The clouds and waves and mountain*
And, though none saw him, through the with; and she
adamant As many star-beams, ere their lamps could
Of the deep mountains, through the track- dwindle
less air. In the belated moon, wound skilfully;
And through those living spirits, like a And with these threads a subtle veil she
want, wove—
He passed out of his everlasting lair A shadow for the splendor of her love.
Where the quick heart of the great world
doth pant, 14 The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling
And felt that wondrous Lady all alone,— Were stored with magic treasures—
And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. sounds of air,
Which had the power all spirits of com-
10 And every nymph of stream and spread- pelling,
ing tree, Folded in cells of crystal silence there;
And every shepherdess of Ocean 's Such as we hear in youth, and think the
flocks, feeling
Who drives her white waves over the green Will never die— yet ere we are aware,
sea, The feeling and the sound are fled and
And Ocean with the brine on his gray gone,
locks, And the regret they leave remains alone.
And quaint Priapus with his company,
All came, much wondenng how the cii- 15 And there lay Visions swift, and sweet,
wombed rocks and quaint,
Could have brought forth so beautiful a Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis ,
birth ; Borne eager to burst forth, some weak and
Her love subdued their wonder and their faint
mirth. With the soft burden of iutensest bliss
It is its work to bear to many a saint
11 The herdsmen and the mountain maidens Whose heart adores the shrine which
came, holiest is,
And the rude kings of pastoral Gara- Even Love's; and others white, green,
mant; gray, and black,
Their spirits shook within them, as a flame And of all shapes— and each was at her
Stin ed by the air under a cavein gaunt . beck.
Pigmies and Polyphemes, by many a
name, 16 And odors in a kind of aviary
Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept,
bs haunt Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy
Wet clefts, and lumps neither alive nor Had woven from dew-beams while the
dead, moon yet slept;
Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. As bats at the wired window of a dairy,
They beat their vans; and each was an
12 For she was beautiful ; her beauty made adept,
The bright world dim, and everything When loosed and missioned, making wings
beside of winds,
Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade; To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined
No thought of living spirit could abide, . minds.
Which to her looks had ever been betrayed,
On any object in the world so wide, 17 And liquors clear and sweet, whose bealth-
On any hope within the circling skies, f nl mijht
But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. Could medicine the sick soul to happy
sleep,
13 Which when the Lady knew, she took her And change eternal death into a night
spindle Of glorious dreams,— or, if eyes needs
And twined three tlneads of fleecy mist, must weep,
and three Could make their tears all wonder and de-
Long lines of light, such as the dawn may light,—
kindle She in her crystal vials did closely keep :
PEBOY BYBSHE SHELLEY 713
If men could drink of those clear vials, Into her mind; such power her mighty
'tis said sire
The living were not envied of the dead. Had girt them with, whether to fly or run,
Through all the regions which he shines
18 Her cave was stored with scrolls of uP°n-
strange device, Mff«^ ^ „ « ^ *
The works of some Saturman Archi- 22 The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades,
mage,1 Oreads and Naiads with long weedy
Which taught the expiations at whose price locks,
Men from the gods might win that Offered to do her bidding tin ough the seas,
happy age Under the earth, and in the hollow
Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice, rodcs,
And which might quench the earth-con- And far beneath the matted roots of trees
sum;ng rage And in the gnarled heait of stubborn
Of gold and blood, till men should live oaks,
and move S° they might live forever in the light
Harmonious as the sacred stars above; Of her sweet piesence— each a satellite
19 And how all things that seem untamable, ** 'IThis ™*J not **," the Wizard Maid re-
Not to be checked and not to be con- ffmt^A) , , ^ * •_
fined, "The fountains where the Naiades De-
Obey the spells of Wisdom 's wward skill , dew
Time, earth, and fire, the ocean and the Their shining hair, at length arc drained
wind, and dried,
And all their shapes, and man '« imperial Th* soM oaks forget their strength, and
will; Btrew
And other scrolls whose writings did Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide ,
unbind The boundless ocean, like a drop of dew,
The inmost lore of Love-let the profane Will be consumed-the stubborn centre
Tiemble to ask what secrets they contain. must
Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust
20 And wondrous works of substances un- _. .. . , ._ . „ ., ,
fcnown 24 "And ye with them will perish, one by
To which the enchantment of her T^T°neV""- i * *u- i ^ * ^ u n u
father's power " * must B1£h to think that this shall be,
Had changed those rapped blocks of sav- Tf J, "J™* ™*P when the skiving Sun
age stone, &i\&\\ smile on your decay— oh, ask not
Were heaped in the recesses of hei ^ , me .„ , *
bower • To love you till your little race is run;
Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which _ I ca?not die as ye must-over me
shone Your leaves shall glance— the streams in
In their own golden beams-each like a ou „ *hieh ye ^welLl
flower Shall b^ my Paths henceforth, and so—
Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his farewell!"
light
Under a cypress1 in a starless night. 86 She spoke and wept; the dark and azure
well
21 At first she lived alone in this wild home, Sparkled beneath the shower of her
And her own thoughts were each a min- . , bright tears,
lster And every little circlet where they fell
Clothing themselves, or with the ocean Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant
foam, spheres
Or with the wind, or with the speed of And intertangled lines of light; a knell
flr^ Of sobbing voices came upon her ears
To work whatever purposes might come From thosc Departing Forms, o'er the
^ISSfiaTirSS'ff/^ Bpelliep>11 n* FflflHa Of the white streams and of the forest
• The crprew iff a common tree In grareyamlfl green.
714 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
86 All day the Wizard Lady sate aloof, 31 She had a boat which some say Vulcan
Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, wrought
Under the cavern 's fountain-lighted roof, For Venus as the chariot of her star;
Or broidenng the pictured poesy But it was found too feeble to be fraught
Of some high tale upon her growing woof, With all the ardors in that sphere
Which the sweet splendor of her smiles which are,
could dye And so she sold it, and Apollo bought
In hues outshining Heaven— and ever she And gave it to this daughter; from a cut
Added some grace to the wrought poesy Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat
A* -•*« -i *- i_ * t • * • Which ever upon mortal stieam did float
87 While on her hearth lay blazing many a ^
Of £n7aL wood, rare gums, and cm- M And oi™ •* that' whcn but three hours
Men i know how beautiful fire Mf ** *"»™ ^ out of his cra'lle
DB^^SSK tSSES ^ *"*- 0- "» "* ™> of
Belongs to each and all who gaze upon.
brand. mould,
And sowed it in hiR mother's fdai, and
88 This Lady never slept, but lay in trance kept
All night within the fountain, as in Watering it all the summer with sweet dew,
sleep. And with his wings fanning it as it gie\\
Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's
glance; 88 The plant grew strong and preen; the
Through the green splendor of the snowy flower
water deep Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit
She saw the constellations reel and danee began
Like fire-flies, and withal did ever keep To turn the light and dew by inward powei
The tenor of her contemplations e aim, To its own substance, woven tiacery
With open eyes, closed feet, and folded ran
palm. Of light firm textuie, ribbed and branch-
89 And when the whirlwinds and the clouds The JXj0 llke a lcaf ,g veillM fan,
aescenaea of h- h ^ gcooped this boat, and with
From the white pinnacles of that cold ^^ motlon
ou j j. ji a 11 * i.jj Piloted it round the cucumfluous ocean.
She passed at dewf all to a space extended,
Where, in a lawn of flowering asphodel1 _ . mmm . _ _ , .
Amid a wood of pines and eedara blended, 84 This boat she moored upon her fount, and
There yawned an inextinguishable well ™ . , „
Of crimson fire, full even to the brim, A hvlnff «Pint ^ithm all its frame,
And overflowing ail the mai^in trim; Breathing the soul of swiftness into it
Couched on the fountain, like a panther
80 Within the which she lay when the fierce tame,—
war One of the twain at Evan 'R feet that sit—
Of wintry winds shook that innocuous Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame,
liquor Or on blind Homer's heart a winged
In many a mimic moon and bearded star thought,—
0 'er w«ods and lawns; the serpent heard In joyous expectation lay the boat.
it flicker
In sleep, and, dreaming still, he crept afar; 35 ^^ ^ ^^^ art ^e into&rt flre and
And when the windless snow descended Bnow
thicker Together, tempering the repugnant masR
Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it With liqilW love -all things together
came grow
Melt on the surface of the level flame. Through which the harmony of love
can pass;
1'EBCy BYSSIIE SHEtLEY 715
And a fair 8hai>e out of her bands did Between the be\ered mountauib lay on
flow, high,
A living Image, which did fai surpass Ovci the stream, a narrow lift of bky
Tn beauty that bnght shape of \ital stone .
Which diew the heait out ot Pygmalion l 40 And ever as she went, the Image lay
With folded wmgb and unawakened
36 A sexless thing it was, and in its growth eyes,
It seemed to ha\e developed no defect And o'ei its gentle countenance did play
Of either sex, yet all the giace oj both, The buby di earns, as thick as summer
In gentleness and stiength its limbs \\eie flies,
dec-Led, Chasiug the lapid smileb that would not
The bobom swelled lightly with its full stay,
youth, And dunking the warm tears, and the
The countenance wab such as might se- feweet sighs
lect Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain,
Some aitist that his skill should neAei die, They had aroused from that full heart
Imaging iorth buch pcilecL punty and brain.
37 Prom its smooth shouldeis hung two itipid 41 And e\ei down the prone vale, like a cloud
wings, Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace
Fit to ha\e bcnne it to the sexenlh went-
spheie, ^ow Imgeiing on the pools, in which
Tipped with the speed of liquid lighten- abode
The calm and darkness of the deep con-
Dyed in the aidors of the atmospheie
She led her cieatuie to the boiling springs In which they paused, now o'er the ahal-
Wheie the light boat *a* moored, and o low load
said, " Sit heie1" ^ \unte and dancing waters, all be-
Aiul pointed to the pi OIK , and took lici bpient
gpal with sniid and polished pebbles' mortal
Beside the i mldt'i , * ith opposing feet boat
hi such a shallow lapid could not float
38 And down thMtiwn nhirii Hove tho* 42 Am, Jfflwn ^ earthquaklng
and odo,B, and . pleasure hid HtpIJJrw the1"' tlU m their
Oft m. . . , ., A . ,. , „ 43 And when the Wizard-Lady would ascend
39 The silver noon into that winding dell, The ,flb |h of ^e many-winding
With slanted gleam attaint the forest xaj^ J 6
rn i^'i 11 « , i f 11 Winch to the inmost mountain upward
Tempered like golden even me, feebly fell ,
A meen and slowmg light, like th.it Shp Cfll,;d »neimaphroditus»'\ and
which diops tlie le
Kn.ni Mded hhes fa, which glow-wo,n,s And headline which slumber could extend
When^arth over her face Night >s man- A ^^tt&J^
lll§ Wlflps' Into the daikness of the stieam did pass.
., Ml In low with the rtata* of a j- .... « i •• .,, , , . .
woman which ho hod curved, and which came 44 And it unfurled its heaven-colored pinions,
W m X^KSft %5S£SW Aw With stars of fire Dotting the stream
•nd (illlN'rt'H PwmaUon and (lalatfa (1871). below;
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOlfANTICISTS
And from above into the Son's dominions The bastions of the storm, when through
Flinging a glory, like the golden glow the sky
In which Spring clothes her emerald- The spirits of the tempest thundered by;
wmg&d minions, *
All interwoven with fine feathery snow 49 A haven, beneath whose translucent floor
And moonlight splendor of intensest rime,1 The tremulous stars sparkled unf athom-
With which frost paints the pines in winter ably,
time. And around whieh the solid vapors hoar,
Based on the level waters, to the sky
45 And then it winnowed the Elysian air Lifted their dreadful crags, and, like a
Which ever hung about that lady bright, shore
With its ethereal vans ; and speeding there, Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly
Like a star upon the torrent of the night, Hemmed in, with rifts and precipices gray
Or a swift eagle in the morning glare And hanging crags, many a cove and bay.
Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous
flight, 50 And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash
Tho pinnace, oared by those enchanted Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a
wings, wounded thing,
Clove the fierce streams towards their And the incessant hail with stony clash
upper springs. Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging
wing
46 The water flashed, like sunlight by the Of the roused coimorant in the lightning
prow flash
Of a noon-wandenng meteor flung to Looked like the wm* of wmi- wind-
Heaven , wandering
The still air seemed as if ils waves did flow Fragment of inky thumlei -smokc-tlm
In tempest down the mountains ; loosely haven
driven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engiaven,
The Lady's radiant hair streamed to and
fr°; 51 On which that Lady played her mnny
Beneath, the billows having vainly pianks,
striven Circling the image of a shooting star,
Indignant and impetuous, roaied to feel Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks
The swift and steady motion of the keel. Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest
47 Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, jn her llg'ht font; and many quips and
Or in the noon of interlunar1 night, . cranks1
The Lady-Witch in visions i could not chain She played upon the water, till the ear
Her spirit; but sailed forth under the Of tlie late mo(m> hke a SM.k mtm wan>
™ , llfht . , , , . , To journey fiom the misty east began.
Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain
Its storm-outepeeding wing*, the Her- 52 And then she called out of the hollow
maphrodite, turrets
She to the Austral waters took her way, Of those hi h cloud whlte ld ftnd
Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana, vermilion
AQ HTU ii j i i ii i The armies «* ^r ministering spirits;
48 Where, like a meadow which no scythe has Jn mighty leffions> mluIOn after million,
shaven, rj^y ca
Which rain could never bend, or whirl- merits
ur«.* * * n *• On meteor fla^5 nml manv a Proilcl
With the Antarctic constellations paven, pavilion
Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral Of the jntcrteiture of the atmosphere
_ Ja*e» ,, . ... ... . ,. They pitched upon the plain of the calm
There she would build herself a windless ' rmen f '
haven
Out of the clouds whose moving turrets 53 ^ey fr^ the jm^a, tent of their
™ake (treat Queen
• Ttatlfln the lotfml betwmi the oM moon Of wown «b«l«»tS°ns, underlaid
•nd the new. » fee JAtlfrffro. 27
PERCY BY88HE SHELLEY 717
With lambent lightning-fire, as may be Egypt *"d ^Ethiopia, from the steep
seen Of utmost Axume*, until he spreads,
A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep,
With crimson silk; cressets1 from the . His waters on the plain,— and crested
serene heads
Hung there, and on the water for her Of cities and proud temples gleam amid,
tread ' And many a vapor-belted pyramid.
A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn,
Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. 68 By Mceris and the Mareotid lakes,
Strewn with faint blooms, like bridal
54 And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, chamber floors,
caught Where naked boyb bi idling tame water-
Upon those waiideung isles of aery dew, snakes,
Which highest shoals of mountain ship- Or charioteeimg ghastly alligators,
wieck not, Had left on the swpet waters mighty wakes
She sate, and heard all that had hap- Of those huge forms— within thebiazen
pened new doois
Between the earth and moon, since they Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and
had brought beast,
The last intelligence ; and now she grew Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast
Pale as that moon lost in the watery night,
And now she wept, and now she laughed 59 And whcie within the surface of the nver
outright. The shadows of the massy temples he,
And DCA er pre erased— but tremble e\ er
55 These were tame pleasures. She would L,ke lhlnpll vluv]i eAery cioud cau ^0{)lu
often climb to die;
The steepest ladder of the crudded iackj Through lotus-paveu canals, and whereso-
Up to some beaked rape of cloud sublime, ever
And like Anon on the dolphin 's back T^e wol^s Of man pierced that serenest
Ride singing through the shoreless air, 8ky
oft-time With tombs, and towers, and fanes,- 'twas
Following the serpent lightning's wind- her delight
ing track, To wander in the shadow of the night.
She ran upon the platforms of the wind,
And laughed to hear the flie-balls roar 60 WiHi motion like the spirit of that wind
behind.^ Whose sott step deepens slunibei, her
56 And sometimes to those streams of upper Pa thc peopled hauilU uf
Whi£whi,l the earth in its diurnal ^SfA u« fioin her pies-
That on°£e days the sky was calm and * dark a"d bubterranean
Andfniystic snatches of harmonious U^er J-B Nile, through chamlms high and
Wandered'ipo" the earth where'er she She V*"*' ohi™* lllortals to their
passed,
8leeP-
And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to 61 A p,easure gweet doubtlegs it was to hie
1&bc- Mortals subdued in all the shapes of
67 But her choice sport was, in the hours of „ sleep. ^ ....
sleep, Here lay two sister-twins in infancy;
To glide' adown old Nilus, where he There, a lone youth who in his dreams
threads did weep;
Within, two lovers linked innocently
1 lrSrrifikew tSJch?Idill|r *unln* °llf etc" tnd In their loose locks whlch over ^h did
'thickened cloudi creep
71g NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
lake ivy from one stem; and there lay And often through a rude and worn
calm disguise
Qld age with snow-bright hair and folded She saw the inner form most bright and
palm. fair;
And then she had a cbaim of btrange
62 But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, device,
Not to be mirrored in a holy song; Which, murmuicd on mute lips with tender
Distortions foul of supernatural awe, tone,
And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; Could make that spirit mingle with her
And all the code of Custom's lawless law own.
Written upon the brows of old and
young: 67 Alas, Aurora! what wouldst thou have
"This,'' said the Wizard-Maiden, "is the gnen
strife For such a cliaim nhcu Tilhoii became
Which stirs the liquid surface of man's grayl
life. ' ' Or how much, Venus, of thy sil\ er Heaven
Wouldst thou lime yielded, eio Piosei-
63 And little; did the bight disturb hei soul. P™
We, the weak manners of that wide lake, Had b«If <ob *h> 11()t al]f) lhc debt
Wheie'ei its shoies extend or billows roll, _ ™ pen, . . ..
Our couise unpiloted and stailes* make Whlch dear Ado»IS l"*l keen doomed to
O'ei its wild MM face to an unknown coal, __ Pav> , , , .
But she in the calm depths her way could To w^witdi who * milil ha\ e iauiskt you
Where Si \nght boweis inimoi-tal forms Tlie IIehad doth not kllu" Jt* >allie >et
Beneath the weltering of the- lestless tide 68 'Tis said in afte. times hoi spint fiee
Knew what lo\e uas, and iclt itself
64 And she saw pi m«s couched muler the Buf hDian could not chastei be
f\a i^ i 11* i Befoie she stooped to kiss End vm ion.
Of sunhke gem, , aud ioun.1 ea,-h ten.ple- T|,au now ^ lat{v_llke „ ^^ bee
T j Ct i 4. TastniR all blossoms and cnnlined 1<>
In doiniitonesianged, low aitei low. none*
She MW the pnest., asleep-all «.t one Ajmmg ^ M10,la] forms the
sort— Maiden
m
.
graves' They drank in their deep sleep of that
*»\veet wave
65 And all the forms in which those spirits lay And lived thenceforwaid as if some con-
Were to her sight like the diaphanous trol,
V(S!?' m ^lch ih™Bweei ladies oft arrfly Mightier than life, weie m them ; and the
Their delicate limbs, \Uio would conceal grave
from us Of RU(,j, wupn faafa oppressed the
Only their scorn of all concealment , thev wearv soul,
Move in the light of then own l>eaiit> \va8 ns a peen and overarching bowei
thus. |jl ^ fi,e gemg Of mat,v ft stany flowei
But these and all now lay with sleep upon
. , ..A1?6™' 70 For on the night when thev weie buiipcl,
And little thought a witch was looking on gfoe
^em- Restored the embalmed ' nnninpr, and
shook
66 She all those human figures breathing there The light out of the funeial lamps, to be
Beheld as living spirits , to hei eyes A mimic day within that deathy nook,
The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And she unwound (he woven imagery
1'EKCY BYS8HE SHELLEY 71Q
Of becond childhood 'b swaddling bands, 76 The soldiers dreamed that they were black-
end took smiths, and
The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche. Walked out of quarterb in somnam-
And threw it with contempt into a ditch. buhsm ;
Kound the red anvils you might see them
71 And there the body lay, age after age, stand
Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and un- Like Cyclopses in Vulcan 's sooty abybin,
decaying, Beating their swords to ploughshares,1 in
Like one asleep in a green hermitage, a band
With gentle smiles about it* eyelids The gaplerb sent thobe of the hbeial
playing, schism
And living in its dreams beyond the rage Free through the streets of Memphis,
Of death or life, while they were still much, I wis,2
arraying To the annoyance of king Amasis.
In livenes ever new, the rapid, blind,
And fleeting genei aliens of mankind. 76 And timid lovers who had been so coy
They hardly knew whether they loved or
72 And bho would wiite btrange dreams upon not,
the bi am Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet
Of those who were le&b beautiful, and joy,
make To the fulfilment of their inmost
All harsh and crooked purposes more vain thought ;
Than m the desert is the serpent 's wake And when next day the maiden ami the
Which the band covers; all his evil gain bo>
The nusei in such dreams would use and Met one another, both, like sinners
bhake caught,
Into a IwgKai '* lap* the lying scnbe Blushed at the thing which each believed
Would his own lies betray without a biibe. was done
Only in lancy— till the tenth moon shone,
73 The priest b would write an explanation
full, 77 And then the Witch would let them take
Translating hieroglyphic* into Greek, no ill ;
IIow the god Apis really was a bull, Of many thousand schemes which lovers
And nothing more; and bid the heiald find,
stick The Witch found one,— and so they took
The same against the temple doors, and their fill
pull Of happiness in mamagc', warm and
The old cant down; they licensed all to kind
speak Friends who, by practice of some euwous
Whate'er they thought ol hawks, and cats. skill,
and geese, Were toin apart— a ^ide wound, mind
By pastoral letteis to each diocese.1 from mind-
She did unite again with visions clear
74 The king would dress an ape up in Ins Of deep affection and of truth sincere
crown
And lobes, and seat him on Ins gloiious 78 These were the pi auks she pla>od among
seat, the cities
And on the light hand of the sun like tin one Of mortal men, and what she did to
Would place a gaudy mock-bird to 10- spiites
peat And gods, entangling them in her sweet
The chat tennis of the inonke> E\ er} one ditties
Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss To do her will, and show their subtle
the feet sleights,
Of their great Emperor, when the morning I will declare another time; for it is
came, A tale more fit for the weird winter
And kissed— alaR, how many kiss the same. nights'
iA Ritlrlcal icferenco to Egyptian heart wor- « Her Itaiaft 24 »I think
thin nud to modern theology. » Src The ll'mfcr1* 7'< /r, Tl, 1. 21
720
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTlClbTti
Than for these garish summer days, when
we
Scarcely believe much more than we can
see.
EPIPSYCHIDION
TO THE NOBLE AKP UV-
PORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA V - , NOW IM-
PRISONED IN THE CONTENT OF -
18*1 1821
Sweet Spirit! sister of that orphan
one,1
Whose empue is the name8 thou weepcbt
on,
In my heart's temple I suspend to thec
These votive wreaths of withered memory
5 Poor captive bird ! who, from thy nar-
row cage,
Pourest such music, that it might assuage
The rugged hearts of those who prisoned
thec,
Were they not deaf to all sweet melody,—
This rang shall be thy rose • its petals pale
10 Are dead, indeed, my adored nightingale*
But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom,
And it lias no thorn left to wound thy
bosom.
High, spirit-winged Heart9 who dost
forever
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain en-
deavor,
16 Till those bright plumes of thought, in
which arrayed
It o\ei-soared this low and worldly shade,
Lie shattered, and thy panting, wounded
breast
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest !
f weep vain tears; blood would less bitter
be,
20 Yet poured foith gladlier, could it profit
thee,
Seiaph of Heaven! too gentle to be
human,
Veiling beneath that radiant form of
Woman
All that IB insupportable in thee
Of light, and love, and immortality !
25 Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse'
Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe v
Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou liv-
ing Form
Among the Dead! Thou Star above the
Storm f
Shelley, whom mother died In firing
birth to her.
• Shelley.
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou
Terror!
w Thou Harmony of Nature's art! Thou
Mirror
In whom, as in the splendor of the Sun,
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest
on!
Ay, even the dim words which obscure thec
now
Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed
glow;
36 1 pray thee that thou blot from this sad
song
All of its much mortality and wrong,
With those clear drops, which start like
sacred dew
Fiom the twin lights thy sweet soul dark-
ens through,
Weeping, till soriow becomes ecstasy —
40 Then smile on it, so that it may not die.
I never thought before my death to see
Youth's vision1 thus made perfect Emily,
I love thee; though the world by no thin
name
Will hide that love from its unvalued
shame 2
45 Would we two had been twins of the same
mother!
Or, that the name my heart lent to another
Could be a sister's bond for her and thee,
Blending two beams of one eternity !
Yet were one lawful8 and the other tine,4
60 These names,5 though dear, could paint
not, as is due,
How beyond refuge I am thine Ah tne1
I am not thine— I am a part of thec.
Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has
burned its wings,
Or, like a dying swan who soars and
sings,8
65 Young Love should teach Time, in his own
gray style,
All that thou art. Ait thou not void of
guile,
A lovely soul formed to be blessed and
blesbf
A well of sealed and secret happiness,
Whose wateis like blithe light and music
are,
60 Vanquishing dissonance and gloom f a star
'The Ideal which Shelley had formed in bin
youth Bee Altutor. 20ft ff (p 638)
* The contempt to which Bhelley is indifferent
• That Emily and Mary should both be married
4 That he and Emily were brother and sinter.
•Bister and wife.
•The swan waa Mid to alng melodiously when
about to die.
PJKBCY BYbSHE 8HJ3LLEY 721
Which, moves not in the moving heavens, 10° The crimson pulse of living nioining
alone f quiver)
A smile amid dark frowns f a gentle tone Continuously prolonged, and ending never,
Amid rude voices f a beloved light t Till they are lobt, and in that Beauty furled
A solitude, a refuge, a delight t Which penetrates and clasps and fills the
66 A lute, which those whom Love has taught world,
to play Scaice visible from extreme loveliness.
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day 10G Warm fragrance seems to fall from her
And lull fond Gnef asleep f a buried light dress
treasure! And her loose hair; and where some hea\y
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless tress
pleasure? The air of her own speed has disentwmed,
A \iolet -shrouded giave of woeT—1 meas- The sweetness seems to satiate the faint
ure wind;
70 The woi Id of fancies, seeking one like thec, And in the soul a wild odor is felt,
And find— alas! mine own infirmity. 110 Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt
luto the bosom of a frozen bud.—
She met me, strangei, upon life's rough See 8*16 8tands ? a mortal **!* m-
And lined' me towards sweet death; as ™ loye *** ™* •«* 1*" ™* deity,
Night by Day motion which may change but cannot
Winter bv Spring, or Sorrow by swift 11K . . "ie> , , ^ _,
jj0pe 11B An image of some bright Eternity;
75 1^1 into light, hie, pence.* An antelope, A &**™ °* «* fi^n dream; a Splen-
In the suspended impulse* of its lightness, do*
Weir less etheieally light, the brightness I**\inir the thud spheie1 pilotless; a
Of her divinebt piesence trembles through _ _ *endeJA1 ,
Her limbs as underneath a cloud oi Reflection ,0f the eternal Moon of ^Love
fc^ Under whose motions life's dull billows
8° Embodied in the windless heaven of June , move;
Amid the splendor-winged stars, the Moon 12° A metaphor of Spring and Youth and
Hums, inextinguishably beautiful, Morning;
And t rom her lips, as 1 1 om a hyacinth full ^ ™m M» ™arnate April, warning,
Of honry-dew, a liquid murmur drops, ^ *\ frn»leb *"* tears, Frost the Anatomy
85 Killing 'the sense with passion, sweet as Into his summer grave.
stops
The su«b«»nb of those welk Tvhich ever m R)mll z ^^ &adpe^t not, Iknow
Un,loi ll.eliphtn.nR8 of tlie soul-too doep ^^ ^ makes all things equal , I have
»<> For the brief fathom-lino of thought or ., . aro , , .. . . t a
.mt. By mine own heart tbib joyous truth
"
a
warm bhade In love and worehlP» Wends itself wilh
Of unentaiialed intennixtuie, made
«y Ixive, ol hslit and motion; one intense 1JO Snouse' Sister' Anoel' Pilot o
rs3R t,,eir --
and utmost nn^
With tnermitted blood, which there at flret have
Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air 186 A divine p^^ in . p,ace
tLtylU. Jtfe, peace, refer reuppcHwlT to Da». Or should have moved beside it on this
* The amlt-nte believed that tbc movement of the '
celestial upborn) produced muilc 1Tbe iptere of Vemn, goddera of lore.
722 NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTlOlBTtt
A shadow of that substance,1 from its Mind from its object differs most in this;
birth; 17B Evil from good; misery from happiness;
But not as now. I love thee; yes, I feel The baser from the nobler; the impure
That on the fountain of my heait a seal And frail, from what is clear and must
140 la get, to keep its waters pure and bright endure :
For thee, since in those tears them ha»t de- If you divide suffering and dross, you may
light Dimmish till it is consumed away;
We— acre we not formed, as noles of music 18° If you divide pleasure and love and
are, thought,
For one another, though duwimilai , Each pait exceeds the whole ; and we know
Such difference without discord as can not
make How much, while any yet remains un-
its Those sweetest sounds, in which all spn its spared.
shake ( Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow
As trembling leaves in a continuous aii f spared :
This truth is that deep well, whence sages
Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me ^ draw
dare m The unemied light of hope, the eternal
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are law
wrecked. By which those live, to whom this world of
I never was attached to that gieat sect, life
i~>0 Whose doc t line is, that each one should Is as a gaiden ia\aged, and whoso strife
select Tills for the promise of a later birth
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, The wilderness of this Elysian earth.
And all the rest, though fair and wise,
commend 190 There was a Being1 whom my spirit of 1
To cold oblivion, though 'tis in the code Met on its visioned wandeiinss, far aloft,
Of modern morals, and the beaten road jn the clear golden prime of my youth's
155 Which those poor slaves with weary foot- dawn,
,™ ^Pf tread Xjpon the fairy isles of sunny lawn,
mo travel to their home among he dead Amid the enchanted mountains, and the
By the broad highway of the wojld, and so caves "
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous IK of divine Bleep, and on the aii-like wave*
m. , i j *i i , • of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous
The dreariest and the longest journey go. fl^j.
Pa\ed her light steps On an imagined
160 True ]0ve in this differs from gold and shore,
clay, Under the gray beak of some promontory
That to divide is not to take away She met me, robed in such exceeding glorv
Love IH like understanding, that grows 200 That i beheld her not In solitudes
bright Her voice came to me through the whispei-
Gazing on many truths , 'tis like thy light, mg woods,
Imagination ! which, from earth and sky, And from the fountains and the odors
166 And from the depths of human fantasy. deep
As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, Of flowers, vliirli, like hps murmuring in
fills their sleep
The Universe with glorious beams, and Of the sweet kisses which had lulled them
kills there,
Error, the worm, with many a sun-like. 205 Breathed but of Jter to the enamored air;
arrow And from the breezes whether low or lourl.
Of its reverberated lightning Narrow And from the rain of every passing- cloud,
170 The heart that loves, the brain that con- And from the singing of the summer-birds
templates, And from all sounds, all silence. In the
The life that wears, the spirit that creates words
One object, and one form, and builds 21° Of antique vet Re nnd high romance, in
thereby form,
A sepulchre for its eternity.
»Tho Mwi] I dnerlbed In 4 last or, 150-80 (p 687),
i Her iplrit and in J7ymn to Mcllednal B*-«fy (p 644)1
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 723
Sound, color, m whatever checks that stoim 213 The wuild 1 say of thoughts that wor-
Whieh with the shall cied present chokes bhiped her;
the past ,l And therefoie I went foith, with hope and
And in that best philosophy, whose taste fear
Makes this cold common hell, our hie, a And c\eiy gentle passion sick to death,
doom Feeding my course with expectation's
216 As glorious as a fiery umityidotn— bieath,
Her Spint was the hainiony ot truth Into the wintry foiest of our life,
250 And stiugghns: thiough its en or1 with
Then fmm ihe cavenis of my dreamy vain stiife,
yunlh And stumbling in my weakness and my
I spiang, as one sandalled with plumes of ,h??ei *. n , t * T
r flje And half bewildered by new foiuiN T
And towards the lodestai of my one desire passed,
220 I fhtted, like a dizz> moth, whose High! S??111^ ,a!T? tll0bVinlauKut
Is as a dead lent 's m the owlet- light.
When it would seek m Ilespei 's setting
sphei c
If 1 rou Id find one foim resembling IK is
L>Pi5 In which she might have masked heise'f
fiom me
A radiant death, a ficivscpnlchie, There,- One. whose voice was
As if it wen- a lamp oL caitlih flame melody . , , ,
2J3 But She, whom piajeis or teais then could Rflto *V a well, undei blue nighMuule
not tame, bowers,
Passed, like a CSod thinned on a um»ed The bienlh t)j lic>r false mouth was like
planet, TT . faint flowers;
Whose burning plumes to tenfold s^utt- ,,rn * Jei touches as elect nc poison,- flame
ness fan it, ()l" ot Jiel 'uolvS lllto n'V ul*"s came,
Into the dieaiy cone of our li fe V shade . And from her In mpr cheeks and bo«om flew
And as u man \\ith mmhlv loss disma>nl, f killing an, \\hich piciccd like hmiey-drw
230 I would haxe followed, though the gia\e J,nto lhe c,oie »f »».V meen heart, and lav
between * l)on lts leaves'» until, as hair gronn mav
Yarned like a gulf vhose speclies aic 265 O'er ayounjr brow, thej- hid its unulimu
~.r.t, .
AYhen a \oice said:-'^) Ihou of taint* ^ithrumb of unseasonable time
the weakest,
The phantom is beside the? whom tliou miln ma"y i"»ilal forms I raMilj M»u»ht
swkest." Tne shadow of that idol of my thought
Then I — ' ' Where f" — the world's echo Ani1 W)™e ^e'e fair— but " beauty dies
answered "Where!" 07n xl a™y; .
All(i ,„ that silence, and m my despaii, Z7° ()lbcrs ^eie ^^c-but honcjed woidb bc-
1 questioned every tongueless wind that ^ia}f»
Ancl olie was inie— ohf *hj not hue to
(her my tower of mouinmg, if it knew
Whither 'twas fled, this soul out ol my T»€n' as a him led deer that could not lice,
aoul; ' I turned upon my thoughts, and stood at
And murmured names and spells which kfly»
have control Wounded and weak and pantmjr ; the cold
(h er the sightless tyi ants of our fate , day
But neither prayer nor verse could dissi- Z75 Trembled, for pity of mv stnfe and pain,
pate When, like a noonday dawn, there shone
The night which closed on her, noi un- aSam
eieate Deliverance. One stood on my path who
That world within this Chaos, mine and seemed
me, As hke the glonons shape \\liich I had
Of which she was the veiled Dn imU ,— . dreamed
As m the Moon, >\hose change* c\cr run
tin whatever rnir?Nw flpntH, and !s Immortal 28° J,"10 thenwhcm, to the etenial Sun;
In workii of art The cold chaMe Afoon, the Queen of
• Hint IH, In the dim uncnnnv H«IH which thp TTpmmiV. huol.f
moth l.-nvoH for tho hrl^htei Hpht of llospo- HeOAOli s blllillt
in*, the ovpuing «tar Mrrppmlar conrup
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Who makes all beautiful on which she At length, into the obscuae foiest vaine
smiles, The Vision I had sought through grief aud
That wandering bin me of soft yet icy flame shame.
Which ever is transformed, yet still the Athwart that wintry wilderness of thoins
same, Flashed from her motion splendor like the
285 And warms not but illumines. Young and Morn 's,
fair 325 And from her presence life was radiated
As the descended Spirit of that sphere, Through the gray earth and branches bare
She bid me, as the Moon may hide the night and dead ;
Fiom lib own daikness, until all was blight So that her way was paved, and roofed
Between the Heaven and Earth of my calm above
mind, With flower* as soft as thoughts of bud-
290 And, as a cloud chanoted by the wind, ding love,
"Slic led me to a c&\ c m that wild places And music from her respiration spread
And sate beside me, with her downwanl 33° Like light,— all other sounds were pene-
face tiated
Illumining my slumbeis, like the Moon By the small, still, sweet spirit of that
Waging and waning o'er Eudymion sound,
296 And T was laid asleep, spirit and limb, So that the savage winds hung mute
And all my being became bright or dim around ;
As the Moon's image in a summer sea, And odois warm and fiesh fell from her
According as she smiled or fi owned on hair
me, Dissolving- the dull cold in the fiore1 air-
And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed. 33B Soft as an Incai nation of the Sun,
800 Alas, I then M'RS nor alive nor dead ; When light is changed to lo\e, this gloiious
For at her siher voice came Death and One
Life, Floated into the oatein nvhere I lay,
TTnmindf ul each of their accustomed st life. And called my Spirit, and the dreaming
Masked like twin babes, a sister and a clay
brother, Was lifted by the thing that dreamed below
The wandering hopes of one abandoned 3<0 As smoke by fiie, and in her beauty's glow
mother, I stood, and felt (he dawn of my long night
306 And through the cavern without wings Was penetiatmg me with living light:
they flew, I knew it was the Vision veiled from me
And med, " Awa>, he is not of our ciew " So many years— that it was Emily.
I wept, and though it be a dream, I weep.
345 Twin Spheie* of light2 who uile tins
What storms then shook the ocean of passne Earth,
my sleep, This world of lo\e, this me; and into bnth
Blotting: that Moon, whose pale and waning Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and dart
lips Magnetic might into its central heart ;
3]0 Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse; And lift its billows and its mists, and guide
And how my soul was as a lamplcss sea, 35° Bv everlasting laws, each wind and tide
And who was then its Tempest , and when To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave;
She, And lull its storms, each in the craggy
The Planet of that hour, was quenched, grave
what frost Which was its cradle, luring to faint
Crept o'er those waters, till from coast to bowers
coast ^ The armies of the rainbow-winged shower- ;
816 The moving billows of my being fell 3"5 And, as those married lights, which from
Into a death of ice, immovable , the towers
And then what earthquakes made it gape Of Heaven look forth and fold the wander-
and split, ing globe
The white Moon smiling all the while In liquid sleep and splendor, as a robe ;
on it, And all their many - mingled influence
These words conceal; if not, each word blend,
would be If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end ;—
880 The key of staunchless tears. Weep not itrown
for me ' • Emily and Mary •• (he sun and tbc moon.
PEBCY BY88HE SHELLEY 725
860 go ye> bright regents, with alternate sway The sentinels— but true love never yet
Govern my sphere of being, night and day ! Was thus constrained ; it overleaps all
Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed fence.
might , Like lightning, with invisible violence
Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light ; 40° Piercing its continents,1 like Heaven's
And, through the shadow of the seasons free breath,
three, Which he who grasps can hold not , liker
166 From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity, Death, •
Light it into the Winter of the tomb, Who rides upon a thought, and makes his
Where it may npen to a brighter bloom. way
Thou too, O Comet beautiful and fierce. Through temple, tower, and palace, and
Who drew the heart1 of this frail Uni- the array
verse Of arms more strength has Love than he
370 Towards thine own, till, wrecked in that or they,
convulsion, 405 For it can burst his charnel, and make free
Alternating attraction and repulsion, The limbs in chains, the heart in agony,
Thine went astray, and that was rent in The soul in dust and chaos
twain,
Oh, float into our azure heaven again ! Emily,
Be there Love's folding-star2 at thy IP- A ship is floating in the harbor now,
turn; A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's
875 The living Sun will feed thee from its urn brow;
Of golden fire, the Moon will veil her limn 41° There is a path on the sea's a/me floor-
In thy last smiles , adoi ing Even and Morn No keel has evei ploughed that path be-
Will worship thee with incense of calm foie;
breath The halcyons brood aiound the foamless
And lights and shadows, as the star of isles,2
Death The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its
880 And Birth is worshiped by those sisters wiles;
wild The meny mariners are bold and free
Called Hope and Fear— upon the heart are 41B Say, mv heart's sister, wilt thou sail with
piled met
Their offerings,— of this sacrifice di\me Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest
A world shall be the altar. Is a iar Eden of the puiple East ,
And we between her wings will sit, while
Lady mine, Night,
Scorn not these flowers of thouitlit, the And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue
fading birth their flight,
3S6 Which from its heart of hearts that plant 420 Qur ministeis, along the boundless Sea,
puts forth Treading each other's heels, unheededly
Whose fruit, made peifect by thy sunny ]t is an isle under Ionian skies,
«yes, Beautiful an a wreck of Paradise,
Will be as of the trees of Paradise And, for the haibors aie not safe and good,
_, . . ... .. - ... 425 This land would have i em a mod a solitude
The day is come, and thou wilt fly with But for some pasUirai peop|e natne theiCf
_ . me , . . „ , . . Who from the Elysian, clear, and i?olden
To whatsoe'er of dull mortality air
890 is mine, remain a vestal sistei" still ; Draw the lagt t of the of ld^8
To the intense, the deep, the impenshable, Simple and spinted, innocent and bold.
Not mine but me, henceforth be them united 430 The blue ^ail ^ thls cjl08en ,lome
Even as a bride, delighting and delighted Wlth ever-chan^n* sound and light and
The hour is come:— the destined Stai has fo^
•OR «r, • i_ "L®?! j j ± • Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar ;
395 Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. And all the winds wandering along the
The walls are high, the gates are strong, silore
thick set
1 thing* holding or containing It
i Rhelley'i heart • Halcyon* or klnffflRherH, wore mid to make
• An evening utar which appears about folding their nests at tea, and to calm the waved
time 'The flnt period of the htatory of the world,
•nun ; virgin the era of perfect happineig
726 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Undulate with the undulating tide, Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less
486 There are thick woods where sylvan forms Burns in the heart of this delicious isle,
abide, An atom of the Eternal, whose own smile
And many a fountain, mulet, and pond, 48° Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen,
As olear.as elemental diamond, O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and for-
Or serene morning- air; and far beyond, ests green,
The mossy tracks made by the goats and Filling their bare and void interstices
deer* But the chief marvel of the wilderness
440 (Which the rough shepherd treads but Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how
once a year) 48B None of the rustic island-]>eople know ;
Pierce into glades caverns, and bowers, 'Tis not a tower of strength, though with
and halls its height
Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls It overtops the woods, but, for delight,
Illumining, with bound that never fails Some wise and tender ocean-king, ere crime
Accompany the noonday nightingales, Had l>een jn\ented, m the world 'b young
445 And all the place is peopled with sweet pi line,
ans, 49° Reared it, a wonder of that simple tune1,
The light clear element which the isle wears An envy of the isles, u pleasure-house
Is heavy with the bcent of lemon -flowei s, Made sacied to his siHlei and his spouse
Which floats like mist laden with unseen It scarce seems now a wieck of human ait,
showers, But, as it were, Titanic, in the heart
And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep , 49R Of Eaitli ha\mg assumed its form, then
4150 And fiom the moss violets and jonquils grown
peep, Out of the mountains, from the living
And dait their arrowy odor through tlie stone,
brain Lifting itself in ra^eins light and high,
Till you might faint with that delicious For all the antique and leained imagery
pain Has Iteen ei.iswl, and in the place of it
Arid e^ery motion, odor, beam, and tone, • 60° The i\y and the wild tine mterknit
With that deep music is in unison, The \oluines of their nianv-twmmg stems,
45B Which is a soul within the soul— thev seem 1'aiasite Howers illume with dewy gems
Like echoes of an antenatal dream. The lamp less halls, and when they fade, the
U is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and sky
Sea, Peeps tin ou«h their winter- woof of tracery
Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity , 505 With moonlight patches, 01 Htai-atoms
Bright as that wandering Eden, Lucifer, keen,
460 Washed by the soft blue oceans of young Or fragments of the day's intense serene,
air Woikmg mosaic on their Panan floois
It is a favored place Famine or Blight, And, day and night, aloof, from the Inch
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never towers
light And teriuces, the Earth and Ocean «eem
Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, 51° To sleep in one another's arms, and dream
they Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, looks.
Sail onward far upon their fatal way, and all that we
4&5 The winged storms, chanting their thundei- Read in their smiles, and call reality
psalm
To other lauds, lea\e azure chasms of calm This isle and house are mine, and I ha\e
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, vowed
Ftom which its fields and woods ever renew Thee to be lady of the solitude
Their gieen and golden immortality. 515 And I have fitted up some chambers there
470 And from the sea there rise, and from the Looking towaids the golden Baste) n an,
sky And level with the living winds, which flow
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and Like waves above the living waves below
bright, T have sent books and music there, and
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight, all
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draws aside, r'20 Those instruments with which high spirits
Till the isle's beauty, like a naked bride call
476 Glowing at once with love and loveliness, The future from its cradle, and the past
Blushes and trembles at its own excess; Out of its grave, and make the present last
PEBCY BY8SHE SHELLEY 727
In thoughts and joys which bleep, but can- Harmonizing silence without a sound.
not die, :>bC Our breath shall intermix, our bosonib
• Folded within their own eternity bound,
D25 Our biniple life wonts little, and true tuste And oui \eins beat together, and oui lips
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury to waste With other eloquence than words, eclipse
The scene it would adoin, and there t'oie The soul that burns between them, and the
still, wells
Nature with all hei childieu haunts the Which boil under our being's inmost
hill cells,
The ung-dove, in the embowering ny, >et :>7° The fountains of our deepest life, shall be
630 Keeps up hei hue-lament, and the owls flit < 'out used in passion's golden purity,
Hound the e\enuig tower, and the young As mountain -springs under the morning
stars glance sun.
Between the quick bats in their twilight We shall become the same, we shall be one
dance; Spnit within two frames, oh! wheiefoie
The spotted deer bask in the fresh moon- _ two?
light 57r* One passion m twin-hearts, which glows
Befoie oui gate, and the slow, silent night and grew,
636 Is moasuied by the pants of their calm Till like two ineteois of expanding flame,
sleep. Those spheies instinct with it become the
Bo this our home in life, and when yea is same,
heap Touch, mingle, are transfigured , ever still
Their withered hours, like leases, on our Binning, yet ever inconsumable;
decay, 58° In due anothei 's substance finding food,
Let us become the overhanging day, Like flames too pure and light and un-
The living soul of this Elysian isle, imbued
640 <1on scions, inseparable, one Meanwhile To nourish their bright lives with baser
We two will use, and sit, and walk to- prey,
gether, Winch point to Heaven and cannot pass
Under the i oof of blue Ionian weather, away .
And wander in the meadows, or ascend Otie hope within two wills, one will beneath
The mossy mountains, where the blue hea\ - r'R"' Two overshadowing minds, one hip, one
ends bend death,
646 With lightest winds, to touch their para- One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality,
mour; And one annihilation. Woe is me!
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore, The wingecl words on which my soul would
Under the quirk, faint kisses of the sea pierce
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy,— Into the height of love's rare Universe,
Possessing and possessed by all that is 5q° Aie chains of lead around its flight of
550 Within that cairn en conference of bliss, fiie
And by each other, till to love and live I pant, I sink, I tremble, 1 expne f
Be one ; or, at the noontide hom , arrive
Where some old cavern hoai seems yet to
keep Weak rentes, go, kneel at yoni Snver-
Tlie moonlight of the expired night asleep. eign's feet,
C56 Through which the awakened day can And say: —"We are the masteis of thy
nevei peep; slave,
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night 's, What wouldest thou with us and oui s and
Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent thine V '
lights;1 r'06 Then call your sisters from Oblivion's
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the cave,
rain All singing loud: "Love's very pain is
Whose drops quench kisses till they bum sweet,
again. But its reward is in the world divine
660 And we will talk, until thought's melody Which, if not here, it builds beyond the
Become too nweet for utterance, and it die grave "
In words, to live again in looks, which dart So shall ye live when I am there. Then
With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart. haste
60° Over the hearts of men, until ye meet
728
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Marina, Vanna, Primus,1 and the rest,
And bid them love each other and be
blessed;
And leave the troop which errs, and which
reproves,
And come and be my guest, —for I am
Love's.
1810
SONG
1824
Rarely, rarely, eomest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night t
6 Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away
How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again 1
With the joyous and the free
10 Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hart forgot
All but those who need thee not.
«
As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
15 Thou with sorrow art dismayed ,
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.
Let me set my mournful ditty
20 To a merry measure,
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasuie,
Pity then will cut away
Thofae cruel wings, and thou wilt stay
25 I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight*
The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night ,
Autumn evening, and the morn
30 When the golden mists are born.
I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost ,
I love waves, and winds, and storms
Everything almost
**. Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery
I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
the
Shelley, Jane Williams,
me Wllltamfiefl were warm fritirt
Shelley* See Shelley'* To Bdward n wjuw.-
(p 741) With a Guitar To Jane (p 742),
and To Ja*r (p. 743)
As is quiet, wise, and good;
40 Between thee and me
What difference! but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not lo\e them less.
I love Love— though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
46 But above all other things,
Spint, I love thee—
Thou art love and life! Oh, come,
Make once more my heart thy home.
TO NIGHT
18*1 1824
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night !
Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
6 Thou wovest di earns of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,—
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy forms in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought !
10 Blind with thine han the eyes of Day ;
Kiv* her until bhe be weaned out ,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land.
Touching all with thine opiate \vand—
Come, long-sought !
15 When I arose and saw the dn\ui,
I sighed for thee ,
When light rode hiffh, and the dew *a^
SOUP,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tiee,
And the weaiy Day tinned to his iest,
20 Lingeunir like an unloxed guest,
1 sighed foi ihee
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Would st thou me!
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
26 Murmured hkr a noontide bee, "
Shall I nestle near thy sidet
Wouldst thou met— And I replied,
No, not thee1
Death will come when thou art dead,
80 Soon, too soon ;
Sleep will come when thou ait fled;
Of neither will I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night,—
Swift be thine approaching flight,
36 Come, soon, soon !
TIME
1821 1824
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are
years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep
woe
PEBGY BY6SHE SHELLEY
729
Are brackish with the salt of human
tearb!
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb
and flow
6 Claspest the limits of mortality.
And sick of prey, yet howling on for
more,
Vomitest Ihy wrecks on its inhospitable
shore;
Treacheious in calm, aiid terrible in
storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,
10 Unfathomable Sea!
TO EMILIA VIVIANI
1821 1824
Madonna,1 wherefore hast thou sent to me
Sweet -basil and mignonette 1
Embleming love and health, which never
yet
In the same u reath might be
5 A las, and they are wet !
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears!
For never ram or dew
Such f ragi anee drew
From plant 01 flower— the very doubt en-
dears
10 My sadness* ever new,
The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for
thee.
Send the stars light, but send not love to me,
In whom love ever made
Health like a heap of embers soon to fade.
TO
1821
1824
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibiates in the memoiy,
OdniH, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped fm the beloved's bed ,
And so tliv thoughts, when thou ait gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
TO
1821
1824
And dieani the rest— and burn and be
The seciet food of fires unseen,
10 Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.
After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets reappear;
All things revive in field or grove,
And sky and sea, but two, which move
15 And form all others, life and love.
MUTABILITY
1821 1824
The flower that smiles today
Tomorrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies.
6 What is this world 's delight f
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.
10
15
Virtue, how fiail it is!
Fiiendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
But we, though boon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.
When passion 's tranee is overpast,
If tenderness and truth could last,
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
5 I should not weep, I should not weep '
It were enough to feel, to see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
*An Italian term of addrem equivalent to
madame, It means my lady.
Whilst skies are blue And bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
20 Dieani thou— and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.
A LAMENT
1821 1824
0 world! Olife! 0 time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood
before;
When will return the glory of your prime f
6 No more— oh, never more !
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight ,
Fiesh spring, and summer, and winter
hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief, but with
delight
10 No more — oh, never more!
BONNET: POLITICAL GREATNESS
1821 1824
Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame.
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms
orjirts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny make*
tame;
780
NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTICI8T8
Verse echoes not one beating of their
hearts,
* History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant
starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene image ly
Of their own likeness. What are numbers
knit
10 By force or custom f Man who man would
be,
Must rule the empire of himtelf ; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anaichy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.
ADONAI8
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS
18tl 1821
1 I weep for Adonais— he is dead '
Oh weep for Adonais1 though oiu teais
Thaw not the frost which binds so deal a
head*
And thou, sad Hour, belected from all jears
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obsruie
coiupeerh,1
And teach them thine own sorrow! Sav.
"With me
Died Adonais, till the Futuie dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto Eternity!"
1 Where wert thou, mighty Mother,1 when
he lay,
When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft
which flies
In darkness! where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died! With veiled eyes,
'Mid listening Echoes, in her paradise
She sate, while one,* with soft enamored
breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies,
With which, like flowers that mock the
corse beneath,
ITe had adorned and hid the coming bulk
of death.
3 Oh, weep for Adonais— he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep I
Yet wherefore! Quench within their
burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ;
lew memorable than the one which
marked the death of '
* I rania, the mow of aitronoBjr. Probably
Rheller Identito her with the hifheat spirit
of lyrical poetry
• One echo.
For he is gone, where all things wise and
fair
Descend. Oh, dream not that the amorous
Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital ail ,
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs
at our despair.
4 Most musical of mourners, weep again f
Lament anew, Urania !— He died.1
Who was the sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's
pnde,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide,
Trampled and mocked with many a
loathed ute
Of lust and blood;1 he went, untemfied,
Into the gulf of death ; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o'er earth, the third among the
sons of light.8
5 Mobt musical of moui ners, weep anew !
Not all to that bright station dared to
climb ;
And happier they their happiness \\lio
knew,
Whose tapeib yet bum through that night
of tune
In which snns penshed, others moie Mih-
lime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man 01
God,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent
prime,
And some yet live, treading the thorny
road,
Which leads, through toil and hate, to
Fame's serene abode.
6 But now, thy youngest, dearest one has
perished,
The nursling of thy widowhood, who
grew,
Luke ft pale flower by some sad maiden
cherished,
And fed with true-love tears, instead of
dew,«
Mofet musical of mourners, weep anew!
Thy extreme0 hope, the loveliest and the
last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before
they blew,
i Milton.
• Vn accurate characterisation of the Rentora-
tlon period.
" The other two may be Homer and Rhakimere ;
or. If epic ppcti are meant, Homer and rCntc.
See Shelley's 4 Dffennc of Poetry M Cook,
•lift
Keatrt /Mftetta (p 818).
PERCY BYBSHE BHELLEY 731
Died on the promibe ut the fiuit, u> wat»te, Lost Angel of a ruined paradise!
The broken lily lies— the stoiui ib overpast She knew not 'twas her own, as with no
stain
7 To that high Capital,1 where kingly Death She faded, like a cloud which had out-
Keeps hib pale fouit 111 beauty and decay, wept its rain,
lie came, and bought, with price of pur-
ebt breath, u ()ne trum a lucid urn of 6t dew
A grave among the eteinaL-tome away! Wafehed hw l h Jimbb as l£ Jembahm ,
Haste, while the ^ault of blue Italian daj tjiem
Ib yet his fitting charnel-ruof » while btill Another ^pped ber profu8e locks, and
He lies, as if in dewy sleep lie lay, threw
Awake him not! surely he takes hib fill The wreath him hke m anadem ,
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. WLldl fr(JZC1£ tean/ inbtead of pea. Is
door ° weak-
!STJSS1K ? VlSi r *dW ^d aulltlje barbe. ti.e again* his frozen
place, cheek-
The eternal Ilungei'* sits, but pitv and awe
Soothe hei pale luge, nor daies she to 12 Another Splendor on his mouth aht,
dot ace That mouth, whence it \vat> wont to diaw
So fan a piev, till daikness, and the lu\\ the breath
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the moital \\lnch ga\e it htiength to pieira the
curtain draw. sjua.oVd wit,
And pass into (he panting heail beneath
9 Oh.i\ee]i fen Adnn.it**1 - The quirk Dreams, With lightning and with music' the damp
The passion -win tied numsleit* nt thought, death
Who \\eie his Hoiks, \\honi neai the Inmu Quenched its caiest, upon his icv lips,
stieanib And, as a dvmg meteor stains a wieath
Of Ins young spmt he fed, and whom he Of moonlight vapor, ^hich the cold night
taught clips,2
The Io\e \\hirh \\.is itts music, \\ander It flushed thiough his pale limbs, and
not,— passed to its eclipse.
Wandei no mnie, tiom kmdhng In am to
biain, \ . 13 And otheiscame— Desnes mid Adoiations,
But dioop theio, uhenc-e the\ sprung, and Winged Peisuasmiis and \eiled Destinies,
1110111 H then lot Hpleiidom, and Glooms, and gliuinieiing
Round the cold heait, wheie, uitei then Tncainatious
sweet pam,4 of linpes an<1 foars and twilight Fan-
They ne'er will gathei stiength. ni find a tasies,
home again Aml Soium,' with her fannh of Smhs,
m- . . ,. . , , til i And Plcasine, blind \\ith tenis, led by the
10 And one with tiembling hands clasps hib uleani
wild Iwad, ()j | (1 | nmtoud of eves.
And Inns him with he. n.otmlight wiim*. r h pomp, -the moving pomp
"lld niv*' inifiht seem
•M)m Ime. 0111 ho,K-, on. son.^v is not L|ke ^^ of mlbt on an mitllllinal
* stream
See, on the silken t tinge ni his lamt eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there ...... . , , , , ., , . .
|ies 14 All he had loved, and moulded into
A tea. some Dream has loosened fiom IUK ^ thought,
foraill »> Fioni shape, and hue, and odor, and sweet
sound,
'Romo. whore Konti hn«l I gone for hl» health Lamented Adouais Mornini? sonpht
• to inn rk out K oath s bmt path ^ *
«B?rthpnngR, » wreath for the head 'omhraco*
732
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIOISTS
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair
unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn
the ground,
Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in
their dismay.
16 Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless moun-
tains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered
lay,
And will no more reply to winds or foun-
tains,
Or amorous buds perched on the young
green spray,
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at ebbing
day,
Since she can mimic not his lips, more
dear
Than thnt»e for whose disdain she pined
away
Into a shadow of all sounds *— a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the
woodmen 4iear.
16 Grief made the young Spring wild, and
she threw down
Her kindling bads, as if she Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is
flown,
For whom should she La\e waked the
sullen year?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou, Adonais* wan they stand and sere
Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears; odor, to
sighing ruth.
17 Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale2
Mourns not her mate with such melodious
pain;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's
domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth
complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty
nest,
As Albion wails for thee* the curse of
Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy inno-
cent breast,
i Narcissus, for whose love Ecbo pined away
Into a mere voice
•A reference to Keats's Ode to a Nighti
(p. 831), and to the melody of his Ferae.
And scared the angel soul that waa its
earthly guest!1
18 Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone,
But gnef returns with the revolving year;
The airs and streams renew their joyous
tone;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead
Seasons' bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every
brake,'
And build their mossy homes in field and
brere;8
And the green lizard, and the golden
snake,
Like unimpnsoned flames, out of their
trance awake
19 Through wood and stream and field and
hill and ocean
A quickening life fioin the Earth's heart
has burst
As it has e\ei dune, with change and mo-
tion,
From the gieat moining of the \\oild
when first
God dawned on Chaos; in its stream im-
mersed, \
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer
light;
All baser things pant with hfe'b sacred
thirst;
Diffuse themselves, and spend in love's
delight,
The beauty and the joy of their renewed
might.
20 The leprous coipse, touched by this spirit
tender,
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ;
Like incarnations of the stars, when
splendor
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine
death
And mock the merry worm that wakes
beneath ;
Nought we know dies. Shall that alone
which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
'Hhelley wrongly believed that the death of
Keats was due to hostile attacks upon hU
poetry. Keats's Endymion had been severe!?
criticised In an unsigned article published In
The Quarterlit tfeviev. April, 18I« (Vol. 10,
pp 2048). This article was written by 4
W. Croker. Hee p. 913. Bee also. Byron's
Don Juan, XI. 60. 1, and n. 5 (p. 610), and
Who Killed John Keatgf (p 610)
•thicket
•briar
PEBCY BY8SHE SHELLEY
738
By sightless lightning f— the intense atom
glows
A moment, then u» quenched in a most cold
repose.
21 Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
And gnef itself be mortal ! Woe is me '
Whence aie we, and why are wel of 25 Tn the death-chamber for a moment Death,
And barb&d tongues, and thoughts more
shaip than they,
Kent the bof t Foiin they never could repel,
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears
of May,
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserv-
mg way.
what scene
The actors or spectators! Great and mean
Meet massed in death, who lends whathfe
must bonow.
As long an skies are blue, and fields are
green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the
moriow,
Month follow month with woo, and year
wake year to sorrow.
22 He will awake no more, oh, never moie '
11 Wake Ihou," cried Misery, "childless
Mother, use
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy limit's 26
A wouKore fieree than his, with teai*
and «iglis "
And all the Dreams (hat watched Urania's
And nilThe Echoes whom their sister's
Shamed by the piesence of that living
Might,
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath
Revisited those lips, and Life's pale light
Flashed through those limbs, so late her
dear delight.
"Leave me not wild and diear and com-
fortless,
AS silent lightning leaves the starless
mght !
Leave me not ! " cried Urania : her distress
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and
met her vain caress.
- stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again;
£j ?
Tlmt W(ldj (lmt
,T , , , , . .. . , ft A .,,
Had held in holy silence cned-"Anse»"
SuiU as a Thought by the snake Memory
Flung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splen-
dor sprung
aU thouph(8
WlU| flest n-emory kept alne,
Now thou att dead, as if it weie a part
()f „ A4 , ; u J
u, ftat x flm t(| bp fls tholl mw *.l?
^uj j am ^ajnej ^o Time, and cannot
thence depart '
*
23 She lose like an autumnal Night, that 27 "JJ R«* ' chHd, beauttful as thou wert,
Why didst thou lea\e the trodden paths of
m men _ .. . , . .. ,
Too soon, and with weak hands though
springs
Out of the East, and follows wild nnd
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
Had left the Earth a corpse; -sorrow and
fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania;
So saddened round her like an atmosphere
Of stormv mist ; mi swept her on hei wav
Even to tiie mournful place where Adonnis
lay.
24 Out of her secret paradise she sped.
Through camps and cities rough with
Rtone, and Rteel,
And human hearts, which to her airy tread
Yielding not, wounded the invisible
nf lipr lender feet where'er thev
or ner tenaer leei wnere er iney
fell :
] a™ thf u»Pa8 Pied dia^n: m *lls dent
Defenceless as thou weit, oh, where was
tljei1
Wisdor" the ™r«. shield," or scorn the
.f?e?i •11*1^11 i u
£r liadst *°fu ^f11 lliefl]f u" 7°le whe"
Tl'.V M>» Jt Jiould have filled its ciescent
spheie,4
The inonMeiR of life's waste had fled from
thee hke deer-
i nPP heart had b^n given to AdonaU
« Hie unfed nnd ravenous critic. Bee Rcott'a
. AlgJ«g; Vth2e shield wiach protected Per
«u* from the fatal gaise of the OorRon*,. and
which enabled htm to cut off the head of
Mwlusa aa he aaw It hy reflection.
* Attained maturity of power.
734 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
*
28 "The herded wolves,1 bold only to puisue, And his own thoughts, along that ragged
The obscene ravens, clamoious o'er the way,
dead; Puisued, like i aging hounds, their father
The vultmett to the couqueroi 's banner and their prey.
true
Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 32 A pardhke1 Spirit beautiful and swift—
And whose* wings mm contagion,— how A Love in desolation masked;— a Power
they fled, Gilt round with weakness;— it can scaice
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow uplift
The Pythian of the age5 one aiiow sped The \ieight uf the biipeiincnmbenl honi ,
And smiled '—The spoileis tempt no sec- It is a dying lamp, u i'alling shower,
ond blow, A bieakmg billow,— even whilst we speak
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn Is it not broken? On the withenng flower
them lying low. The killing suii smiles biightly : on a cheek
The life can bum in blood, e\en while the
29 "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles heart mav break
spawn ,
lie sets, and each ephemeral insect then 33 nls head was bound with pansies2 o\ oi-
ls gatheied into death Avithout n dawn, bloun,
And the immoital stais awake a«am, And faded uolets, white, and pied, and
So is it in the world of Imng men blue,
A srodhke mind soars forth, in its delimit And a light spoai topped with a cviness
Making earth bare and Aeihnjr heaven, and cone,
w^en B , Hound whose rude shaft dark i\v-ti esses
It sinks, the swaims that dimmed 01 slimed grew
its light Yet dnppniK mth the fount's noonday
Lea^e to its km died lumps tlie spint's (]ew,
awful night." Vibrated, as the em-beating heait
30 Thus ceased she and the mountain shep- SIlook /£ ™* hflml ihat ^ras^1 U ' of
ClvvV
rent,"
The Pilsnm of Eternity,* wliose fame
Over ^towM^V*™* bml» 34 All stood aloof, an«l at hit paHial inoan
In «,r,ow ftom he. wdds leme sent m<| ^ g , , t ^
-
from his tongue T||(1 stlins,CM»h nnen> am] lniirmured
31 Midst others of less note, came one frail TI "Who art thon*"
Form • *le answeied not. but uith a sudden hand
A phantom among men; companionless M"'!* baie Iim branded and ensanguined
As the last cloud of an expninu stoim blow, ^
Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as T guess, ^ h"''» ^ l^e ( am'b or Christ 's-oh !
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, ««"! ^ should be so »B
Actffion-hke, and now he fled astray „_ _ f „ .....
With feeble steps o'er the world 's wilder- 36 ^^ ^^ ^f6 w Bushed over the deadT
nesB Athwart what brow is that dark mantle
' thrown T
1 The bandfd rrltlcB
*B\ron In hN E*oli*h liard* and Rrottli P<>- » lonpard-ltke
i levers fp 48r»> by alluHlon to tlir Pvtlilan 'The pinny In a Rvmhol of thought, the violet.
\polln, flla \erof the P/thon of modenti the lypreiiK, of mourning, the
• See The Temprnt, 1, 2, 24 1\ v of conHtanov in frlendihln
• Byron \ reference to MR fMMr Harold'* PU- ' R^ Rhelley's EpiwcMdion, 272 ff. (p. 72*0 ,
rrHm<i0r (n n2.*n ni«0, Cowper'* T*r 7'wr*. a, 108 fl
•Thomas Moore A reference to hi* Trt*h If do- 'That In he wrote fn the lanpruBRe of England,
*Mr» (p 4'jn).nnd prohahlv to the minpre<wkm a land unknown to the Greek muaef T'ranla.
of the InHurrettlon of IROt and to the execu- BHhel1ev mean* that he hore marka of cruel
tlon of the Trl'h leader, Robert Rmmet treatment nurh an the world gave to Tain, an
• Rhelley hlmnelf enemy of the race, or to Chrlat, a benefactor.
PEBGT BYS8HE SHELLEY
735
What form leans sadly o'er the white A portion of the Eternal, which inubt glow
death-bed, Through time and change, unquenchably
lu mockery of monumental btone, the same,
The hea\y heart heaving without a moan! Whilst thy cold embers choke tlie soidid
If it be he, who, gentlest of the wise,1 hearth of shame.
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the de-
parted one, 39 Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not
Let me not vex, with inhaimonious sighs, sleep—
The silence of that heart's accepted sacri- He hath awakened from the dream of
fice. hie—
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep
36 Our Adonais has drunk poison— oh, With phantoms an unprofitable stuie,
What deaf and vipeious murdeier could And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's
crown kniie
Life's early cup with such a di aught of Invulnerable nothings We decay
woeT Like coipses in a channel, fear and gnef
The nameless worm* uould now itself dis- Convulse us and consume us day by du>,
own . And cold hopes swarm like woims within
It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone our In ing clay.
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and
wrong, . . , 40 He has outsoared the shadow of our night,
But what was howling in one breast alone,3 Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
Silent with expectation of the song, And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver <'an touch him not and toiture not again ,
lyreunstuing Frcnm the contagion of tie woild's slow
stain
37 Live thou,4 whose infamy is not thy fame ' He is secuie, and now can never mourn
Live! fear no heaviei chastisement from A heart grown cold, a head giown giay m
me, ^ am ;
Thou noteless blot on a muembmd name' xor, when the spirit 's self has ceased to
But be thyself, and know thyself to bef burn,
And ever at thy reason be thuu free With sparkles* ashes load an unlaraented
To spill the \enimi when thy fangs o'ei- urn-
flow •
Kemorseuml Self-Contempt shall clinjr to 41 He hvefc> he Wakeh_>tl8 r^t,, lh doad)
W| not he
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret M(|Urn ^ JQr Adonais._Thon V0lm ,
blow, Dawn " *
And like a beaten hound tremble thou ? Q ^ dpw t lend foi ffom
rfialt— as now. J K '
ftB v . . ,, . , ,. , . . « , The spint thou lamented is not gone,
38 Kor let ..«, «eep that our dehgl, ,s fled Ye ^mw and iotff^ ^^ ^ ,
Par inmi these ca. non kites tl.at sc.eam ^^ ye famt /owwg an£ fountai,,s an<1
nelow; thou air
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring Which hke a mourning ^eil thy scai f hadst
m 7 * 'i i • -4. thrown
Thou canst not soar wheie lie is sitting o,er (h aban<1 ^ Karth now ]ea,e lt
now.5— ljare f 7
DUSt * flow d"8< ' blU the PUre SfMllt 8hfl11 K'e" f.° the j°yWW Mai>S millril Wlllle °n
Back to the burning fountain whence it i s p i
{iame' 42 He is made one with Nature ' there is heard
' Leigh Hunt, Keati'H clono frlond nnd natn.ii His voice in all hei music, from the moan
•The crltlcUm of Endumion in T^f Quaiiulu of thunder, to the song of night's sweet
•In the breant of the writer of the article In
Thf gnarffri^ Jtrriw . Akanhr crltldHm,
however, Hppeared in fltoclw
8 ( * *
Rfrtew wan
the breant
Thf gnarffri^ Jtrriw . Akanhfr crltldHm, He is a presence to be felt and known
fl V«ira?»iir *
, TV. R 14 .IS
•Roe Pamrftoe Lwf, 4,829 (P
736 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
In darkness and in light, from herb and 46 And many more, whose names on earth art
stone, dark,
Spreading itself where'er that Powei may But whobe transmitted effluence cannot
move die
Which has withdrawn his being1 to ifc owi. ; So long ab fire outkveb the parent spaik,
Which wields the world with never-wearied Rose, robed m dazzling immortality.
love, "Thou art become as one of us," they
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it cry,
above. "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has
long
48 He is a portion of the loveliness f "unS ^llnd in unascended majesty,
Which once he made more lovely • he doth Silent alone amid an heaven of «ong.
|)ear Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic* our thiong'"
Sweeps though the dull dense world, com- 47 Who mmmis lor Aclonaisf Oh, come
All ne^suL^'s to the formb they Fond ™*«ff ™* k»™ thyself and him
wear 2 aright.
Torturing the unwilling dross that checkb ClasP ^f* Pantin« "oul the pendulous
To its^o^hkeness, as» each mass they An from a centre, dart thy spirit's light
bear. Beyond all world \ until its spacious might
And bursting m its beauty and its might Bitirte the void firninifeience thenshnnk
From treeb and beasts and men into the Even to a point within our day ami nig it ,
Heaven's light. And keep thy heart lieht lest it make tliee
" sink
mm ^ , , . A, « M. A x- When hope has kindled hope, and luied
44 The splendors of the firmament of time ^^ to t|10 l)nnk f
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;
Like stars to their appointed height they 48 Or ^ to Rmne^ whloh 3g the ^^^
. , , climb, Ol, m,t Of [,im mif Of our J0y >tls nought
And death is a low mist which cannot blot That empires, and religions there
The brightness it may veil. When lofty Lle buned m Ul6 ldvaiw tliey have
thought wrought
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, Por sw,h as be ;an iond,_tliey bunow not
And love and life contend in it for what Glory fmn 1]lose who nm(1(l thp wn| ,d 1||eir
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead lm> J prey]
there .,*,.,. , u , And he is gatlimd to the kingn of thought
And move like winds of light on dark and mo wase<1 colllentlon Wllh t!ieir 1ime»s
stormy air. decay,
And of the pa«l are all that cannot pass
45 The inheritors of unfulfilled renown away.1
Rose from their thrones, built beyond mor-
tal thought, 49 Go thou to Rome,— at once the Paradise,
Par in the Unapparent Chatterton The ^rave, the city, and the wilderness;
Rose pale,— his solemn agony had not And where its wrecks like shatteied moun-
Yet faded from him , Sidney, as he fought tains rme,
And as he fell and as he lived and loved And ftoweiing weeds ami fragrant copses
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, dress
Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved * The bones of Desolation '* nakedness
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead
reproved. Thy footsteps to a slope of green access2
Where, like an infant's smile, over the
; molding dead
A HRof lan flowerc
.hlng Intolts proper form Bee Wordnworth'g :
Llnf* Composed • F«e Jfllm Above Tintm
Abltey, 98-102 (p. 284). * Ree Hhellev's Kpfpuj/tftMtofi. 200 12 (p. 722).
• according as • The PniteBtant rometepy at Rome
PEBCY BYS8HE SHELLEY
737
50 And gray walls moulder round, on which
dull Time
Feeds, like slow fire, upon a hoary brand,
And one keen pyramid1 with wedge sub-
lime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble; and
beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven 's smile their camp 54
of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extin-
guished breath
51 Here pause* these graves are all too
young2 as yet
To have outgrown the sorrow which con-
signed
Its charge to each; and if the seal is set,
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,
Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou
find
Thine own well full, if thou returnest
home,
Of tears and gall. From the world 's bitter
wind
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb
What Adonais is, why fear we to become 1 55
52 The One remains, the many change and
pass;
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's
shadows fly,
Life, like u dome of many-colored glass,
Slams the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments —
Die,
Tf thou wonldflt be with that which thou
dost seek "
Follow wheie all is fled!— Rome's azure
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are
weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth
to speak
53 Why lingei, why turn back, why shrink,
my herfrt t
Thy hopes are gone before . from all things
here
They have departed; thou shouldst now
depart ! 5
A light is passed from the revolving year,
1 The tomb of Calim Cestluii, built In the time of
•ShVlVeyV'iion William, who died In 1R10. waa
burled there
• \hHoluto Bcnutv
And man, and woman; and what still is
dear
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee
wither.
The soft sky smiles,— the low wind whis-
pers near-
'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thithei,
No more let Life divide what Death can
join together.
That Light whose smile kindles the Uni-
verse,
That Beauty in which all things work and
move,
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining
Love
Which through the web of being blindly
wove
By man and beast and earth and air and
Burns bnght or dim, as1 each are mir-
rors of
The fiie for which all thirst, now beams
on me,
Consuming1 the last clouds of cold mor-
tality.
The bieath whose might I have invoked in
song
Descends on me ; my spint 9s bark is duven,
Far from the shore, far from the trem-
bling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest
given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are
nven!
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar-
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil
of Heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal
are.
From HELLAS
1822
LIFE MAY CHANGE, BUT IT MAT FLY Nor
Life may change, but it may fly not;
Hope may vanish, but can die not ,
Truth be veiled, but still it burneth ;
Ijo\e repulsed,— but it returneth!
i
Yet were life a chamel where
Hope lay coffined with Despair;
Yet were truth a sacred lie.
were lust—
1 according an
738
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
If Liberty
Lent not life its soul of light,
10 Hope its ins of delight,
Truth its prophet's rohe to wear,
Love its power to give and bear.
WORLDS ON WORLDS ARE ROLLING EVER
Worlds on worlds are rolling ever
From creation to decay,
Like the bubbles on a nver
Spaiklmg, bursting, bome away.
6 But they are still immortal
Who, through birth's orient portal
And death's dark chasm huirying to and
fro,
Clothe their unceasing flight
In the brief dust and light
10 Gathered around their chariots as they go;
New shapes they still may weave,
New gods, new laws leceive,
Bi ight or dim are they as the robes they
last
On Death's bare ribs had cast.
15 A power from the unknown God,
A Promethean conqueior, came;
Like a triumphal path he trod
The thorns of death and shame
A mortal shape to him
20 Was like the vapor dim
Which the onent planet animates with
light;
Hell, Sin, and Slavery came,
Like bloodhounds mild and tame,
Nor preyed, until their lord had taken
flight;
26 The moon of Mahomet
Arose, and it shall set
While blazoned as on Heaven 's immortal
noon
The cross leads generations on.
Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep
*° From one whose dreams are Paradise,
Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to
weep,
And Day peers forth with her blank
eyes;
So fleet, so faint, so fair,
The Powers of earth and air
36 Fled from the folding-star1 of Bethle-
hem:
Apollo, Pan, and Love,
And even Olympian Jove
»An evening iUr which appears about folding
time
Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared
on them,
Our hills and seas and streams,
Dispeopled of their dreams,
40 Their waters turned to blood, their dew to
tears,
Wailed for the golden years.
DARKNESS HAS DAWNED IN THE EAST
Darkness has dawned in the east
On the noon of time
The death-birds descend to their feast
From the hungry clime
5 Let Freedom and Peace flee far
To a sunnier strand,
And follow Love's folding-star
To the Evening land '
The young moon has fed
10 Her exhausted horn
With the sunset's fire-
The weak day is dead,
But the night is not born ,
And, like loveliness panting with wild de-
sire
15 While it trembles with feai and delight,
Ilespeius flies fiom awakening night,
And pants in its beauty and speed with
light
Fust-flashing, soft, and blight
Thou beacon of love! thou lamp of the
free'
20 Guide us far, far away,
To climes where now veiled by the ardor
of day
Thou art hidden
From waves on which weary Noon
Faints m her summer swoon,
25 Between kmgleas continents sinless as
Eden,
Around mountains and islands in-
violably
Pranked on the sapphire sea.
Through the sunset of hope,
lake the shapes of a dream,
What Paradise islands of glory
gleam I
Beneath Heaven's cope,
Their shadows more clear float by—
The sound of their oceans, the light of their
sky,
The music and fragrance tjjeir solitudes
breathe
35 Burst, like morning on dream, or like
Heaven on death,
Through the walls of our prison ;
And Greece, which was dead, is
arisen!
30
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
739
THE WORLD'S GREAT AGE BEGINS ANEW
The world's great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds1 outworn :
5 Heaven smiles, and faiths arid empnes
gleam,
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A bnghter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves seienei far,
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
10 Against- the morning star.
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunniei deep
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize,
16 Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his natne shore
Oh, wnte no more the tale of Troy,
20 If eaith Death's scroll must be!
Nor mix with Laian lage, the joy
Which dawns upon the fiee
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Kiddles of death Thebes nevei knew 2
25 Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendor of its pnme ,
And lea\e, if nought so bnght may live,
30 All earth can take or Heaven can give
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bnght and good
Than all who fell,8 than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued
35 Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol floweis
Oh, cease! must hate and death return f
Cease' must men kill and diet
Cease T dram not to its dregs the urn
*0 Of bitter prophecy
The world is weary of the past,
Oh, might it die or rest at last !
1 varments
•The Bpblnx propounded a riddle to the The-
bans, and killed all passers by who could not
solve it When the riddle wan finally solved
by OCdlpns. the Rphlnx slew herself. Bee De
EVENING
PONTI AL 1CARB, PISA
IBtl 1824
The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
The bats are flitting fast in the gray air.
The slow soft toads out of damp comers
creep,
And evening's breath, wandering here
and there
6 Over the quivering surface of the stream,
Wakes not one ripple from its summer
dream.
There is no dew on the dry grass tonight,
Nor damp within the shadow of the
trees;
The wind is intermitting, dry, and light ,
10 And in the inconstant motion of the
bieeze
The dust and straws are driven up and
down,
And whnled about the pavement of the
town
Within the surface of the fleeting river
The wnnkled image of the citv lay,
15 Immovably unquiet, and forever
It trembles, but it never fades away,
Go to the [ ]
You, being changed, will find it then as
now
The chasm in which the sun has sunk is
shut
20 By darkest baruers of enormous cloud.
Like mountain over mountain huddled—
but
Growing and moMng upwards in a
crowd,
And over it a space of watery blue,
Which the keen evening star i* shining
through.
TO
IBtl
1824
•The god* of Greece, Aria, and Egypt The
"One who rose" In Chrlit . the "many unsub-
dued" are the objects of the idolatry of
China, India, etr
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
5 One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love,
19 But wilt tbou accept not
740
NINETEENTH GENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,—
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
16 The devotion to something alar
From the sphere of our sorrow T
ON KEATS
WHO DESIRED THAT OX HIS TOM*
SHOULD BE INSCRIBED—
1891 1822
"Here helh One whose name was writ on
water "
But, ere the bieath that could erase it
blew,
Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter,—
Death, the immortalizing winter, flew
6 Athwart the stream,— and time's prmt-
lesfl torrent grew
A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name
Of Adonaih'
TOMORROW
1821 1824
Where art thou, beloved Tomorrow f
When young and old, and strong and
weak.
Rich and pool, through joy and sorrow.
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,—
5 Tn thy place— ah ' well-a-davf
We find the thing we fled— Today
REMEMBRANCE
18*1 1824
Swifter far than summer's flight.
Swifter far than youth 's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone
* As the wood when leaves are shed,
As the night when sleep is fled,
As the heart when joy is dead,
I am left lone, alone
The swallow summer comes again,
10 The owlet night1 resumes his mgn,
But the wild-swan youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou
My heart each day desires the morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
16 Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaven from any hough.
Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron 'a head,
*The dim, uncanny night
Violets for a maiden dead—
80 Pansies1 let my flowers be,
On the living grave I bear,
Scatter them without a tear-
Let no friend, however dear,
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
TO EDWARD WILLIAMS
1S11 1834
The serpent is shut out from Paradise 2
The wounded deer8 must seek the heib
no more
In which its heart-cure lies •
The widowed dove must cease to
haunt a bower
5 Like that from which its mate with feigned
sighs
Fled in the April houi.
I too must seldom seek again
Near happy friends a mitigated pain
in
20
Of hatred I am pioud,— with scorn con*
tent,
Indiffeience, that once hurt me, now is
grown
Itself indifferent,
But, not to speak of lo\e, pity alone
Can break a spirit already more than bent
The miserable one
Tunis the mind's poison into food,—
Its medicine is tears,— its evil good
Therefoie, if now I see you seldomer,
Dear friends, dear friend ! know that
I only fly
Your looks, because they stir
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes
that cannot die :
The very comfoit that they minibter
I varce can bear, yet I,
So deeply is the arrow gone,
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.
25 When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have e\er been.
You spoil me for the task
Of acting a forced part in life's dull
scene,
Of weanng on my brow the idle ma*k
30 Of author, great or mean,
In t he world 's carnival I sought
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.
* The Hlj ta a •ymbol of parity . the rone, of
ronitancy : the violet of modesty , the pamo,
of thought, or remembrance Bee Snellev'H
4 demob? 84 (p. 734).
» Shelley hurt been named "The Snake*' by Byron
• fW Rhelley'R EjriwchMion. 272 ff (p 723).
PEBCY BT88HE SHELLEY
741
Fall half an hour, today, I tried my lot
With various flowers, and every one
still said,
88 * * She loves me— loves me not f f
And if this meant a vision long since
fled-
If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of
thought—
If it meant,— but I diead
To speak what you may know too
well:
40 Still there was truth m the sad oracle.
The crane o'er seas and foiebts seeks her
home,1
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,
When it no more would roam,
The sleepless billows on the ocean's
breast
46 Break like a bursting heait, and die in
foam,
And thus at length find rest
Doubtless there is a place of peace
Where mi/ weak heart and all its throbs
will cease
I asked hei, yesterday, if she belie\eil
G0 That I had resolution. One who
had
Would ne'er have thus relumed
His heart with words,— but what his
judgment bade
Would do, and leave the sconiei nme-
lieved.
These verses are too sad
BB To send to you, but that T know,
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe
MUSK: *
1S11 1824
1 pant for the music which is di\ me,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flowei ,
Pour forth the sound like enchanted
wine,
Loosen the note* in a sil\er sliowei ,
& Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain,
1 gasp, I faint, till they wake again
Let ire diink of the spirit of that sweet
sound,
More, oh moie,— I am thirsting yet ,
Tt loosens the serpent which care has
bound
10 Upon my heart to stifle it ;
The dimolving strain, through every
vein,
Passes into my heart and brain
i tor BkellPv'B 4 tartor, 2*0-84 (p 6,19)
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver
lake,
16 When the hot noon has drained its dewy
cup,
And mist there was none its thiist to
slake-
And the violet lay dead while the odor flew
On the wings of the wind o'er the wuteis
blue-
Ab one who drinks from a charmed cup
20 Of foaming, and sparkling, and mur-
muring wine,
Whom, a mighty Enchantiess filling up,
Invites to ln\e with her kiss divine
LINES
188K 1824
When the lamp is shattered,
The light in the dust lies dead,
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed ;
r> When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are leuiembered not;
When the lips have spoken, „
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendor
10 Sun no not the lamp and the lute,
The head 's echoes lendei
No song when the spiiit is mute •—
No song but sad dirges,
_ Like the wind through a ruined cell,
11 Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman 's knell
When hearts ha\e once mingled,
Lo\e first leaves the well-built nest ,
The weak one IK singled
-° To end me what it once possessed
0 Love' who beuailest
The frailty of nil things here.
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your biei
25 Its passions will lock thee,
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Blight reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky
Prom thy nest every rafter"
80 Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.
742
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIBTS
WITH A OUITAB: TO JANEl
1882
Ariel to Miranda-— Take
This slave of Music, for the bake
Of him who is the slave of theo,
And teach' it all the harmony
6 In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain;
For by pei mission and command
10 Of thine own Prince Ferdinand
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guaidian spirit, Ariel, who,
From life to life, must still pursue
15 Your happiness,— for thus alone
("an Ariel ever find his own.
Fiom Prospeio's enchanted cell,
Ab the mighty verses tell,
To the thione of Naples, he
20 Lit you o'er the backless sea,
Flitting on, your piow before,
Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon,
In her mterlunar* swoon,
*5 Is not saddei in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.
When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth,
Ai lei Qindes you o 'er the sea
30 Of life fiom your nativity.
Many changes have been run
Since Feidmand and you begun
Your course of love, and Anel still
Has tracked your steps, and served your
will;
a5 Now, in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned, for some fault of his,
In a body like a grave.
40 From" you he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile today, a song tomorrow.
The artist who this idol wrought
To echo all harmonious thought,
46 Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apenmne;
And dreaming, some of autumn past,
60 And some of spring approaching fast,
1 Jane Williams, the wife of Edward William*
Both were warm friends of the Shelley**
'That IH, In the Interval between the old moon
and the new.
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree—
Oh, that such our death may be!—
55 Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again •
From which, beneath Heaven 'b fairest
star,
The artist wrought this loved guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
«° To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own ,
Whispering in enamored tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
65 For it had learned all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes oi the hills,
70 The boftest notes of falling nils,
The melodies of buds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattenng rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening, and it knew
75 That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diuinal lound,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way —
All this it knows but will not 'tell
80 To those who cannot question well
The Spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
86 By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day •
But, sweetly as its answer* will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
•» It keeps its highest, holiest tone
00 For our beloved Jane alone.
TO JANEl
1822 1882-30
The keen stais were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rifling among them,
Dear Jane!
The guitar was tinkling,
5 But the notes were not sweet till you sung
them
Again.
As the moon 'B soft splendor
O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven
Is thrown,
1 See prevlouH poem and n. 1.
PEBCY BY88HE SHELLEY
743
10 So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.
The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
15 Tonight;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight
Though the sound overpowers,
*° Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
From CHARLES THE FIRST
18US 1824
A WIDOW BIRD SATE MOURNING FOR HER
LOVE
A widow bird sate mourning for hci 1m e
Upon a wintry bough,
The frozen wind ciept on abo\e,
The freezing stream below.
6 There was no leaf upon the ioiPht baie.
No flowei upon the ground.
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.
A DIRGE
IBS* 1824
Bough wind, that moanest loud
Gnef too sad for song,
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
5 Sad btorm, whose tears are vfcin,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and drearv main,—
Wail) for the world 's wrong !
LINES
18ZZ 1802
We meet not as we parted,
We feel more than all may see ,
My bosom is heavy-hearted,
And thine full of doubt for me —
R One moment has bound the free
That moment is gone forever,
Like lightning that flashed and died,
Like a snowflake upon the river,
Like a sunbeam upon the tide,
10 Which the dark shadows hide 1
That moment from time was singled
As the first of a life of pain ,
The cup of its joy was mingled—
Delusion too sweet though vain '
15 Too sweet to be mine again
Sweet lips, coujd my heart have hidden
That its life was crushed by yon,
Ye would not have then forbidden
The death which a heart so true
20 Sought in your briny dew.
Methinks too little cost
For a moment bo found, so lost!
THE ISLE
J823 1824
There was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,
Like mosaic, paven ;
And its roof was flowers and leave*
5 Which the summer's breath enweaves,
Whoie nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest treeh,
Each a gem engiaven,—
Out by many an azure wave
30 With which the clouds and mountains pave
A lake 'b blue chasm
From A DEFENSE OF POETBY
l&ll 1840
According to one mode of regarding those
two classes of mental action which are called
reason and imagination, the former may be
considered as mind contemplating the rela-
6 tions borne by one thought to another, how-
ever produced, and the latter as mind acting
upon those thoughts so as to color them with
its own light, and composing from them, as
from* elements, other thoughts, each contain-
10 ing within itself the principle of its own
integrity. The one is the TO may, or the
principle of synthesis, and has for its object
those forms which are common to universal
nature and existence itself, the other is the
l* TO Xoyifciv, or principle of analysis, and its
action regards the relations of things simply
as relations, considering thoughts not in
their integral unity, but as the algebraical
representations which conduct to certain
» See Burns'B Tarn 0'8ha»tor, 59-66 (p. 199).
744
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
general results. Reason is the enumeration
of quantities already known; imagination is
the perception of the value of those quanti-
ties, both separately and as a whole Reason
respects the differences, and imagination the
similitudes of things. Reason is to imagina-
tion as the instrument to the agent, as the
body to the spirit, as the shadow to the sub-
stance.
Poetry, in a general sense, may be defined
to be "the expression of {he imagination";
and poetry is connate with the origin of man.
Man is an instrument over which a seiics of
external and internal impressions are dnven,
like the alternations of an e\er-changmg
wind over an ^ohan lyre, which move it by
their motion to ever-changing melody. But
there is a principle within the human being,
and perhaps within all sentient beings,
which acts otherwise than in a lyre, and pro-
duces not melody alone, but harmony, by an
internal adjustment of the sounds and mo-
tions thus excited to the impressions which
excite them. It is as if the lyre could ac-
commodate its chords to the motions of that
which strikes them, m a determined propor-
tion of sound , even as the musician can ac-
commodate his voice to the sound of the lyre
A child at play by itself will express its de-
light by its voice and motions; and every
inflection of tone and every gesture will brar
exact relation to ft corresponding antitype in
the pleasurable impressions which awakened
it; it will be the reflected image of that
impression; and as the lyre trembles and
sounds after the wind has died away, so the
child seeks, by prolonging in its voice and
motions, the duration of the effect, to prolong
also a consciousness of the cause. In relation
to the objects which delight a child, these
expressions are what poetry is to higher
objects. The savage (for the savage is to
ages what the child is to years) expresses
the emotions produced in him by surround-
ing objects in a similar manner; and lan-
guage and gesture, together with plastic or
pictorial imitation, become the image, of the
combined effect of those objects and Ins
apprehension of them. Man in society, with
all his passions and his pleasures, next be-
comes the object of the passions and pleas-
ures of man ; an additional class of emotions
produces an augmented treasure of expres-
sion ; and language, gesture, and the imita-
tive arts become at once the representation
and the medium, the pencil and the picture,
the chisel and the statue, the chord and the
harmony. The social sympathies, or those
laws from which, as from its elements, so-
ciety results, begin to develop themselves
from the moment that two human beings
co-exist; the future is contained within the
present as the plant within the seed; and
5 equality, diversity, unity, contrast, mutual
dependence, become the principles alone ca-
pable of affording the motives according to
which the will of a social being is determined
to action, inasmuch as he is social; and con-
10 stitute pleasure in sensation, virtue in senti-
ment, beauty in art, truth in reasoning, and
love in the intercourse of kind. Hence men,
even in the infancy of society, observe a cer-
tain order in their words and actions, dis-
16 tmct from that of the objects and the im-
pressions represented by them, all expression
being subject to the laws of that from which
it proceeds. But let UH dismiss those im re
general considerations winch might invohe
10 an inquiry into the principles of society it-
self, and restrict our view to the manner in
which the imagination is expressed upon its
forms.
In the youth of the world, men dance and
K sing and imitate natural objects, observing
in these actions, as in all others, a certain
rhythm or order. And, although all men
observe a similar, they observe not the same
order in the motions of the dance, in the
80 melody of the song, in the combinations of
language, in the series of their imitations of
natural objects. For there is a certain order
or rhythm belonging to each of these classes
of mimetic representation, from which the
86 bearer and the spectator receive an intenser
and purer pleasure than from any other, the
sense of an approximation to this order has
been called taste b> modern writers. Every
man, in the infancy of art, observes an order
40 which approximates moie or less closely to
that from which this highest delight results;
but the diversity is not sufficiently marked as
that its gradations should be sensible, except
in those instances where the predominance
45 mf this faculty of approximation to the beau-
tiful (for so we may be permitted to name
the relation between this highest pleasure
and its cause) is very great. Those in whom
it exists to excess are poets, in the most uni-
50 vernal sense of the woid; and the pleasure
resulting from the manner in which they
express the influence of society or nature
upon their own minds, communicates itself
to others, and gathers a sort of reduplication
56 from the community. Their language is
vitally metaphorical; that is, it marks the
before unapprebended relations of things
and perpetuates their apprehension, until
words, which represent them, become,
PEBCY BYBBHE SHELLEY
745
through tune, signs for portions or classes
of thought instead of pictures of mtegial
thoughts | and then, if no new poets should
arise to create afresh the associations which
have been thus disorganized, language will 5
be dead to all the nobler purjwses of human
inteicourse These similitudes or relations
are finely said by Lord Bacon to be "the
same footsteps of nature impiessed upon
the various subjects of the world9'1— and 10
he considers the faculty which perceives
them as the storehouse of axioms common
to all knowledge. In the infancy of society
every authui is necessarily a poet, because
language itself is poetry ; and to be a poet is ifi
to apprehend the true and the beautiful, m
a woid, the good which exists in the relation
subsisting, first between existence and pei-
eeption, and secondly between peiceptiou
and expression. Every original language »
near to its source is m itself the chaos of a
cyclic poem,8 the copiousness of lexicog-
laphy and the distinctions of grammar aie
the works of a later age, and are merely the
catalogue and the forms of the creations of B
poetry.
But poets, or those who imagine and ex-
press this indestructible order, are not only
the authois of language and of music, of the
dance, and architecture, and statuary, and ao
painting: they are the insti tutors of lavs,
and the founders of chil society, and the
iiuentors of the arts of life, and the teachers
who draw into a certain propinquity with
the beautiful and the true that partial ap- 85
prehension of the agencies of the invisible
world which is called religion. Hence all
original religions are allegorical, or suscep-
tible of allegory, and, like Janus, have a
double face of false and true Poets, accord- 40
ing to the circumstances of the age and
nation m which they appeared, were called,
m the earlier epochs of the world, legislators
or prophets; a poet essentially comprises
and unites both these characters. For he not 45
only beholds intensely the present as it is,
and discovers those laws according to which
present things ought to be ordered, but he
beholds the future in the present, and his
thoughts are the germs of the flower and the 00
fruit of latest time Not that T assert poets
to be prophets in the gross sense of the woi d,
or that they can foretell the form as surely
as they foreknow the spirit of events; such
is the pretence of superstition, which would 65
make poetry an attribute of prophecy,
i«D0 Auament. Solent., cap. 1. Kb to"— Shelley.
Sec The Advancement of Learning, 2, R, 1
• A poem relating to an epic cycle.
lather than prophecy an attribute of poetry.
A poet participates in the eternal, the infi-
nite, and the one, as far as relates to his
conceptions, time and place and number are
not. The grammatical foims which express
the moods of time, and the difference of per-
sons, and the distinction of place, are con-
veitible with respect to the highest poetry
without injuring it as poeiiy, and the chor-
uses of ,il<Jschylus, and the Book of Job, and
Dante's Paradise, would afford, more than
any other writings, examples of this fact, if
the limits of tins essay did not forbid cita-
tion. The cieations of music, sculpture,
and painting are illustrations still more de-
mve.
Language, color, form, and leligious and
mil habits of action, are all the insti uments
and matei mis oi poetiy , they may be called
poetry by that figuie of speech which con-
siders the effect as a synonym of the cause.
But poetry in a more restncted sense ex-
presses those arrangements of language, and
especially metncal language, which are cre-
ated by that imperial faculty whose tin one
is curtained within the invisible nature of
man. And this springs from the nature
itself of language, which is a moie direct
representation of the actions and passions
of our internal being, and is susceptible of
more various and delicate combinations,
than color, form, or motion, and is more
plastic and obedient to the control oi that
faculty of which it is the neat ion. For lan-
guage is arbitiaiil> produced by the imagi-
nation, and has relation to thoughts alone;
but all other materials, instruments, and
conditions of art have relations among each
other, which limit and interpose between
conception and expression The former is as
a mirror which reflects, the latter as a cloud
which enfeebles, the light of which both are
mediums of communication Hence the
fame of sculptors, pamteis, and musicians,
although the intrinsic poweis of the great
masters of these aits ma\ yield in no degree
to that of those who have employed lan-
guage as the hieroglyphic oi their thoughts,
has never equalled that of poets m the re-
stiicted sense of the term, as two perform-
ers of equal skill will produce unequal ef-
fects fioni a eruitai and a harp. The fame
of legislators and founders of religions, so
long as their institutions last, alone seem to
exceed that of poets in the restricted sense;
but it can scarcely be a question, whether,
if we deduct the celebrity which their flat-
tery of the gross opinions of the vulgar
usually conciliates, together with that which
746
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
belonged to them in their higher character
of poets, any excess will remain.
We have thus circumscribed the word
poetry within the limits of that art which
is the most familiar and the most perfect 5
expression of the faculty itself. It is neces-
sary, however, to make the circle still nar-
rower, and to determine the distinction be-
tween measured and unmeasured language;
for the popular division into prose and 10
verse is inadmissible in accurate philosophy
Sounds as well as thoughts have relation
both between each other and towards that
which they represent, and a perception of
the order of those relations has always been u
found connected with a perception of the
order of the relations of thoughts. Hence
the language of poets has ever affected a
sort of uniform and harmonious recurrence
of sound, without which it were not poetry, 20
and which is scarcely less indispensable to
the communication of its influence than the
words themselves without reference to thnt
peculiar order. Hence the vanity of trans-
lation ; it were as wise to cast a violet into tf
a crucible that you might discover the formal
principles of its color and odor, as to seek
to transfuse from one language into another
the creations of a poet. The plant must
spring again from its seed, or it will bear no so
flower— and this is the burthen of the curse
of Babel.1
An observation of the regular mode of
the recurrence of harmony in the language
of poetical minds, together with its relation 35
to music, produced metre, or a certain sys-
tem of traditional forms of harmony and
language Yet it is by no means essential
that a poet should accommodate his lan-
guage to this traditional form, so tha*t the 40
harmony, which is its spirit, be observed
The practice is indeed convenient and
popular, and to be preferred especially in
such composition as includes much action;
but every great poet must inevitably inno- 45
vate upon the example of his predecessors
in the exact structure of his peculiar versi-
fication. The distinction between poets and
prose writers is a vulgar error. The distinc-
tion between philosophers and poets has 50
been anticipated. Plato was essentially a
poet— the truth and splendor of his imagery,
and the melody of his language, are the most
intense that it is possible to conceive. He
rejected the harmony of the epic, dramatic, 55
and lyrical forms, because he sought to kin-
dle a harmony in thoughts divested of shape
and action, and he forebore to invent any
> Bee Genetto, 11 *6-9.
regular plan of rhythm which would include,
under determinate forms, the varied pauses
of his style. Cicero sought to imitate the
cadence of his periods, but with little suc-
cess. Lord Bacon was a poet.1 His lan-
guage has a sweet and majestic rhythm
which satisfies the sense, no less than the
almost superhuman wisdom of his philoso-
phy satisfies the intellect; it is a strain which
distends and then bursts the circumference
of the reader's mind, and pours itself forth
together with it into the universal element
with which it has perpetual sympathy. All
the authors of revolutions in opinion are
not only necessarily poets as they are in-
ventors, nor even as their words unveil the
permanent analogy of things by images
which participate in the life of truth , but
as their periods are harmonious and rhyth-
mical, and contain in themselves the elements
of verse, being the echo of the eternal
music. Nor are those supreme poets, who
have employed traditional forms of ihythm
on account of the form and action of their
subjects, less capable of perceiving and
teaching the truth of things, than those
who have omitted that form. Shakespeare,
Dante, and Milton (to confine ourselves to
modern writers) are philosophers of the very
loftiest power
A poem is the very image of life expressed
in its eternal truth. There is this difference
between a story and a poem, that a story is
a catalogue of detached facts, which have
no other connection than time, place, cir-
cumstance, cause, and effect , the other is the
creation of actions according to the un-
changeable forms of human nature, as exist-
ing in the mind of the creator, which is
itself the image of all other minds. The one
is partial, and applies only to a definite
period of time, and a certain combination
of events which can never again recur; the
other is universal, and contains within itself
the germ of a relation to whatever motives
or actions have place in the possible varie-
ties of human nature. Time, which destroys
the beauty and the use of the story of par-
ticular facts, stripped of the poetry which
should invest them, augments that of poetry,
and forever develops new and wonderful
applications of the eternal truth which it
contains. Hence epitomes have been called
the moths of just history;1 they eat out the
poetry of it, A story of particular facts is
'"See the mum
•He*
and tbe E**ay on
elley.
* Bcientiarum, 2, 6;
he Advancement of Learning, 2, 2, 4
Death, particularly Ti— Bhe
e* Bacon'H De Auffmcnti*
and The Advancement of L
PERCY BY88HE SHELLEY
747
as a mirror which obscures and distorts that
which should be beautiful ; poetry is a mir-
ror which makes beautiful that which is
distorted.
The parts of a composition may be poet-
ical, without the composition as a whole
being a poem. A single sentence may be
considered as a whole, though it may be
found in the midst of a series of unassimi-
lated portions; a single word even may be
a spark of inextinguishable thought. And
thus all the great historians, Herodotus,
Plutarch, Livy, were poets; and although
the plan of these writers, especially that of
Lavy, restrained them from developing this
faculty in its highest degree, they made
copious and ample amends for their subjec-
tion, by filling all the interstices of their
subjects with living images.
Having determined what is poetry, and
who are poets, let us proceed to estimate its
effects upon society.
Poetry is ever accompanied with pleasure •
all spirits on which it falls open themselves
to receive the wisdom which is mingled with
its delight In the infancy of the world,
neither poets themselves nor their auditors
are fully aware of the excellency of poetry,
for it acts in a divine and unapprehended
manner, beyond and above consciousness,
and it is reserved for future generations to
contemplate and measure the mighty cause
and effect in all the strength and splendor
of their union. Even in modern times, no
living poet ever arrived at the fulness of his
fame; the jury which sits in judgment upon
a poet, belonging as he does to all tune, must
be composed of his peers; it must be im-
panelled by Time from the selected of the
wise of many generations A poet is a
nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings
to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds,
his auditors are as men entranced by the
melody of an unseen musician, who feel that
they are moved and softened, yet know not
whence or why. The poems of Homer and
his contemporaries were the delight of in-
fant Greece; they were the elements of that
social system which is the column upon
which all succeeding civilization has reposed
Homer embodied the ideal perfection of his
Age in human character; nor can we doubt
that those who read his verses were awak-
ened to an ambition of becoming like to
Achilles, Hector, and Ulysses; the truth and
beauty of friendship, patriotism, and per-
severing devotion to an object, were unveiled
to their depths in these immortal creations;
the sentiments of the auditors must have
been xefined and enlarged by a sympathy
with such great and lovely impersonations,
until from admiring they imitated, and from
imitation they identified themselves with the
5 objects of their admiration Nor let it be
objected that these characters are remote
from moral perfection, and that they are
by no means to be considered as edifymg
patterns for general imitation. Every epoch,
10 under names more or less specious, has dei-
fied its peculiar errors; Revenge is the naked
idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age;
and Self -Deceit is the veiled image of un-
known evil, before which luxury and satiety
16 he prostrate. But a poet considers the vices
of his contemporaries as the temporary dress
in which his creations must be arrayed, and
which cover without concealing the eternal
proportions of their beauty An epic or
an dramatic personage is understood to wear
them around his soul, as he may the ancient
armor or modern uniform around his body,
whilbt it is easy to conceive a dress more
graceful than either The beauty of the m-
85 ternal nature can not be so far concealed by
its accidental vesture, but that the spmt of
its form bhall communicate itself to tiie very
disguise, and indicate the shape it hides from
the manner in which it is worn. A majestic
JO form and graceful motions will express
themselves through the most barbarous and
tasteless costume. Few poets of the highest
class have chosen to exhibit the beauty of
their conceptions in its naked truth and
35 splendor; and it is doubtful whether the
alloy of costume, habit, etc be not necessary
to temper this planetaiy music1 foi mortal
ears.
The whole objection, however, of the im-
40 mortality of poetry rests upon a misconcep-
tion of the mannei in which poetry acts to
produce the moral improvement of man.
Ethical science arranges the elements which
poetry has created, and propounds schemes
45 and proposes examples of civil and domestic
life; nor is it for want of admirable doc-
trines that men hate, and despise, and cen-
sure, and deceive, and subjugate one another
But poetry acts in another and diviner man-
50 ner It awakens and enlarges the mind
itself by rendering it the receptacle of a
thousand unapprehended combinations of
thought Poetry lifts the veil from the
hidden beauty of the world, and makes fa-
ff miliar objects be as if they were not famil-
iar; it reproduces all that it represents, and
* A reference to the belief of the ancients that the
movement of the celestial spheres produced
music too ethereal for human ears.
748
NINETEENTH CENTUEY EOMANTICIBTS
the impersonations clothed in its Elysian
light stand thenceforward in the minds of
thobe who have once contemplated them, as
memorials of that gentle and exalted con-
tent which extends itself over all thoughts 6
and actions with which it co-exists. The
great secret of morals is love; or a going
oift of our own nature, and an identification
of ourselves with the beautiful which exists
in thought, action, or person, not our own. 10
A man, to be greatly good, must imagine
intensely and comprehensively; he must put
himself in the place of another and of many
others; the pains and pleasures of his spe-
cies must become his own. The great instru- 16
merit of moral good is the imagination ; and
poetry administers to the effect by acting
upon the cause. Poetry enlarges the circum-
ference of the imagination by replenishing
it with thoughts of ever new delight, which »
have the power of atti acting and assimilat-
ing to their own nature all other thoughts,
and which form new intervals and inter-
stices whose void forever craves fresh food.
Poetry strengthens the faculty which is the B
organ of the moral nature of man, in the
same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.
A poet therefore would do ill to embody his
own conceptions of right and wrong, winch
are usually those of his place and time, in 80
his poetical creations, which participate in
neither. By this assumption of the inferior
office of interpreting the effect, in which
perhaps after all he might -acquit himself
but imperfectly, he would resign a glory in 85
the participation of the cause. There was
little danger that Homer, or any of the eter-
nal poets, should have so far misunderstood
themselves as to have abdicated this throne
of their widest dominion. Those in whom 40
the poetical faculty, though great, is less
intense, a* Euripides, Lucan, Tasso, Spen-
ser, have frequently affected a moral aim,
and the effect of their poetry is diminished
in exact proportion to the degree in which 41
they compel us to advert to this purpose.
The functions of the poetical faculty are «0
two-fold: by one it creates new materials
of knowledge, and power, and pleasure; by
the other it engenders in the mind a desire
to reproduce and arrange them according to
a certain rhythm and order which may be H
called the beautiful and the good. The cul-
tivation of poetry is never more to be de-
sired than at periods when, from an excess
of the selfish fend calculating principle, the
accumulation of the materials of external
life exceed the quantity of the power of
assimilating them to the internal laws of
human nature. The body has then become
too unwieldy for that which animates it.
Poetry is indeed something divine It is
at once the ^ centre and circumference of
knowledge; it is that which comprehends all
science, and that to which all science must
be referred. It is at the same time the root
and blossom of all other systems of thought ;
it is that from which all spring, and that
which adorns all; and that which, if blight-
ed, denies the fruit and the seed, and with-
holds from the barren world the nourish-
ment land the succession of the scions of the
tree of life. It is the perfect and consum-
mate surface and bloom of all things; it in
as the odor and the color of the rose to the
texture of the elements which compose it,
as the form and splendor of unfaded beauty
to the secrets of anatomy and corruption.
What were virtue, love, patriotism, friend-
ship; what were the scenery of this beauti-
ful universe winch we inhabit; what were
our consolations on this side of the grave,
and what were our aspirations beyond it,—
if poetry did not ascend to bring light and
fire from those eternal regions where the
owl-winged faculty of calculation dare not
ever soarf Poetry is not like reasoning, a
power to be exerted according to the deter-
mination of the will. A man cannot say, "I
will compose poetry." The greatest poet
even cannot say it ; for the mind in creation
is as a fading coal, which some invisible
influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens
to transitory brightness; this power arises
from within, like the color of a flower which
fades and changes as it is developed, and the
conscious portions of our nature are un-
prophetie either of its approach or its depar-
ture. Could this influence be durable in its
original purity and force, it is impossible to
predict the greatness of the results; but
when composition begins, inspiration is al-
ready on the decline, and the most glorious
poetry that has ever been communicated to
the world is probably a feeble shadow of the
original conceptions of the poet. T appeal
to the greatest poets of the present day
whether it is not an error to assert that the
finest passages of poetry are produced by
labor and study. The toil and the delay
recommended by critics can be justly inter-
preted to mean no more than a 'careful
observation of the inspired moments, and an
artificial connection of the spaces between
their su/^restions by the intertexture of con-
PEROT BYBSHE H1IELLEY
749
ventional expressions— a necessity ouly im-
posed by the limitedness of tlie poetical
faculty itself; for Milton conceived the
Paradise Lost as a whole before he executed
it in portions. We have his own authority
also for the muse having- "dictated" to him
the "unpremeditated song."1 And let this
be an answer to those who would allege the
fifty-six various readings of the first line of
the Qrlando Vurwso. Compositions so pro-
duced are to poetry what mosaic is to paint-
ing. The instinct and intuition of the poet-
ical faculty is still more observable in the
plastic and pictorial arts • a great statue or
picture grows under the power of the artist
as a child in the mother's womb; and the
very mind which directs the hands in forma-
tion, is incapable of accounting to itself ft r
the origin, the gradations, or the media of
the process.
Poetry is the record of the best and happi-
est moments of the happiest and best minds
We aie aware of evanescent visitations of
thought and feeling, sometimes associated
with place or person, sometimes regarding
our own mind alone, and always arising* un-
foreseen and departing unbidden, but elevat-
ing and delightful beyond all expression ; so
that even in the desire and the regret they
leave, there cannot but be pleasure, partici-
pating as it does in the nature of its object.
It is, as it were, the interpenetration of a
diviner nature through our own; but its
footsteps are like those of a wind over the
sea, which the morning calm erases, and
whose traces remain only, as on the wrinkled
sand which paves it. These and correspond-
ing conditions of being aic experienced prin-
cipally by those of the most delicate sensi-
bility and the most enlarged imagination,
and the state of mind produced by them is
at war with every base desire. The enthu-
siasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friend-
ship is essentially linked with such emotions ,
and whilst they last, self appears as what it
is, an atom to a universe. Poets are not only
subject to these experiences as spiuts of the
most refined organization, but they can color
all that thev combine with the evanescent
hues of this ethereal world; a word, a trait
in the representation of a scene or a passion
will touch the enchanted chord, and re-
animate, in those who have ever experienced
these emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the
buried image of the past. Poetry thus makes
immortal all that is best and most beautiful
in the world; it arrests the vanishing appa-
ipttnrtffffa Lost, 9, 21-24. See also Shelled To
a Skylark, 5 (p. 704).
ntions which haunt the niterlunatioiis1 of
life, and veiling them or in language or in
ioim, sends them foith among mankind,
bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those
6 with whom their sisters abide— abide, be-
cause theie is no portal of expression from
the ca\~ems of the spint which they inhabit
into the universe of things. Poetry redeems
from decay the visitations of the divinity in
10 man
Poetiy turns all things to kneliness, it
exalts the beauty of that which is most
beautiful, and it adds beauty to that which
is most deformed , it marries exultation and
16 horror, grief and pleasure, eternity and
change; it subdues to union under its light
yoke all irreconcilable things. It trans-
mutes all that it touches, and every form
moving within the radiance of its presence
20 is changed by wondrous sympathy to an
incarnation of the spirit which it breathes;
its secret alchemy turns to potable8 gold the
poisonous waters which flow fioin death
through life; at strips the veil of familiarity
• from the world, and lays bare the naked and
sleeping beauty which is the spmt of its
forms.
All things exist as they are perceived • at
least in relation to the percipient.
Thp mind in IN own place and hi !tnplf
Con make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.'
But poetry defeats the curse which binds us
to be subjected to the accident of surroiind-
86 ing impressions. And whethei it spreads its
own figured cm tain, 01 withdiaws life's
dark veil from before the scene of things,
it equally creates for us a being within our
being. It makes us the inhabitant of a world
40 to which the familiar uoild is a chaos It
ipprodutt* the common universe of which
we aie poitions and percipients, and it
purges from our inward sight the film of
familiarity which obscures from ns the won-
a der of our being Tt compels us to feel that
which we perceive, and 1« imagine that
which we know Tt cieates anew the uni-
verse, after it has been annihilated in our
minds by the recurrence of impressions
•o blunted bv reiteration. Tt justifies the
bold and true words of Tasso- Mo* mmtn
nome di creatoic, se non Iddw ed tl
Pocta *
A poet, as he is the author to others of the
1 dark period* (llterany. the Interval between the
old moon and the new)
Suitable for drinking
• /Mruritoe Lost. 1, 254-15.
* Xone merit* the name of creator, except Ood and
the poet
750
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
highest wisdom, pleasure, virtue, and glory,
BO he ought personally to be the happiest,
the best, the wisest, and the most illustrious
of men. As to his glory, let time be chal-
lenged to declare whether the fame of any
other institutor of human life be comparable
to that of a poet That he is the wisest, the
happiest, and the best, inasmuch as he is a
poet, is equally incontroveitible; the great-
est poets have been men of the most artless
virtue, of the mobt consummate prudence,
and, if we would look into the interior of
their lives, the most f 01 tunate of men ; and
the exceptions, as they regard those who
possessed the poetic faculty in a high yet
inferior degree, will be found on considera-
tion to confirm rather than destroy the rule.
Let us for a moment stoop to the arbitration
of popular breath, and usurping and unit-
ing in our own persons the incompatible
characteis of accuser, witness, judge, and
executioner, let us decide without trial, testi-
mony, or form, that certain motive* of those
\\ho are "theie sitting where we dare not
soar,"1 are leprehensible. Let us assume
that Homer was a drunkard, that Virgil was
a flatterer, that Horace was & coward, that
Tasso was a madman, that Lord Bacon was
a peculator, that Raphael was a libertine,
that Spenser was a poet laureate. It is in-
consistent with this division of our subject
io cite living poets, but posteiity has done
ample justice to the great names now re-
ferred to. Their eriors have been weighed
and found to have been dust in the balance,2
if their sins were as scarlet, they are now
white as snow,8 they have been washed in
the blood of the mediator and redeemer,4
Time. Observe in what a ludicrous chaos
the imputations of real or fictitious crime
have been confused m the contemporary
calumnies against poetry arid poets, con-
sider how little is as it appears— or appears
as it is , look to your own motives, and judge
not, lest ye be judged *
Poetry; as has been said, differs in this
respect from logic, that it is not subject to
the control of the active powers of the mind,
and that its birth and recurrence have no
necessary connection with the consciousness
or will It is presumptuous to determine
that these are the necessary conditions of
all mental causation, when mental conditions
are experienced insusceptible of being re-
ferred to them. The frequent recurrence of
the poetical power, it is obvious to suppose,
•See /Mfafc, 1-18
«Hee Hfbrem, 0 15
•Bee Matthew, 7:1.
4 829
27; and
Jrofaft, 40 Ti
may produce in the mind a habit of order
and harmony correlative with its own nature
and with its effects upon other minds. But
in the intervals of inspiration— and they
6 may be frequent without being durable— a
poet becomes a man, and is abandoned to
the sudden reflux of the influences under
which others habitually live. But as he is
more delicately organized than other men,
10 and sensible to pain and pleasure, both his
own and that of others, in a degree unknown
to them, he will avoid the one and pursue
the other with an ardor proportioned to this
difference. And he renders himself obnox-
16 ions to calumny when he neglects to observe
the circumstances under which these ob-
jects of universal pursuit and flight have
disguised themselves in one another '*
garments.
20 But theie is nothing necessanly c\il in
this error, and thus ciuelty, envy, re\engr,
avarice, and the passions puiely e\il, have
never formed any portion of the popular
imputations on the lives of poets.
25 I have thought it most favorable to the
cause of truth to set down these remarks
according to the older in which they were
suggested to my mind, by a consideration of
the subject itself, instead of observing the
80 formality of a polemical reply ,* but if the
A iew which they contain be just, they will be
found to involve a lefutation of the aiguers
against poetry, so far at least as regards the
first division of the subject. I can readily
85 conjecture what should have moved the gall
of some learned and intelligent enters who
quarrel with certain versifiers; I, like them,
confess myself unwilling to be stunned by
the Theseids of the hoarse Codri of the day.
40 Bavius and Mawius undoubtedly are, as they
ever were, insufferable persons. But it be-
longs to a philosophical critic to distinguish
i ather than confound.
The first part of these remaiks has ic-
45 lated to poetiy in its elements and princi-
ples, and it has been shown, as well as the
narrow limits assigned them would peimit,
that what is called poetry in a restricted
sense, has a common source with all other
10 forms of order and of beauty according to
which the materials of human life are sus-
ceptible of being arranged, and which is
poetry in a universal sense.
The second part8 will have for its object
88 an application of these principles to the
present state of the cultivation of poetry,
'To Pcacock'H The Four Ag** of Portry, which
contained a rather narrow view of what con-
Htitutea poetry
1 This wan never written.
JOHN KEATS
751
and a defense of the attempt to idealize the
modern forms of manners and opinions, and
compel them into a subordination to the
imaginative and creative faculty. For the
literature of England, an energetic develop-
ment of which has ever preceded or accom-
panied a great and free development of the
national will, has arisen as it were from a
new birth. In spite of the low-thoughtcd
envy which would undervalue contemporary
merit, our own will be a memorable age in
intellectual achievements, and we live among
buch philosophers and poets as surpass be-
yond comparison any who have appeared
since the last national struggle for civil and
religious liberty The most unfailing herald,
companion, and follower of the awakening
of a great people to work a beneficial change
in opinion or institution, is poetry. At such
penods ther" is an accumulation of the
power of communicating1 and receixing in-
tense and impassioned conceptions respect-
ing man and natuie The persons in whom
this power resides may often, as far as re-
gards many portions of their nature, ha\e
little apparent conespondence with that
spirit of good of which they aie the minis-
ters But even whilst they deny and abjure,
they are yet compelled to serve the power
which is seated on the throne of their own
soul It is impossible to lead the composi-
tions of the most celebrated writers of the
present clay without being staitled with the
electric life which burns within their words
They measure the circumference and sound
the depths of human nature with a compre-
hensive and all-penetrating spirit, and they
are themselves peihaps the most sincerely
astonished at its manifestations; for it is
less their spirit ^ than the spirit of the age
Poets are the hierophants1 of an unappre-
hended inspiration; the mirrors of the
gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon
the present ; the words which express what
they understand not; the trumpets which
Ring to battle and feel not what they inspire ;
the influence which is moved not, but moves
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of
the world
JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)
IMITATION OF BPENSEB
JUJ 1817
Now Morning from her orient chamber
came.
And her first footsteps touch 'd a ver-
dant hill;
'high priests
Crowning its lawny crest with amber
flame,
Silv'nng the untainted gushes of its
rill;
5 Which, pure from mossy beds, did down
distill,
And after parting beds of simple flowers,
By many streams a little lake did fill,
Which round its marge reflected woven
bowers,
And, in its middle space, a feky that never
lowers
10 There the kingfisher saw his plumage
bught
Vying with fish of brilliant dye below ,
Whoso silken fins, and golden scales9
light
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby
glow .
There saw the s\van his neck of arched
snow,
1B And oai M lurn*»elf along with majesty ,
Sparkled his jetty eyes, his feet did
show
Beneath the waves like Afnr's ebony,
And on his back a fay reclined volup-
tuously.
20
Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle
That 111 that fairest lake had place*!
been,
T could e'en Dido of her gnei1 beguile,
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen s
For sure so fair a place was never seen,
Of all that e\er charm 'd romantic eye
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen
Of the bright waters, or as when on
high,
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the
coBrulean sky.
And all around it dipp 'd luxuriously
Rlopinps of \erdure through the glossy
tide,
30 Which, as it Here m gentle amity,
Rippled delighted up the flowery side.
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree
stemf
Haply it was the workings of its pride,
86 In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem.
1Pt>r .Xneas, when he left her for the new
home which the Rods had promised him Bee
the WnrW, 4, 270 ff.
1 sorrow , pain
752
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
TO BYRON
1S48
Byron I how sweetly sad thy melody I
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch 'd her plaintive lute, and thou,
being by,
6 Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer 'd them
to die.
Overshadowing sorrow doth not make thee
less
Delightful : thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth
veil,
10 Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent
glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays
prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan " still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing
woe.
TO CHATTEBTON
1848
0 Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate!2
Dear child of sorrow— son of misery t
How soon the film of death obscur'd that
Whence Genius mildly flash 'd, and high
debate.
6 How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
Melted in dying numbers ! Oh I how nigh
Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst
die
A half-blown flow 'ret which cold blasts
amate.*
But this is pabt : thou art among the stars
10 Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres
Thou sweetly singest : naught thy hymning
mars,
Above the ingrate world and human fears.
On earth the good man base detraction bars
From thy fair name, and waters it with
tears.
WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE
FLIPPANT, VAIN
1817
Woman I when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of
fancies;
Without that modest softening that en-
hances
*The Bwan WIB wild to ring melodiously when
about to die
• rhatterton committed mildde In a fit of
despondent?, when mwntera yearn of apo.
He? Shelley's AdortfM*, 41 (p 786).
* subdue; dlsheaiton
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
5 That its mild light creates to heal again :
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and
prances,
E'en then my soul with exultation
dances
For that to love, so long, I've dormant
lain:
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and
tender,
10 Heavens! how desperately do I adore
Thy winning graces,— to be thy defender
I hotly burn— to be a Calidore
A very Red Gross Knight— a stout Lean-
tier —
Might I be loved by thee like these of
yore.
16 Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted
hair;
Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and
creamy breast,
Are things on which the dazzled senses
rest
Till the fnndt fixed eyes, forget they stare.
From such fine pictures, heavens! I can-
not dare
20 To turn my admiration, though un pos-
sess'd*
They be of what is worthy,— though not
drest
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a
lark;
Thebe lures I straight forget,— e'en ere
I dine,
25 Or thnce my palate moisten : but when I
mark
Such charms with mild intelligences
shine,
My ear is open like a greedy shark,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Ah 1 who can e'er forget so fair a beingl
80 Who can forget her half -retiring sweets f
Ood! she is like a milk-white lamb that
bleats
For man's protection. Surely the All-
seeing,
Who joys to see us with his jrfftH agreeing,
Will never give him pinions, who in-
treats
85 Such innocence to ruin,— who vilely
cheats
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no
freeing
One's thoughts from such a beauty; when
I hear
A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
JOHN KEATS
753
Her form seems floating palpable, and
near;
40 Had I e'er seen her from an arbor lake
A dewy flower, oft would that hand ap-
pear,
And o'er my eyes the trembling mois-
ture shake.
WBITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MB.
LEIGH HUNT LEFT PBISONi
1815 1817
What though, for showing truth to flatter 'd
state,
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,
In his immortal spirit, been HH free
As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.
6 Minion of grandeur! think you he did
waitt
Think you he naught but piison walls did
see,
Till, so unwilling, tliou uiiturn 'dst the kej *
Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate'
In Spenser's halls he stray 'd, and boweis
fair,
10 Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
With danng Milton through the fields of
air.
To regions of his own his genius true
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame
impair
When thou art dead, and all thy wi etched
crewt
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A
LAUREL CROWN
1848
Fresh morning gusts have blown away all
fear
Prom my glad bosom,— now from gloomi-
I mount forever— not an atom less
Than the proud laurel shall content my
bier
B No I by the eternal stars ! or why sit here
In the Sun fg eye, and 'gainst my temples
press
Apollo's very leaves,2 wo\en to bless
By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear
Lo! who dares say, "Do this!" Who
dares call down
10 My will from its high purpose f Who say,
"Stand,"
Or "Go"f This mighty moment I would
frown
iRnnt had been imprisoned for an unfriendly
charncterliatlon of the Prince Regent, pub-
llnhed in Tfte JtoamiJirr, 1812. He wwi re-
IPHWM! on Feb 8 18lb See Hunt's To
J7amf)«t0ff<f (n 867)
•The laurel, which was sacred to Apollo.
On abject Cesarb— not the stoutest baud
Of mailed heroes should 'tear off my crown :
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle
hand!
HOW MANY BAKDS GILD THE LAPSES
OF TIME
1815 1817
How many balds gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy,— I could brood
0\ er their beauties, earthly, or sublime .
5 And oiteu, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in throngs before my mind in-
trude
But no confusion, no disturbance rude
])o they occasion ; 'tis a pleasing chime
So the unnumbei 'd sounds that evening
stoie,
10 The songs of birds— the wlusp'nng of the
leaves—
The voice of waterb— the gieat bell that
htwes
AA it It solemn sound,— and thousand others
mote,
That distance of recognizance bcrea\es,
Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
KEEN, FITFUL, GUSTS ABE WHI8-
F'BING HEBE AND THERE
1817
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and
there
Among the bushm half leafless, and dry ;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
r' Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of these silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant
lair*
For I am brimful of the friendliness
w That in a little cottage1 1 have found;
Of f air-hair 'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown 'd ;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress.
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown 'd.
ON FIBST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S
HOMER
1815 1816
Much have I trave*ll'd in the realms of
gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms
seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold
1 Leigh Hunt's home at IIamp§tead Heath.
754
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
6 Oft of one wi<Je expanse had I been told
That deep-brow M Homer ruled as his
demesne \
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and
bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
10 When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Toitez when with eagle eyes
lie star'd at the Pacific1— and all bib men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a }>eak in Darien.
AS FROM THE DARKENING GLOOM A
SILVER DOVE
1816 1876
As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,
On pinions that naught moves but pure
delight,
So fled thy soul into the lealnis above,
5 Regions of pence and everlasting love;
Where happy spirits, crown fd with cir-
clets hi ight
Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,9
Taste the high joy none but the blest can
prove.
There thou 01 jomcst the immortal quire
10 In melodies that even Heaven fair
Fill with supenor blwh, or, at desire
Of the omnipotent Father, oleav'tf the air
On holy message sent — What pleasuies
higher?
Wherefore docs any grief our joy impair?
SONNET TO SOLITUDE
1816 1816
0 Solitude » if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings, climb with me the
Rteep,-
Nature's observatory,— whence the dell,
6 Its flowery slopes, its nvei 's crystal swell
May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongrt boughs pavilion 'd where the
deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove
bell
But though I'll gladly trace8 these scenes
with thee,
10 Yet the sweet converse of an innocent
mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts
refin'd,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
1 Balboa, not Cortes, discovered the Pacific
Ocean In 1513
•adorned
• wander over
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits
flee.
TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN
CITY PENTi
181G 1817
To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,— to breathe a
prayer
Full in the suule of the blue firmament.
5 Who is mcne happy, when, with heart's
content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle talc of love and languitdiment T
Returning home at evening, with an ear
10 Catching the notes of Philomel,— an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright
career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by '
E'en like the passage of an angel's teai
That falls through the clear ether silently
OHf HOW I LOVE ON A FAIR BUM-
MEB'8 EVE
1816 1848
Oh! how T lo\e, on a fan summer's eve,
When streams of light pour down the
golden west,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, far— far away to leave
5 All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet re-
prieve
From little pares ; to find, with easy quest,
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty
drest,
And theie into delight my soul deceive.
There waitn my breast with patriotic lore,
10 Musing on Milton's fate— on Sydney's
bier-
Till their stern forms before my mind
arise
Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,
Full often dropping a melodious tear,
When some melodious sorrow spells mine
eyes.
I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL
1816 1817
for Poeto made
t, The Story of Rimini*
Places of ----
—Leigh
I stood tiptoe npon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still
That the sweet buds which with a modest
pride
•Canto 3, 290 (p.
JOHN KEATS 755
Pull droopingly, in slanting cuive aside, Round which is heard a spring-head of
5 Their scantly-leav'd, and finely-tapering clear waters
stems, Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughteis
Had not yet lost those starry diadems The spreading blue-bells it may haply
Caught from the early sobbing of the mourn
morn. That such fair clusters should be rudely
The clouds were pure and white as flocks torn
new shorn, 4B From their f resli beds, and scattered
And fiesh from the clear brook, sweetly thoughtlessly
they slept By infant hands, left on the path to die.
10 On the blue fields of heaven, and then
tlieie ciept Open afresh your round of stairy folds,
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Ye aidcnt mangolds!
Born oi the veiy sigh that silence hea\es Dry up the moisture from your golden
For not the faintest motion could be seen lids,
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the 60 For great Apollo bids
green. That in these days your praises should be
16 There was wide watid'rmg for the greed- sung
lest eye, On many hni ps, which he has lately strung,
To peer about upon \aiiety, And when again youi dewiness lie kisses,
Far lound the houzon's crystal air to Tell him, 1 have you in my world of blisses
skim, B5 So haplv when 1 lovo in some far vale,
And tiac*e the dwindled edgings oi its His mighty uncc may come npou the gale.
bi mi ;
To pictuie out the quaint and curious Heie aic sMeet peas, on tiptoe for a
bending flight,
20 Of a fresh uoodland alley, nexei ending, With \tmgs oi gentle flush o'er delicate
Or by the boweiy clefts, and leafy shelves. white,
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh And taper fingers catching at all things,
tliciiiHcKcs 60 To bind them all about with tiny rings
I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free
As though the tanning uinu> ol Mercury Linger awhile upon some bending planks
25 Had play'd upon my heels. 1 was light- That lean against a stieamlet's rushy
hearted, banks,
And many plcasin es to my > ision stai ted , And watch intently Nature 's gentle doings ,
So I stiait»hhvay began to pluck a posey They will be found softoi than ring-dove's
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy coomgs
66 How silent comes the watei round that
A bush of May flowers with the bees bend,
about them , Not the minutest whisper does it send
80 Ah, sine no tasteiul nook would be with- To the o*ei hanging sallows * blades ot
out them, grass
And let a lush labuinuin merhweep them, Slowly across the chequer 'd shadows pass
And let long grass glow lound the roots Why, you might lead two sonnets, err
to keep them they leach
Moist, cool, and gieeu; and shade the MO- 70 To wheie the hunying freshnesses aye
lets, t preach
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets A natuial sermon o'er their pebbly beds,
Where swainis of minnows show their little
36 A filbert hedge with wild briar over- heads,
twined, Staying then wavy bodies 'gainst the
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft streams,
wind To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Upon their summer thrones; there too 75 Temper 'd with coolness How they ever
should be wrestle
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, With their own sweet delight, and ever
That with a score of light green brethren nestle
shoots Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
40 From the quaint mossiness of aged roots; * willows
756 NINETEENTH CKNTUBY BOMANT1 CISTS
If you but scantily hold out the hand, Miugler with lea\es, aiid dew and tumbling
That very instant not one will remain ; streams,
80 But turn your eye, and they are theie 12° Closer of lovely eyes to lovely di earns,
again. Lovei of loneliness, and wandering,
The ripples seem right glad to reach those Of upcast eye, and tender pondeung!
cresses, Thee must 1 praise above all other gloiies
And cool themsehcs among the em 'i aid That smile UH on to tell delightful stones
tresses; 1LS For what hat made the sage 01 poet wnte
The while they cool themselves, they fresh- But the fair paradise of Nature's light f
ness give, Fn the calm grandeur of a sober line,
And moisture, that the bowery green may We see the wa\mg of the mountain pine;
live: ^ And when a tale is beautifully staid,
85 So keeping up an interchange of favors, 1SO We feel the sntety of a hawthorn glade.
Like good men in the truth of their be- When it is moving on luxurious wings,
haviors. The soul is lost in pleasant smothering*
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop Fair dewy roses brush against our fact's
From low-hung branches, little space they And floweimg laurels spring from dia-
stop, mond ^aseR,
But up, and twitter, and their featherb 1S5 O'er head we see the jasmine and sweet
sleek, bnar,
90 Then off at once, as in a wanton freak And bloomy grapes laughing from gieen
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden attire ;
wings, While at our feet, the \oice of crystal
Pausing upon their yellow fluttering*. bubbles
Were I m such u place, 1 sure should piny Charms us at once away from all our
That naught less sweet, might call my troubles*
thoughts away, So that we feel uplifted from the world,
96 Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 14° Walking upon the white cloudb wieath'd
Fanning away the dandelion's down, and curl'd.
Than the light music of her nimble toes So felt he who first told how Psyche went
Patting against the son el as she goes On the smooth wind to realms of wonder-
How she would start, and blush, thus to ment;
be caught What Psyche felt, and Love, when their
100 Playing in all her innocence of thought full lips
() let me lead her gently o'er the brook, First touch 'd , what amorous and fondling
Watch her half-smiling lips, and down- nips
ward look; 14G They ga\e cadi othei's cheeks, wilh all
() let me for one moment touch her wiiht f their sighs,
Let me one moment to her bteathing list, And how they kist each othei 's tieiinilous
105 And as she lea\es me may she olten linn eyes
Her fair eyes looking through her locks The silver lamp, — the lavishment, — the
auburne wonder—
What next! A tuft of evening pnm- The daikness, — loneliness, — the feaiful
roses, thunder;
O'er which the mind may hover till it Their woes gone by, and both to heaven
dozes, upflown,
O'er which it well might take a pleasant 16° To bow for gratitude before Jove's
sleep, tin one
110 But that 'tis e\cr startled by the leap So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside,
Of buds into iipe floweis; or by the flit- That we might look into a forest wide,
ting To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades
Of diverse moths, that aye their rest aie Coming with softest rustle through the
quitting; trees;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 15fi And garlands woven of flowers wild, and
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim sweet,
116 Coming into the blue with all her light Upheld by ivory wrists, or sporting feet •
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight Telling us bow fair, trembling Syrinx
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers , fled
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread
JOHN KEATS 757
Poor nymph,— poor Pan,— how he did The incense went to her own starry dwell-
weep to find, ing
*M Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind But though her face was cleai ab infant's
Along the reedy stream; a half-heaid eyes,
strain, 2°° Though she Mood smiling o'er the sam-
Full of sweet desolation— balmy pain. flee,
The poet wept at her so piteous fate,
What first inspired a bard of old to sing Wept that such beauty should be desolate
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted So in fine wtath some golden sounds he
spring 1 won,
166 In some delicious i amble, he had found And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion
A little space, with boughs all woven
round; 206 Queen of the wide air , thou most lovely
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool queen
Than e'er leflected in its pleasant cool, Of all the brightness that mine eyes ha%e
The blue sky here, and there, serenely seen'
peeping As thoii exeeedesl all things in thy shine,
170 Through tendiil wicaths fantastically So e\eiy tale, does this sweet tale of thine
cieepmg () for three woids (if honey, that I might
And on the bank, a lonely flowei he spied, 21° Tell but one wondei of thy bridal night!
A meek and foilorn flower, with naught of
pride, Where distant ships do seem to show
Droop in» its beauty o'er the watery clear- their keels,
ness, Phcpbns awhile delay M his mighty wheels,
To woo us own sad image into nearness : And tmn M to smile upon thy bashful eves,
175 Deaf to light Keplmus it would not move; Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to 21B The evening \\eathei was so bnght, ai'd
love clear,
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot. That men of health weie of unusual cheer;
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy Stepping like Hornet at the trumpet 's call,
shot ; Or young Apollo on the pedestal l
Nor was it long eie he had told the tale And lo\ely women were as fair and warm
iso ()f young Narcissus, and sad Bcho's bale 22° As Venus looking sideways in alarm J
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
Where had he been, from whose warm And ciept through half-closed lattices to
head outflow cure
That sweetest of nil songs, that e\er new, The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, sleep,
C/oming ever to bless And soothed them into slumbers full and
185 The wanderei by moonlight T -to him bring- deep.
ing 22B Soon they awoke clear-eyed nor burnt
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly with thirsting,
singing Nor with hot fingeis, nor with temples
From out the middle air, from flowei y bursting*
nests. And springing up, they met the wond'img
And fioin the pillowy silkmess that rests sight
Full in the speculation of the stars. Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with
110 Ah f suiely he had burst 0111 mortal bars, delight,
Into some wond'ious region he had gone. Who feel their aims and breasts, and kiss
To search for thee, divine Endymion f and stare,
230 And on their plncul foieheads pait the
He was a poet, sure a lover too, hair.
Who stood on LatmusMop, what time there Yonncr men nnd maidens at each other
blew gas'd
*W Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; With hands held back, and motionless,
And brought in famtness solemn, sweet, nmaz'd
and slow To see the brightness in each other's eyes;
A hvmn from Dian's temple, while up- , p^^^ ttc itatne ApoUo
swelling, * Prohnhlv the Btatw VVniw
tic Vr<Hci.
768
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet sur-
prise,
236 Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers,1 in that moment
spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater bluwes,
240 That follow M thine, and thy dear shep-
herd's kisses :
Was there a poet born t — but now no more,
My wand 'ring spirit must no further
soar.—
SLEEP AND POETRY
1816 1817
A* I lay in my bed Blepe full unmete*
Wan unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest 1 ne wlut « for there n'as erthly wight4
lAs I BUppoBP] had more of hertls ew*
Than 1, for I n'ad* sicknobHe nor dlwne
CHAUCKB 7
What is more gentle than a wind in
suinmei f
What is more soothing than the pretty
hummer
That stays one moment in an open flower,
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower f
6 What is more tianquil than a musk-rose
blowing
In fe green island, far from all men's
knowing?
More healthful than the leafiness of dales f
More secret than a nest of nightingales t
More serene than Coideiia's countenance!
10 More full of visions than a high romance f
What but thee, Sleep? Soft closer of our
eyes!
Low munnnrer of tender lullabies f
Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping
willows!
15 Silent entangler of la beauty's tresses'
Most happy listener! when the nioining
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.
But what is higher beyond thought than
theeT
20 Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?
More strange, more beautiful, more smooth,
more regal,
Than wings of swans, than doves, than
dim-seen eagle f
What is it f And to what shall I compare
it!
Averse* • Immeararablt •knew not
* was no earthly person
• heart's earn 'had not
» The Floure and the Lefc, 17-21. This poem for
a long time was accredited to Chaucer. Its
authorship Is unknown.
It has a glory, and naught else can share
it:
25 The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and
holy,
Chasing away all worldliness and folly,
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of
thunder,
Or the low rumblings earth's regions
under;
And sometimes like a gentle whispering
30 Of all the secrets of some woiuTrous thing
That breathes about us in the vacant air,
So that we look around with prying stare,
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial
limning,1
And catch soft floatings from a faint-
heard hymning;
85 To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,
That is to crown our name when life is
ended
Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,
And from the heart up-spnngs, rejoice!
rejoice I
Sounds which will reach the Framer of all
things,
40 And die away in aident muttenngs.
No one who once the glorious sun lias
seen,
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
For his great Maker's piesence, but must
know
What 'tis 1 mean, and feel his being glow:
45 Theiefoie no insult will 1 gi\e his spnit,
By telling what lie sees from nutne merit
O Poesy I for thee I hold my pen,
That am not yet a gloiums denizen
Of thy wide heaven —-Should I lather kneel
50 Upon Home mountain-top until 1 feel
A glowing splendor round about me hung,
And echo back the \oice of thine own
tongue T
O Poesy I for thee I grasp my pen,
That am not yet a gloi ions denizen
65 Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent
prayer,
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear aii,
Smooth M for intoxication by the bieath
Of flowering bays,2 that I may die a death
Of luxury, arid my young spirit follow
*° The morning Hiin-beaniH to the great Apollo
Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I car. bear
The overwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to
me the fair
Visions of all places: a bowery nook
Will be Elysium— an eternal book
66 Whence 1 may copy many a lovely saying
» painting t A Mod of latirtl tree.
JOHN KEATS
About the leaves, and flowers— about the 110 A lovely tale of human life we'll read.
playing And one will teach a tame dove how it best
Of nymphs in woods, and fountains, and May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;
the shade Another, bending o 'er her nimble tread,
Keeping a silence round a bleeping maid, Will set a green robe floating round her
And many a verse from so stiange mflu- head,
ence 115 And still will dance with ever vaned ease,
70 That we must ever wonder how, and whence Smiling upon the flowers and the trees :
It came. Also imaginings will ho\er Another will entice me on, and on
Hound my fire-side, and haply there diR- Through almond blossoms and rich cinna-
cover mon;
Vistas of solemn beauty, where I 'd wander Till in the bosom of a leafy world
In happy silence, like the cleai Meander 12° We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd
ft Through its lone vales ; and where 1 found In the leoesses of a pearly shell.
a spot *
Of awf uller shade, or an enchanted grot, And can I ever bid these joys farewell t
Or a green hill o'erspread with chequei M Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
diess Where I may find the agonies, the strife
Of floweis, and fearful from its loveliness 125 Of human hearts for To1 I nee afar,
Wute on my tablets all that was permitted, O 'ersaihng the blue cragginess, a car
80 All that was foi our human senses fitted. And steeds with streamy manes— the
Then the events of this wide woi Id I 'd seize charioteer
Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze Looks out upon the winds with glorious
Till at its shoulders it should proudly see fear
Wings to find out an iminoitahty. And now the numerous tramphngs quiver
lightly
85 Stop and consider* life is but a day; no Along a huge cloud 's iidge, and now with
A f i agile dew-diop «n its perilous way sprightly
Prom a tiee's summit, & poor Indian'* Wheel downward come they into fresher
sleep skies,
While his boat hastens to the monstrous Tipt urand with silver from the sun's
steep bright eyes.
Of Moiilimirenn Why so sad a moant Still downward \uth eapaeious whirl they
90 Life is the rose's ho]>e while yet unblown ; glide,
The reading of an e\ er-diaiigiug tale; And now I see them on a green-hill's side
The Imht upliiting ot a maiden's veil; 13IJ In bree/y rest among the nodding stalks
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; The charioteer with wond'ious gestuie
A laughing school-boy, without gnef or talks
fare, To the trees and mount ains; and there
*B Riding the spring}* branches of an elm MXHI appeal
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
0 for ten yeais, that I may overwhelm Passing along bel'oi e a dusky space
Myself in Poesy , BO 1 may do the deed 14° Made by Home mighty oaks as they v ould
That my own soul lias to itself deneed chase
Then will 1 pass the countries that I see Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep
iw In long perspective, and continually Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile.
Taste their pure fountains. First the and weep •
realm I'll pass Some with upholden hand and mouth
Of Flora and old Pan : sleep in the grass, se^ ere ,
Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, Some with their faces muffled to the ear
And choose each pleasure that my fancy 14B Between their arms, some, clear m youth-
sees; fill bloom,
106 Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;
places, Some looking back, and some with upward
To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,— gase;
Play with their fingers, touch their shoul- Yes, thousands in a thousand different
dera white „ ™y» . _ u _ . .
Into a pretty shrinking with a bite Flit onward— now a lovely wreath of girls
As hard as lips can make it: tillagreed, 1BO Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;
760 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And now broad wings. Most awfully in- ™° Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
tent Of suinmei nights collected still to make
The driver of those steeds is forward bent, The morning precious : beauty was awake !
And seems to listen : 0 that I might know Why were ye not awake f But ye were dead
All that he writes with such a hurrying To things ye ktaew not of,— were closely
glow. wed
_ , , . _ , 195 To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
!Bfi The visions all are fled— the car is fled And compass vile: so that ye taught a
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead school
A sense of real things comes doubly strong Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,
And, like a muddy stream, would bear Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's
along wit,1
My soul to nothingness : but 1 will strive Their verses tallied Easy was the task •
"0 Against all doublings, and will keep alive 200 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
The thought of that same chariot, and the of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race !
strange That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his
Journey it went. face.
And did not know it,— no. they went about,
£SKnfi=jt±j a *
». -SB
p.. .wt it. i«tt,
«. *»« a. *. ...no,
' ' oar old
.
Ay' m° day8 ^ Museb were nigh Thwr y°u aw»y' and dieT 'TWM even
woe .
Could all this be forgotten? Yes,aschism Now 'tis a fairer season, ye have breathed
Nurtured by foppery and baibaiimi, Rich benedictions o'er UK, ye ha^e wreathed
Made great Apollo blush f 6r this his land • Frefih glands : for sweet music has been
Men weie thought wise who could not T heard
understand -*n manv places;— some has been upstirr'd
"6 His glones- with a puling infant's ftun 22B J1"0"1 out >*"»3f«» W'n5 in a lakfl;. ,
They sway'd about upon a rocking horw, *v a «wn s ebon bill;» from a thick
And bought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal soul 'd ! . T ^ *>™ke,*
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd ^^ ftnd quiet "La vM*y™M> a A.
Its gathenng waves-ye felt it not. The Bubbles a pipe, flne sounds are floating
blue Wlld
»A reference to Jove's Irrcrocable nod, in con- Aboilt the eartb: ^PP? ire ye and »lad'
nectlon with which the eye-brow IH npoml-
nently mentioned, See the /Ho//, 1( 528, tgee (70nM<f4 80 -87- 'SupDOMd to refer to
a
•The Blliabethan Poete. 89. Wordsworth,
•A reference to eighteenth century poet*. •bonnden « thicket
JOHN SEATS 761
ISO These things are, doubtless: yet in truth Who simply tell the most heart-easing
we've had things.
Strange thunders from the potency of 0 may these joys be ripe before I die.
song;
Mingled indeed with what is sweet and ro Will not some say that I presnmp-
strong tuonsly
From majesty: but in clear truth the Have spoken t that from hastening dis-
themes grace
Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 'Twere better far to hide my foolish facet
286 Disturbing the grand sea. A dramless That whining boyhood should with rever-
shower ence bow
Of light is Poesy; 'tis the supreme of Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach?
power; How!
'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own 27B If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
right arm. In the very fane, the light of Poesy :
The very archings of her eye-lids charm If I do fall, at least I will be laid
A thousand willing agents to obey, Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;
240 And still she governs with the mildest And over me the grass shall be smooth
sway : shaven ,
But strength alone though of the Mutes 28° And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
born But off, Despondence I miserable bane !
Is like a fallen angel, trees up torn, They should not know thee, who athirst to
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and gam
sepulchres A noble end, aie thirsty every hour.
Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs, What though I am not wealthy in the
246 And thorns of life; forgetting the great dower
end 28G Of spanning wisdom, though I do not
Of Poesy, that it should be a friend know
To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts The shiftmgs of Hie mighty winds that
of man. blow
Hither and thither all the changing
Yet I rejoice . a myrtle fairer than thoughts
E 'er grew m Paphos, from the bitter weeds Of man • though no great minist 'ring rea-
260 Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds son sorts
A silent space with ever sprouting green. Out the dark mysteries of human souls
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant 29° To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls
screen, A vast idea before me, and I glean
Creep through the shade with jaunty Theiefiom my liberty; thence too I've seen
fluttering, The end and aim of Poesy 'Tis clear
Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. As anything most true; as that the year
2&6 Then let us'clear away the choking thorns 29B Is made of the four seasons— manifest
Fi oni round its gentle stem ; let the young As a large cross, Rome old cathedral 's crest,
fawns, Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore
Yeaned1 in aftertimes, when we are flown, should I
Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown Be but the essence of deformity,
With simple flowers: let there nothing A coward, did my very eyelids wink
be 80° At speaking out what 1 hme dared to
260 Moio boisterous than a lover's bended think.
knee; Ah ! rather let me like a madman run
Nought more ungentle than the placid look Over some precipice , let the hot sun
Of one who leans upon a closed book; Melt my Dadalian wings, and dnve me
Nought more untranquil than the grassy down
slopes Convnls'd and headlong! Stay! an in-
Between two hills. All hail, delightful BAK ward frown
hopes ! 80B Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile
«» As she was wont, th ' imagination An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,
Into most lovely labyrinths will be pone, Spreads awfully before me. How much
And they shall be accounted poet kings toil I
lbopB How many days9 what desperate turmoil I
762
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Ere I can have explored its widenessee.
810 Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,
I could unsay those— no, impossible I
Impossible !
For sweet relief I '11 dwell
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange
assay
Begun in gentleness die so away
816 E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades .
I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids
That smooth the path of honor, brother-
hood,
And friendliness, the nurse of mutual good.
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant
sonnet1
320 Into the biain ere one can think upon it,
The silence when some rhymes are coming
out,
And when they're come, the very pleasant
rout'
The message ceitam to be done tomorrow.
'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to
bonow
**& Some precious book fiom out its snug re-
treat,
To cluster round it when we next shall
meet
Scarce can I scribble on , for lovely airs
Are fluttenng round the loom like doves
in pans,
Many delights of that glad day recalling,
330 When ftist my senses caught their tender
falling.
And with these airs come forms of elegance
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's
prance,
Careless, and grand — fingers soft and
round
Parting luxuriant curls,— and the swift
bound
336 Of Bacchus fiom his chariot, when his eye
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushmgly.
ThiiH I remember all the pleasant flow
Of woids at opening a portfolio.
Things such as these are ever harbingers
310 TO trains of peaceful images the stirs
Of a swan 's neck unseen among the rushes ;
A linnet starting all about the bushes ;
A butterfly, with golden wings broad
parted,
Nestling a rose, convnls'd as though it
smarted
346 ^jth over pleasure— many, many moie,
Might I indulge at large in all my store
Of luxuries ; yet I must not forget
Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:
1iong
For what there may be worthy in these
rhymes
860 I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes
Of friendly voices had just given place
To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace
The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.
It was a poet's house1 who keeps the keys
356 Of pleasure's temple. Bound about were
hung
The glorious features of the bards who
sung
In other ages— cold and sacred busts
Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
To clear Futurity his darling fame !
360 Then theie were fauns and satyrs taking
aim
At swelling apples with a frisky leap
And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap
Of vine-leases Then there lose to view a
fane
Of liny2 marble, and thereto a tiam
366 Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the
sward
One, loveliest, holding her white hand
toward
The dazzling sunrise; two sisters sweet
Bending their graceful figures till they
meet
Over the trippings of a little child ;
370 And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
Cherwhingly Diana 'b timorous limbs;—
A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
"* At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle
motion
With the subsiding crystal • as when ocean
Heaves calmly its broad swelling smooth-
ness o'er
Its rocky marge, and balances once more
The patient weeds; that now unshent by
foam
380 Feel aii aj,out their undulating home.
Sappho's meek head was there half
smiling down
At nothing; just as though the earnest
frown ^
Of over-thinking had that moment gone
From off her brow, and left her all alone.
Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pity-
ing ores,
As if he always listened to the sighs
Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's
worn
By homd sufferance— mightily forlorn
' Leigh Hunt's. The lines following describe
the room In which the poem WEB written,
•marked with llnea
JOHN KEATS
763
Petrarch, outstepping from the shady
green,
190 Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean
His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy
they'
For over them was been a free display
Of outspread wings, and from between
them shone
The face of Poesy : from off her throne
895 She overlook 9d things that I scarce could
tell.
The very sense of where I was might well
Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that
there came
Thought after thought to nourish up the
flame
Within mv breast; so that the morning
hght
400 Sui prised me e\en from a sleepless night;
And up I rose refi esh 'd, and glad, and gay,
Resolving to begin that very day
These lines, and howsoever they be done,
I leave them as a father does his son.
ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN ROBERT
HAYDON
1816 1817
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,1
Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,
Cat Hies hip fieshness from Archangel's
wing •
B He of the rose, the violet, the spring,2
The social smile, the chain for Freedom's
sake*
And lof— whose steadfastness would never
take
A meaner sound than Raphael's whisper-
ing.*
And other spints there are standing apart
1° Upon the forehead of the age to come;
These, these will give the world another
heart,
And other pulses Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings in the human mart?
Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb
TO G. A. W4
1816 1817
Nymph of the downward smile and side-
long glance,
In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely t— when gone far
astray
Tnto the labyrinths of sweet utterance,
* Or when serenely wand 'ring in a trance
» Wordsworth » Leigh Hunt •Haydpn
'Georgana Awwta Wylle, afterward the wife
of Keats'8 brother George.
Of sober thought f — or when starting away
With careless robe to meet the morning ray
Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy
dance f
Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
10 And no remain, because thou hstenest
But thou to please wert nurtured so com-
pletely
That I can never tell what mood is best
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace
more neatly
Trips it before Apollo than the rest
STANZAS
1829
In a drcar-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity.
5 The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them,
Nor frozen thawmgs glue them
From budding at the prune.
In a drear-nighted December,
10 Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblmgs ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their civstal fretting,
16 Never, never petting1
About the frozen time.
Ah ! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
20 Wnth'd not at passed joyt
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.
HAPPY IB ENGLAND
1817
Happy is England T I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own ,
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances
blent :
5 Yet do I sometimes feel a languish men t
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worldling
meant
Happy is England, sweet her artless
"daughters;
10 Enough their simple loveliness for me,
i complaining
764
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BQMANTICI8T8
Enough their whitest arms in silence cling-
ing:
Yet do I often warmly born to see
Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their
singing.
And float with them about the bummer
waters.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET
1816 1817
The poetry of earth is never dead :
When all the birds are faint with the hot
sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mew n
mead,
* That is the Giabbhopper'b— he takes the
lead
In summer luxury.— he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with
fun
He refets at ease beneath borne pleasant
weed
The poetry of earth is ceasing never :
10 On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there
shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing
ever,
And seems to one, m drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy
hills
AFTER DARK VAPORS HAVE
OPPRESS 'D OUR PLAINS
1817 1817
After dark vapors haie oppress 'd our
plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of "the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
5 The anxious month, relieved of its pains,
Takes as a lung-lost right the feel of May;
The eyelids with the passing coolness
play
Like rose leaves with the drip of summer
rains
The calmest thoughts come round URV as
of leaves
10 Budding— fruit ripening in stillness— au-
tumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves-
Sweet Sappho's cheek— a smiling infant's
breath-
The gradual sand that through an hour-
glass runs—
A woodland rivulet— a Poet's death.
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE AT
THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF
1 1 THE FLOURE AND THE LEFE ' *
1817 1817
This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
The honied lines do freshly interlace
To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
So that he here and theie full-hearted
stops,
6 And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops
Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And by the wandering melody may trace
Which way the tender-legged linnet hops
Oh! what a power has white simplicity f
10 What mighty power has this gentle story '
I that forever feel athiret for glory
Could at this moment be content to he
Meekly upon the grabs, as those whose sob-
bings
Were heard of none beside the mournful
robins.
ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER
1820
Come hither, all sweet maidens, soberly.
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten V
light
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined IM»,
5 As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Un touch 'd, a victim of your beautv bright.
Sinking away to his young spirit's night,—
Sinking bewilder M 'mid the dreaiy sea
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
10 Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary
hps
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her
smile
0 horrid dream 9 see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam
awhile-
He's gone* up bubbles all his amorous
breath!
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
1817 1817
Glory and loveliness have pass 'a away;
For if we wander out in early morn,
No wreathed incense do we see upborne
Into the east, to meet the smiling day
6 No ciowd of nymphs soft-voic'd, and
young, and gay,
In woven baskets bringing ears of com,2
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May
But there are left delights as high as these,
1° And I shall ever bless my destiny,
That in a time, when under pleasant trees
1 rhaueer'i autborihlp of till* poem IH now din
"wheat
JOHN KEATS
765
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,
A leafy luxury, seeing 1 could please
With these poor offerings,1 a man like
tbee.
ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES*
1817 1817
My spirit i* too weak— mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship, telk. me 1 must die
6 Like a nek eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep,
Fresh for the opening of the morning's
eye
Such dim-conceived glones of the brain
10 Bring round the heart an undescribable
feud,
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the
rude
Wasting of old Time—with a billowy
main—
A sun— a shadow of a magnitude
ON THE SEA
1817 1848
It keeps eternal whimperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the
spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy
sound
6 Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be mov'd for days fiom where it some-
time fell,
When last the winds ot heaven were un-
bound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vet'd and
tir'd,
10 Feast them upon the wideness of the sea ,
Oh ye ! whose ears are dinn 'd with uproar
rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody-
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and
brood
Until ye start, HR if the Rea-nymphs quir'd '
LINES
1817 1848
Unfelt, unheard, unseen,
I've left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Unit volume of poem*, dedicated to
Ah v through their nestling touch,
* Who— who could tell how much
There is lor madness— cruel, or comply-
ing t
Those faery lids how sleek!
Those lips how moist '— they speak.
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet soundH
10 Into my fancy 'b eai
Melting a burden deai,
How "Love doth know no fulness and no
bounds "
True'— tender monitors!
I bend unto your laws
15 This sweetest day for dalliance was bom '
So, without more ado,
I'll feel my hea\en anew.
For all the blushing of the hasty morn
ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM "THE
8TORT OP RIMINI"!
1817 1848
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
With half-shut eyes and comfortable
cheek,
Let him, with this sweet tale, full often
For meadows where the little mere run,
6 Who loves to linger with that brightest one
Of heaven — Hesperus — let him lowly
speak
These numbers to the night, and starlight
meek,
Or moon, if that her hunting he begun
He who knows these delights, and too is
prone
10 To moralize upon a smile or tear,
Will find at once a region of his own,
A bower for his spirit, and will steer
To alleys where the fir-tree diops its cone,
Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are
..... „ the Parthenon which were
London from ft hen* by Lord Rlgin
WHEN I HAVE FEARB THAT I MAY
CEASE TO BE
1817 1848
When I haie fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean 'd my teeming
brain,
Before high-piled books, hi charactry,9
Hold like rich garners the full ripen 'd
grain;
* When I behold, upon the night's stair 'd
face,
And think that I may never live to trace
i Bee p row
* character* ; letter*
766
NINETEENTH GENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
Their shadows, with the magic hand of
chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
10 That I shall never look upon thee more, •
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;— then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothmgnees do sink.
ON SITTING DOWN TO BEAD "KINO
LEAR" ONCE AGAIN
1818 IMS
O golden-tongued Romance, with serene
lute!
Fair-plumed Syren, Queen of far-away !
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
6 Adieu; for, once again, the fierce dispute
Betwixt damnation and impassion M clay
* Must I burn through; once more humbly
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian
fruit
Chief poetl and ye clouds of Albion,1
10 Begetters of our deep eternal theme !
When through the old oak forest I am
gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But, when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new phoenix-wings1 to fly at my
desire.
LINES QN THE MERMAID TAVKJZN
1818 1820
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern f
* Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wmef
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison t 0 generous food I
10 Brest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his Maid Marian,
Sup and bowse* from horn and can.
I have heard that on ft day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
** Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new-old sign
*The story of Lew
• The phoenix was a
consumed In
*" Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
25 Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern!
ROBIN HOOD
TO A FRIEND*
1818 1820
No I those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
6 Of the leaves of many years*
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
10 Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more,
Silent in the ivory thrill
Past the heath and up the hill ;
15 There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight,2 amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
20 You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars8 to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you ;
But yon never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold ;
*5 Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
80 Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris4 din;
Gone, the song of Oamelyn ;
86 Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenfe shawe";
All are gone way and past I
And if Robin should be cast
* J. H Reynolds, who had sent Keats two non-
nets which he had written on Robin flood.
m Bee Keats'* letter to Reynolds (p. 802).
•person . . . • The Pleiades.
and other
characters.
JOHN SEATS
767
Sudden from his turfed grave,
40 And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze :
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Pall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
45 Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her— strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money !
So it is: yet let us sing,
tt Honor to the old bow-string!
Honor to the bugle-horn !
Honor to the woods unshorn !
Honor to the Lincoln green I1
Honor to the archer keen f
H Honor to tight3 Little John,
And the horse he rode upon !
Honor to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honor to Maid Manan,
•° And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have burned by
Let us two a burden5 try
TO THE NILE
7818 1848
Son of the old moon-mountains African !
Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile!
We call thee fruitful, and, that very while,
A desert fills our seeing 'B inward span ,
6 Nurse of swart nations4 since the world
began,
Art thou so fruitful! or dost thou beguile
Such men to honor thee, who, worn with
toil,
Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and Decant
0 may dark fancies err' They surely do;
10 'Tib ignorance that makes a barren waste
Of all beyond itself, thou dost bedew
Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste
The pleasant aim-rise. Green isles hast
thou too,
And to the sea as happily dost haste.
TO SPEN8EB
1818 1848
Spenser 1 a jealous honorer of thine,
A f orqpter deep in thy midmost trees,
Did last eve ask my promise to refine
Some English that might strive thine ear
to please.
* But, elfin poet, 'tis impossible
For ttn inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
i A cloth made In Lincoln, worn by huntmnen
•well-formed; trim
•chorus 4Tlie Negro ram.
Fire-wingM and make a morning in his
mirth.
It is impossible to escape from toil
10 o1 the sudden and receive thy spiriting:
The flower must drink the nature of the
soil
Before it can put forth its blossoming:
Be with me in the summer days and I
Will for thine honor and his pleasure try.
THE HUMAN SEASONS
1818 1819
Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of
man;
He has his lusty spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span :
B Tie has his summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought
he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
IB nearest unto heaven • quiet coves
His soul ha* in its autumn, when his wings
10 He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness— to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
ENDYMION
1817-18 1818
BOOK I
A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness, but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
5 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and
quiet breathing
Therefore, on every moirow, are we
wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman
dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
" Of all the unhealthy and o'ei -darkened
ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of
all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits Such the sun, the
moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady
boon
15 For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in, and
clear nils
That for themselves a cooling covert make
768
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIBTS
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest
brake,1
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose
glooms :
20 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms2
We have imagined for the mighty dead ,
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
26 Nor do we meiely feel these essences
For one short houi , no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion Poes^, glories infinite,
30 Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom
o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
35 Will tiace the story of Endymioii
The veiy music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh befoie uie as the green
Of our own valleys • so I will begin
40 Now while I cannot hear the city's dm;
Now while the eaily budders are just new,
And run m mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests, while the willow trails
Its delicate amber , and the dairy pails
45 Bring home increase of milk And, as the
year
Orows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly
steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen fieshly into
bowers
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
fio Before the daisies, vcimeil nmm'tl and
white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet
peas,
I must be near the middle of my story
O may no wintry season, bare and hoarv,
K See it half finish 'd: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome* I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
60 There let its trumpet blow, and quickly
dress
My' uncertain path with green, that I may
speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
« thicket
Upon the aides of Latinos was outspread
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed
65 So plenteously all weed-hidden roots
Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious
fruits.
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered
deep,
Where no man went, and if fiom shep-
herd's keep
A lamb stray 'd tar a-down those inmost
glens,
70 Never again saw he the happy pens
Whither his brethren, bleating with con-
tent,
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
Among the shepherds, 'twas believed evei,
That not one fleecy iamb which thus did
sever
7~» From the white flock, but paasM un-
womed
By angry wolf, or pard1 with prying head,
Until it came to some untooted plains
Where fed the herdb of Pan : aye great his
gains
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths tlieie
were many,
80 Winding through palmy fern, and rushes
fenny,
And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly
To a wide lawn, whence one could only nee
Stems thronging all around between the
swell
Of turf and slanting bianclies who could
tell
85 The freshness of the space of heaven
above,
Edg'd round with dark tree tops, through
which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often tuo
A little cloud would move across* the bluet
Full in the middle of this pleasantness
90 There stood a marble altar, with a tress
Of flowers budded newly; and the dew
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
m And so the dawned light in pomp receive.
93 For 'twas the m.nn : Apollo's upward file
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
100 Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing
sun;
The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had
run
To warm their chilliest bubbles m the grass ;
Heopart
JOHN KEATS 759
Man 'a voice was on the mountains ; and the In music, through the vales of Thessaly .'
mass 145 Some idly trail 'd their sheep-hooks on the
106 of nature's lives and wonders puls'd ten- ground,
fold, And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
To feel this sunribe and its glories old. With ebon-tipped flutes : close after these,
Now coining from beneath the forest tiees,
Now while the silent workings of the A A venerable priest full soberly,
dawn 15° Begirt with minis t 'ring looks: alway his
Were busiest, into that self -same lawn sye
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept,
110 A troop of little children garlanded, And after him his sacred vestments swept
Who gathering round the altar, seem 'd to From his right hand there swung a vase,
pry milk-while,
Earnestly round ab wibhmg to espy Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous
Some folk of holiday . nor had they waited . light ,
For many moments, ere their ears were And in his left ho held a basket full
sated Of &U sweet herbs that searching eye could
115 With & faint breath of music, which ev'n cull
then Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter btill
Fill'd out Us voice, and died away again Than Lcda's love,2 and cresses, from the
Withm a little space again it gave ™-
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, His aged head, crowned with beechen
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes wieath,
breaking 16° SeemM like a poll* of ivy in the teeth
120 Through copse-clad valleys,— ere their Of winter hoar Then came another LI uwd
death, o'ei taking Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea Their &hare^of the ditt> After them ap-
And mm , as deep into the wood as we m Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd
M,ght mark a lynx's eye, there ghmmer'd ia Their ^ to the <ilowK a fa» wrou*ht
Fan fS'and u lush of garments white. Jttjfe X^^i^i 4«nlp
i-'& Plainer and plainer showing, till at last The f™**001 «f thr*e steeds of dapple
Who therein d,d « of great re-
Am01* ttbmur His yonth was fully
A n,'. beneath his h.east,
Was hung a silver bugle, and between
,..„„, , , His nervy knees there lay a boar-^peai
"5 Leading the way, young damsels danced keen.
a^°,npr?, , , 17B A smile was on his countenance, he
Heanng the burden of a shepherd song; seem'd
Each having a white wicker overbrimmed To common 'lookeft-on, like one who
With Ap.ril's tender younglings: next dream 'd
well tnmin 'd, of idleness in grovee Elysian
A crowd of shepherds with a« sunburnt
looks >A reference to Apollo's service with Klne
"• As may be lead of » An-adian books; j^'flilid bfTOl^f £8$ SS^T
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, the Cyclops Apollo killed the Cyclop*, and
Whpn the irrpat Hpitv for aoifh tan rinp was compelled to undergo human service ab
When the great deitv, ror eactb too npe, punishment See LoweD'a The flfcepaer* of
l^et his divinity overflowing die King Admetu*; also Meredith's Ph<rb*9 with
AdH€tV9
** release * Jove. In tbe form of a swan.
770 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
But there were some who feelingly could 21& Night-swollen mushrooms! Are not our
scan wide plains
A lurking trouble in Ins nether lip, , Speckled with countless fleeces! Have nut
iso An(] gee that often tunes the reins would lams
slip (j i een 'd over April 's lap 1 No howling sad
Through his forgotten hands • then would Sickens our fearful ewes , and we have had
they sigh, Great bounty from Endynnon our lord.
And think of yellow leaves, of owlet 'scry, 22° The earth is glad: the merry lark has
Of logs piled solemnly.— Ah, well-a-day, pour'd
Why should our young Endyxmon pine His early song agambt yon breezy sky
away T That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity ' '
186 Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd, Thus ending, on the sin me he heap'd a
Stood silent round the slmnc. each look spue
was chang'd Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;
To sudden veneration- women meek 226 Anon he stain M the thick and spongy sod
Beckon 'd their sons to silence , while each With wine, in honor of the shepherd-god
cheek Now while the earth was drinking it, and
Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight while
fear. Bay leaves were cracking in the fragrant
190 Endymion too, without a forest peer, pile,
Stood, wan and pale, and with an awed And gummy frankincense was sparkling
face, bright
Among his brothers of the mountain chace. 23° 'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy
In midst of all, the venerable priest light
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus
least, sang
195 And, after lifting- up his aged hands,
Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shep- "° *^u» whofle *"&*? P***** roof dotil
Whose^re .££ Urd a thousand flocks &?3^^
Whether descended from beneath the rocks ^^^ *~ ' * ™» » '
That cvvertop your mountains; whether 235 Of unseen flowers m heavy peacef illness ,
come Who lov'st to see the hamadryads* drew
200 prom valleys where the pipe is never Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels
dumb; darken,
Or fiom your swelling downs, where sweet An* through whole solemn hours dost Bit,
air stirs and hearken
Bine ha«be.ls lightly, and where prickly 240 ^^S
inrae breeds
Buds lavish sold; in ve, whose precious The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
charge Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Nibble their All at ocean's very marge, Thou watt to lose fair Syrinx— do thou now,
205 Whose mellow reeds are touch M with By thy love's milky brow!
sounds forlorn 245 "7 aU the trembling mazes that she ran,
By the dim echoes of old Triton 's horn . Hear *•» &*** PanT
Mothers and wives' who day by day pre- ,,o ^ for who§e ^d^tm^ quieV
Pflie turtles^
The scrip,1 with needments, for the moun- Passion their voices cooingly tnong myrtles,
tain an , . What time thou wanderert at eventide
And all ye gentle girls who foster up 35° Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the
210 Udderless lambs, and m a little cup slde
Will put choice honey for a favor 'd vouth : £JSE£F&^
Yea, every one attend! for in good truth ™^ J^/L^^n^
Our vows or* wanting to our great god g* ^£^\££ ££ &
' i - ^ * i i. -. ** Their fairert Wo«om'd beans and poppied
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than eon>:4
1 A mnnll hug for fmwi 8oe Rpenwr'n The l tiw nymphs ' prMeattnatp ; rtwrw
Farrir Qu«nc. \ (t. n •turtlonovM « whpat flllod with popple
JOUN KEATS 771
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, Eten while they brought the buideii to a
To sing for thee, low creeping strawberries cjosc
S r A 6h°Ut
vttr
260 All its completiona-be quickly near, 81° °* ttbrul)L thundei, ulien Ionian shoals
B> o\eiy wind that nods the mountain pine, Of dolphins bob their nofe.es through the
() J?V>i ester divine! biuie.
Meantime, on shad} lc\ elh, mossy fine,
"Thou, to whom every faun and satyr Young companies nimbly began dancing
S1.68 , , To the 8wii( treble pipe, and humming
For willing service, whether to surprise
m The Hquatted ha.e wbde m hall-eleeping 31B Ayfi> ^ ^ ^ swam
Or upward ragged precipices flit „, en^
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's To tunes foi gotten— out of memory
maw, Fair rieatuico* \vhuse young children's
Or by mysteiious enticement draw childien bied
Bewilder M shepheids to their path agum, Theimopj la? its heroes—not yet dead,
270 Or to tread breathless round the Jrothy main, jjut m ()1(i mai blefci ^ ei beautiful
*'
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peep- hmci b s^eet ^^t-fiuits-they danc'd to
Or to delight tlioe witli funtnstu- leaping, And then 111 quiet circlet, did they piess
275 The while tliey pelt eacli other on the ciown The hillock tui f, and caught the latter end
With silveiy oak-npples, and fir-cones Of some strange history, potent to send
In 0*11,— 325 A young mind iioin its bodily tenement.
By all the echo* that about thee ring, ()r fl m ,|t wnlch the quo,t.p,tchei s,
Hear us, C) satyr king! ' r
"
0 heaikeuer to the loud-clapping shears On either Fide, pitying the sad death
280 While ever nnd anon to his shorn peers Of Hyacinthus, when the ciuel breath
A ram goes bleating winder of the horn, Of Zephyr blew bun,— Zephyr penitent,
When snouted Tuld-honrs routing tender corn 33° Who now, ere Pho>bus mountb the fiima-
Anger our huntsmen breather round our merit,
m , fari"8» , . . „ , . Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain
To keeii on* mildevs and all weather harms
\nd Cither .lieanlv on barren moor. An^ «ie dull twanging bowrtruig, and the
Diend opener of the mysterious doors ra'^
Leading to uimersal knowledge, — see, 315 Branch down sweeping fiom a tall ash top,
290 Gicut son of Diyope, C'all'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
The many tlmt are eome to pay their vows Tho*e Tilio wonlil wntc-li Peihaps, the
With leaves almut their brows' liembliiiq knee
295 Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leiive the naked brain IK? still the tongue
leaven, Lay a lost thing upon liei paly lip,
That spreading in this dull and clodded And very, very deadhness did nip
earth Uei motheily elieeks Aimis'd fiom this
Gives it a touch ethereal — n new birth ^j mood
300 A%8tlH R.Tb°fl«0f 11lninen8lty; By one, who at a distance loud halloo M,
300 Lfie=tntnS t" s^iween; ™ FpHftin, h, stron, bow into the ai£
An unknown— but no more; we liumblv Many might aftei bi ighter \TSIOHB stare
screen After the Argonauts in blind amaze
With uplift hands onr foreheads, lowly ben.l- Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,
mg, Until, from the horizon 's vaulted side.
And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, 3SO There shot a golden splendor far and wide,
306 Conjure thee to receive pur humble Piean.i Rpanfrhnsr those million poutmgs of the
Upon thy Mount Lreean 1 " brine
of prnlM* l ancestors f broken
772 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful And ahar'd their famish M scrips. Thus
shine all out-told
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow , Their fond imaginations,— saving him
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe Whose eyelids curtain 9d up theii jewels
855 Who thus weie ripe for high contemplat- dun,
ing, J<*3 Eiidjmion yet houily had he stiiveu
Might tuin their steps towards the sober To hide the cankeiiiitf Aenoni, that had
ling ii\en
Where sat Endymiou and the aged priest I life fainting lecol lections Now indeed
'Mong shepheids gone in eld, whose looks 11 ib senses had swoon 'd off he did not
mcraas'd heed
The silvery setting of their mortal star. The sudden silence, 01 the wluspcis low.
'pl° There they discoursed upon the fragile bar lo° Oi the old eyes dissohmg ut his woe,
That keeps up from our homes ethereal , Oi anxious calls, oj close oi' ticmblinj;
And what om duties there, to nightly call palms,
Vespei, the beauty -crest of suromei Oi maiden's si^h, that giief itself em-
weather, balms
To summon all the downiest clouds to- But in the self -same fixed tiance he kept,
gether Like one who on the earth had ne\ei stept
H»I» j\,r the sun's puiple couch, to emulate m Aye, e\en as dead-still ns a marble man,
In minist'nng the potent rule of fate Frozen m that old tale Arabian 1
With speed of tire-tail 'd exhalations,1
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who Who whispcis him so panting and
cons close?
Sweet poesy by moonlight besides these, Peon a, his TO eel sistei of all those,
370 A world of other uuguess'd offices His fiiends, the deaiest Hushmir si^ns
Anon the> wander 'd, by divine converse, she made,
Into Elysium , vying to rehearse 41° And breath M a sistei 's soi tou to peisuadc
Each one his own anticipated bliss A yielding up, a ciadling on hei caic
One felt heait-certam that he could not Her eloquence did bi eat he aw a> tliccuisc
miss She led him, like some midnight spmt
-*7"1 His quick-gone love, among fail blossom 'd nurse
boughs, Of happy changes in emphatic dreams,
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and en- 41B Along a path between two little streams, —
dows Guarding1 Inn foiehead, with her round
Her lips with music for the welcoming elbow,
Another wish'd, 'mid that eternal spring, Flora low-gtouii blanches, and his foot-
To meet his losy child, with feathery sails, steps slo\v
880 Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond From stumbling o\ei stumps and hillocks
\ ales small ,
Who, suddenly, should stoop through the Until they came to wheie these sticamlets
smooth wind, fall,
And with the balmiest leaves his temples 42° With mingled babblings and a gentle lush,
bind, Into a river, cleai, bnniiul, and Hush
And, ever aftei, through those regions be With crystal mocking oi the tiees and skv
His messenger, his little Mercuiy A little shallop, floating theie haid by,
183 Some weie at hirst in soul to see again Pointed its beak o\ei the t imped bank,
Their fellow huntsmen o 'er the wide cham- 425 And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and
paign2 sank,
In times long past; to sit with them, and And dipt again, with the vmng couple's
talk weight,—
Of all the chances in their earthly walk, Peona guiding, through the watei straight,
Compaimg, joyfully, their plenteous stores Towards a bowery island opposite,
390 Of happiness, to when upon the moois, Which gaining presently, bhe steered light
Benighted, close they huddled from the 48° Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove,
cold, Where nested was an arbor, overwove
By many a summer's silent fingering,
"UP To whose C001 b°Bom she wfl& U8cd
i The Arabia* Vfpkfff' E*1rrta4nme*t*
JOHN KEATA 773
Her playmates, with their needle broidery, Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than
486 And minstrel memories of times gone by. such tears t
475 Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all feais
So bhc was gently glad to see him laid That, any longer, I will pass my days
Under hei favorite bower's quiet shade, Alone and snd No, I will once more raise
On hei own couch, new made of flower My voice upon the mountain-heights , once
leaves, more
Dried caietully «n the cooler bide of Make my horn parley fioin their foreheads
sheaves hoai
440 When last the sun his autumn tiesses 48° Again my trooping hounds then tongues
shook, shall loll
And the tann'd harvest eis i it'll aimfuls Around the breathed boar again I'll poll1
took The fair-grown yew tree, foi a chosen
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous lest bow.
But, eie it crept upon him, he had piest And, when the pleasant sun is uettmi;
Peona's busy hand against his lips, low,
145 And still, a-sleeping, held hei finger-tips Again I'll hngei in a sloping mead
J u lender pi essuie A ml as a willow keeps 48-' To heai the speckled thrushes, and see
A patient watch ovei the stream that feed
creeps Our idle sheep So be thou cheered, sweet,
Windmgly by it, so the quiet maid And, if thy lute is hcio, softly mtreat
Hold her in peace so that a whispcimg My soul to keep in its lesohed course "
blade
r>0 Of giass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling Hereat Peona, in then wive? source.
Down in the blue-bells, 01 a wien herht- 49° Shut her pure somw-drops with glad ex-
iiisthng claim,
Among seie leaves and twigs, might all be And took a lute, from \\lmh theie pulsing
heard came
A lively prelude, fashioning the way
O magic sleep f () com tollable bud, In which hei voice should wander. Tuas
That bioodesl o'ei the troubled sea of the a lay
mind Moie subtle cadenced, moje foiest wild
''r> Till it is hush'd and smooth' O uncon- 4% Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child,
fin yd And nothing since has floated in the air
Restraint* imprison 'd liberty' gi eat key So mournful stiauge. Suiely some influ-
To golden palaces, strange imnstielsy, ence rare
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled Went, spintual, through the damsel 's
ca\es, hand,
Echoing- grottoes, full of tumbling waves For still, with Delphic emphasis,2 she
lfiu And moonlight ; a>c, to all the maz> world spann'd
()1 sihory enchantment f— who, upfurl'd r'°° The quick invisible stim»s, even though
Beneath thy diowsy wing a tuple hour, she saw
But renovates and hvest— Thus, in the Endymion's spin! melt aua^ and thaw
'bower, Befoie the deep intoxication
Endynnou was calm fd to life again. But soon she camo, with sudden buist,
111-1 Opening his e\clids with a healthier main, upon
He said "I feel this thine endeaiing Ilei self-possession — swung the lute
lo\ t» aside,
All through my bosom* thou art as a dove GOB And eainestly said "Brothei. 'tis \am
Trembling its closed e> es and sleeked wings to hide
About me, and the pearliest dew not That thou dost knew of things mystei lous,
biings Immottal, starry, such alone could thus
470 Such morning incense from the fields of Weigh down thy nature Hast thou sum 'd
May, in aught
AP do those blighter drops that twinkling Offensive to the heavenly powers? Caught
stray 51° A Paphian dove8 upon a message sentf
From those kind eyes,— the very home and i cut the top from
haunt J llk<k thal
Of w'sterly affection Can I want
774 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd His snorting four. Now when his chariot
bent last
Sacred to than? Haply, them hast seen Its beam against the zodiac-lion cast,1
Her naked huibs among the alders giecn, Theic blossom M suddenly a magic bed
And that? alas! is death.1 No, I can trace 566 Qf sacred ditamy,- and poppies icd
616 Something moie high perplexing in thy At which I wondered gi eat ly, knowing well
face'" That hut one night hail wrought this flow-
ery spell ,
Endymiou look'd at hei, and pi ess M And, silting down clobc by, began to muse
her hand, What it might mean. Perhaps, thought 1,
Aud said, "Ait thou w> pale, who wast so Moipheus,
bland 56(> In pacing lieic, Ins owlet pinions shook;
And riei i y in our meadows? How is this f Or, it may be, eie matron Night uptook
Tell me thine ailment tell me all amiss1— Hei ebon um, young Meicui\, by stealth,
520 Ah f thou hast been unhappy at the chaimc Had dipt his iod in it such gailand
Wrought suddenly in me "What indeed wealth
moie btiangc* Came not by rummon growth. Thus on I
Or more complete to oxeiuhelm suimisc ' thought,
Ambition is bo sluggatd His no pn/o, 565 Until m> head A\as diz/y and distiausjht
Tliat toiling yeais would put within niv Moieo\ci, Uimugh the dancing puppies
giasp, stole
628 That I have sigh'd for* with so deadly A breeze, most; soitly lulling to my soul,
gasp And shaping visions all about my sight
No man e'ei panted foi a moital 1m e Of colors, wings, and bursts ot spangly
So all have set my lieaviei gucf abo\c ^ light ,
These things which happen. Rightly lune ~)7° The which became moie shange, and
they done stiange, and dim,
I, who still saw the horizontal sun And then were gulf M in a tumultuous
GSO Hea\e hip broad shouidei o'er the edge of sunn
the world, And then I fell asleep Ah, can T tell
Out-facing Luciicr, and then had huilM The enchantment that aftciuaids botell?
My spear aloft, as signal for the chase— Vet it was but a dieam yet such a dieam
I, who for very sport of heart, would race B75 That ne\er tongue, although it o\orlccm
With my own steed from Aiaby; pluck With mellow ulteiance, like a ca\crn
down &pinig»
C3B A \ul tine from his towery perching, Could fi^uie out and to conception bung
fro\vn All I beheld and felt Methou»ht 1 lay
A lion into giowlmg, loth lelne— Watohinp tho zenith, ulieie the milky ^ay
To lose, at once, all my toil-bi minis* flic, r'80 Amoiif? the stais m \irgm splendor poms;
And sink thus low1 but J will ease my And travelling urv e>e, until the doois
breast Of hea^cn appeal M to open ioi my flight,
Of beciet grief, lieie in this bo^eiy nest 1 became loth and feaiiul to alight
Fiom such hi»li soaring li> a downward
540 "This ruer docs not see the naked sky, glance-
Till it begin to progicss silvcily 585 So kept me stedf«ist m that any tinncc,
Around the western bolder of the wood, Spicadm^ imnnimuv ]>iiiions \\idc
Svhence, from a ceitam spot, Us winding When, picsently, the stais >>cunn to nhde,
flood -Ami faint away, liefoio mv enuci \ie\\
Seems at the distance like a descent moon At which I -ifth VI that T conhl not pm sue,
645 And in that nook, the ^ery piulc of June, B9° And dropt my MSIOII to the homon's
Had I been used to pass my weary e\cs, verge;
The rather for the sun unwilling leaves Aii'l In 1 from opening clouds, T saw emerge
So dear a picture of his soveieipn power, The loveliest moon, that ever silverM o'er
And I could witness his most kingly hour, A shell for Neptune's goblet • she did soar
BBO When he doth tighten up the golden reins, So pawumately bright, my dazzled soul
And paces leisurely down amber plains
«un fe In the sign of the llnu from July
»A inference to Acheon. wbo MW Diana bath 22 to Annrt 22
ing. and who was trangformod Into a Rtng * fllttnny, a plant famoun for nuppOMd
and killed by hl« own honndi virtues
JOHN KEATS 775
695 Commingling with her argent spheres did Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,
roll Handfuls of daisies."— "Endymion, how
Through clear and cloudy, even when she strange !
went Dream within dream* "—"She took an
At last into a dark and vapory tent— airy range,
Whereat, methought, the hdlesH-eyed train And then, towards me, like a very maid,
Of planets all were in the blue again. 635 Came blubbing, waning, willing, and
600 To commune with those orbs, once more I afraid,
rais'd And press 'd me by the hand. Ah! 'twas
My sight right upwaid. but it was quite too much, «
daz'd Methought I fainted at the charmed
By a bright something, sailing down apace, touch,
Making me quickly veil my eyes and face Yet held my lecollection, even as one
Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, Who di\es three fathoms \vheie the waters
606 \viio from Olympus watch our destinies' run
Whence that completed form of all com- 64° (iuighng in beds of coral • for anon,
plctenesfet I felt upmounted in that region
A\7hence came that high perfection of all Where falling stars dart then artillery
sweetness f forth,
Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, And eagles struggle with the buffeting
0 where north
Ila^t thou a symbol of her golden hairt That balances the hea\y meteor-stone,1 —
610 Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western S45 Felt too, T was not fearful, nor alone,
sun ; But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous
Not— tin soft hand, fair sister! let me sky
shun Soon, as it seem 'd, we left our journeying
Such follying before thee— yet she had, high,
Tndeed, lock<< bnght enough to make me And straightway into fnghtful eddies
mncl f swoop 'd,
And they were simply gordian'd up1 and Such as aye mustei where gray tune has
bi aided, scoop 'd
615 I^n\in£r, in naked comeliness, unshaded, CBO Huge dens and emeins in a mountain's
Her peail round cars, white neck, and side*
01 bed brow, There hollow sounds arons'd me, and I
The which weie blended in, I know not sigh'd
how, To faint once more by looking on my
With such a paiadise of lips and eyes, bliss—
Blush-tinted cheeks, half sin lies, and I was dish acted , madly did I kiss
faintest sighs, The wooing arms which held me, and did
620 That, when I think thereon, my spirit give
clings 6BB My eyes at once to death: but 'twas to
And plays about its fancy, till the stings live,
Of human neighborhood envenom all. To take in draughts of life from the gold
Unto what awful power shall I calif fount
To what high fanet— Ah ! see her lun eim:: Of kind and passionate looks, to count,
feet, and count
«25 More bluely vein'd, more soft, iiioie The moments, by some greedy help that
whitely sweet seem'd
Than those of ma-born Venus,2 when she A second self, that each might be redeem 'd
rose 66° And plunder 'd of its load of blessedness
From out her cradle shell. The wind out- Ah, desperate mortal9 I e'en dar'd to
blows press
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion; Her very cheek against my crowned lip,
'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million And, at that moment, felt my body dip
**° Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, Into a warmer air: a moment more,
«65 Our feet were soft in flowers There was
i made Into an Intricate knot s<ore
•\rcordlng to Hpstod, Vram arose from tho
by th<>
77b NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Of newest joys upon that alp.1 Some- Therefore I eager follow 'd, and did curse
times 7UB The disappointment. Time, that aged
A scent of violets, aiid blossoming limes,2 nurse,
Loiter M around us, then of honey cells, Rock'd me to patience Now, thank gentle
Made delicate from all white-flower bells, hea\en !
670 And once, above the edges of our nest, These things, with all their comforting,
An arch face peep M,— an Oread as I are given
guess 'd To my down-sunken hours, and with thee,
Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea
"Why did \ dieom that sleep o'er- Of weary hie."
power M me
fn midst of all this hea\ en 7 Why not sec, 71° Thus ended he, and both
Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark. Sat silent • f 01 the maid was very loth
fc7r» And stare them from met But no, like To answer, feeling well that breathed
a spnik words
That needs must die, although its little Would all he lost, unlicard, and vain as
beam swords
Reflects upon a diamond, my s\v eel dream Against the enchased1 ciwodilp, or leaps
Fell into nothing— into stupid sleep 71G Of grasshoppeis against the sun She
And so it was, until a gentle cieep, weeps,
680 A caieful moving- caught my waking eais, And wondeis; stingos in de\i^e some
And up I started Ah' my sighs, my blame,
teais, To put on such a look as would say, Shanif
My clenched hands,— ioi lo' the poppies On fins poor weakliest*' but, f 01 nil her
hung strife
Dew-dabbled on then stalks, the ouzel8 She could as soon have crush M ,n\in the
sung life
A heavy dittj, and the sullen day 72° Fiom a sick do\e At length, to In oak the
686 Had chidden heiald Hesperus away, pause,
With leaden looks the solitary breeze She said with trembling chance "Is this
Blustci'd, and slept, and its wild self did the cause?
teaze * This all? Yet it is stian<»e, ami sail,
With waylaid melancholy , and 1 thought, alas f
Maik me, Peonal that sometimes it That one who tlnough this middle eaith
brought should pass
hf)0 Faint fare-thee-wells, nnd sigh-shrilled Most like a sojourning denu-pod, and lea\r
adieus '— 72r> His name upon the harp-string, should
Away T wandei M— all the pleasant hues achieve
Of heaven and caith had faded, deepest No higher bard than simple maidenhood,
shades Singing alone, and feaifullv,— how the
Were deepest dungeons , heaths and sunny blood
glades Left his young cheek , and ho>\ lie used to
Weie lull of pestilent liirhl , oui tamtli*s stiay
nils He knew not wheie , nnd how he would say,
996 Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with up- nay,
turn M gills 73° If any said 'twas love • and yet 'twas love ,
Of dying fish, the vermeil rose had blown What could it be but love? How a ring-
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out- dove
grown Let fall a sprig of >ew tree m his path ,
Like spiked aloe If an innocent bird And how he died . and then, that love doth
Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and scathe,
stiir'd The gentle heart, as northern blasts do
700 In little journeys, I beheld in it roses;
A disguis'd demon, missioned to knit 78B And then the ballad of his sad life closes
My soul with under darkness; to entice With sighs, and an alas'— En dym ion *
My stumblings down some monstrous Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,— anon
precipice- Among the winds at large— that all may
1 high mountain • European blackbird hearken f
1 lindens « Ineaaed
JOHN KJSATS 777
Although, before the crystal heavens A fellowship with essence ; till we shine,
darken, 78° Full alchemized,1 and free of space. Be-
740 I watch and dote upon the silver lakes hold
Pictni 'd in western cloudiness, that takes The clear religion of heaven ! Fold
The semblance of gold rocks and bright A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness,
gold bauds, And soothe thy lips : hist, when the airy
Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted stress
strands Of music's kiss impregnates the free
With hotses prancing o'er them, palaces ^ winds,
745 And towers of amethyst,— would 1 so 785 j^a with a sympathetic touch unbinds
tease JEohau magic from their lucid wombs
My pleasant days, because I could not Then old songs waken from enclouded
mount tombs;
Into those legionsf The Morphean fount Old ditties sigh above their father's
Of that line element that visions, dreams, grave,
And fitful whims of sleep are made of, Ghosts of melodious prophesy ings rave
streams 79° Round every spot where trod Apollo's
750 Tnto its airy channels with so subtle, foot;
So thin a breathing not the spider's Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit,2
shuttle, Where long ago a giant battle was,
fueled a million times within the space And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass
Of a shallow's nest-dooi, could delay a In e\ ery place where infant Orpheus slept
trace, 7<IB Feel we these things 1— that moment ha\e
A tint in «• of its quality how light , we stept
715 Must di earns themselves be ; seeing they're Into a soit ot oneness, and our state
moie slight Is like a floating spirit's But there are
Than the meie nothing that engender Kichei entanglements, enthralments far
theinf • Moie self-destioving, leading, by degrees.
Then wheiefoie sully the entrusted gem so° To the chief intensity the ciown of these
Of high and noble life nilh thoughts so Is made of love and friendship, and sits
sickf high
Why pierce high- iron ted honor to the quick Upon the f oiehead of humanity
TOO ]ror nothing but a dreamt" Ileieat the All its moie ponderous and bulky worth
youth Is friendship, whence theie e\er issues
Look'd up a conflicting of shame and forth
ruth M"' A steady splendoi , but at the tip-top,
Was in his plaited biow: yet, his eyelids There hangs by unseen him, an orbed drop
Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids Of light, and that is loic its influence,
A little breeze to cicep between the fans Thrown in our eyes, ^endeis a novel sense,
766 Of careless butteifhes* amid his pains At which we start and hot , till in the end.
He seem'il to taste a drop of manna-dew. 81° Melting into its radiance,, we blend,
Full palatable; and a color grew Mingle, and so become a part ot it,—
Upon his cheek, while thus he hfeful spake Nor with aught else can our souls mterkmt
So winged ly • when we combine therewith,
"Peona ' ever have I long'd to slake Life's self is nourish 'd by its proper pith,
770 My thirst for the world's piaises: nothing 81B And we are nurtured like a pelican brood
base, Aye, so delicious is the unsating food,
No merely slumberous phantasm, could That men, who might have tower'd in the
unlace van
The stubborn canvas for my voyage pre- Of all the congregated world, to fan
par'd— And winnow from the coming step of
Though now 'tis tatter 9d ; leaving my bark time
bar'd 82° All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime
And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope Left by men-slugs and human serpentry,
776 TB Of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, Have been content to let occasion die,
To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium
Wherein lies happiness 1 In that which And, tnily, I would rather be struck dumb,
becks . * changed to a Mghpr nnhiro
Onr ready minds to fellowship divine, "sound
778 NINETEENTH OENTtiBY BOMANTICISTS
K2B Than speak against this ardent listless- Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged
ness: brows
For I have ever thought that it might bless 865 Bubhes and trees do lean all round athwart
The worJd with benefits unknowingly, And meet so nearly, that with wings
As does the nightingale, upperched high, outraught,1
And cloister 'd among cool and bunched And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide
leaves— Past them, but he must brush on every
830 She sings but to her love, nor e'er con- side.
ceives Some moulder 'd steps lead into this cool
How tiptoe Night holds back her dark- cell,
gray hood. 87° Far as the slabbed margin of a well,
Just so may love, although 'tis understood Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye
The mere commingling of passionate Right upward, through the bushes, to the
breath, sky.
Produce more than our searching wit- Oft have 1 brought thee flowers, on their
nesseth: stalk* set
885 What 1 know not: but who, of men, can Like vestal piiimoses, but dark velvet
tell 875 Edges them round, and they have golden
That flowers would bloom, or that green pits
fruit would swell 'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and
To melting pulp, that fish would have slits
bnght mail, In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my
The earth its dower of nver, wood, and seat,
vale, When all above was faint wjlh mid-dny
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble- heat.
stones, And theie in strife no burning thoughts to
M0 The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, heed,
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, 88° I'd bubble up the water through a leed,
If human souls did never kiss and greet. So reaching back to boyhood make me
ships
"Now, if this earthly love has power to Of moulted feathers, touchwood,- aldei
make chips,
Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake With lea\es stuck in them, and the Nep-
*45 Ambition from their memories, and brim tune be
Their measure of content, what merest Of their pretty ocean. Oftener, heauly,
whim, 886 When lo\elorn hours had left me less a
Seems all this poor endeavor after fame. child,
To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim I Rat contemplating the figures wild
A love immortal, an immortal too. Of o'er-head clouds melting the mnror
850 Look not RO wilder'd; for these things are through.
true, Upon a day, while thus I watch 'd, by flew
And never can be born of atomies A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quner ,
That buzz about our slumbers, like brain- 89° So plainly charactered, no breeze would
flies, shiver
Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure, The happy chance : so happy, T was fain
My restless spmt never could endure To follow it upon the open plain,
855 To brood so long upon one luxury, And, therefore, was just going, when, be-
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy hold !
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. A wondei, fair as any I have told—
My sayings will the less obscured seem, 89B The same bright face I tasted in my
When I have told thee how my wakin? sleep,
sight Smiling in the clear well. My heart did
wo Has made me scruple whether that same leap
night Through the cool depth.— It moved as if to
Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet flee—
Peona! I started up, when lo! refreshfully,
Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, There came upon my face, in plenteous
Which we should see but for these darken- showers,
ing boughs, i outmched * fleeiytd wood
JOHN KEATS 779
*°° Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, Whence it ran brightly forth, and white
and floweis, did lave
Wiapping all objects hom my smothei M The nether sides of mossy stones and
sight, rock,—
Itatlimg my spirit in a new delight. 'Mong which it gargled blythe adieus, to
Aye, such a breathless honey- feel of bliss mock
Alone pieserved me tiom the dieai abyss Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead,
905 Of death, ioi the fan ioini had gone °40 Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds,
ugaui and spread
Pleasure is oft a visitant ; but pain Thick, as to curtain up some wood-
C'lmga cruell> to us, like ilie gnawing nyiuph 's home
sloth "Ah! impious mortal, whither do I
On the deei V temlei liaunches late, and loamf"
loth, Said 1, low-voic'd- "Ah, whither! 'Tis
'Tis scai M amn by slow icturninu pleas- the giot
lire ( >f Pi osei pine, when Hell, obscure and hot,
010 How sickening, how ilaik tin- dieadiul 945 Doth her lesign, and where her tender
leisiue hands
Of \\eaiy da>s. made deepei exquisite, She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:
Hv a foreknow ledge of unslumbrous nmht ' Or 'tis the cell ot Echo, where she sits,
Like soi i ow came upon me, hea\ iei still, And dabbles thorough silence, till her wits
Th'in \\hen I \\amlei M iiom the poppy Aie pone in tender madness, and anon,
lull *m Paints into sleep, with many a dying tone
nl') And n whole i\w oi lin»eimg moments Of sadness 0 that she would take my
ciept vows,
SI ugg ish ly bv, eie moie contentment swept And bieathe them sighingly among the
A\\nv at once the deadly vellow spleen boughs,
^ es, tin no h.ne 1 this lair enchantment To sue her pent le ears for whose fair head,
seen, Daily, I pluck q\\eet flowerets from their
Once moie boon t mimed uith lenewed bed,
life q63 And wca\e them dyingly— send honey-
020 When la^l the \\mti\ ^ustssa^e»^el stui'e whispers
With the concluding sun of spuing, and Round e\eiy leaf, that all those gentle
left the skies lispers
Waim and MMIMIG, but vet with moisten 9d May sigh my lo\e unto her pitying!
CACS () chantable Echo' hear, and sing
In pitv «f the shattft M infant buds,— This ditty to her!— tell hei "—So I stay'd
That time thoii <lin>t ncloin, with amber 96° My foolish tongue, and listening, half-
studs afiaid,
125 MV Inininin cnp, because T laugh 'd and Stood stupefied with my own empty folly
smilM, And blush me: for the freaks of melan-
rhatted with thee, and many davs exil'd choly
All toimcnt from my breast ,— 'tvas e>en Salt tears weie coming, \*hen I heard my
then, " name
StiaMiiir about, yet, eoop'd up in the Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents
den came
Of helpless discontent,— hulling my lance q(n " Endvimon f the ca^e is secieter
930 Piom place to place, and fnllownm nt Than the isle of Dclos Echo hence shall stir
chance, \o sii*hs but si oh -warm kisses, or light
At last, by hap, thionuh some voiing trees noise
it stinck, Of thy combine: hand, the while it travel-
And, plashmir uinoni! bedded ]>ebbles ling cloys
stuck And trembles thiough my labyrinthine
Tn the middle of n hi ook,- whose siher hair."
ramble . °70 At that oppress 'd T burned in.-Ahl
Down twenty little falls, through ieeds and where
bramble. Are those swift moments! Whither are
9Sri Tracing1 along, it brought me to n cave, they fledf
i « n adoring- I 'H ^niile no more, Peona ; nor will wed
780
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Sorrow the way to death; but patiently
Bear up against it: so farewell, sad sigh;
1175 And come instead demurest meditation,
To occupy me wholly, and to fashion
My pilgrimage for the world's dusky
brink.
No more will I count over, link by link,
My chaui of grief : no longer stnve to find
98<S A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind
Blustering about my ears • aye, thou shall
see,
Dearest of bibters, what my life shall be;
What a calm round of hours shall make
my days
There is a paly flame of hope that plays
»85 Where '«i I look- but yet, I'll say 'tis
naught—
And here I bid it die Have not I caught,
Already, a more healthy countenance f
By this the sun is setting; we may chance
Meet some of our near-dwellers with my
car"
090 This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a
star
Through autumn mists, and took Peona's
hand
They stept into the boat, and launch 'd
from land
BOOK II
0 sovereign power of love1 0 grief f 0
balm'
All reeoids, saving thine, come cool, and
calm,
And shadowy, through the mist of passed
years
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears
5 Have become indolent; but touching thine,
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried
days
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er
their blaze,
Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears,
keen blades,
10 Struggling, and blood, and shrieks— all
dimly fades
Into some backward corner of the brain ,
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain
The close1 of Troilus and Cressid sweet
Hence, pageant history I hence, gilded
cheat f
16 Swart* planet in the universe of deeds!
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur
breeds
Along the pebbled shore of memory!
Many old rotten-timber fd boats there be
» embrace • evil ; earning blight
Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified
*° To goodly vessels; many a sail of pnde,
And golden-keel M, is left unlaunch'd and
dry.
But wherefore thisT What care, though
owl did fly
About the great Athenian admiral's mast.1
What care, though striding Alexander past
25 The Indus with his Macedonian numbers f
Though old Ulysses tortured from his slum-
bers
The glutted Cyclops, what caret— Juliet
leaning
Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, —
weaning
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,
30 Doth more avail than these : the silver flow
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on with more ardency
Than the death-day of empires Fearfully
85 Must such conviction come upon tins head,
Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to
tread,
Without one muse's smile, or kind behest,
The path of love and poesv 2 But rest,*
In chafing restlessness, is vet more drear
40 Than to be crush 'd, in stnvincr to uprear
Love's standard on the battlements of song
So once more days and nights aid me along,
Lake legion 'd soldiers
Brain-sick shepherd-prince.
What promise hast thou faithful pnaided
since
45 The day of sacrifice f Or, have ne\\ son ows
Come with the constant dawn upon thy
morrows f
Alas ! 'tis his old grief For many days,
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed
oaks;
w Counting his woe-worn minutes, bv the
strokes
Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still,
Hour after hour, to each lush-lea? 'd rill.
Now he is sittting by a shady spring,
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering
** Stems the upbursting cold : a wild rose tree
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see
„ A bud which snares his fancy : lo I but now
i An Themlstoeles wan presenting to his follow
era bin plan of a naval attack against the
Persians at the Battle of BalamlBjIso B c) ,
an owl alighted In tbe rigging of hid ahlp.
An the owl was nacrert to Athena, the jpatron-
eu of Athena, the Incident was regarded an a
good omen, and the plan was approved. Bee
hntorch'a Life of Memtatocto. 12.
• A reference to the poor mircem of Keata'fi first
volume of poetry, published In 1817
• Inactivity
JOHN KEATS v 781
•
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: It was a nymph uprisen to the hreabt
how! In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his stood
riffbt ; 100 fMong lilies, like the youngest of the brood
60 And, in the middle, there is softly pight1 To him her dripping hand she softly kist,
A golden butterfly; upon whose wings And anxiously began to plait and twist
There must be surely ebaracter'd strange Her ringlets round her fingers, saying
things, "Youth!
For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles Too long, alas, hast thon starv'd on the
oft ruth,
., , ,,, , , , « , „, 106 The bitterness of love- too long indeed,
1S h U fleW al°f ' ****« thou «* 80 ^ntle rould I weed
« v i -A
«<• Followed by glad Endymion's clasped Thy siul of care, byheavens, I would offer
n $*% a- T? i > n All the bnght nches of my crystal coffer
Onward it flies From languor's sullen To Amphitnte; all my clear-eyed fish,
TT , u , ,* * ,_ i. no G°Wen, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,
His limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hies Vermilion-tail 'd, or finn'd with silvery
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. gauze •
70 ? ^?? 'd he flev' the Wa^ 7 jT7 wa8 5 Yea, or my vrined pebble-floor, that draws
™1^£^^^ A. AviiKmlfehttothedeep,mygrott<«mds
itirough the green evening quiet in the Tawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far
sun, lands
O'ermany a heath, through many a wood- 115 By my dihgent springs; my level lilies,
land dun, shells!
Through buried paths, where sleepv twi- My cnarminp ^^ my p^nt river spells:
light dreams Yes, eveiytbmg, even to the pearly cup
The summer time away One track un- Meander gave me,- for I bubbled up
7K A ^mf A j + *t vi To frintonff creatures in a desert wild.
™ A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 120 But woe is me, I am but as a child
Of ocean fades upon him , then, anew, To jfttMm thee; and all j dare to ^^
He sinks adown n solitary glen, Is that T pity thee, that on this day
Where* there was never sound of mortal i>ve v^ thy ^^ ^^ thou mnBt wail_
« . mpn\ ,. , , derfar
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences In other regions, past the scanty bar
«° Melting to silence, when upon the breeze 125 TO mortal steps, before thou canst be ta 'en
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, jr^m every wasting sigh, from every pain.
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet Into the gentle bosom of thy love
Went swift beneath the merrv-winped Why it is thus, pire knows in heaven above
gnido. But, a poor Naiad, I guess not Farewell1
Until it reach 'd a splashing fountain's side iso j |,ave a ditty foi my hollow cell."
85 That, near a cavern's mouth, * forever
pour'd Hereat, she vanish 'd from Endymion's
Unto the temperate air : then high it soar fd, gaze,
And, downward, suddenlv besan to dip, Who brooded o'er the water in amaze :
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip The dashing fount pour'd on, and where
The crystal spout-head: so ft did, with its pool
touch Lay* half -asleep, in grass and rushes cool,
110 Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch l85 Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting
Even with mealy gold the waters clear. , -!UIf „. ,. •* * .„
But, at that very touch, to disappear And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill
So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Had ^ fallen out fcat hour. The wwidwer,
Endymion sought around, and shook each Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr
ted Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down :
** Of covert flowers in vain ; and then he *40 And, while beneath the evening's sleepy
flung frown
Himself along the grass. What gentle Glowworms began to trim their starry
tongue* lamps,
What whisperer, disturb'd his gloomy Thus breath 'd he to himself : "Whoso en-
i pltebed To take a &ncied city of delight,
782 NINETEEN TH CENTUHY BOMANTICJSTtf
•
0 what a wretch ib he I aiid when 'lib bib, Am sailing with thee through the dizzy
146 After long toil and tiavelling, to miss sky !
The kernel of hi& hopes, how nioic than How beautiful thou ait! The woild how
vile: deep I
Yet, for him theie'b refreshment e\en in How trenmloub-dazzlingly the wheels
toil; sweep
Another city doth he set about, 1% AM mud then axle! Then these gleaming
Fiee from the binallebt pebble-bead of Terns,
doubt How lithe' When this thy chaiiot ntt.uns
150 That he will seize on tiickhng honeycombs its any goal, haply Rome bower veils
Alas, lie finds them dry, and then he foams, Those twilight eyes? Those o>csf— my
And onwaid to another city speeds spirit fails—
But tins is human hie the war, the deeds, Dcai goddess, help f 01 the wide-gaping un
The disappointment, the anxiety, 195 Will gull me— help !M— At this with mad-
1&fi Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, denM stare,
All human; bearing in themsehes this And lifted hands, and tiimibling lips, he
good, stood ;
That they are still the air, the subtle food, Like old Deucalion mountain 'd o'ci the
To make us feel existence, and to shou flood,
How quiet death is. Wheie soil is, men Or blind On on hungry foi the mom
grow, And, but fiom the deep cavern there was
160 Whether to weeds or floweis, but foi me, home
Theie isno depth to strike in 1 can see 200 A \oice, he had been fioze to senseless
Naught eaithly worth niy compassing, so stone,
stand Noi sigh of his nor plaint, nor passion M
Upon a misty, jutting head of land— moan
Alone f No, no; and by the Oiphean Jute, Had moie been heard Thus s\\el!M it
165 When mad Euiydice is listening to 't , foith "Descend,
I'd rather stand upon this misty peak, Young mounlaineei r descend wheie alleys
With not a thin? to sigh for, or to seek, bend
But the soft shadow of nn tin ice-seen1 Into the sparry1 hollows of the woi Id f
love, 205 Oft hasl ihou seen bolts of the thunder
Than be— 1 care not \\hal () meekest dn\e huil'd
170 Of heaven1 O Cynthia, ten-times buirht As irom thy thieshold, da\ bv dny hast
and fail f " been
Fiom thy blue tin one, now filling all the A little lower than the chilly sheen
air, Of icv pinnacles, and dippVM thine ninis
Glance but one little beam of lernpei M Into the deadening ethei that still chaiins
light 2l° Then rn.iible being now, as deep pio-
Into my bosom, that the dreadful might found
And tyranny of lo^e be somewhat scai Mf As those are hmh, descend1 He ne'er is
176 Yet do not so, sweet queen; one loiment crounYI
spai 'd, With immortality, who feais to follow
Would give a pang: to jealous misery, Wheie airy voices lead so thiou«h Ihe
Worse than the torment's self' but rathei hollow.
tie The silent niv^tenes of eai th, descend f "
Large wings upon my shoulders, and point
out 215 He ben id but the last words, nor could
My love's far dwelling Though the pl.iv- contend
fill rout One moment in T ejection foi lie fled
180 of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, Into the fen? fill Heep, to hide ln« hend
Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow From the clear moon, the tiees and coming
Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle madness
stream
0 be propitious, nor seveielv deem 'Ttvas f.n too shange, and \\onderful
My madness impious, foi. bv all the Mais foi sadness,
186 That tend thy bidding, T do think the bars 22° Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite
That kept my spirit in are burst-that T , Rlimindlng mlth , r t m,n.mf,tnlllc niln
1 See Bonk 1. 11. 600 ff , *)« ff . nnd 071 crnfe
JOHN KEATS 733
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, 26B And when, more near against the marble
The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, cold
But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy, lie had touch 'd Ins forehead, he began to
A diibky cmpiie and its diadems, thread
2Jfi One faint eternal eventide of gems. All courts and passages, where silence dead
Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, Kous'd by his whispering- footstep lum-
Along whose track the prince quick foot- mur'd faint:
steps told, And long he travers'd to and fro, to ac-
With all its lines abrupt and angular quaint
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star, 27° Himself with every mystery, and awe,
230 Tin ough a vast an tie,1 then the metal Till, weary, he sat down before the maw
woof, Of a wide outlet, fathomless arid dun,
Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some mon- To wild uncertainty and shadows grim
stiwis i oof Theie, when new wonders ceas'd to float
Cunes hugely now, far m the deep abyss, before,
It seems an angiy lightning, and doth 1ms 27B And thoughts of self came on, how crude
Fancy into belief anon it leads and sore
285 Through in Hiding passages, where same- The journey homeward to habitual self f
nesb bieeds A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,
Vexing conceptions of some sudden Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-
change; briar,
Whether to sihei giots, 01 giant lanjse Cheats us into a swamp, into a fiie,
Of sapphire columns, 01 fantastic biidgc 2SO Into the bosom of a hated thing
Athwait a flood of crystal On a ndgc
240 Now faieth he, that o'er the Aast beneath What nnsen most diowningly doth sing
Toweis like nil ocean-cliff, and whence he Tn lone Endyinmn's ear, now he has
seetb i aught1
A hiindied watei falls, whose voices come The jjoal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the
But as the nmrinuiing sutge Chilly and thought.
numb The deadlv feel of solitude for lo'
His bosom j>ie\\, \shrn fiist he, fai away 2R6 He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow
245 Dc'sciied an oibed diamond, set to fia>- Of livers, nor hill-floweis running wild
Old daikness fium his thione 'twas like In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd.
the sun The cloudy rack slow 30111 neying in the
Upiihcn o'ei chaos and iuth such a stun west,
('nine the amazement, that, absorb M in it. Like herded elephants, nor felt, nor pre*»t
He s»\\ not fieicei \\oii dels— past the wit 29° Tool grass, noi tasted the fresh slumberous
230 Of any spirit to tell, but one of those air;
Who, "when this planet's sphering time But far from such companionship to weoi
doth close. An unknown tune, surcharg'd with erief,
Will be its high leinembranccrs • who thej f away.
The nnglit> one* who ha^e made eternal Was now his lot And must ho patient stnv,
day* Tracing fantastic figures with his speai 1
Foi Gieece and England While astonish- 2QR "Nof " exclaim M he, "\vlry should I tanv
ment here*"
255 With dcep-dinwn «i«hs was quieting, he No! londh echoed times innumerable
went At which he stiaightway started, and 'c»m
Into n marble ffaller>, passing through tell
A mimic temple, so complete and tine His paces back info the temple's chief:
Tn saeied custom, that he well-nigh feai M Wanning and glowing strong in the belief
To search it inwards, whence fai off ap- 80° Of help from Dian so that when again
pear'd. He canerht her airy form, thus did he
260 Through a long pillarM vista, a fair sin hie, plain.2
And iust beyond, on light tiptoe divine. Moving more neai the while- "0 Haunter
A qimei M Dian Stepping awfully, chaste
The youth approach M, oft turning his Of river sides, and woods, and heathy
1 ^eil'd eye waste.
Do* 11 sidelong aisles, and into niches old Where with thy silver bow and arrows ke«n
'cnvem *fr1ghtpn ' reached 'lament
784 NINETEENTH GENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
806 Art them now forested f 0 woodland Upbeaping through the slab : refreshment
Queen, drowns
What smoothest air thy smoother forehead Itself, and strives its own delights to hide—
woosf 846 Nor in one spot alone ; the floral pride
Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos In a long whispering birth enchanted grew
Of thy disparted nymphs f Through what Before his footsteps; as when heav'd anew
dark tree Old ocean rolls a lengthen M wave to the
Glimmers thy crescent f Wheresoever it be, shore,
810 'TIS in the breath of heaven: thou dost Down whose green back the shoit-hvM
taste foam, all hoar,
Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost **° Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence
waste
Thy loveliness in dismal elements; Increasing still in heart, and pleasant
But, finding in our green earth sweet eon- sense,
tents, Upon hit, fairy journey on he hastes,
There hvest blissfully Ah, if to thee So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes
816 It feels Elysian, how rich to me, One moment wilh his hand among the
An exil'd nioital, sounds its pleasant sweets:
name! IB6 Onward he goes— he stops— his bosom
Within my breast there lives a choking beats
flame— As plainly in his ear, te the faint charm
0 let me cool 't the zephyr-boughs among I Of which the throbs were born This ptill
A homeward fever parches up my tongue— alarm,
820 0 let me slake it at the running springs! This sleepy music, forc'd him walk tiptoe
Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings— For it came more softlv than the east could
O let me once more hear the linnet's note! blow
Before mine eyes thick films and shadows 86° Arion's matfc to the Atlantic isles,
float— Or than the west, made jealous by the
O let me 'noint them with the heaven's smiles
light I Of thron >d Apollo, could breathe back the
825 Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles lyre
white f To seas Ionian and Tyrian.
O think how <-weet to me the freshening
sluice t O did he ever live, that lonely man,
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry- I6B Who lov'd-and music slew not! 'Tis the
juice t P68*
0 think how this dry palate would rejoice ! Of love, that fairest joys give most unreM
If in soft slumber thou dost hear mv voice, That things of delicate and tenderest worth
88° 0 think how I should love a bed of Are swallow M all, and made a seaml
flowers'— dearth,
Young goddess! let me see my native By one consuming flame: it doth immerse
bowers! S7° And suffocate true blessings in a curse
Deliver me from this rapacious deep ! ' ' Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,
Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this
Thus aiding loudly, as he would o'erleap Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian^
His destiny, alert he stood : but when ear J1
386 Obstinate silence came heavily again, F"*t heaven, then hell, and then forgotten
Feeling about for its old couch of space <*l*ar>
And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face 375 Vanished in elemental passion
Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold _ , , _ ,
thrill An" down some swart abysm he had
But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the „ a R°n®» , a t .
rill Had not a heavenly guide benignant led
wo To its old channel, or a swollen tide To **« ««* myrtle branches, 'gainst his
To margin sallows,1 were the leaves he head
spied Brushing, awakened : then the sounds again
And flowers,' and wreaths, and ready myr- M0 Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain
tie crowns lThat 4 |n thfl Cftr of ^g^^^ who waf
> wniowi mid to rwrfde In Carla, Aria Minor.
JOHN KEATS 735
Over a bower, where little bpace he stood. In through the woven roof, and fluttering-
For as the sunset peeps into a wood wise
So saw he panting light, and towards it Hain'd violets upon his sleeping eves
Through winding allqw; and lo, wonder- At fteBe enchantment*, and vet mam
raent ! more
'
3« Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one tiiere, The breathless Latnnan' moiidor'd
Cupids a-slurabenng on their pinions fair.1 SD^ o tm
480 Until, impatient in embnnaw»ment,
After a thousand mazes overgone, He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading
At last, with sudden step, he came upon wenj;
•on A chamber,myitlewall'd,embower'd high, Tu thatsame feathei M l>mt, whostiaight-
890 i\,ii Of hght, incense, tender minstrelsy, wa_
And more of beautiful and strange beside : Smiling, thus winder 'd : " Though from
For on a silken couch of rot>y pride, upper day
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Tjlou art tt wamleiei, and thv piesenre
Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, here
*W Than sighs could fathom, or contentment 4sr, Mlfflljt g^n Iini10]y, be of happy cheer'
reach : For 'tis the nicest touch of human honor.
And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, When some ethereal and high-favoring
Or ripe October's faded mangolds, donor
Fell sleek about him in a thousand fold*- Prints immortal bowers to mortal sen&e ;
Not hiding up an Apollonian curve AS now Jtis done to thee, Endvnnon. Hence
«°o Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting no Was I in no wise stai tied So recline
swerve2 Upon these living flowers Here is wine,
Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing Alive with sparkles-ne\cr, I aver,
%bt ; Since Anadne was a vintager,
But rather, giving them to the HUM sight So cool a purple taste these juicy pears,
Officiously. Sideway his face repos'd 441 Sent me by sad Vorhimniis, when his fears
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosM, Were high about Pomona- here is cieam,
*05 By tenderest pressure, a faint damask Deepening to richness fiora a snowy
mouth gleam ;
To slumbery pout; just as the morning Sweeter than that muse Amaltheafckimm'd
wroth For the boy Jupiter- and here, undimm'd
Disparts a dew-lipp d rose. Above his 4«>o py any touch, a bunch of blooming plums
head, Ready to melt between an infant's gums-
Four lily stalks did their white honors wed And here is manna piokM fiom Sviiau
To make a coronal ; and round him giew trees,
«« All tendi ils gieon, of e\ ery bloom and hue, in starlight, by the three Hespendes
Together intei twin 'd and trammel 'd fresh- Feast on, and meanwhile 1 will let thee
The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh, know
Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine, 455 Of all these things around us " He did so.
Of velvet-leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; still brooding o'er the cadence of his Ivre ,
«* Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ; And thus : " I need not any hearing tire
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn By telling how the sea-boni goddess pin M
blush; ^ For a moital youth,-1 and how she strove
And virgin fs bower, trailing airily : to bind
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by. 4fiO Him all in all unto her doting self.
Stood serene Cupids watching silently. who would not i,c ^ prison 'dT but, fond
420 One, kneeling to a lyre, touch M the strings, • cjf •
Muffling to death the pathos with his He was content to let her amoious plea
wings; Taint through his careless arms, content
And, ever and anon, uprose to look to see
At the youth 's slumber j while another took
A willow-bough, distilling odorous dew, lEndvmlon, who resided on Mt Latnras, In
4* And shook it on his hair; another flew . ACSB«M» to the atonr of venu and Adonis
iflee Bpenser'i dwcrlptfon of the mrden of See Endymion 1 62tf (p. 775) Adonis was
Adonis, In The Faerie Queeive. Ill, 6 44-47 Ulled by a wild boar. As a result of Venua'b
9 Keata deflnea thi«i an a Rwerve in the form of grief the gods required Adonis to spend only
the top of a tout n part of each year in Hnd<* Sw 11 475-76.
786 NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTI018T8
i
An unseizM heaven dying at his feet; The while one hand, that erst upon liis
466 Content, 0 fool! to make a cold retreat, thigh
When on the pleasant grass such love, love- Lay dormant, mov'd eonvuls'd and gind-
lorn, ually
Lay sorrowing; when eveiy teai was born 50° Up to his foiehead. Then there was a hum
Of diverse passion ; when her lips and eyes Of sudden voices, echoing, "Come ' couu»!
Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick Arise! awake! Clear summer has foith
sighs walk'd *
470 Came vex'd and pettish through her nos- Unto the clover-swaid, and she lias talk'd
trils small. Full soothingly to every nested finch :
Hush! no exclaim— yet, justly mightst M* Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell
tliou call pinch
Curses upon his head — T was half glad, To your dimpled arms.1 Once more sweet
But my poor mistress went distract and life begin1"
mad, At this, from every side they hurried in,
When the boar tusk'd him: so away she Kubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,
flew And doubling over head their little fists
475 To Jove's high throne, and by her plain- C1° In backward yawns. But all were soon
ings1 diew alive:
Immortal tear-chops down the thunder- For as delicious wine doth, spaikling, duo
er's2 beard ; In nectar M clouds and curls through >\ ntoi
Whereon, it was decreed he should be fair,
rear'd So from the arbor roof down swell 'd an
Each summer time to life Lo! this is he, air
That samp Adonis, safe in the privacy Odorous and enlivening; making all
480 Of this still region all his winter-sleep. G15 To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly
Aye, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen call
did weep For their sweet queen when lof the
Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower wreathed green
Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy Disparted, and fai upwaid could be seen
power, Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,
Medicin 'd death to a lengthen M drowsi- Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds
ness : of mom,
48B The which she fills with Msions, and doth 62° Spun off a dn/zlmg dew,— which falling
dress chill
Tn all this quiet luxury, and hath set On soft Adonis ' shoulders, made him still
Us young immortals, without any let,8 Nestle and turn uneasily about
To watch his slumber through 'Tis well Soon were the white doves plain, with no<-k
nigh pass'd, st retch 'd out,
FA en to a moment's filling up, and fast And silken traces lighten 'd in descent ,
490 She sends with summer breezes, to pant B23 And soon, letuming from lo\e's bamsli-
through ment,
The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew Queen Venus leaning downward open-
Embower 'd sports in CythereaV* isle.4 arin'd:
Look! how those winged listeners all this Her shadow fell upon his breast, and
while charm 'd
Stand anxious • see f behold ' " — This A tumult to his heart, and a new life
clamant" word Into his eyes Ah, miserable strife,
496 Broke through the careful silence; for M0 But for her comforting' unhappy sight,
they heard • But mectincr her bine oibs ! Who, who can
A lustling noise of leaves, and out there write
fluttered Of these first minutest The unchanest
Pigeons and doves:6 Adonis something muse
mutter 'd To embracements warm as theirs makes coy
exense
1 lamratlngM ; Borrow- •PlueonH nnddovo*
tTJSK JLnniT "ISr oar 1Th"f '"' Wo'n Plnoh t1lom Wu<* T" KontH1*
• Mndrnnce wE" d r awn °hy **»* "™ft »' ^<"/""«». tho** Hm* roml
4 CypruB doyen Boe 11 52R- Onplrli nwffki* ' 01 htack mid hint wo*11 pinch
BrfnmnrmiH, loud 4. Your dimpled arms.
JOHN KEATS 737
0 it hab milled eveiy bpmt there, 'Tis a concealment needful in extreme
G36 Saving Love's self, who stands superb to And if I gue&s'd not BO, the sunny beam
share Thou bhouldst mount up to with me. Now
The general gladness • awfully he Mends, adieu T
A sovemgn quell1 is m hib waving hands, Heie must we leave tliee "—At these words
No sight can beat the lightning of Ins how , upflew
Tlisquivei is mystei ions, none can know 58° The impatient do\es, uprobe the floating
610 What themsehes think of it, from foilh ear,
his ejes l~p went the hum celestial High afar
Tlicic daits stiange light of vaiicd hues The Latmian saw them mimsh into naught ,
and dyes And, when all were clear vanish M, still ho
A scowl ib sometimes on his mow, but who caught
Look full upon il feel unon the blue A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow
Of his fan eves run liquid through their B8B When all was dm ken 'd, with JEtnean thine
souls The eat th elosM— sw e a solitary moan—
MB Kndyniion feels it, and no moio controls And left him once again in twilight lone
The bin Minn piayer within him, so, bent
low, He did not rave, he did not staie aghast.
He had begun a plaining of his woe For all those visions were o'ergone, and
Rut Venus, bending foiwaid, said "My past,
child, " r|l)° And he in loneliness- he felt assur'd
Fa\oi this pentle youth , his dn^s me uild Of happy tunes, when all he had endm 'd
"~° With l*ne— lie— but alas' too well 1 see Would seem a leather to the mighty pu/,c
Thou knoA\ *st the deepness of his nnsen So, with unusual erladness, on he hies
Ah, smile not so, mv son • I tell tliee true. Through caves, and palaces of mottled oic.
That when thiom>h hea^y hours I used to Bn5 Gold dome, and Crystal wall, and turquoio
rue floor.
The eud'ess sleep of tins new-born Adon ', Black polish 'd porticos of awful shade,
555 T]IIH s|rallj,ei aye 1 pitied Tor upon And, at the Inst, a diamond balustrade,
A diean rooming once 1 fled away Leading afar past wild magnificence.
Into the biee/v clouds, to \\eep and pray Spiral tlnouah lUttneoW loopholes, ami
For this mv Iwe1 for vexinar Mars had thence
tens'd fio° Stietchmir acio«*s a \onl. then guidm? o'ei
Me e^en to team thence, 'uhen a little Enormous chasms, \\lieie, nil fonm and
eas'd, roar,
5GO Doiin-Iooking, vacant, thiough a \\aty Streams subterranean tease their granite
wood, beds ;
1 saw this vouth as he dospaiimir stood Then heighten 'd just above the siherv
Those same daik curls blown vagrant in heads
the wind , Of a thousand fountains, so that he could
Those same full fiinged lids a constant dash
blind 605 The waters with his spear, but at the
Ovei Ins sullen eyes I saw him throw splash,
565 Iluu-elf on \\ithei 'd leases, even as though Done heedlessly, those spouting columns
Death had come sudden; for no jot he rose
mov'd, Sudden a poplar's heisrht, and 'gan to
Yet unit t or M wildly I could hear he lov M enclose
Rome fnir immortal, and that his embrace His diamond path with fretwork, Btieam-
Hud /oned2 hei tlnou&rh the night Tlieie ing round
»s no trace A Inc. and dn7/linsr cool, and with a sound.
570 Of this m heaven 1 have mnikM each C1° Haplv, like dolphin tumults, when sweet
cheek. shells
And find it is the vainest thing to wk. Welcome the float of Thetis Long he
And that of all things 'tis kept secretest dwells
Endvmion » one dav tnou wilt be blest • On this delight ; for, every minute's space,
So still obov the pruidincf hand that fends The streams with chansreil magic interlace.
&7B Thee safelv through these wonders for Sometimes like delicatest lattices,
sA\eet ends 61B Cover 'd with crystal vines; then weeping
i power of rahttaliiR f onrlrolert trees,
768 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Moving about as 111 a pen tie wind, Thy forehead, and to Jupitei cloud-borne
'Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin'd, 6W Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn,
Pour'd into shapes of curtain 'd canopies Abrupt, m middle air, his ^ay uas lost,
Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there
620 of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads orost
fair. Towards him a laige eagle,1 'twixt whoso
Swifter than lightning went these wonders wings,
rare; Without one impious word, himself he
And then the water, into stubborn flings,
streams 6€0 Committed to the darkness and the gloom
Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant
beams, doom,
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof, Swift as a fathoming plummet down he
626 Of those dusk places in times far aloof fell
Cathedrals call 'd. He bade a loth farewell Through unknown things; till exhaled
To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and asphodel,2
dell, And rose, with spicy fannings inter-
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting breath 'd,
shapes. M6 Came spelling forth where little
Half seen through deepest gloom, and were wreath 'd
gnesly gapes, So thick with leaves and mosses, that
630 Blackening on every side, and overhead seem 'd
A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far be- Large honey-combs of green, and fre*>hl\
spread teemM8
With starlight gems aye, all so huge and With aim delicious Tn the greenest nook
strange, The eagle landed him, and farewell took
The solitary felt a burned change
Working 'within him into something- «o It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown
drearyt— With golden moss. His every sense had
635 Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and grown
weary, Ethereal for pleasure , 'bov<» his head
And purblind amid foggy, midnight Flew a delight half-graspable, his tread
wolds 1 Was Hesperean , to his capable cars
But he revives at once: for who beholds 675 Silence was mupic from the holy spheies,1
New sudden things, nor casts his mental A dewy luxury was in his eyes,
slough? The little flowers felt his pleasant sierhs
Forth from a nigged arch, in the dusk And stirr'd them faintly Verdant e*nr
below, and cell
640 Came mother Cybele f alone— alone— He wander 'd through, oft wondering at
In sombre chariot, daik foldings thrown such swell
About her majesty, and front death-pale, 68° Of sudden exaltation: but, "Alas,"
With turrets crown 'd. Four maned lions Said he, ''will all this gush of feeling pass
hale Away in solitude f And must they wane.
The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed Lake melodies upon a sandy plain,
maws, Without an echo f Then shall I be left
645 Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 68B So sad, so melancholy, so bereft f
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails Yet still I feel immortal ! O my love,
Cowering their tawny brushes Silent sails My breath of life, where art thouf High
This shadowy queen athwart, and faintR above,
away ' Dancing before the morning gates of
Tn another gloomy arch heaven t
Or keeping watch among those slairv
Wherefore delay, seven,
660 Young traveller, in such a mournful place 1 69° Old Atlas9 children f Art a maid of the
Art thou wayworn, or canst not further waters,
trace
The diamond path f And does it indeed end * The eagle wan Jove's special messenger
Abrupt in middle air f Yet earthward bend IflJ"^ belleved fett*™.*.! „,
1 forests the celestial spheres produced music
JOHN* KEATS 780
One of shell-winding Triton 'b bright- 786 Fondling and kissing every doubt away,
hair fd daughters f Long tune ere soft caressing sobs began
Or art, impossible! a nymph of Bum's, To mellow into words, and then there ran
Weaving a coronal of tender scions Two bubbling spiingh ot talk from their
For very idleness f Where'er thou art, sweet lips
B'ir' Mi'thmkh it now is at my will to start "0 known Unknown' from whom my
Into ihme arms; to scare Aurora's train, being sips
And snatch thee from the morning; o'er 74° Such darling essence, wherefore may I not
the main Be ever in these amis f in this sweet spot
To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off Pillow my chin forever! e\ei press
Fiom thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff These toying hands and kiss their smooth
TOO Thv shepherd vest, and woo thee 'mid f re«»h excess t
leaves Why not foiever and forever feel
No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives 74>i That breath about my eyest Ah, thou wilt
Its powerless self : I know this cannot be steal
O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee Away from me again, indeed, indeed—
To her enhancements • hither sleep awhile ! Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed
705 Hither moht gentle sleep ' and soothing foil My lonely madness Speak, delicious fair1
For some few hours the coming solitude " Ts— is it to be so f No * Who will dare
7">0 To pluck thee from met And, of thine
Thus spake he, and that moment felt own will,
endued Full well I feel thou ^ ouldst not leave me
With power to drenm deliriously , HO TI ound Still
Through a dim passage, searching till he Let me entwine thee surer, surer— now
found How can we partf Elysium who ail
710 The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, thoul
\ihere Who, that thou canst not be forever here,
He threw himself, and just into the air 755 Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere?
SI i etching li» indolent aims, he took, 0 Enchantress' tell mo by this soft embrace,
bliss 1 By the most soft completion1 of thy face,
A naked waist "Fair Cupid, whence is Those lips, 0 slippery blisses, twinkling
this?" eyes,
A well-known \n\oe ngh'd, "Sweetest, And by these tenderest, milky sovereign-
heic am I'" ties—
71 R At A\hich soit ravishment, with doting on 76° These tenderest, and by the nectar-wme,
They trembled to each other —Helicon f The passion " "0 dov'd Ida the di-
O fountain 'd lull ' Old Homer's Helicon f vine'
That thou wouUht spont a little streamlet Endymion' dearest1 Ah, unhappy me1
o'er His soul will 'scape us— O felicity1
These sorry paces, then the \erse would How he does love me1 His poor temple*
soar beat
720 And sine: above this gentle pair, like lark 7Wi To the very tune of lore— how sweet, sweet,
Over his nested young: but all is dark sweet.
Ai ound thine ag*d top, and thy clear fount Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die ,
Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count Revive, or these soft houi-s will hurry by
OC mighty Poets is made up; the scroll In tranced dulness; speak, and let that
™ Ts folded bv the Muses ; the bright roll spell
fs in Apollo 'R hand • our dazed eyes Affright this letharRV ' T cannot quell
Have seen a new tinge in the western skies 770 its heavy pressuie, and will press at least
The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet. My lips to thine, that they may nchly feast
Although the sun of Poesy is set, Until we taste the life of love aspim
•W These lovers did embrace, and we must What » dost thou movel dost kiss! 0 bliss'
weep 0 pain '
That there is no old power left to steep T love thee, youth, more than I can con-
A quill immortal in their joyous tears. ceive;
Long time ere silence did their anxious775 And so long absence from thee doth bereave
fears My soul of any rest: yet must I hence
Question that thus it was; long time they Yet, can I not to starry eminence
lav ' perfection
790 NIXIJTEKXTII ('ENTrKV ROMANTICISTS
Vphit thee, nor for \ery bhauie cau Thee thus, and weep for fondness— I am
duii pain'd,
M>s»elf to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan PJndymion: woe! woe! ih giief con tain 'd
780 (>r thou wilt force me from this secrecy, In the ver deeps of pleasuie, my sole
And 1 must bhibh m hea\ en 0 that 1 hf e ! "—
Had done 't already; that the dreadful sr> Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle stnfe
smiles Melted into a languor He return fd
At my lost biishtness, mv impassion M Entranced vows and tears.
wiles.
Had waned fioin 01>nipus' solemn height, Ye who have yearn M
785 And from all serious Gods; that om de- With too much passion, will here, stay and
light pity,
Was quite forgotten, *ave of us alone! For the meie sake of truth ; as 'tis n ditt\
And wherefoie so ashamed? 'Tis but to 8SO Not of these dnvs, hut long ago ft*.u» told
atone By a eavein wind unto a forest old ,'
For endless pleasure, hv some cownrd Aid then the foicst told it in a dream
blushes To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level
Yet must I be a co\\ aid '—Honor rushes gleam
790 Too palpable before me— the sad look A poet caught as he was journeying
Of Jo\e— Minerva's start— no bosom 8*3 To Photons' shiine and in it he did flmn
shook His weary limbs, bathing an hour 'b space
With awe of pmitv— no Cupid pinion And aftei, straight in that inspired place
In re\erence veil 'd— my crystalline do- He sang the story up into the nn ,
minion (ii\ing it uimcisal freedom There
Half lost, and all old hvmns made nullity ' S4° Has it been e^er sounding for those eais
705 But what is this to lovet 0 I could flv Whose tips aie glowing hot The legend
With thee into the ken of hea\ enly powei s, olieei s
So thou wonldst thus, for many sequent Yon sen tin el stars; and lie who listens to it
hours, Must surely be self-ilooniM or he will rue
Press me so sweetlv Now I swear at once it
That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce— For quenchless burnings come upon the
800 PPI ha ps her lote like mine is but un- henit,
known— *<B Made fieicci by a fern lest any part
O T do think that T have been alone Should be engulfed in the eddying wind
In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing. As much as hete is penn M doth alwajs find
While every eve saw me my hair uptving A resting-place, thus much comes clear
With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet and plain,
love, Anon the strange voice IB upon the wane -
R05 j was as \ague as solitary dove, RCO And 'tis but echo M from departing sound,
Nor knew that nests were built Now a That the fair visitant at last unwound
soft kiss— Her gentle limbs, and left the vouth
Ave, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss, asleep —
An immortality of passion 's thine: Thus the tradition nf the gustv deep
Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine
810 Of heaven ambrosial , and we will shade Now turn we to our former chroniclers —
Ourselves whole summers by a river glade; 85B Endymion awoke, that giief of heis
And I will tell thee stories of the sky, Sweet paining on his ear : he sickly guess M
And breathe thee whispers of its mm- How lone he was once more, and sadly
strelsv press M
My happy lo\e will overwing all bounds' His empty arms together, hung his head,
815 O let me melt into thee; let the sounds And most forlorn upon that widow M bed
Of our close voices marry at their birth ; 86° Sat silently Love's madness he had known :
Let us entwine hovenngly— O dearth Often^ith more than tortured lion 's groan
Of human words' roughness of mortal Meanings had burst from him; but now
speech ' that rage
Lisping* empyrean will I sometime teach Had pass'd a\iay: no longer did he wage
M0 Thine honied tongue — lute-breathings, i r/ th* moan* hv which MMnn'n turret con
which I ffasp corning thp owVi ton on bin head hocame
JOHN KEATS 791
A rough- voic'd war against the dooming Until into the earth's deep maw he riibh'd .
stais. !'°° Then all its buried magic, till it flush 'd
866 No, be had felt too much for such harsh High with exceswve love. "And nnwt"
jars: thought he,
The lyre of his soul JEohan tun'd "How long must 1 remain in jeopardy
Forgot all violence, and but commnn 'd Of blank amazements that amaze no more!
With melancholy thought* O he had Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the
swoon 'd core
Diunken from pleasme's nipple; and his 90B All other depths are shallow essences,
love ' Once spiritual, are like muddy lees,
870 Henceforth was do\e-hke — Loth was he to Meant but to fertilize my earthly root,
move And make my branches lift" a golden fmit
From the imprinted couch, and when he Into the bloom of heaven • other light,
did, ?1° Though it be quick and sharp enough to
'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face blight
hid The Olympian eagle 'h vision, is dark,
In muffling hands So tempei 'd, out he Dark as the parentage of chaos Hark*
stray 'd My silent thoughts are echoing from these
Half seeing \isions that might lune dis- shells;
may 'd Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells
875 Alecto's serpents, ravishments more keen 915 Of noises far awayf — list1 "—Hereupon
Than Hermes' pipe,1 when anxious he did He kept an anxious ear The humming tone
lean Came louder, and behold, there as he lay,
Oxer eclipsing eyes and at the last On either side outgush'd, with misty sprav
It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, \ ast, A copious spring , and both together dash 'd
O'ei studded with a thousand, thousand 92° Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and
pearls, lash 'd
880 And crimson mouthed shells with stubborn Among the conchs and shells of the lofty
curls, grot,
Of every shape and size, even to the bulk Leaving a trickling dew At last they shot
In which whales arbor close, to biood and Down from the ceiling's height, pouring
sulk a noise
Against an endless storm Moreovei too, As of some breathless racers whose hopes
Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, poise
885 Ready to snoit their streams. In this cool q25 Upon the last few steps, and with spent
wonder force
Endymion sat down, and fgan to ponder Along the ground thev took a winding
On all his life • his youth, up to the day course
When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and gar- Endymion follow 'd— f or it seem 'd that one
lands gay, Ever pursued, the other strove to shun—
He stept upon his shepherd throne the Follow 'd their languid mazes, till well
look nigh
890 Of his white palace in wild f orest nook, M0 He had left thinking of the mystery,—
And all the revels he had lorded there • And was now rapt in tender hovenngs
Each tender maiden whom he once thought Over the vanish 'd bliss. Ah f what is it
fair, sings
With every fnend and fellow-woodlander— His dream a way! What melodies are
Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the these t
spur They sound as through the whispering of
895 Of the old bards to mighty deeds : his plans trees.
To nurse the golden age 'moncr shepherd M6 Not native in such barren vaults Give ear'
clans*
That wondrous night* the great Pan-
festival f "0 Arethnsa, peerless nymph ! why fear
His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings all, Such tenderness as mmef Great Dian,
why,
playing upon his pipe, Hermes lulled Why didst thou hear her prayer t 0 that I
" W lin ™md her daint fairncss
Were ripplin* ™md her dainty fairncss
•hepherds. now,
792 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
940 Circling about her waist, and striving how Will shade ns with their wings. Those fit-
To entice her to a dive I then stealing in f ul sighs
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. Tis almost death to hear: 0 let me pour
0 that her shining hair was In the sun, A dewy balm upon them I— f ear no more,
And I distilling from it thence to run Sweet Arethusa ! Dian's self must feel
946 In amorous nllcts down her shrinking 98B Sometime these very pangs. Dear maiden,
form! steal
To linger on her lily shoulders, warm Blushing into my soul, and let us fly
Between her kissing breasts, and every These dreary caverns for the open sky
charm I will delight thee all my winding course,
Touch raptur'd!— See how painfully I From the green sea up to my hidden source
flow: "° About Arcadian forests; and will show
Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe The channels where my coolest waters flow
950 Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me Through mossy rocks; where, taid exuber-
lead, ant green,
A happy wooer, to the flowery mead T roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen
Where all that beauty snar'd me."— Than Saturn in his exile ; where I brim
"Cruel god, 9<MJ Round flowery islands, and take thence a
Desist! or my offended mistress' nod skim
Will stagnate all thy fountains — tease me Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees
not Buzz from their honied wings: land thou
965 With siren words— Ah, have I really got shouldst please
Such power to madden theel And is it Thyself to choobe the richest, where we
true— might
Away, away, or I shall dearly rue Be incense-pillow fd every summer night
My very thoughts in mercy then away, 100° Doff all sad fears, thon white dehciousness,
Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey And let us be thus comforted, unless
960 My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless
bane — ' stream
0, Oread-Queen !l would that thou hadst n Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate
pain beam,
Like this of mine, then would I fearless And pour to death along some hunirry
turn sands."—
And be a criminal Alas, I burn, 1005 "What can I do, Alpheusf Dian stands
1 shudder— gentle river, get thee hence Severe before me- persecuting fate1
MB Alpheus! thou enchanter' every sense Unhappy Arethusa f thou wast late
Of mine was once made perfect in these A huntress free in"— At this, sudden fell
woods Those two, sad streams adown a fearful
Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent dell.
floods, 101° The Lntmian listen 'd, but he heard no
Ripe fruits, and lonely conch, contentment more,
gave; Rave echo, faint repeating: o'er and o'er
But ever rince I heedlessly did lave The name of Arethusa On the verge
970 In thy deceitful Rtream, a panting glow Of that dark gulf he wept, and said "I
Grew* strong within me : wherefore serve urge
me RO, Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage,
And call it lovef Alan, 'twas cruelty I0t6 By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage,
Not once more did I close my happy eye If thou art powerful, these lovers1 pains;
Amid the thrush 'R song Away ! avaunt T And make them happy in some happy
976 Q 'twas a cniel thing."— "Now thou dost plains."
taunt
So softly, Arethusa, that I think He turn 9d— there was a whelming sound
Tf thou wast playing on my shady brink, —he stept,
Thou wouldst bathe onee again. Innocent There was a cooler light ; and so he kept
maid ! 102° Towards it by a sandy path, and lo !
Stifle thine heart no more ; nor be afraid More suddenly than doth a moment go,
980 of angry powers • there are deities The visions of the earth were gone and
'Wann The Oread* were nymphs of motm- -- ??"" • , . • • t_ j
tain* and hills He Raw the giant sea above his head
JOHN KEATS
793
BOOK III
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-
men
With most prevailing tinsel who unpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
6 From human pastures; or, 0 torturing
fact!
Who, through an idiot blink, will see un-
pack M
Fire-branded foxes1 to sear up and singe
Our gold and ripe-ear 'd hopes With not
one tinge
Of sanctuary splendor, not a sight
10 Able to face an owl's, they still are diglit2
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled
vests,
And crowns, and turbans With unladen
breasts,
Save of blown self-applause, they proudly
mount
To their spirit's perch, their being's high
account,
1B Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies,
their thrones—
Amid the fierce intoxicating tones
Of trumpets, shoutings and belabor M
drums,
And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this
hums,
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and
pone—
20 Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon,
And set those old Chaldeans to their
tasks*—
Are then regalities all gilded masks!
No, there are throned seats unscalable
But by a patient wing, a constant spell,
25 Or by ethereal things that, unconfin 'd,
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind,
And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents
To watch the abysm-birth of elements.
Ave, 'hove the withering of old-lipp'd
Fate
30 A thousand Powers keep religious state,
In water, flery realm, and airy bourne;
And silent, as a consecrated urn,
Hold sphery sessions for a season due
Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few,
»B Have bared their operations to this globe-
Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe
Our piece of heaven— whose benevolence
Shakes hand with our own Ceres, eveiy
sense
Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude,
SHMBUfl"
40 As bees gorge full their cells. And, by
the feud
'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear,
Eterne Apollo! that thy sister fan1
Is of all these the genther-inightiest
When thy gold breath is misting in the
west,
46 She unobserved steals unto her throne,
And there she bits most meek and most
alone,
As if she had not pomp subservient ,
As if thine eye, high Poet f was not bent
Towards her with the Muses in thine heart ,
w As if the minist 'ring stars kept not apai t,
Waiting for silver-footed messages.
O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest
trees
Feel palpitations -when thou lookest in
O Moon ' old boughs lisp forth a holier din
56 The while they feel thine airy fellowship
Thou dost bless everywhere, 'with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life The sleeping
kme,
Touch 'd in thy brightness, dream of fields
divine :
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
*° Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes.
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent' the nested
wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken.
65 And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
Takes glimpses of thee. thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
Within its pearly house. — The mighty
deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine— the mvnad
sea*
70 O Moon1 far-spoon n nj»J Ocean bous to
thee,
And Tel I us feels his fotehend's cumbrous
load.
Cynthia! where art thou no^t What
far abode
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine
Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost
pine
75 For one as sorrow f nl • thv cheek is pale
For one whose cheek is pale thou dosl
bewail
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where
dost thou Right
Ah ? surely that light peeps from Vesper's
eye,
Or what a thing is love 1 'Tis she, but lo '
lfvnthia, godded of • far driving far-nmh-
the moon Ing
794 N1NKTKKNTH CENTURY BOMANT1GIBT8
80 HOW chang'd, how full of ache, how gone Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering
in woe ! hand
She dies at the thinnest eloud; her loveh- Were lifted from the water's breast, and
ness fann'd
Is wan on Neptune's blue- yet there's a 113 Into sweet air, and sober 'd 11101 11 nig came
btress Meekly through billows :— when like taper-
Of love-spangles, jubt off yon cape of trees, flame
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,
86 The curly foam with amorous influence. He rose in silence, and once inoie 'gan
0, not so idle: foi down-glancing thence fare
She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about Along his fated way
O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and Far had he roaui'd,
f right 'mng 12° With nothing save the hollow vast, that
90 Their savage eyes with unaccustom 'd light- foam 'd,
mng Above, aiound, and at luh fed, save
Wheie will the bplendor be content to things
reach t More dead than Moipheus' imaginings'
0 Love! how potent has thou been to Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates
teach large
Stiange journeying* * Wherever beauty Of gone sea-warnors f bia/en beaks1 and
dwells, taige,3
In gulf or aerie,1 mountains or deep dells, 126 Rudder* that for a handled jeais had
w In light, in gloom, in star 01 blaxinj> lost
sun, The sway of human hand, gold \RW etn-
Thou pointest out the nay, and straight boss'd
'tis won With long-forgotten nton, and wheiein
Amid his toil thou ga\ 'st Leander breath ,-' No reveller had e^er dipp'd a chin
Thou leddest Orpheus thiough the gleams But those of Saturn '& vintage,8 moiildci-
of death ,8 mg scrolls,
Thou madest Pluto bear thin element;4 18° Wiit in the tongue of heaven. b\ those
100 And now, 0 winged Chieftain f thon hast souls
sent Who first were on the eaith; and itriilp-
A moon-beam to the deep, deep water- tures rude
world, In ponderous stone, developing the mood
To find Endymion Of ancient Nox;— then skeleton* of man,
Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan,
On gold sand impearl'd 136 And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, Of nameless monster A cold leaden awe
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth 'd her These secrets struck into him , and unless
light Dian had chased away that heaviness,
106 Against his pallid face* he felt the charm He might have died : but now, with cheeied
To breathleBsness, and suddenly a warm feel,
Of his heart's blood 'twas very sweet, 14° He onward kept; wooing these thoughts
he stay'd to steal
His wandering steps and half-entranced About the labyrinth in his soul of love
laid
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, "What is there in thee. Moon ! that thou
110 To tapte the gentle moon, and freshening rtiouldst move
beads,5 My heart so potently t When yet a child
Lash'd from the crystal roof by fishes9 I oft have dried my tears when thou hast
tails smil'd
And so he kept, until the rosy veils 14B Thou soem'dflt my sister- hand in hand we
1 nefltlng place of • When lie dcflccnded «, l^nt
eaglcti and other to Hade* to lead From eve to morn across the firmament.
"When he awam the 'When he came to
Hellespont nightly earth to *eek Pro- • armed projections *nhleld
to Tltft Hero .ml*1?*1.110 w «., * froiP thn RTO*B of *TnRt I", not since the
"That N, bubblea of ancient galleys age of ,8* turn.
JOHN KEATS 795
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deli- 186 Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize
ciously: One thought beyond thine argent1 lux-
No tumbling water ever spake romance, uries '
180 But when my eyes with thine thereon How far beyond !" At this a BUI pro 'd
could dance start
No woods were green enough, no bower Frosted the springing veidure of his heart,
divine, For as he lifted up his eyes to swear
Until thou hftedst up thine eyelids fine. 19° How his own goddess was past all things
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble1 take, fair,
Or diop a seed, till thou wast wide awake, He saw far in the concave green of the
1H And, 111 the summer tide of blossoming, sea
No one but tlice hath heard me blithely An old man sitting calm and peacefully i
sing Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. And his white hair was awful, and a mat
No melody was like a passing spright 195 Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin
If it went not to solemnize thy reign. feet;
160 Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain And, ample as the largest winding-sheet,
By thee were fashion 'd to the self-same A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged
end , bones,
And as I giew in years, still didst thou Overwrought with symbols by the deepest
blend ffroans
With all my aidois lliou wast the deep Of ambitious magic every ocean-form
glen," 20° Was woven in with black distinctness;
Thou wast the nioiin 1 21 in-top— the wire's storm,
pen— And calm, and whispering, and hideous
1W» The poet's harp— the \oice of fiiencls— roar,
the sun , Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted
Thou was the ii\er— tliou uast ylorv \\on, shore,
Thou wast im clarion's blast— thou wnst Were emblem 'd in the woof, with every
mv steed— shape
My goblet full of wine— mv topmost That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape
deed — and cape
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely 205 The prulfiner whale was like a dot in the
Moon * spell,
"0 o what a \Aild and harmoni/ed tune Vet look upon it, and 'twould size and
Mv spiut shuck fiom all the beautiful' swell
On some blight essence could I lean, and To its huge self; and the minutest fish
lull Would pass the \ery ha i (lest gazer's wish,
MvselF to iinmmtahfy I prest And 'show his little eve's anatomy.
Nntuie's soft pillow in a \\akeful rest 21° Then there was pietur'd the regality
175 But, qentle Oibf then* came n nearer Of Neptune, and the sea-nymphs round
bliss— his state,
My strange love came— Felicity's abvss! Tn beauteous vassalage, look up and wait
She came, and thou didst fade, and fade Beside this old man lav a pearly wand,
away— And in his lap n book, the which lie conn 'd
Yet not entirely, no, thy starry swav 215 So steadfastly that the new denizen
Has been an mirier-passion to this hour Had time to keep him in amazed ken,
WO Nou T beam Jo feel thine orbv power To mark these shadowing, and stand in
TR eominp fiesli upon me 0 be kind, awe
Keep back thine influence,2 and do not
Mind The old man rais'd his hoary head and
My sovereign vision —Dearest love, for- ««aw
g,ve The wilder 'd stranger— seeming: not to see,
That T can think away from thcc and M0 His features were so lifelew* Suddenly
]lve t_ * He woke as from a trance ; his snow-white
i A pointed Implement used for mnklug holes
i
fluid flnwwl from the ntnrs and affected the who became Immnrtnl
actions of men. hprl)
796
NINETEENTH CENTUBT BOMANTIC18T8
Went arching up, and like two magic
ploughs
Funow'd deep wi inkles in Ins forehead
large,
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,
>25 Till round his wither M lips had gone a
smile.
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious
toil
Had watch M for years in forlorn hermi-
tage,
Who had not fiom mid-life to utmoht
age
Eas'd in one accent his o'er-hurden'd soul,
280 Even to the trees. He rose* he grasp 'd
his stoic,
With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad,
And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw *d
Echo into oblivion, he said •—
"Thou art the man! Now shall I lay
my head
286 Tn peace upon my watery pillow: now
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary
brow.
O Jove' I shall be young again, be young'
0 shell-borne Neptune, I am piere'd and
stung
With new-bora life! What shall I do*
Where go,
240 When I have cast this serpent-skin of
woet—
I'll swim to the siiens,1 and one moment
listen
Their melodies, and see their long hair
glisten;
Anon upon that giant V arm I'll be,
That writhes about the roots of Sicilv.
246 To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail,
And mount upon the raortings o'f ft whale
To some black cloud; thence down I'll
madly sweep
On forked lightning, to the deepest deep.
Where through some sucking pool I will
be hurl'd
260 With rapture to the other side of the
world!
0, I am full of gladneps ! Sisters three,8
1 bow full hearted to your old decree!
Yes, every god be thank 'd, and power
benign,
For I no more shall wither, droop, and
pine4
*8ea nvmphs who were wild to Inhabit an
hland off the coast of Italy, and by their
singing to lure mariners to dMtractUm.
•Bncelaoaa, who warred against Jnplter, and
upon whom Minerva throw the inland of
Bleily
•The three Fatei
'See Uacbrth, I, 8,28.
115 Thou art the man '" Endymion started
back
Dismay 'd; and, like a wietch from whom
the rack
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agoii} ,
Mutter 'd: "What lonely death am I to
die
In this cold region T Will he let me freeze,
260 And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas.*
Or will he touch me with his searing hand,
And leave a black memorial on the sandf
Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw,
And keep me as a chosen food to draw
MB His magian1 fish through hated fire and
flame f
0 misery of hell ! resistless, tame,
Am I to be burnt upl No, I will shout,
Until the gods through heaven's blue look
out!—
0 Tartarus T but some few days agone
270 Her soft arms were entwining me, and on
Her voice I hung like fruit among green
leaves'
Her lips were all my own, and— ah, ripe
sheaves
Of happiness f ye on the stubble droop,
But never may be gamer'd. I must stoop
276 My head, and ki^s death's foot. Lo\e'
love, f nrpwell '
Is there no hope from thee* This hoi i id
spell
Would melt at thy sweet breath.— By
Dian'g hind2
Feeding from her white fingers, on the
wind
1 see thy streaming hair' and now, by Pan.
*80 I care not for this old mysterious man ' "
He spake, and walking to that aged
form,
Look'd high defiance. Lo' his heart Van
warm
With pity, for the gray-hair 'd creature
wept
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sor-
row keptf
J85 Had he, though blindly contumelious,
brought
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human
thought,
Convulsion to a mouth of many years 1
He had in truth ; and he was ripe for tears
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt
*° Before that care-worn sage, who trembling
felt
About his large dark locks, and faltering
spake:
wac Diana'* favorite animal.
JOHN KKAT8 797
"Arise, good youth, for sacred Phcebu*' Yes- now I am no longer wretched thrall,
sake! My long captivity and moanings all
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel IIB Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum,
A very brothel's yearning for thee steal The which I breathe away, and thronging
WB Into mine own for why t thou openest B come
The prison gates that have so long oppret-t Like things of yesteiday my youthful
My weary watching Though thou know'M pleasures
it not,
Thou art commission 'd to this fated spot ' ' I touch 'd no lute, I sang not, trod no
For gieat enfranchisement 0 weep no measures:
more, I was a lonely youth on desert shores.
300 I am a friend to Ipve, to loves of yore: 34° My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous
Aye, Ladst thou never lovM an unknown roars,
power, And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive
T had been grieving at this joyous hour. cry
But even now most miserable old, Plaining discrepant between sea and sky
T saw thee, and ray blood no longer cold Dolphins were still my playmates, shapes
305 Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case unseen
Grew a new heart, which at this moment Would let me feel their scales of gold
plays and green,
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, *4B Nor be my desolation; and, full oft,
For thou shalt hear this secret all dw- When a dread waterspout had rear'd
play'd, aloft
Now as we speed towards our joyous Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe
task " To burst with hoarsest thundermgs, and
wipe
81<> So saying, this young soul in age 's mask My life away like a vast sponge of fate,
Went forwnid with the Carian side bv 35° Some friendly monster, pitying my sad
side: state,
Resuming quickly thus, while ocean's tide Has dived to its foundations, gulf'd it
Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel M down,
sands And left me tossing safely. But the
Took silently their foot-prints. crown
Of all my life WQR utmost quietude
"My soul stands More did I love to he in cavern rude,
815 Now past the midway from mortality, 355 Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's
And so I can prepare without a sigh voice,
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain And if it came at last, haik, and rejoice '
1 was a fisher once, upon this main, There blush 'd no summer eve but I would
And my boat danc'd in every creek and steer
bay; My skiff along green shelving coasts, to
320 Rough billows wore my home by night and hear
day,— The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery
The sea-gulls not more constant ; for I had steep.
No housing from the storm and tempests wo Mingled with ceaseless bleating* of his
mad, sheep:
But hollow rocks,— and they were palaces And never was a dav of summer shine.
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease: But I beheld its biith upon the bnne:
325 Long years of mjsery have told me so. For I would \atch all night to see nn-
Ave, thus it was one thousand years ago fold
One thousand years!— Is it then possible Heaven's gates, and JEthon snort hi-
To look so plainly through them f to dispel morning gold
A thousand years with backward glance MB Wide o'er the swelling streams: and con-
sublimet . stantly
™ To breathe away as 'twere all seummv At bnm of day-tide, on some grassy lea,
glime My nets would be spread out, and I at
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, rest
And one's own image from the bottom The poor folk of the sea-country I blest
peepf With daily boon of ffeh most delicate*
798 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
370 They knew not whence this bounty, and It flabh 'd, that Circe might find some re-
elate lief— ,
Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile Cruel enchantress 1 So above the water
beach. I rear VI my head, and look'd for Phoebus'
daughter.1
11 Why was I not contented f Wherefore 4ir> .Kffla's isle was wondering at the moon •—
reach It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon
At things which, but for thee, 0 Latnmui ! I^eft me dead-drifting to that fatal powei
Hnd been my dreary death 1 Fool ' 1 began
375 To iecl distempei'd longings* to dcMio "When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight
The utmost piivilege that ocean's sue1 bower;
Could grant in benediction . to be free Just when the light of morn, with hum of
Of all his kingdom. Long in misery bees
I wasted, eie in one extremest fit 42° Stole rlnongh its verdurous matting of
380 I piling 9d for life or death. To interknit fresh tiees
One's senses with so dense a breathing How sweet, and sweeter' t'oi 1 heaid a lyre,
stuff And o\ei it a sighing voice expire
Might seem a work of pain ; so not enough it ceased— I caught light footsteps, and
Can I ndmne how crystal-smooth it felt, anon
And buoyant round my limbs At fiivt I The fairest face that morn e'ei look'd
dwelt " upon
3SB Whole cla\s and days in sheer astonish- 42r> Pnsh'd through la screen of roses. Stairy
ment, .love!
Forgetful utteily of self -m ten t , With tenis, and smiles, and boney-woids
Moving but with the nnght\ ebb and flow *»he wove
Then, like a new fledg'd bird that first doth A net whose thialdom was moie bliss than
show all
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill. The range of flower'd Elysium. Tims did
390 I tried in fear the pinions of my will fall
'Twas freedom' and at once I visited The dew of her rich speech: *Ahf Ail
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed awake*
No need to tell thee of them, for I see 43° O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's
That thou hast been a witness— it must be sake!
895 YHT these I know thou canst not feel a I am so oppress 9d with joy! Why, I have
drouth, shed
Bv the melancholy corners of that mouth An urn of tears, n* though thou wcrt cold
So 1 will in my story straightway pass dead ,
To more immediate matter. Woe, alas1 And now \ find thee living, I will pour
That love should be my bane' Ah, Rcylln From these de\oted c»yes their silver store,
fair' 43fi Until exhausted of the latest drop,
400 Why did poor Glaucus ever*-ever daie So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop
To sue thee to his heart T Kind stranger- Here, that 1 too may live but if beyond
youth' Rnch cool and sorrowful offerings, thou
I lov'd her to the very white of truth, ait fond
And she would not conceive it Timid Of soothing wainith, of dalliance supreme;
thing' 44° Tf thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ,
She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing, Tf smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardor
405 Round every isle, and point, and promon- mute,
tory, Hang in thy vision like a tempting f niit,
From where large Hercmles wound up his 0 let me pluck it for thee f Thus she link'd
story2 Her charming syllables, till indistinct
Far as Egyptian Nile My passion grew 445 Their music came to my o'cr-sweeten'd
The more, the more T saw her dainty hue soul;
Gleam delicately through the azure clear- And then she hover M over me, and stole
410 Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear; So near, that if no nearer it had been
And in that agony, across my grief This furrow 'd visage thou hadst never
seen.
* Poseidon (Neptune).
• Mt (Eta, In Greece, where the bodv of Her- ' Circe. She wan the daughter of Hello*, often
cnles was burned on hla funeral pjre Identified with Fha»hnfl Apollo
JOHN KEATS 799
11 Young man of Latinos! thus partic- Sepulcbial from the distance all aiouud.
nlar Then came a conquering earth-thundei ,
460 Am I, that them may'st plainly see how and rumbled
far That fierce complain to silence- while I
This fierce temptation went: and thou stumbled
may'st not Down a precipitous path, as if impelled.
Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite for- 49° I came to a dark valley.— Groanings
gott swell M
Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew,
"Who could resist f Who in this uni- The neaiei I approach 'd a flame's gaunt
verse f blue,
She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse That glar'd before me through a thorny
*66 My fine existence in a golden clime. brake.1
She took me like a child of suckling time, Tins fire, like the eye of gordian2 snake
And cradled me in roses. Thu& con- 495 Bewitch 'd me towards; and I soon was
deinn 'd, near
The current of my former life was A sight too fearful for the feel of fear-
stemm'd, In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard*
And to this arbitrary queen of sense scene—
460 I bow'd a tranced vassal nor would thence The banquet of my anus, my arbor queen,
Have mov'd, even though Amphion 'sharp Seated upon an uptorn forest root,
had woo M 50° And all around her shapes, wizard and
Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude brute,
For as Apollo each eve doth de\i<4> Laughing, and wailing, Grovelling, serpent -
A new apparelling for western skiep ; ing,
466 So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour Showing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and
Shed balmy consciousness within that sting '
bower. O such deformities' Old Charon's self,
And I was free of haunts umbrageous Should he give up awhile his penny pelf,4
Could wander in the mazy forest-house B05 And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian,
Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler 'd deei , It could not be so phantamed Fierce, wan,
470 And birds from coverts mneimost and And tyrannizing was the lady 's look,
drear As over them a gnarled staff she shook
Warbling for verv jnv mellifluous sor- Ofttimes upon the sudden she laugh 'd out,
row— r>1° And from a basket emptied to the rout
To me new-born delights' Clusters of grapes, the which the>
raven 'd5 quick
"Now let me borrow. And roar'd for more, with many a hungrv
For moments few, a temperament as stern lick
A s Pluto's sceptic, that inv words not bum About their shaggy jaws Avenging,
47B These uttering lips, while T in calm speech slow,
tell Anon she took a branch of mistletoe,
How specious heaven was chanced to real 51B And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling
hell phial:
Groan M one fend all, as if some piercing
"One morn she left me Bleeping, half trial
awake Was sharpening for their pitiable bones
T sought for her smooth arms and lips, to She lifted up the charm appealing groans
slake From their poor breasts went suing to
Mv greedy thirst with nectarous camel- her ear
draughts, ™ In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier
480 But she was gone Whereat the barbed She whisk 'd against their eyes the sooty
shafts oil.
Of disappointment stuck in me BO sore, Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil.
That out Iran and search 'd the forest o'er Increasing gradual to a tempest rage,
Wandeiing about in pine and cedar gloom
Damp awe assail 'd me; for there 'gan to i thicket • knotted : twlnted "wild
1 i^-. 4The fee which he demanded fop fern In* the
"00™ spirit* of the dead acrom the River 8ti\
4** A sound of moan, an agony of sound,
800 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8T8
Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pil- Glairing the angry witch. 0 Dis, even now,
grimage, A clammy dew is beading on my brow,
625 Until their grieved bodies ygan to bloat At mere remembering her pale laugh, and
And puff from the tail's end to stifled curse.
throat. 57° 'Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a
Then was appalling silence: then a sight nurse
More wildering than all that hoarbe Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, ex-
affright, pi ess,
Foi the whole lieid, as b> a whiilwiud To ciadle thee, my sweet, and lull thee.
writhen, yes,
680 Went through the dismal air like one huge I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch:
Python My teudeiest squeeze ib but a giant's
Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanish M clutch.
Yet theie was not a bieatli of wuid. she 575 So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies
banish M Unheard of yet: and it shall still its cries
These phantoms with a nod Lo ! from the Upon some breast moie lily- feminine
dark Oh, no— it shall not pine, and pine, and
Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and pine
satyrs staik, More than one pretty, tufting thousand
535 With dancing and loud revelry,— and went years;
Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent.— B8° And then 'tweie pity, but fate's gentle
Sighing an elephant appear 'd and bow'd shears
Before the fierce witch, shaking thus aloud Out shoit itb immortality. Sea-flirt !
In human accent 'Potent goddess* chief Young dove of the waters1 truly I'll not
540 Of pains lewstless! make my being brief, hurt
Or let me from tins heavy prison fly: One hair of thine, see how I weep and
Or give me to the air, or let me die f sigh,
I sue not for my happy crown again; That our heait-broken pairing is so nigh
I sue not for my phalanx on the plain , B85 And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so
5415 I sue not for my lone, my widow 'd wife , Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe,
T sue not for my ruddy drops of life, Let me sob o\er thee my last adieus,
My children fair, my lo\ely giilsandboj-.' And speak a blessing Mark mef Thou
T will forget them , I will pass these joys , hast thews
Ask nought so heavenwaid, so too— too Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race
high • r'00 But such a love is mine, that here I chase
VtQ Only T pi ay, as fairest boon, to die, Eternally awnv from thee all bloom
Or be dclnei 'd from this cumbrous flesh, Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb
From this gross detestable, filthy inesh, Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery
And merely given to the cold bleak air vast;
Have mercv, Goddess * Circe, feel rnv And there, ere many days be overpast,
prayer1' r'q5 Disabled age bhnll seize thee; and even
then
fics "That cuist magician's name fell icy Thou shall not go the wav of aged men^
numb But live and either, cripple and still
Upon my wild conjecturing' truth had breathe
come Ten hundred years- which gone, T then
Naked and sabre-like against my heart bequeath
T Raw a fury whetting a death-dart , Thy fragile bones to unknown burial.
And my slain spnit, overwrought with 80° Adieu, Fweet love, adieu f>— As shot stars
fright, fall,
r,60 Fainted away in that dark lair of night She fled ere T could trronn for mercv
Think, my deliverer, how desolate Stung
My waking must have been f disgust, and And poison 'd was my spirit • despair sung
hate, A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell.
And terrors manifold divided me A hand was at my shoulder to compel
A spoil amongst them T prepared to flee 60B My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes
™B Into the dungeon core of that wild wood Moved on with pointed finger. In this
T fled three davs— when lot before me guise
stood Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam
JOHN KEATS
I found me, by my fresh, my native home. How a restoring chance came down to
Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, quell
•10 ('ame salutary as I waded in , 64B One half of the witch in me.
And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave
Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and "On a day,
drave Sitting upon a rock above the spray,
Large froth before me, while there yet I saw grow up from the horizon 's brink
remain 'd A gallant vessel soon she seem 'd to sink
Hale strength, nor from my bones all mar- Away from me again, as though her course
row drain 'd. 65° Had been resum'd in spite of hindering
force-
615 "Young lover, I must weep— such hell- So vanish 'd. and not long, before arose
ish spite Dark clouds, and muttering of wind mo-
With dry cheek who can tell! Why thus rose,
my might Old JEolus would stifle his mad spleen,
Proving upon this element, dismay 'd, But could not: therefore all the billows
Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid , green
I look 'd— 'twas Scylla' Cursed, cursed 665 Toss'd up the silver spume against the
Circe ! clouds
620 Q vulture-witch, hast never heard of The tempest came* I saw that vessel's
mercy t shrouds
Could not thy harshest vengeance be con- In perilous bustle; while upon the deck
tent, Stood trembling- creatures I beheld the
But thou must nip this tender innocent wreck;
Because I lovM her t— Cold, 0 cold indeed The final gulfing, the poor struggling
Were her fnir limbs, and like a common souls:
weed 66° I heard their cries amid loud thunder-
626 The sea-<mell took her hair. Dead as she rolls. *
was 0 they had all been Rav'd but crazed eld
I clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to Annull'd my vigorous cravings and thus
pass quell 'd
Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd And curb'd, think on't, 0 Latmian! did I
brine, sit
Until theie shone a fabric crystalline, Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit
Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and 665 Against that hell-born Circe. The crew
pearl. had gone,
680 Headlong I darted; at one eager switl By one and one, to pale oblivion;
Gnm'd its bright portal, enter M, and be- And I was gazing on the surges prone,
hold I With many a Residing tear and many a
'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold; groan,
And all around— But wherefore this to When at mv feet emenr'd an old man's
thee hand,
Who in few minutes more thyself shalt 67° Oraspiner thw scroll, and this same slender
geef— ' wand
885 I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled T knelt with pain— reach 'd out my hand—
My fever'd parchings up, my scathing had grasp 'd
dread These treasures— touch 'd the knuckles-
Met palsy half way soon these limbs be- they unclasp 'd—
came I caught a finger: but the downward
Gaunt, wither 'd, sapless, feeble, cramp 'd, weight
and lame. O'erpowered me— it sank. Then 'gan
abate
"Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, 87B The storm, and through chill aguish gloom
640 Without one hope, without one faintest outburst
trace The comfortable sun. T was athirst
Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble To search the book, and in the warmhig air
Of color 'd phantasy; for I fear 'twould Parted its dripping leaves with eager care
trouble Strange matters did it treat of, and drew
Thy brain to loss of reason : and next tell on
3Q2 NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS
680 My soul page after page, till well-nigh What I if from thee my wandering feet
won had swerv'd,
Into forget fulness; when, stupefied, Had we both perish Ml "-"Look!" the
I read these words, and read again, and sage replied,
tried "Dost thou not mark a gleaming through
My eyes against the heavens, and read the tide,
again. Of divers brilliances t 'Tis the edifice
0 what a load of misery and pain 72° I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies;
685 Each Atlas-line bore off I1 — a shine of And where I have enshrined piously
hope All lo\ers, whom fell storms have doom'd
Came gold around me, cheering me to to die
cope Throughout my bondage." Thus dis-
Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend f coursing, on
For thou hast brought their promise to an They went till nnobscur'd the porches
end shone;
725 Which hurrymgly they gain 'd, and enter 'd
"'I* the wide sea there lives a forlorn straight.
wretch, Sure never since King Neptune held his
690 Doomed with enfeebled carcase to out- state
stretch Was seen such wonder underneath the
His loath'd existence through ten centuries, stars.
And then to die alone Who can devise Turn to some le\el plain where haughty
A total opposition! No one. So Mars
One million times ocean must ebb and Has legion 'd all his battle , and behold
flow, 78° How every soldier, with firm foot, doth
696 And he oppressed Yet he shall not die, hold
These things accomplish 'd —If he utterly His even breast see, many steeled squares,
Scans all 'the depths of magic, and ex- And rigid ranks of iron— whence who
pounds dares
The meanings of all motions, shapes, and One stepl Imagine further, line by line,
sounds; These warrior thousands on the field
If he explores all forms and substances supine:—
700 Straight homeward to their si/mbol- raB So in that crystal place, in silent rows,
essences; Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and
He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, woes.—
He must pursue this task of joy and grief The stranger from the mountains, breath-
Most piously,— all lovers tempest-tost, less, trac'd
And in the savage overwhelming lost, Such thousands of shut eyes in order
706 He shall deposit side by side, until plac'd,
Time 's creeping shall the dreary space ful- Such ranges of white feet, and patient
fll- hps
Which done, and all these labors ripened, 74° All ruddy,— for here death no blossom
A youth, by heavenly power lov'd and nips.
led, / He mark'd their brows and foreheads;
Shall stand before him; whom he shall saw their hair
direct Put sleekly on one side with nicest care;
710 How t o consummate all The youth elect And each one's gentle wrists, with rev-
Must do the thing, or both will be de- erence,
stroii'd'"— Put cross-wise to its heart
11 Then," cried the young Endymion, "Let us commence,"
over joy 'd, 74B Whisper M the guide, stuttering with joy,
"We are twin brothers in this destiny! "even now."
Say, T entreat thee, what achievement He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-
high bough,
715 In, in this restless world, for me reserv'd. Began to tear his scroll in pieces small.
Uttering the while some mumblings fn-
» The Jnlaery which each line bean In compared npml
to the world which Atlas bore upon bin _ . *\W\ . „
•boulder* He tore it into pieces small as snow
JOHN KJUATS
750 That drifts unfeather'd when bleak north- And onward went upon his high employ.
eras blow; Showenng those powerful fragments on
And having done it, took his dark blue the dead
eloak 785 And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head.
And bound it round Endyxmon: then As doth a flower at Apollo's touch
struck Death felt it to his inwards 'twas too
His wand against the empty air times much
nine — Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house
"What moie there is to do, young man, is The Latmian perse verM along, and thus
thine 7W All were re-animated There arose
7:'5 But first a little patience, first undo A noise of harmony, pulses and throes
This tangled thread, and wind it to a Of gladness m the' air— while many, who
clue Had died in mutual arms devout and true,
Ah, gentle* 'tis as weak as spider's skein, Sprang to each other madly, and the
And shouldst thou break it— What, is it rest
done so clean? 796 pelt a high certainty of being blest
A power overshadows thec f Oh, brave' They gaz'd upon Endymion Enchant-
760 The spite of hell is tumbling to its gnne ment
Here is a shell ; 'tis pearly blank to me, Grew drunken, land would have its head
Nor mark'd with any sign or charac- and bent.
tery1 — Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers,
Canst thou read aught ! 0 read for pity '» Budded, and swell 'd, and, full-blown, shed
sake* full showers
Olympus1 we aie safe* Now, Canan, 80° Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds
break divine
766 This wand against yon lyre on the ped- The two deliverers tasted a pure wine
estal " Of happiness, from fairy-piess ooz'd out
Speechless they eyed 'each other, and
'Twas done and straight with sudden about
swell and fall The fair assembly wander'd to and fro,
Sweet music breath 'd her soul away, and 80B Distracted with the richest overflow
siph'd Of joy that ever pour'd from hca\en
A lullaby to silence —"Youth1 now strew
These minced leaves on me, and passing "A\ta>f"
through Shouted the new-born God, "Follow, and
770 Those files of dead, scatter the same pay
around, Our piety to Neptunus supreme1"—
And thou wilt see the issue "—'Mid the Then Sc\lla, blushing sweetly from Jiei
sound dream,
Of flutes and \iols, lavishing his heart, R1° They led on first, bent to her meek sur-
Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, prise,
And scatter 'd in his face some fragments Through poital columns of a giant size,
light Into the vaulted, boundless emerald.
776 How lightning-swift the change f a youth- Joyous all follow M as the leader call'd,
ful wight2 Down marble steps, pouring as easily
Smiling beneath a coral diadem, 815 As hour-glass sand,— and fast, as you
Out-Rpa riding- sudden like an upturn 'd might see
gem, Swallows obeving the" south summer's call
Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous Or swans upon a gentle waterfall
corse,
KneePd down beside it, and with tenderest Thus went that beautiful multitude, noi
force far,
780 Press 'd its cold hand, and weptr-and Ere from among some rocks of glitteriim
Scyllasigh'd' spar,
Endymion, with quick hand, the charm 8W Just within ken, they saw descending thick
applied— Another multitude. Whereat more quick
The nymph arose • he left them to their joy. Moved either host. On a wide sand thr*
met,
» chime-tern Mtm • person , being And of those numbers everv eye was wet ;
NINETEENTH CENTUJjtY ROMANTICISTS
For each their old love found. A mur- Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone;
muring rose, At his nght hand btood winged Love, and
885 Like what was never heard in all the throes on
Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit MB His left sat smiling Beauty 'b paiagon.1
To tell ; 'tis dizziness to think of it.
Far as the manner on highest mast
This mighty consummation made, the Can see all round upon the calmed vast,
host So wide was Neptune's hall: and as the
Mov'd on for many a league, and gain'd, blue
and lost _ Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew
880 Huge sea-marks; \anward swelling in 87° Their doming curtains, high, magnificent,
array, Aw'd from the throne aloof ;— and when
And from the rear diminishing away,— storm-rent
Till a faint dawn surpns'd them. Glaucus Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's
cried, air;
"Behold! behold, the palace of his pride! But sooth 'd as now, flash M sudden every-
God Neptune's palaces f" With noise where,
increas'd, Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering
886 They shouldei M on towards* that brighten- 87G Death to a human eye: for there did spring
ing east. From natural west, and east, and south,
At every onward step proud domes arose and north,
In prospect,— diamond gleams, and golden A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth
glows A gold-green zenith *bove the Sea-God's
Of amber 'gainst their faces le\ellmg. head.
Joyous, and many as the lea\ea in spring, Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread
840 Still onward ; still the splendor gradual 88° As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe
swell 'd. Of feather 'd Indian darts about, as
Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld through
By jasper pillars, letting through their Thedehcatestair: air verily,
shafts But for the portraiture of clouds and sky :
A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts This palace floor breath-air,— but for the
EJach gazer drank; and deeper drank more amaze
near* 885 Of deep-seen wonders motionless.— and
846 For what poor mortals fragment up, as blaze
mere1 Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes,
As marble was there lavish, to the vast Globing a golden sphere.
Of one fair palace, that far, far surpass 'd,
I Even for common bulk, those olden three, They stood in dreams
•Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. Till Triton blew his horn The palace rang;
The Nereids danc'd; the Sirens faintly
880 AR large, as bright, as color M as the bow sang;
Of Iris, when unfading it doth show 89° And the great Sea-King bow'd his drip-
Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch ping head.
Through which this Paphian army took its Then Love took wmp, and from his pinions
march, shed
Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : On all the multitude a nectarous dew.
855 Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, The ooze-born Goddess2 beckoned and
To which the leaders sped ; but not half drew
ranght* Fair Scylla and her guides to conference;
Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, 89B And when they reach 'd the throned emi-
And made those dazzled thousands veil nence
their eyes She kiss'd the sea-nymph's cheek,— who
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. sat her down
*W Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze A-toying with the doves. Then,— "Mighty
Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the crown,
blaze, And sceptre of (his kingdom!" Venus
And then, behold! large Neptune on his said,
throne t Venn*.
» entire ; perfect • reached ' Vomii Bee Enditmton, 1, 026, nnrt n. fa. 775).
JOHN KEATS 805
' ' Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid • 0 'tis a very sm
900 Behold!"— Two copious tear-drops in- For one so weak to venture his poor verse
stant fell In such a place as this 0 do not curse,
From the God's large eyes; he smil'd de- 94° High Muses! let him hurry to the ending
lectable,
And over Glaucus held his blessing; hands.— All suddenly were silent. A soft blend
"Endyniion! Ah! still wandenng in the ing
bands Of dulcet insliumeuts came charmingly ;
Of love f Now this is cruel. Since the hour And then a hymn.
906 I met thee in earth 's bosom, all my power
Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not "King Of the stormy sea!
Brother of Jove, and co -inheritor
"'
Or I am skillesb quite • an idle tongue, At thy f^a trident shrinking, doth unlock
910 A humid eye, and steps luxurious, its deep foundations, hissing into foam
Where these are new and strange, are omi- All mountain-rivers, lost in the vude home
nous 95° Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow
Aye, T have seen these signs in one of Thou frownest, and old ^olus thy foe
heaven Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff com-
When others 'were all blind : and were I Q£ a,, ff^ ^^ Dark c,oudg famt
given When, from thy dmdem, a silver gleam
To utter secrets, haply I might say 955 giants over blue dominion. Thy bright team
815 Some pleasant words —but Love will have Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along
his day. To bring thee nearer to that golden song
Ro wait awhile expectant Pr'ythee soon, Apollo singeth, while his chariot
Even in the passing of thine honev-moon, Waits at the doors of heaven Thou art not
Visit thou my Cythera: thou wilt find 96° For K*™* llke &1*'- an emPire stern
^ done, A.S newly come of heaven, dost thou sit
A II blisses be upon thee, mv sweet son f "— TO blend and interknit
Thus the fair Goddess : while Kuclvniion Subdued majesty with this glad time
Knelt to receive those accents halcyon.1 966 O shell-borne King sublime!
We lay our hearts before thee evermore —
Meantime* a glorious revelry bejran We •*»& and we adore?
925 Bef 01 e the Water-Monarch Nectar ran H-B^M.- M*i * *
In courteous fountains to all cups out- fc *»«* JKjSSi. soothmg lutes,
. , ?*•??: ... , 970 Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain,
And plunder 'divines, teeming exhaustless, Not flowers budding in an April ram,
pleach M2 Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's
New growth about each shell and pendent flow, —
lyre; No, nor the JEolian twang of Lo\e's own
The which, in disentangling for their fire, bow, $
930 Pull'd down fiesh foliajre and coverture 07R J^n m™*le 5"|«c fitf for the Boft car
throuprh the throng On our souls' sacrifice
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and
song, "Bright-winged child'
And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure Who has another care when thou bast smil'df
reign M. 98° Unfortunates on earth, we see at last
985 Tn TiormlpoB tendril thovpiirii other rTijrin 9A AM death-shadows, and glooms that overcast
™ i. ? * i God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair,
Fresh crush of leaves. 985 And panting bosoms bare!
* calm ; pwicefnl (The halcyoli, or kingfisher, Bear unseen light in darkness! eclipser
£ at "^ Of H»ht in H^t! "Wow poisoner!
***<»* '* «°W«t win we quaff until
BOG
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
We fill— we fill!
990 And by thy mother's lips "
Was heard no more
For clamor, when the golden palace door
Opened again, and from without, in shone
A new magnificence. On oozy throne
Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old,
095 TO take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold,
Before he went into his quiet cave
To muse forever— then a lucid wave
Scoop 'd from its trembling sisters of mid-
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty
1000 Of Dons, and the JRgean seer,1 her
spouse — 1
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs,
Theban Amphion leaning on his lute-
His fingers went across it.— All were mute
To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls,
1005 And Thetis pearly too.—
The palace whirls
Around giddy Endynuon, seeing he
Was there far strayed from mortality.
He could not bear it— shut his eyes in vain ,
Imagination gave a dizzier pain.
1010 "01 shall die' sweet Venus, be my sta> '
Where i& my lovelv mistress! Well-awa> f
I die— I hear her voice— I feel my wing— ' '
At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden nng
Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife
1016 TO usher back his spint into life*
But still he slept At last they interwove
Their cradling arms, and purpos'd to con-
vey
Towards a crystal bower far away.
Lo! while slow carried through the pity-
ing crowd,
1020 TO his inward senses these words spake
aloud;
Written in starlight on the dark above .
" Dearest Endymwnt my entire lovt!
How have I dwelt in fear of fate' Vis
done—
Immortal bliss for me too host thou won.
10215 Arfce then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch
Her ready eggs, before I'M kissing snatch
Thff into endless heaven. Awake! awake!"
The youth at once arose: a placid lake
Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green,
1080 Cooler than all the wonders he had seen,
Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering
breast.
How happy once again in grassy nest !
' Nereut, a ma divinity iriio lived ohirilv In the
Ren.
BOOK IV
Muse of my natue land ! loftiest Muse !
0 first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot :
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot.
6 While >t»t our England was a wolfish den ,
Before our forests heard the talk of men ;
Before the fhst of Diuids was a child,1 —
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
10 There came au easteui \oiecs of solemn
mood*—
Yet wast thou patient. Then &ang forth the
Nine,8
Apollo's garland —yet didst thou dnine
Such home-bred gloiy, that they cued in
vain,
"Come hither, sister of the Island f"4
Plain
15 Spake fair Ausoina ;r> and once* mure slip
spake
A higher summons ° — still didst lliou be-
take
Thee to thy natrt e hoj>es 0 thou liast m on
A full accomplishment f7 The thing is
done,
Which undone, these 0111 latter days had
risen
20 On bai i en souls. G i cat Muse, thou know 'st
what prison
Of flesh and bone cinbs, and confines, and
fiets
Our spirits' wings • despondency besets
Our pillows, and the fresh tomorrow mom
Seems to give foith its light in \ciy scorn
25 Of our dull, umnspir'd, snail-paced lives
Long have I said, how happy he who &h rivet-
To thee t But then I thought on poets gone,
And could not pray —nor cnn I now— so
on
1 move to the end in lowliness of heart.—
30
Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly
part
From my dear native land ! Ah, foolish
maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads
bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields '
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
1 A bitter coolness; the ripe grape is sour-
lTbe Druids were wild to be the first poets of
1 The voice of the muse of Hebrew literature
1 The nine muses of Grecian song
•The miiBe of England.
bA reference to Roman literature.
• A reference to Dante and Italian literature of
tbe Renaissance
7 A reference to Bllfabetban literature
JOHN KEATS
807
Yet I would have, great gods! but one
short hour
Of native air— let me but die at home.9'
Endymion to heaven 'h airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb1 of vows,
40 When these words leaeh'd him. Where-
upon lie bows
His head through thorny-green entangle-
ment
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.
"Is no one near to help met No fair
dawn
46 Of life from charitable voice 1 No sweet
To set my dull and sadden 'd spirit playing f
No hand to toy with minef No lips so
sweet
That I may worship themf No eyelids
^
To twinkle on my bosom Y No one dies
60 Before me, till from these enslaving- eyes
Redemption sparkles!— I am sad and
lost."
Thou, Canan lord, hadst better have
been tost
Into a whirlpool Vanish into air,
Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only
bear
56 A woman's high alone and in dishes*. T
See not her chainis* Is Phoebe passion-
less f
Phoebe is fairer far— O gaze no more : —
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store,
Behold her panting in the forest grass!
60 Do not those curls of glossy net surpass
For tenderness the arms so idly lain
Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred
pain,
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search
After some warm delight, that seems to
perch
66 Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond
Their upper lids t— Hist !
"0 for Hermes' wand,
To touch this flower into human shape!
That woodland Hyacinthns could escape
From his green prison, and here kneeling
down
70 Call me his queen, his second life's fair
crown !
Ah me, how I could love I— My soul doth
melt
For the unhappy youth— Love f I have felt
1 great number
So faint a kindness, such a meek burrender
To whaj my own full thoughts had made
too tender,
76 That but for tears my life had fled away » —
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day.
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true,
There IB no lightning, no authentic dew
But in the eye of love • there's not a sound,
80 Melodious howsoever, can confound
The heavens and earth in one to such a
death
As doth the voice of love there's not a
breath
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
86 Of passion from the heart!"—
Upon a bough
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now
Thirst for another love : 0 impious,
That he can ever dream upon it thus !—
Thought he, "Why am I not as are the
dead,
90 Since to a woe like this I have been led
Through the dark earth, and through the
wondrous seal
Goddess ? I lo\e thee not the less • from thee
By Juno's smile I turn not— no, no, no-
While the great waters are at ebb and
flow —
96 I have a triple soul f 0 fond pretence—
For both, for both my love is so immense,
I feel my heart is cut for them in twain."
And so he groan 'd, as one by beauty
slain.
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could
see
100 Her gentle bosom heave tumultnously.
He sprang from his green covert* there
she lay,
Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay ,
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries.
105 "Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity!
O pardon me, for I am full of grief —
Grief born of thee, young angel ' fairest
thief
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith
110 I was to top the heavens Dear maid, sith
Thou art my executioner, and I feel
Loving and hatred, misery and weal,
Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,
And all my story that much passion slew
me;
n6 Do smile upon the evening of my days •
And, for my tortur'd brain begins to craze.
Be thou my nurse ; and let me understand
808 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.- To give at evening pale
Dost weep for met Then should I be con- __ ^n*> ** nightingale,
That thou mayst listen the cold dews
"0 Scowl on, ye fates ! until the firmament
Outblackens Erebus, and the f ull-eaveru 'd "0 Sorrow,
earth 16B Why dost borrow
Crumbles into itself . By the cloud-girth Heart's lightness from the merriment of
Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst . May!—
To meet oblivion. »-As her heart would £ SSifSffttf
i« n« !* vvu i.-i j ^ Though he should dance from eve till peep
125 The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then re- e0f day__
plied : 170 Nor any drooping flower
"Why must such desolation betide Held sacred for thy bower,
As that thou speak 'st off Are not these Wherever he may sport himself and play.
green nooks "To Sorrow
Empty of all misfortune ! Do the brooks r ^^ good-morrow,
Utter a gorgon1 voice t Docs yondei 175 And thought to leave her far away behind,
thrush, But cheerly, cheerly,
180 Schooling its half-fledg'd little ones to She loves me dearly;
brush She IB so constant to me, and so kind,
About the dewy forest, whisper tales!- \ *««M deceive her
' *" ^ JoStant and so tad.
Will slime the rose tonight Though if "Beneath my palm trees, by the river Bide,
thou wilt, I sat a -weeping in the whole world wide,
Methinks 'twould be a guilt— a very There TV a a no one to ask me why I wept, —
guilt— 186 And BO I kept
135 Not to companion thee, and wph awav Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
The light-the diihk-the dark-till break °°ld M "V fears
„* °,f /'I/" „ ^ ^ <i •*• .. "Beneath my pahn trees, by the river side,
"Dear lady," said Endynnon, " ftis past: I Hat a-weeping. what enamor'd bride,
T love theef and my days can never last 100 Cheated by shadovty wooer from the clouds,
That I may pass in pahenee still speak • But hides and shrouds
140 Let me have music dying, and I seek Beneath dark palm trees by a river Bidet
And murmur about Indian streams T"— 195 Into the wide stream came of purple hue-
Then she, 'Twas Bacchus and his crew!
Bitting beneath the midmost forest tree, The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills
145 For pity sang this roundelay— From kissing cymbals made a merry din—
'Twas Bacchus and his km!
"Q Sorrow 20° Llke to a m<mn£ vintage down they came,
Why dost borrow Crown 'd with green leaves, and faces all on
The natural hue of health, from vermeil flame;
lips?— All madly dancing through the pleasant
To give maiden blushes valley,
150 To the white rose bushes! ^ To scare thee, Melancholy!
Or is't thy dewy hand the daisy tips! ^ O then, 0 then, thou wast a simple name!
205 And I forgot thee, as the berried holly
"O Sorrow, R? shepherds is forgotten, when, in June,
Why dost borrow Tafl chestnuts keep away the sun and
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye!— no?llT , . » .
166 To give the glowworm light! I nwh'd into the folly!
Or, on a moonless night, ,.««.., .* « .. _ .
To tinge, on siren shores, the saU sea-spry! £?J.tWl1 "B .car< f^**, yonng Bacchus stood,
s^ ' r * 210 Trifling his iw-dart,i in dancing mood,
"O Sorrow With sidelong laughing;
Why dost borrow And little rills of crimson wine imbrued
160 The mellow ditties from a mourning Hifl pfomp white arms, and shoulders, enough
tongue r*^ wmw
i killing, like a Gorgon f The Ivy was sacred to Bacchus,
JOHN KEATS 809
For Venus9 pearly bite: The kings of Inde their jewel-scepters vail,*
215 And near him rode Bllenus on his ass, And from their treasures scatter pearled
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass hail;
Tipsily quaffing. 266 Great Brahma from his mystic heaven
''Whence came ye, merry damsels I whence And all his priesthood moans,
came ye! Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning
Bo many, and so many, and such gleet pale —
220 Why have ye left your bowers desolate, Into these regions came I following him,
Your lutes, and gentler fatef— Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim
'We follow Bacchus; Bacchus on the wing, 270 To stray away into these forests drear
A -conquering I Alone, without a peer:
Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.
226 We dance before him thorough kingdoms
wide :— ( ' Toung stranger !
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be I've been a ranger
To our wild minstrelsy! ' 275 In search of pleasure throughout every dime:
Alas, 'tis not for me!
"Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence Bewitch 'd I sure must be,
came ye! To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.
So many, and so many, and such gleef
220 Why have ye left your forest haunts, why "Come then, Sorrow!
left 280 Sweetest Sorrow!
Your nuts in oak-tree cleft f— Like an own babe I nurse thee on my
'For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree, breast:
For wine we left our heath, and yellow I ought to leave thee
brooms, And deceive thee,
And cold mushrooms; But now of all the world I love thee best
225 For wine we follow Bacchus through the
earth; 3*5 "There is not one,
Great God of breathless cups and chirping No, no, not one
mirth! — But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be Thou art her mother,
To our mad minstrelsy!' And her brother,
290 Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade. ' f
"Over wide streams and mountains great
we went,
240 And, nave when BacchuR kept his ivy tent, O what a sigh she gave in finishing,
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, And look, quite dead to every worldly
With Asian elephants thing!
2ST3ft» S8» ***»«•** «* **l but gazed on
246 Web-fcteniligators, crocodiles, ™ ^nd ^tened to the wind that now did stir
Bearing upon their scaly baekB/ in files, 29B About the crisped oaks full drearily,
Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil Yet with as sweet a softness as might be
Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers9 toil Remember 'd from its velvet summer song.
With toying oars and silken sails they glide, At last he said • "Poor lady, how thus long
250 Nor care for wind and tide Have I been able to endure that voicet
If._ A , x_ _ . m _. , 80° Pair Melody' kind Siren! I've no choice;
"Mounted on panthers9 fnrs and lions' I nrast be thy sad servant evermore :
A three dayi' journey in a moment done- .AK l>t me not think, softAncel! shall it besot
And always, at the rising of the sun, SOB Say, beau ti fullest, shall I never think?
255 About the wild they hunt with spear and 0 thou could fst foster me beyond the brink
horn, Of recollection ! make my watchful care
On spleenful unicorn. Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair I
«T <*-i-i ™ x ^. i * Do gently murder half my soul, and I
"I saw Osirian EfiTptl kneel adown 310 Shall feel the other half so utterly !-
I J^¥^5SSUTSl *« TnWb^^^
260 To the silver Cymbals' ring! ° let * I*1* *° e*er ! ^ li *><>&*
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm
Old Tartary the fierce! Mower
810 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8TS
With the tinge of love, panting in safe 8B5 This is the giddy air, and I most spread
alarm.— Wide pinions to keep here ; nor do I dread
»6 This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is ; Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance
And this is sure thine other softhng— this Precipitous: I have beneath my glance
Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near I Those towering horses and their mournful
Wilt fall asleep t 0 let me sip that tear! freight
And whisper one sweet word that I may 86° Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await
know Fearless for power of thought, without
320 This is this world— sweet dewy blossom ! ' ' thine aid f —
-Woe!
Woe! Woe to that Endymionl Where w There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade
hef— From some approaching wonder, and be-
Even these words went echoing dismally hold
Through the wide forest— a most fearful Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils
tone, s bold
Like one repenfing in his latest moan ; 86fi Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to
885 And while it died away a shade pass'd by, tire,
As of a thundercloud. When arrows fly Dying to embers from their native fire !
Through the thick branches, poor ring-
doves sleek forth There curl 'd a purple mist around them ;
Their timid necks and tremble; so these soon,
both It seem'd as when around the pale new
Leant to each other trembling, and sat so moon
330 Waiting for some destruction— when lo ! Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping
Foot-feather 'd Mercury appear 'd sublime willow:
Beyond the tall tree tops; and in lens time S7° 'Twas Sleep slow journeying with hiead on
Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down pillow.
he dropt For the first time, since he came nigh dead-
Towards the ground; but rested not, nor born
stopt From the old womb of night, his cave
335 One moment from his home: only the forlorn
sward Had he left more forlorn ; for the first
He with his wand light touch fd, and time,
heavenward He felt aloof the day and morning's
Swifter than sight was gone— even before prime—
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore S75 Because into his depth Cimmerian
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear There came a dream, showing how a young
840 Above the crystal cirelings white and clear ; man,1
And catch the cheated eye in wide surprise, Ere a lean bat could plump its wmtery
How they can dive in sight and unseen skin,
rise— Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool
So from the turf ontsprang two steeds jet- win
black, An immortality, and how espouse
Each with large dark-blue wings upon his 88° Jove's daughter, find be reckon 'd of hi*
back. house.
845 The youth of Caria plac'd the lovely dame Now was he slumbering towards heaven fs
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame gate.
The other9? fierceness. Through the air That he might at the threshold one hour
they flew, wait
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew To hear the marriage melodies, and then
Exhal'd to Phoebus' lips, away they are Sink downward to his dusky cave again*
gone, 885 His litter of smooth semilncent mist,
850 Far tram the earth away— unseen, alone, Diversely ting'd with rose and amethyst,
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the Puzzled those eyes that for the centre
free, sought ;
The buoyant life of song can floating be And scarcely for one moment could be
Above their heads, and follow them un- caught
tir'd.— His sluggish form reposing motionless.
Muse of my native land, am I inspired f i HndTmlon, belovtd of Diana.
JOHN KEATS 811
ft*0 Those two on winged steeds, with all the **° She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she,
stress His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea,
Of vision search 'd for him, as one would And air, and pains, and care, and Buffer-
look ing;
Athwart the sallows of a river nook Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he
To catch a glance at silver-throated eels,— spring
Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog con- Towards her, and awakes— and, strange,
ceals o'erhead,
396 His rugged forehead in a mantle pale, 435 Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
With an eye-guess towards some pleasant Beheld awake his very dream : the gods
vale Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and
Descry a f avonte hamlet faint and far. nods ;
And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.
These raven horses, though they foster 'd 0 state perplexing ! On the pinion bed,
are "° Too well awake, he feels the panting side
Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop Of his delicious lady He who died1
400 Their full-vein fd ears, nostrils blood wide. For soaring too audacious in the sun,
and stop ; When that same treacherous wax began to
Upon the spiritless mist have they out- run,
spread Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
Their ample feathers, are in slumber *« His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,
dead,— To that f air-shadow 9d passion puls'd its
And on those pinions, level in mid air, way—
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fail. Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day!
405 Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,
Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile He could not help but kiss her: then he
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! grew
he walks 45° Awhile forgetful of all beauty save
On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks Young Phoebe's, golden hair'd; and so
To divine powers : from his hand full fain 'gan crave
410 Juno's proud birds1 are pecking pearly Forgiveness: yet he turnM once more to
grain • look
He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow, At the sweet sleeper,— all his soul was
And asketh where the golden apples grow : shook,—
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield, She press 'd his hand in slumber; so once
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield more
415 A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings «& He could not help but kiss her and adore.
A full-brimm'd goblet, dances hgfatlv, sings At this the shadow wept, melting away.
And tantalizes long; at last he drinks The Latmian started up : "Bright goddess,
And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks, stay I
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight Search my most hidden breast ! By truth's
hand. own tongue,
120 He blows a bugle,— an ethereal band I have no daadale* heart: why is it wrung
Are visible above • the Seasons four,— **° To desperation f Is there nought for me,
Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, gol- Upon the bourne of bliss, but miseiyl "
den store
Tn Autumn 's sickle. Winter frosty hoar, These words awoke the stranger of dark
Join dance with shadowy Hours; while tresses:
still the blast, Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion
"6 Tn swells unmitigated, still doth last blesses
To sway their floating morris.1 "Whose With Savior soft. Sleep yawn'd from
is this f underneath.
Whose buglet" he inquires; they smile— 46B "Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more
"ODis! breathe
Why is this mortal here? Dost thon not This murky phantasm! thou contented
know seem'st
Its mistress9 lips! Not thouf— Tis Pillow 'd in lovely idleness, nor drenm'st
Dian 9s : lo ! What horrors may discomfort thee and ma
* Petcoclw. » Vn old popular dtnoe. * Toaim • cunning ; deceptive
812 WNRTEENT1I CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Ah, sbouldst thou die from my heart- Her steed a little higher soar fd, and then
treachery f — Dropt hawkwise to the earth.
470 Yet did she merely weep— her gentle soul
Hath no revenge in it . as it is whole There lies a den,
In tenderness, would I were whole in love ! Beyond the seeming confines of the space
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, Made tor the soul to wander in and trace
Even when I feel as true as innocence T 515 Its own existence, of remotest glooms.
476 I do, I do —What is this soul then T Dark regions are around it, where the
Whence tombs
Came itt It does not seem my own, and I Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce
Have no self-passion or identity. One hour doth linger weeping, for the
Some fearful end must be- where, where pierce
is it! Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart .
By Nemesis I see my spirit flit 62° And in these regions many a venom M dart
48<> Alone about the dark— Forgive me, sweet • At random flies , they are the proper home
Shall we nwny 1" lie rousM the steeds Of every ill . the man IH yet 1o come
they beat Who hath not journeyed in Uiis native hell
Their wingR chivalrous into the clear air, Rut few hn\e o\er felt how calm and well
Leaving old Sleep within his vapory lair. G25 Sleep may be had in that deep den of all
There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure
The good-night blush of eve was waning pall :
slow, Woe-hurricanes beat e\er at the gate,
485 And Vesper, risen star, began to throe Yet all is still within and desolate.
In the dusk heavens silverly, when they Beset with plain ful gubts, within ye hear
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy n80 No sound so loud as when on curtain 'd bier
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none
strange— Who stnve therefore : on the sudden it IK
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange, won
490 In such wise, in such temper, so aloof Just when the sufferer begins to bum,
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof, Then it is free to him ; and from an urn,
So witless of their doom, that verily R3B Still fed by melting ice, he takes a
'Tis well-nigli past man's search their draught-
hearts to see, Young Semele such richness never quaff 'd
Whether thev wept, or laugh 'd, or grie\ M, Tn her maternal longing! Happy gloom '
ortov'd— Dark Paradise1 where pale heroines the
4» Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow bloom
cloy'd Of health by due; where silence dreariest
r>4° Is most articulate; where hopes infest;
Pull facing their swift flight, from ebon Where those eyes are the brightest far that
streak, keep
The moon put forth a little diamond peak, Their lids shut longest in a dreamless
No bigger than an unobserved star, sleep
Or tiny point of fairy scimitar; 0 happy spirit-home ! O wondrous soul !
500 Bright signal that she only stoop 'd to tie Pregnant with such a den to save the whole
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously 645 In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian I
She bow'd into the heavens her timid For, never since thv griefs and woes began,
head. Hast thou felt so content • a grievous fend
Slowly she rose, as though she would ha\o Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude
fled, Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although
While to his lady meek the Carian turn 'd, upborne
M5 To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern 'd C6° With dangerous speed : and BO he did not
This beauty in its birth— Despair ! despair ! mourn
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare Because he knew not whither he was going.
In the cold moonshine Straight he seiz'd So happy was he, not the aerial blowing
her wrist; Of trumpets at clear parley from the east
It melted from his grasp : her hand he Could rouse from that fine relish, that high
kiss'd, feast.
no And, horror! kiss'd his own— he was TO They stung the feather 'd horse: with fierce
alone. alarm
JOHN EEAT8 813
He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no Danao'a son,i before Jove newly bow'd,
Has wePt for thee> calling to Jove aloud.
Could bft Endyrnion', head, or he h.d
vicwd 610 Thy tears are flowing —
A skyey mabk, a pmion'd mukitude,— 37 Daphne's fright, behold Apollo!—"
And silvery was its passing : voices sweet
660 Warbling the while as if to lull and greet M
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled Endymion heard not . down hlg *££
While past the vision went in bright ariay pmm ^ green Lead of & migfy m
fr°m Wail'§ feai* W°Uld ** H« flrst touch of the ^rtli went nigh to
For all the golden bowers of the day KIK .... _ , .. _ _ j _
666 Are empty left! Who, who away would bo 615 "Alas!" said he, "weie I but always
From Cynthia 's wedding and festivity? borne
Not Hesperus: lot upon his silver wings Through dangerous winds, had but my.
He leans away for highest heaven and footsteps worn
sings, A path in hell, forever would I bless
570 SPOJ± ^^SS^Sn^^ Horror8 wllich nomth an ™*smess
oJv An. Zepnyrus; art here, ana flora tool in**- .«« ^™« «»iiaM ^»~»A«,~~. *^ u
Ye tender bibbers of the ram and dew, -,0 *£ ** «w» sullen conquering: to him
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, 62° Who h.ve| ^y°"d earth'^ boundary, gnef
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill » dim,
Your baskets high Sorrow is but a shadow now I sec
076 With fennel green, and balm, and golden The grass, I feel the solid ground— Ah,
pines, me '
Savory, latter-mmt, and columbines, lt 1S thy \oice-divmest' Whcicf-whof
Cool parslej, basil sweet, and sunny thyme,
625 this
680 Away! fly! fly!— Behold upon this happy earth we are,
Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, Let us ay love each other ; let us fare
Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given On forest-fruits, and ne\er, ne\cr go
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather 'd Among- the abodes of mnitals here below,
vmgfl, ... . . OF b° °y phantoms duped 0 destiny f
Two fanJike fountains,— thine iDuinimngs 6*0 !nto a labyrinth now my soul would fh,
' T
-
bare Where didst thou melt t«- By thee will I
Show cold through watery pinions; make 8 "
more bright ^ole^er let our fate 6to]> here— a kid
The Star-Queen 'si crescent on her marriage T on tins spot will offer Pan will bid
night: 6S5 Us live in peace, in love and peace among
690 Haste, haste away!— His forest wildernesses T have clung
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see! To nothing, lovM a nothing, nothing seen
hPikrd Or felt bllt a ***** dream ? Oh' T hav« bec»
Presumptuous against love, against the
695 The ramping Centaur! . ^Ky»
The Lion's mane's on end: the Bear how 64° Against all elements, against the tie
fierce! Of mortals each to each, against the blooms
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs
Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory
Into the blue of heaven. He'll be shent,* Hag my own ^^ conspired : so my story
da! ^weet woman! why delaying His appetite beyond his natural sphere,
Bo timidly among the stars: eome hither! But starv 'd and died My sweetest Indian,
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow here,
whither Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast
606 They all are going
1 Pcrneun. who rescued Andromeda from the sea-
• Diana's. * put to shame or confusion monster.
814 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTlClbTS
860 My life from too thin breathing: gone and That thou uiaybt always know whither I
past roam,
Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, When it shall please thee in our quiet home
farewell! To listen and think of love. Still let me
And air of visions, and the monstroub swell speak ;
Of visionary seas ! No, never more 6*° Still let me dive mto the joy I seek,—
Shall airy \oiceseheat me to the shore For yet the past doth prison me. The
666 Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghaM rill,
Adieu, my daintiest Dream * although so Thou haply mays! delight in, will I fill
vast With fairy fishes from the mountain tain*
My love is still for thee. The hour may come And thou shalt feed them from the^squir-
When we shall meet in pure Elysium rel's bam
On earth I may not love thee, and there- ** Its bottom will I sticw with amber shells,
fore And pebbles blue from deep enchanted
"6° Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store wells
All through the teeming year • so thou wilt Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglan-
shine tine,
On me, and on this damsel fair of mine. And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine
And bless our bimple lives My Indian 1 will entice this crystal nil to trace
bliss! 70° Love's silver name upon the meadow's
My river-lily bud f one human kins' face
WB One sign of real breath— one gentle I'll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire.
squeeze, And to god Phopbus, for a golden lyre ,
Warm as a dove'b nest among summer To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear,
trees, To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear,
And warm with dew at ooze from living 705 That I may see thy beauty through the
blood! night,
Whither didst melt! Ah, what of that*— To Flora, and a nightingale shall light
all good Tame on thy finger; to the River-Godb.
We'll talk about— no more of dreaming— And they shall bring thee tapei fishmp-
Now, rods
670 Where shall our dwelling bet Under the Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright
brow tress
Of some steep mosby hill, where ivy dun 71° Heaven shield thee for. thine utter love-
Would hide us up, although spring leaves liness!
were none; Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be
And where dark yew trees, as we rustle 'Fore which I'll bend, bending, dear lo^e,
through, to the?:
Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew9 Those lips shall bo my Delphos, and shall
676 0 thou wonldst joy to live in such a place , speak
Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to Laws to my footsteps, color to my cheek,
grace m Trembling or steadfastness to this same
Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclin'd voice,
For by one step the blue sky shouldst thon And of three sweetest pleasnrings the
find, choice •
And by another, in deep dell below, And that affectionate light, those diamond
wo See, through the trees, a little river go things,
All in its mid-day gold and glimmering Those eyes, those passions, those supreme
Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll pearl springs,
bring, Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to
And apples, wan with sweetness, gather pleasure
thee,— Say, is not bliss within our pei feet seizure 1
Tresses that grow where no man may them O that I could not doubt f ' '
see,
885 And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw 'A stag The mountaineer
Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,1 Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to
'A reference to tbe myth of the Amdlan clear
nrmph Byrlna. who. to wwape the Mbraeej RIB briar'd path to some tranquillity
EJAS ""*"' °Ut ^ crave bright gladness to his lady's^ye,
JOHN KEATS
815
And yet the tears she wept were tears of
sorrow;
Answering thus, just as the golden mor-
row
Beam'd upward from the valleys of the
east :
77°
Far wandering, they were perforce content
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree;
Nor at each other gag'd, but heavily
For 'd on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves.
Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves
appy ! it
' ' 0 that tha flutter of this heart had ceas 'd, Me to behold thee thus in last extreme :
Or the sweet name of love had pass 'd away Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem
780 Young feather 'd tyrant ! by a swift decay Truth the best music in a first-born song.
Wilt thou devote this body to the earth: Thy lute-voie'd brother1 will I sing ere
And I do think that at my very birth long,
I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly; m And thou shalt aid-hast thou not aided
mef
For at the first, first dawn and thought of
thee,
736 With uplift hands I blest the stars of
heaven.
Art thou not cruel 1 Ever have I striven
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not
do !
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew
Favor from thee, and so I kisses gave
W To the void air, bidding them find out love •
But when I came to feel how far above
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,
All earthly pleasure, all imagin'd good,
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss,-
*« Even then, that moment, at the thought of
this,
Fainting I fell into ft bed of flowers, 786 A little onward ran the very stream
And languish 'd there three days Ye BJ **"* he took his first soft poppy
milder powers. dream ;
Am I not cruelly wrong'dl Believe, be- And on the very bark 'gainst which he
heve Ieant
Me, dear Endymion, were T to weave A crescent he had carv'd, and round it
TO With my own fancies garlands of sweet ^en\. . m
life, Ills skill in little stars. The teeming tree
Thou shouldst be one of all Ah, bitter 7RO Had swollen and green'd the pious char-
strife' aetery,
I may not be thy love • I am forbidden- But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a
Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity
Has been thy meed for many thousand
years;
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears,
Mourn 'd as if yet thou wert a forester;—
Forgetting the old tale.
_ . a «e did not shr
Hw «y<» *«>* the dead leaves, or one small
^ . P™8 . . t
Of joy he might have felt. The spmt
„ ^ JcJ"ls ^ 9 ^
i?f •**? Amaranth,8 when wild it strays
Through the old garden-ground rf boyish
Indeed I am-thwarted, affrighted, chid-
aeilf
By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath
Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went
henceforth
Ask me no more ! I may not utter it, .
Nor may I be thy love. We might commit
Ourselves at once to vengeance ; we might
"* dfe: V°InptUOU8
TT "lope
Up which he had not f ear'd the antelope ,
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade
He had not *** hls tamed leopards
w f.^ . f.
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin,
Fly in the air where his bad never been-
And yet he knew it not.
Why does fa. lady
her eye
And bid a long adieu
The Carian
No word return 'd: both lovelorn, silent,
smiles; delight is & her face;
„. _ . i.'l, . __.. .
7W Into the valleys green together vent
no
» A reference to RTperlon. wbom Keata tlrcad?
had In mind an the subject of a poem. Hype-
ri«> w«« not a brother of Endymion.
• An imaginary flower supposed never to fade
816 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIBTS '
"Dear brother mine ! And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said :
805 Endymion, weep not sol Why shouldst "I would have thee my only friend, sweet
them pine . maid!
When all great Latinos so exalt will bet 85° My only visitor! not ignorant though,
Thank the great gods, and look not bit- That those deceptions which for pteasure
terly; go
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no 'Mong men, fere pleasures leal as real may
more. be:
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store But there are higher ones I may not see,
810 Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. If impiously an earthly realm 1 take.
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, 855 Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful Night after night, and day by day, until
Be happy both of you I for I will pull Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill
The flowers of autumn for your coronals. Let it content thee, sister, seeing me
815 Pan's holy priest for young Endymion More happy than betides mortality.
calls; M0 A hermit young, 111 live in mossy cave,
And when he is restored, thou, fairest Where thou alone shalt come to me, and
dame, lave
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame Thy spirit in the wonders I shall telL
To see ye thus,— not very, very sadf Through me the shepherd realm shall pros-
Perbaps ye are too happy to be glad : per well ;
820 0 feel as if it were a common day ; For to thy tongue will I all health confide.
Pree-voicfd as one *ho never was away 86r» And, for my sake, let this young maid
No tonsrue shall ask, Whence come yet abide
but ye shall With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,
Be gods of your own rest imperial. Peona, mayst return to me I own
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry This may sound strangely: but when,
826 Into the hours that have pass'd us by, dearest giil,
Since in my arbor I did sing to thee. Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl
0 Hermes! on this very night will be 87° Will trespass down those cheeks. Com-
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light; panion fair!
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share
830 Good visions in the air,— whence wilt befall, This sister's love with met" Like one
As say these sages, health perpetual resign 'd
To shepherds and their flocks; and fur- And bent by circumstance, and thereby
thermore, blind
TnDian's face they read the gentle lore: In self-commitment, thus that meek un-
Therefore for liei these vesper-carols are. known :
836 Our friends will all be there from nigh 87B "Aye, but abu/zmgby my ears has flo\\n,
and far. Of jubilee to Diau •—truth I heard f
Many upon thy death have ditties made ; Well then, I see there is no little bird,
And many, even now, their foreheads Tender soever, but is Jove's own care.1
shade Long have I sought for rest, ancl, unaware,
With cypress,1 on a day of sacrifice 88<> Behold I find it ! so exalted too!
New sinking for our maids shalt thou de- So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew
vise, ' There was a place unlcnantcd in it :
840 And pluck the sorrow from our hunts- In that same void white Chastity shall sit,
men's brows. And monitor roe nightly to lone slumber.
Tell me, mv Indv-queen, how to espouse 885 With sanest lips I vow me to the number
This wayward brother to ins rightful joys 1 Of Dian 's sisterhood ; and, kind ladv,
His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst With thy good help, this very night shall
poise see
His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I My future days to her fane consecrate."
To lure— Endymion, dear brother, say As feels a dreamer what doth most create
What ails theef " He could beflar no more, **° His own particular fright, so these three
and so felt-
Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow. Or like one who, in after ages, knelt
lTbe ryprw* Is an emblem of mourning. * Ree JfoftRrie, 10 -29,
JOHN KEATS 817
To Lucifer or Baal, when he'd pine 93° Bows down his summer head below the
After a little sleep : or when in mine west
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his Now am I of breath, speech, and speed
friends possest,
895 -who know him not. Each diligently But at the setting I must bid adieu
bends To her for the last time. Night will
Towards common thoughts and things for strew
very fear; On the damp grass myriads of lingering
Striving1 their ghastly malady to cheer, leaves,
By thinking it a thing of yes and no, 935 And with them shall I die; nor much it
That housewives talk of. But the spirit- grieves
blow To die, when summer dies on the cold
900 Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the sward.
last Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord
Endymion said* "Are not our fates all Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly
cast! posies,
Why stand we heiet Adieu, ye tender Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor
pairl roses;
Adieu!" Whereat those maidens, with 94° My kingdom's at its death, and just it is
wild stare, That I should die with it • so in all this
Walk'd dimly away. Pained and hot We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak,
905 His eyes went after them, until they got woe,
Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly What is theie to plain oft By Titan's
maw, foe1
In one swift moment, would what then he T am but lightly seiv'd M So saying, he
saw 94>i Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful
Engulf foiever. "Stay!" lie cued, "ah glee;
stu> ' Laughing at the clear stream and setting
Turn, damsels! hist1 one word T have to sun,
say. As though they jests had been: nor had
910 Sweet Indian, T would sue thee once again. he done
It is a thing I dote on • so I'd lain, TTis laugh at nature's holy countenance,
Peona, ye should hand in hand repair Until that grove appeared, as if perchance,
Into those holv gio>e*», that silent aic *co And then his tongue with sober seem-
Behind great Plan *8 temple T '11 lie j on, lihed2
915 At Vespei's earliest twinkle— they are 0 a veutteinnceab lie entered: "Ha! I said,
crone— King of the buttci flic* , but by this gloom.
But once, once, once aarain—" At this lie And bv old Rhadamanthus' tongue of
pi ess M doom.
His hands acrahibt liis face, and then did Tins dusk religion, pomp of solitude,
rest °55 And the Piomethean day by thief en-
His head upon a mossy hillock gieen, dned,8
And so remain M as he a corpse had been Bv old Sat urn us' forelock, by his head
920 All the long day; save when he scantly Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed
lifted Myself to things of light from infancy;
His eyes abroad, to see how shadows And thus to be oast out, thus lorn to die,
shifted 96° Is sure enough to make a mortal man
With the slow move of time,— sluggish and Hi ow impious " So he inwardly began
weary On tinners for which wo wording can be
Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary, found :
Had reach 'd the river's brim. Then up he Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown fd
rose, Beyond the reach of music • for the choir
9215 And, slowly as that very river flows, q65 Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough
Walk'd towards the temple grove with this briar
lament • Nor muffling thicket interpos'd to dull
"Why such a golden eve! The breeze is t Juplt<ip.
Bent * wmlinew;
Careful and soft, that not a leaf inav fall * 'ttSST
Before the serene father of them all «tth lite
818
NINETEENTH GENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and
full,
Through the dark pillais of those sylvan
aisles
He saw not the two maidens, nor their
smiles,
970 Wan as primroses gather 'd at midnight
By chilly-finger 'd spring. "Unhappy
wight!
Endymion!" said Peona, "we aie here1
What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on
biert"
Then he embiac'd her, and his lady's hand
976 Press 'd, saying "Sister, J would have
command,
If it were heaven 's will, on our sad fate "
At which that dark-eyed stranger stood
elate
And said, in a new voice, but sweet as
love,
To Endymion 's amaze "Bv Cupid's
dove,
98<> And so thou shalt ' and by the lily truth
Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved
youth!"
And as she spake, into her face there came
Light, as reflected from a silver flame
Her long black hair swell 'd amplei in
display
985 full golden , in her eyes a brighter day
Dawn'd blue and full of love Aye, he
beheld
Phoebe, his passion f -joyous she upheld
Her lucid bow, continuing thus "Drear
drear
Has our delaying been , but foolish fear
'"° Withheld me first, and then decrees of
fate;
And then 'twas fit that from this mortal
state
Thou shouldst, mv love, by some unlock 'd-
for change
Be spiritualized Peona, we shall range
These forests, and to thee they safe shall
be
105 As was thy cradle, hither shalt thou flee
To meet us many a time " Next Cynthia
bright
Peona kiss'd, and bless 'd with fair good
night
Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt
adown
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon
1000 She gave her fair hands to him, and be-
hold,
Before three swiftest kisses he had told,
They vanish 'd far away!— Peona went
Home through the gloomy wood in wonder-
ment.
ISABELLA; OB THE POT OP BASIL'
A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO'
1818 1820
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love 9s eye !3
They could not in the self-same mansion
dwell
Without some stir of heait, some mal-
ady,
They could not sit at meals but feel how
well
It soothed each to be the other by,
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof
sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
2 With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still ;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing
fill,
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden
nil,
Her lute-string ga\e an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the
same
3 He knew whose gentle hand was at the
latch
Before the door had given her to his
eyes,
And from her chamber-window he would
catch
Her beauty farther than the falcon
spies,
And constant as her \espers would he
watch,
Because her face was turn'd to the same
skies;
And with sick longing all the night out-
wear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair
4 A whole long month of May in this sad
plight
Made their cheeks paler by the break of
June*
"Tomorrow will I bow to my delight,
Tomorrow will I ask my lady 's boon. 9 '—
"0 may I never see another night,
Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's
tune."—
So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,
Honeyless days and days did he let pass;
* An aromatic ihrubby plant
• From The Decameron, 4, 6.
8 That la, a votary of Love
JOHN KEATS 819
6 Until sweet Isabella's un touch 'd cheek 10 Parting, they seem'd to tread upon the
Fell sick within the rose 's just domain, air,
Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart
seek Only to meet again more close, and share
By every lull to cool her infant's pain: The inward fragrance of each other's
"How ill she is," said he, "I may not heart.
speak ; She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair
And yet I will, and tell my love all Sang, of delicious love and honey 'd dart;
plain : He with light steps went up a western hill,
If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his
tears, fill.
And at the least 'twill startle off her
cares " 11 All close they met again, beiore the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant
6 So said he one fair morning, and all day rod,
His heart beat awfully against his side : All close they met, all eves, before the dusk
And to his heart he inwardly did pray Had taken from the stars its pleasant
For power to speak; but still the ruddy .veil, .,.,.,
{lde * Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
Stifled his voice, and puls'd resolve away- Unknown of any, free from whispering
Fever'd his high conceit of bueh a bride, tala
Yet brought him to the meekness of a Ah! better had it been forever so,
child: Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.
A las ! when passion is both meek and wild '
r 12 Were they unhappy then t— It cannot be—
7 So once more he had wak'd and anguished T°° ™JST teare *>r *"» *™ been
-here she eeas'd her timul Es^pt|, ™ JTh * P8ge where Tbe8eus'
But m heftone and look he lead the «*l Over the pathless waves tc^mis hm, bows
_ _ _ 13 But, for the general award of love,
8 "O Isabella, I can half perceive The httle ^eet doth ^u wch bitter-
That I may speak my gnef into thine ncgg.
ear, Though Dido silent is in under-grove,
If thou didst e\er anything believe, And Isabella's was a great dishess,
Believe how I love thee, believe how near Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian
My soul fc to its doom • I would not gne\ e dove
Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would Was not emDalm'd, this truth is not the
not fear less—
Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live Even b^ the Kttle aim^en of
Another nitrht, and not my passion shrive. bowers,
Know there is richest juice in poison-
9 "Love! thou art leading me from wintrv floweis.
cold,
Lady ' thou leaded me to summer clune, 14 With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
And I must taste the blossoms that unfold Enriched from ancestral merchandize,
In its ripe warmth this gracious morn- And for them many a weary hand did
ing time." welt
So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, In torched mines and noisy factories,
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : t . wa-efl
Great bliss was with them, and great hap- « Ariadne She aided Theseus in finding his
w e way <mt of thc labyrinth and fled wjt£ hlm
pmess to the island of Nazos, where she was ithan-
Grew, like a lusty flower in June's care** donod. <o<ryM«y, 11, 321 ff )
820 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIGIBT8
And many once proud-quiver 'd loins did Into their vision covetous and sly!
melt How could these money-bags see east
In blood from stinging whip j— with hoi- and west T—
low eyes Yet so they did— and every dealer fair
Many all day in dazzling river stood, Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.
To take the nch-ored drif tings of the flood.
19 O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!
16 For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, Of thee we now should ask forgiving
And went all naked to the hungry shark , boon,
For them his ears gush'd blood; for them And of thy spicy myrtle* as they blow,
in death And of thy roses amorous of the moon,
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark And of thy lilies, that do paler grow
Lay full of darts; for them alone did Now they can no more hear thy ghit-
seethe tern's1 tune,
A thousand men in troubles wide and For venturing syllables that ill beseem
dark * Th* quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.
Half -ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel,
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and 20 Grant them a pardon here, and then the
peel. tale
Shall move on soberly, as* it is meet ,
16 Why were they proud 1 Because their There is no other crime, no mad assail
marble founts To make old prose in modern rhyme
Gufch'd with more pride than do a more sweet
wretch's tears f— But it is done— succeed the verse or fail—
Why were they proud T Because fair To honor thee, and thy gone spii it greet,
orange-mounts To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,
Were of more soft ascent than lazar An echo of thee in the north-wind sung
stairs?1—
Why were they proud! Because red- 21 These brethren having found by many
hn'd accounts sign*
Were richer than the songs of Grecian What love in^uio for their S18ter had>
TITV yea™T~ ,. 1,1 And how shc lov'd him too, each uncon-
Why were they proud T again we ask aloud, flneg
Why in the name of Glory were they Hls bettcr tnougilts to other „ h
proud » mad
__ ,- .. . That he, the sen-ant of their trade designs,
17 let were these Florentines as self-retired Should in their sistei's love be blithe
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, ancj gia<jf
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, \viien 'twas their plan to coax her by
Paled in3 and vmeyarded from beggai- degrees
spies; To some high noble and his olive-trees
The hawks of ship-mast forests8— the un-
tired 22 And many a jealous conference had they,
And panmer'd mules for ducats and old And many tllnP8 they blt their hpg alon£
- . , hc*T .. , Before they flx'd upon a surest way
Quick rat s-paws on the generous stray- TO make the youngster for his crime
away,— atone:
Great wits m Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. And at the last, these men of cruel clay
10 „ . .. . , .. ful Meiry with a sharp knife to the
18 How was it these same ledger-men could bone,
™-- *?y v 11 t. j * • For they reboh ^ in some £ore8t &™
Fair Isabella in her downy nestl To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.
How could they find put in Lorenzo 's eye
A straying from his toilt Hot Egypt's 28 So on a pleasant morning, as he leant
P68* Into the sunrise, o 'er the balustrade
ifaoipitalrtalri •enclosed Of th\ garden-terrace, towards him they
•They take advantage of trading Teneli in bent
* Swarms of flic* See Eased**, 8 21. *A itrlnged instrument dmllar to a guitar.
JOHN KEATS 821
Their footing through the dews; and to The brothers9 faces in the ford did seem,
him said, Lorenzo's flush with love.— They pass'd
11 You seein there m the quiet of content, the water
Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.
Calm speculation , but if you are wise,
Bestride your steed while cold is in the 28 There was Lorenzo slam and buried in,
skies. There in that forest did his great lo\e
cease,
24 "Today we purpose, aye, this hour we Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,
mount It aches in loneliness— is ill at peace
To spur three leagues towards the Apen- As the break-covert bloodhounds of such
nine , sin :
Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun They dipptf their swords in the water,
count and did tease
His dewy rosary on the eglantine " Their horses homeward, with convulsed
Lorenzo, couiteously as he was wont, spur,
Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' Each richer by hib being a murderer.
whine ,
And went in haste, to get in readiness, 29 They told their sister how, with sudden
With belt, and spur, and bracing hunts- speed,
man's dress. Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign
lands,
25 And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, Because of some great urgency and need
Each third step did he pause, and hs- In their affairs, requiring trusty hands
ten M oft Poor girl1 put on thy stifling widow's
If he could hear his lady's matin-song, weed,1
Or the light whisper of her footstep And 'scape at once from Hope's ac-
soft; cursed bands;
And as he thus over his passion hung, Today thou wilt not see him, nor to-
He heard a laugh full musical aloft; morrow,
When, looking up, he saw her features And the next day will be a day of sorrow
bright
Smile through an in-door lattice, all de- 30 She weeps alone for pleasures not to be,
light. Sorely she wept until the night came on,
And then, instead of Uve, 0 misery !
26 "Love, Isabel'" Raid he, "I was in pain She brooded o'er the luxury alone:
Lest I should miss to bid thee a good His image m tjie dusk she seem'd to see,
morrow * And to the silence made a gentle moan,
Ah ' what if I should lose thee, when so Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,
fain And on her couch low murmuring ' ' Where 1
I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 0 where f"
Of a poor three hours' absence f but we'll
gain SI But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not
Out of the amorous dark what day doth long
borrow. Its fiery vigil in her single breast ;
Good bye1 I'll soon be back."— "Good She fretted for the golden hour, and hung
bye1" said she:— Upon the time with feverish unrest—
And as he went she chanted merrily. Not long— for soon into her heart a throng
Of higher occupants, a richer zest,
27 So the two brothers and their murder 'd Came tragic*, passion not to be subdued,
man And sorrow for her love in travels rude
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's
stream 32 In the mid days of autumn, on their eves
Gurgles through straiten 'd banks, and still The breath of winter comes from far
doth fan away,
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the And the sick west continually bereaves
bream Of some gold tinge, and plays a rounde-
Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and lay
wan » garment; attlr*
822 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Of death among the boshes and the leaves. With love, and kept all phantom fear
To make all bare before he dares to stray aloof
From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel From the poor girl by magic of their light,
By gradual decay from beauty fell, The while it did unthread the horrid
woof
33 Because Lorenzo came not Oftentimes Of the late darken M time,— the murder-
She osk'd her brothers, with an eye all ous spite
pale, Of pnde and avarice,— the dark pine
Striving- to be itself, what dungeon climes roof
Could keep him off so longf They spake In the forest,— and the sodden turfed dell,
a tale Where, without any word, from stabs he
Time after tune, to quiet her. Their crimes fell
Came on them, like a smoke from Hin-
nom's vale; 38 Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet!
And every night in dreams they groan M lied whortleberries droop above my
aloud, head,
To see their sister in her snowy shroud And a large flint-stone weighs upon my
feet;
34 And she had died in drowsy ignorance, Around me beeches and high chestnuts
But foi a thing more deadly dark than shed
all; Their lea\es and puckly nuts, a sheep-
It came like a fierce potion, drunk by fold bleat
chance, Comes fiom beyond the nver to my bed
Which saves a sick man from the feath- Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
er'd pall ^ And it shall coinloit me within the tomb
For some few gasping moments; like a
lance, 39 " I am a shadow now, alas » alas »
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall Upon the skirts of human nature dwell-
With ciuel pierce, and bunging him again ing
Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and Alone : I chant alone the holy mass,
biam. While little sounds oi hie aie lound me
knelling,
35 It was a vision —In the drowsy gloom, And glossy bees at noon do field* ard pass,
The dull of midnight, at hei couch's foot And many a chapel bell the hour is
Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb telling,
Had marr'd his glossy hair which once Paining ine through these sounds grow
could shoot ( stiange to me,
Lust ic into the sun, and put cold doom And thou art distant in Humanity
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute
From his lorn voice, and past his loamed 40 "I know n hat Mas, I feel full well what is,
ears And I should iage, if spirits could go
Had made a miry channel for his tears mad ;
Though I f 01 get the taste of earthly bliss,
36 Strange sound it was, when the pale That paleness warms my grave, as
shadow spake; though I had
For there was striving, in its piteous A seraph chosen from the bi ight abyss
tongue, To be my spouse- thy paleness makes
To speak as when on earth it was awake, me glad ;
And Isabella on its music hung: Thy beauty prows upon me, and I feel
Languor there was in it, and tremulous A greater love through all ray essence
shake, ' steal."
As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung;
And through it moan'd a ghostly under- 41 The Spirit mourn M " Adieu'"— dissolved
song, ~ and left
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
among. As when of healthful midnight sleep be-
reft,
37 Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless
bright toil,
JOHN KEATS 823
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, Ah ! thia is holiday to what was felt
And see the spangly1 gloom froth up When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt
and boil:
It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 46 She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as
And in the dawn she started up awake; t though
One glance did fully all its secrets tell;
48 "Ha! ha!" said she, "I knew not this Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know
hard life, Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;
I thought the worst was simple misery; Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to
I thought some Fate with pleasure or with grow,
strife Like to a native lily of the dell :
Portion 9d us— happy days, or else to Then with her knife, all sudden, she began
die; To dig more fervently than misers can.
But there is crime— a brother's bloody
knife! 47 Soon she turn M up a soiled glove, whereon
Sweet Spirit, thou hast school M my in- Her silk had play'd in purple phan-
f ancy : tables,
I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than
And greet thee morn and even in the stone,
skies.91 And put it in her bosom, where it dries
And freezes utterly unto the bone
43 When the full morning came, she had de- Those dainties made to still an infant's
visM cries:
How she might secret to the forest hie, Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her
How she might find the clay, so dearly care,
priz'd. But to throw back at times her veiling hair.
And sing to it one latest lullaby;
How her short absence might be uribiir- 48 That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
misM, Until her heart felt pity to the core
While she the inmost of the dream would At sight of such a dismal laboring,
try. And so she kneeled, with her locks all
ResolvM, she took with her an aired nurse, hoar,
And went into that dismal forest-hearse. And put her lean hands to the horrid thing :
Three hours they labor M at this travail
44 See, as they creep along the river side, soic,
How she doth whisper to that aged dame, At last they felt the kernel of the grave,
And, after looking round the champaign-' And Isabella did not stamp and rave.
wide,
Shows her a knife. — "What feverous 49 Ah! wherefore all this wormy circnm-
hectic flame stance t
Burns in thee, child t — What good can Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?
thee betide, O for the gentleness of old Romance,
That thou should 9st smile again V— The simple plaining1 of a minstrel's
The evening came, song!
And they had found Lorenzo 9a earthy bed . Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,
The flint was there, the bemes at his head For heie, in truth, it doth not well belong
To speak .—0 turn thee to the very tale,
46 Who hath not loiter M in a green church- And taste the music of that vision pale
yard,
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 50 With duller steel than the Persian sword2
Work through the clayey soil and gravel They cut away no formless monster's
hard, head,
To see skull, coffin M bones, and funeral But one, whose gentleness did well accord
stole; With death, as life. The ancient harps
Pitying each form that hungiy Death hath have said,
marr'dt 1*we never dies, but lives, immortal Lord
And filling it once more with human If Love impersonate was e\er dead.
SOUll i meiody
*iihlnlnff •lerelfleW 'The sword with which Penwnii slew Medusa,
824 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8TS
Pale Isabella kisa'd it, and low moan'd. Spirits in grief! lift up your heads, and
Twas love; cold,— dead indeed, but not smile;
dethron'd. loft up your heads, sweet Spirits,
heavily,
51 In anxious secrecy they took it home, * And make a pale light in your cypre^1
And then the prize was all for Isabel : glooms,
She calm'd its wild hair with a golden Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.
comb,
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 56 Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared From the deep throat of sad Melpomene I
«,. , m ., , . . „ Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, And touch the btnngs into a mystery;
She drench 'd away:— and still she comb 'd, Sound mournfully upon the winds and
and kept low ;
Sighing all day-and still she kiss'd, and For gimpie fobd is soon to be
wept. Among the dead : she withers, like a palm
. Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.
62 Then in a silken scarf,— sweet with the
"
Through the cold serpent-pipe' refresh- Jt may ^ ^.^^ Batthte8 o£ pe,f
She it up; and for its ton* did
5 set Amoher kindred, wonder'd that such
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet Qf youth and ^^ AaM ^ thrown
53 And site forgot the stars, the moon, and B one'mark'd out to be a noble's bride.
sun,
58 And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd
much
j_ne " * And why it nourish 'd, at. by magic touch;
And the new mom she saw not: but in ^^'*1 ^ **" *"*
Hun* oW her sweet Basil evermore, ^ could n°t 8urelv &™ ****• *>"* "«*
And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. A veiv nothmS would uave P«w« to
wean
64 And to she ever fed it with thin tears, 1Ier f™b"°™ fair y°uth« and Plca8*
WITiS*' Mld gnUf "Dd beaUt'fnl And even remembraneeof her love'sdelay.
So that il smelt more balmy than its peeis _ ......
Of Bawl-tnfts in Florence; for it diew B9 Therefore they watch 'd a time when they
Nurture besides, and life, from human _ . mipht sift
fearg This hidden whim; and long they
Prom the' fart mouldering head there J5"tehJdJin, wnl ,.
shut from view • P«T ««*" dld. *• »» to chapel-shrift,
So that the jewel, safely casketed, . A,nd "Mom felt she any hun^r-pam ;
Came forth, and in perfumed leaflts spread. And wtin Ae left, site burned back, as
swift
55 0 Melancholy, linger here awhile!
0 Music, Music, breathe despondfagly! . .
0 Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, Bwide her BllBl1' **V** through her hair.
Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh ! , ^ ^^ h an ^^ rf M<m „ „
a common tree in graveyards
1 A plpp nied In distilling llqnldR. BWonhIpera of pelf, an pagani worahlpad BaaL
JOHN KEATS
60 Yet they contnv'd to steal the Basil-pot,
And to examine it in secret place ;
The thing was vile with green and livid
spot.
And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's
face:
The guerdon of their murder they had gut,
And so left Florence in a moment's
space,
Never to turn again.— Away they went,
With blood upon their heads, to banish-
ment.
61 0 Melancholy, turn thins eyes away!
0 Music, Music, breathe despondmgly!
0 Echo, Echo, on some other day,
From isles Lethean, sigh to us— 0 sigh !
Spirits of grief, sing not your "Well-a-
way!"
For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;
Will die a death too lone and incomplete,
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet
62 Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless
things,
Asking for her lost Basil amorously ,
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would
cry
After the pilgrim in his wanderings,
To ask him where her Bawl was, and
why
'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tto,M
Miid she,
"To steal my Basil-pot away from me "
63 And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
Imploring for her Basil to the last.
No heart was there in Florence but did
mourn
In pity of her love, so overcast.
And a sad ditty of this story born
From mouth to mouth through all the
country para'd:
Still is the burthen sung — "0 cruelty,
To steal my Basil-pot away from me!"
TO HOMER
1818 1848
Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,
As one who sits ashore and longs perchance
To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.
* So thou wast blind;— but then the veil
was rent,
For Jove uncurtain 'd Heaven to let thee
live,
And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,
And Pan made sing for thee his forest-
hive;
Ay on the shores of darkness there is light,
10 And precipices show untrodden green,
There is a budding morrow in midnight,
There is a triple sight in blindness keen ;
Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel
To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven,
and Hell.
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA
1818 1848
Mother of Hermes! and still youthful
Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymned on the shores of
Or may 1 woo thee
6 In earlier Sicilian f ] or thy smiles
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian
isles,
By bards \ilio died content on pleasant
sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clanf
O, give me their old vigor, and unheard
10 Save of the quiet primrose, and the span
Of heaven and few ears,
Rounded by thee, my song should die away
Content as theirs,
Rich in the simple worship of a day.
TO A1LBA ROCK
1818 1819
Hearken, them craggy ocean pyramid!
Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls9
screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge
streams f
When, from the sun, was thy broad fore-
head hidt
5 How long is 't since the mighty power bid
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom
dreams f
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,
Or when gray clouds are thy cold cover-
lid.
Thou answer 'st not; for thou art dead
asleep;
10 Thy life is but two dead eternities—
The last in air, the former in the deep;
First with the whales, last with the eagle-
skies—
Drown 'd wast thou till an earthquake made
thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant size.
> Hal* and Sicily were both Greek colonies.
NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
FANCY
1818 1820
Ever let the Fancy roam.
Pleasure never is at home.
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when ram pelteth ,
5 Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond
her
Open wide the nuud '& cage-door.
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
0 sweet Fancy! let her loose,
10 Summer's juys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the spring
Fades as does its -blossoming,
Autumn's red-hpp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
15 Cloys with tasting. What do then!
Sit thee by the ingle,1 when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
20 And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ,a
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky
86 Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overaw'd,
Fancy, high-commission 'd —send her!
She has vassals to attend her*
She will bring, in spite of frost,
*0 Beauties that the earth hath lost,
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather ;
AU the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray ,
36 All the heaped autumn 's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth -
She will mrr these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it •— thou shalt hear
40 Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn ,8
' Sweet birds antheming the morn :
And, in the same moment— hark!
'Tis the early April lark,
45 Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the mangold;
White-plum 'd lilies, and the first
50 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ,
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self -same shower.
« Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin ,
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
60 Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest ; s
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ,
66 Acorns npe down-pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing.
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Every thing is spoilt by use .
Where's the eheek that doth nut fade,
70 Too much gaz'd atf Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever newt
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary f Where's the face
One would meet in every placet
75 Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so \ery oftt
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
80 Thee a mistress to thy mind •
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,1
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide,
With a waist and with a side
86 White as Hebe's, when her zone2
Shpt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid.— Break the mesh
90 Of the Fancy's silken leash ,
Quickly break her prison-string
And such joys as these she'll bring.—
Let the winged Fancy roam.
Pleasure never is at home.
1819
ODE
1820
'fireplace
•wbeat
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions newt
5 Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon ;
With the noise of fountains wond'rous,
And the parle8 of voices thund 'rous ;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
10 And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
whom Pluto carried M hi* bride to
worw>
' parley ;dlsconr»e
JOHN KEATS
827
Brows 'd by none bat Dian'b lawns;1
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
10 And the rose herself has got
Perfume whieh on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing.
But divine melodious truth,
20 Philosophic numheis smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven nnd its mysteries
Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ,
26 And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying.
Never slumber 'd, never cloying
Here, your earth-bom souls still speak
™ To mortals, of their little week,
Of their sorrows and delights,
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their <<hame;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
3"» Thus ye teach us, e>ery day.
Wisdom, though fled fai away
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Ye have souls in heaven too,
40 Double-lived in legions newf
ODE ON MELANCHOLY
1820
10
No, no i go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane,2 tight-rooted, for its poi-
sonous wine ,
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'il
By nightshade, ruby grape of Prohei-
pine;
6 Make not your rosary of yew-bernes,8
Nor let the beetle,4 nor the death-moth5
be
Your mournful Psyche,0 nor the
downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too
drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of
the sonl
* The fawn was Diana's favorite animal.
•A kind of poisonous plant
•The yew IB an emblem of mourning
« The sacred beetle of Egypt was regarded at a
symbol of the resurrection of the soul, and
*AWmo£ttwlth marking!* *h!ch resembled the
human skull.
11 Psyche, the nonl. *as RymboMred hv the hut-
terfly(
But when the melancholy fit shall fail
Sudden from heaven like a weeping
cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April
shroud;
15 Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-
wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her
rave,
20 And feed deep, deep upon her peer-
less eyes
She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that
must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth
sips:
25 Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran
shrine,
Though wen of none save him whose
strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his pal-
ate fine;
His soul shall ta*te the sadness of her
might,
80 And be among her cloudy trophies
hung
ODE ON A GRECIAN UBJN
1819 1820
Thou still unravish'd bnde of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow
time,
Sylvan historian,1 who canst thus expiess
A flowery tale more sweetly than our
rhyme:
•~' What teaf-fring'd legend haunts about
thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both.
In Tempe or the dales of Arcadyf
What men or gods are these f What
maidens lothf
What mad pursuit f What struggle to
escape f
10 What pipes and timbrels f What
wild ecstasy!
Heard melodies are swtet, but those un-
heard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,
pity on;
< hlstortan of «eme» of tb« wood
828
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Not to the sensual ear,1 but, more en-
dear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone •
18 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst
not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be
bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou
kiss,
Though winning near the goal— yet, do
not grieve,
She cannot fade, though thou hast not
thy bliss,
*> Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot
*°
Thou shaft remain, in midst of other
woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom
thou say'rt,
' ' Beauty is truth, truth beauty, " that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to
know.1
Tour leaves, nor ever bid the spring
adieu*
' unwearied
ODE ON INDOLENCE
1319 1848
They toll Dot, neither do they
One morn before me were three figures
seen,
With bowed necks, and joined hands,
. , side-fac'd ;
**& one behmd tte ottier stepp'd serene,
T* Pjacid sandals, »nd m white robes
^'ac '
Thev PaB8'd' 1Jw figures on a marble urn,
When shlfted round to see the other
>
n More happy love! more happy, happy
Forever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
Forever panting, and forever young;
ThaTleaves a^beart higb^Borrowf 'ul°and
clov M
» A burning forehead, and a parching
tongue.
™* mo«
Is shifted^ound, the first seen shades re-
And».tht<T were t*nae^ to me» as >«•?
Detide
" W.ltb "8C8' to <«« deep in Phidmn
Jore<
0»,
To what green altar, 0 mysterious Wai, it a silent deep-disguised plot
that heifer lowing at the „
silken oanks with garlands
drestT less and less*
b «npMd rf thi. folk, tbi. piou.
mom T
sense
Why than art desolate, can e'er re-
tura>
0 Attic shape! Pair attitude! with brede2
Of marble men and maidens over-
wrought,
With forest branches and the trodden
weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of
thought
« Asdoth eternity. Cold pastoral !»
When old age shall this generation waste,
A third time pass 'd they by, and, passing,
turn 'd
Each one the face a moment whiles to
me.
Then faded, and to follow them I burn 'd
And ach'd for wings because I knew the
three;
23 The first was a fair maid, and Love her
name ;
The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
JOHN KEATS
829
And ever watchful with fatigued eye ,
The last, whom I love more, the more of
blame
le heap'd upon her, maiden most un-
meek,—
80 I knew to be my demon1 Poesy.
They faded, and, forsooth' I wanted
wing* •
O folly! What is Lovet and where
isitl
And for that poor Ambition ! it springs
From a man's little heart's short fever-
fit;
85 For Poesy!— no,— she has not a joy,—
At least for me,— so sweet as drowsy
noons,
And evenings steep M in honied indo-
lence ;
0, for an age so shelter M from annoy,
That I may never know how change the
moons,
40 Or hem the voice of bu*y common-
sen^1
And once more came they by,— alas'
wheieloret
My sleep had been embroider 'd with
dim di earns
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
With flo*en», and stirring shades, and
baffled beam*.
45 The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
Tho' m her lids hung the sweet tears of
May,
The open casement press M a new-
leav'd vine,
Let in the budding warmth and
thiohtle's lay,
0 fchndowh1 'twas a time to bid fare\velP
BO Upon youi skirts had fallen no teais
of mine
So, ye three ghosts, adieu* Ye cannot
lily head cool-bedded in the flnueiy
grass,
For I would not be dieted with praise.
A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce'
56 Fade softly fiom my eyes, and be once
more
In masque-like figures on the dreamy
urn;
Farewell ! I yet have visions for the
night,
And for the day faint visions there is
store;
i guardian spirit
Vanish, ye phantoms' from my idle
sprighty
60 Into the clouds, and nevermore return I
• •••*••
LA BELLE DAME 8AN8 MERCT
1819 1820
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,8
Alone and palely loitering ,
The sedge is wither 'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
6 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begonef
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest 's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
10 With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful-a faery's child;
15 Her hair was long, her loot was light.
And her eyes were wild
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
20 A faery's song.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone,8
She look 'd at me as she did lo\ e,
And made sweet moan
26 She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language stiange she said.
11 1 love thee true."
She took me to her elfin grot,
30 And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes—
So kiss 'd to sleep
And there we slumber 'd on the moss,
And there I dream 'd-ah ' woe betide !-
36 The latest dream I ever dream 'd
On the cold hillside.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who ery'd-"La Belle Dame sans Merci
4° Hath thee in thrall 'M
' Tho Beautiful Lady Without Pltv See Keata'a
The A'ra of 8t Aottr*. 1 1 (p K4fl).
• ponum , creature J girdle ; belt
V
880 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
I saw their starv 'd lips in the gloam TO
With horrid warning gaped wide, **** **&
And I awoke, and found me here 0 ^f t embalmer of the still mkuu^,
On the cold hillside. Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
.. . • . „ Our gloom-pleas 'd eyes, embower 'd from
45 And this is why I sojourn here the light,
Alone and palely loitering, Enshaded in f orgetf ulness divine :
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, 6 0 soothest Sleep' if so it please llu>e,
And no birds sing close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing
ON FAME ~ ^y68*
1*19 1848 Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling chanties.
Ton cannot eat your cake and have it too Then save me, or the passed day will shine
10 Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
How fe\er'd is the man, who cannot look Save me from curious conscience, that still
Upon his mortal days with temperate lords
blood, 1 1 s st rength for darkness, burrowing like a
Who vexes all the leaves of his life 's book, mole ;
And robs its fair name of its maidenhood ; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
3 It is as if the rose should pluck herself, And seal the hushed casket of my soul
Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom.
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, ODE TO PSYCHE
Should darken her pure grot with muddy 1819 182°
gloom: 0 Goddess! hear those tuneless numbers,
But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, wrung
10 For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, By sweet enforcement and remembrance
And the npe plum still wears its dun attire, dear,
The undisturbed lake has crystal [*Pace> And paidon that thy secrets should l>e
Why then should man, teasing the world 8ung,
a „ ,for SJ1"*' « - . ,tl Even into thine own soft-conched1 eai •
Spoil his salvation for a fierce imscreedT1 5 surety i dreamt today, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken 'd eyes!
ANOTHER ON FAME l ******* * a ^t thoughtlessly,
2819 1848 Andi an the sudden, fainting with sur-
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be eoy Raw two"Sir creatuies, couched side by
To those who woo her with too slavish BM]e J
knees, 10 Jn deepest grass, beneath the whis-
Hut makes surrender to some thoughtless p'ring roof
A ^^u i. ^ * Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where
And dotes the more upon a heart at ea*e . there ran
5 Sle ^a GWr™!ln^IX*!C *? *%? > A brooklet' •»» ^P'"1
Who have not learnt to be content without
A .Wt!1 whose ear was never whisper'd '** ^ ^^^ fl™ '"*»«*-
Who £& they scandal her who I* >. rSS^fSSS^^^
about her; grass;
^ 4.lpil7.0!Mr 1S *!he: ^S"*?1?' , Their arms embiaoed, and their pinions
10 Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;2 too;
Ye love-sick bards, repay her worn for Their lips touch 'd not, but had not bade
scorn, adieu,
Ye artists lovelorn, madmen tfcat ye are • As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber.
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, And ready still past kisses to outnumber
Then, if she like* it, she will follow you 20 At tender eye-dnwn of aurorean love :
tfbelMhaned
9 'with buds of Tyilnn purplo
JOHN KEATS
881
The winged boy I knew;
Bat who wast thou, 0 happy, happy
do vet
His Psyche true!
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy'
Fairer than Phoebe 'b sapphire-region 'd
star,
Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the
Fairer than these, though temple thou
hast none,
Nor altar heapM with flowers;
80 Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense
sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shune, no grove, no oracle, no heat
85 Of pale-mouth M prophet dreaming.
0 brightest! though too late for antique
vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing
lyre.
When holy were the haunted forest
boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
40 Yet e\en in tlie*e days so far letir'd
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the famt Olympians,
1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
46 Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense
bweet
From Rwinged censer teeming;
Thy shnne, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth fd prophet dreaming
60 Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown
with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the
wind*
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster 'd
trees
66 Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep
by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds.
and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to
sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
80 With the wreath 'd trellis of a working
brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without
a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could
feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed
the same-
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
6"' That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at
night,
To let the warm Love in !
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
2819 1819
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness
pains
My sense, as though of hemlock1 I had
drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had
sunk:
6 Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happi-
ness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the
trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beecheu green, and shadows number-
10 Smgcst of summer in full-throated
0 for a draught of vintage ! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved
eaith,
Tasting of Flora and the country green.
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-
burnt mirth f
16 0 for a beaker full of the uarm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippo-
crene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the
brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might dunk, and leave the world
unseen,
-° And with thee fade away into the
forest dim •
Fade far away, dis&ohe, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never
knout n,
The weanncs*, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit land hear each othei
prroan,
26 Where palsy «hakes a few, sad, last gnn
hairs.
1 A drug made from the leaves or fruit of the
poifton hemlock tree
832
NINETEENTH CENTURA BOMANTIOIBTS
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-
thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of
sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous
eyes,
™ Or new Love pine at them beyond to-
morrow.
Away I away I for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his
pards,1
But on the viewless2 wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and
retards:
85 Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
throne,
Cluster M around by all her starry
fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the
breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and wind-
ing mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
60
^
70
40
In sueh an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thon sing, and I have ears
in vain-
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal
bird I
NO hungry generations tread thee down ;
The voice I hear this passing night was
heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown :
Peihaps the self -same song that found a
path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when,
sick for home,
She. stood in tears amid the alien
corn;1
The same that oft-times hath
Charm 'd magic casements, opening on
the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands for-
lorn •
Forlorn » the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole
self I
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 75 Adieu' adieu* thy plaintive anthem fades
boughs,
But, in embalmed3 darkness, guess each
sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month en-
dows
45 The grass, the thicket, and the f nut-tree
wild,
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eg-
Ian tine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in
leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming: musk-rose, full of dewy
** rm_ wme' ._ . * a
50 The murmurous hnunt of flies on
summei eves
Darkling T listen ; and, for many a time
T have been half in love with easeful
Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused
rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath ;
55 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no
pain,
Past the near meadows, over the still
stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried
deep
In the next valley-glades •
Was it a vision, or a waking dreamt
80 Fled is that music-— do I wake or
sleep f
LAMIA
jg/p 182o
FART I
Upon a time, before the faery broods
Drove Nymph and Sat £^m the
peroug woodg>
Before King Oberon's bright diadem,
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp 'd with dewy
gem,
6 Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns
From rushes green, and brakes,* and cow-
shp'd lawns,
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous
theft:
From high Olympus had he stolen light,
,
While thou art pouring forth thy 10 On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape
soul abroad the sight
t leopardi
» In visible
• balmy
» wheat (S«e R*th, 2.)
• thickets
JOHN KEATS
Of his great summoner, and made retreat
Into a forest on the shores of Crete.
For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs
knelt;
« At whose white feet the languid Tritons
pour'd
Pearls, while on land they withered and
ador'd.
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was
wont,
And in those meads where sometime she
might haunt,
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to toy
Muse,
20 Though Fancy's casket were unlock 9d to
choose.
Ah, what a world of love was at her feet'
So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat
Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,
That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,
25 Blush 'd into roses 'hjid his golden hair,
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulder?
bare
From vale to vale, from wood to wood,
he flew,
Breathing upon the flowers his passion
new,
And wound with many a river to its head,
80 To find -where this sweet nymph prepared
her secret bed :
In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere
be found,
And so he rested, on the lonely ground,
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very
35 Theic as he stood, he heard a mournful
voice,
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, do-
st rov*
All pain but pity: thus the lone voice
spake:
"When from this wreathed tomb shall I
awake!
When move in a sweet body fit for life,
40 And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy
strife
Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! "
The God, dove-footed, glided silently
Round himh and tree, soft-brushing, in
his speed,
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,
45 Until he found a palpitating snake,
Bright, and cirque-couchant1 in a dn>ky
brake.
» coiled
She was a gordian shape1 of dazzling
hue.
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ;
Strip 'd like a zebra, freckled like a paid,-1
BO Ey'd like a peacock, and all crimson
barr'd;
And full of silver moons, that, as she
breath M,
Dissolv'd, or brighter shone, or inter-
wreath 'd
Their lustres with the gloomier tapes-
tries—
So rainbow-sided, touch 'd with miseries,
66 She seem'd, at once, some penanc'd lady
elf,
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's
self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's hai *
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet f
60 She had a woman's mouth with all it«
pearls complete-
And for her eyes— what could such eyes
do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born
so fnirt
As Prwerpine still weeps for her Sicilian
air*
Her throat was serpent, but the words she
spake
*B Came, as throuqh bubbling honey, for
Love's sake,
And thus; while Hermes on his pinions
lay,
Like a stoop 'd falcon ere he takes Ins
prev.
"Fair Hermes, crown 'd with feathers,
fluttering light,
I had a splendid dream of thee last night:
70 I saw thee sitting, on ft throne of gold,
Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,
The only sad one; for thou didst not hear
The soft, lute-finger 'd Muses chanting
clear,
Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,
75 Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long
melodious moan.
I dreamt I saw thee, rob'd in purple flakes,
Break amorous through the clouds, as
morning breaks,
And, swiftly as a bright Phcebean dart,
Stnke for the Cretan isle; and here then
art!
a That IB, twlrted In-
to nn Intricate knot
•leopard
'crown (It became a
conntollatlon after
Ariadne's death )
'The rale of Buna,
in Sicily, from
which she was car
rted off by Pinto to
the lower world.
834 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS '
80 Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the A woman's shape, and channing as before,
maid!99 I love a youth of Corinth-0 tie bite!
Whereat the star of Lethe1 not delay M 12° Give me my woman's form, and place me
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : where he is.
1 'Thou wnooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy
inspired ! brow,
Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even
eyes, t now.'1
** Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise, The God on half -shut feathers sank serene,
Telling me only where my nymph is fled,— She breath M upon his eyes, and swift was
Where she doth breathe!99 — "Bright seen
planet, thou hast said,99 12B Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling
Return 9d the snake, "but seal with oaths, on the green.
fair God !99 It was no dream ; or say a dream it was,
"I swear,99 said Hermes, "by my serpent Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly
rod,2 pass
90 And by thine eyes, and by thy starry Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
crown!99 One warm, flush 'd moment, hovering, it
Light flew his earnest words, among the might seem
blossoms blown. 18° DashM by the wood-nymph's beauty, so
Then thus again the brilliance feminine: he burn'd;
"Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph Then, lighting on the printless verdure,
of thine, turn'd
Free as the air, invisibly, she strays To the swoon 'd serpent, and with languid
95 About these thornless wilds; her pleasant arm,
days Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean
She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet charm *
Leave traces in the grass and flowers So done, upon the nymph his eyes he
sweet; bent
From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches 185 Full of adonng tears and blandishment,
green, And towards her stept* she, like a moon
She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes un- in wane,
seen : Faded before him, cowerM, nor could re-
i°° And by my power is her beauty veil'd strain
To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower
By the love-glances of unlovely eyes, That faints into itself at evening hour-
Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear M Silenus9 14° But the God fostering her chilled hand,
sighs. She felt the warmth, her eyelids openM
Pale grew her immortality, for woe bland,
105 Of all these lovers, and she grieved so And, like new flowers at morning song of
I took compassion on her, bade her steep bees,
Her hair in weird syrups, that would keep Bloom 'd, and gave up her honey to the
Her loveliness invisible, yet free lees.
To wander as she loves, in liberty. Into the green-recessed woods they flew ;
no Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, 146 Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.
If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my
boon I9' Left to herself, the serpent now began
Then, once fcgain, the charmed God began To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran,
An oath, and through the serpent's ears Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, there-
it ran with besprent,
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.* Wither 9d at dew so sweet and virulent ;
i« Ravish 'd, she lifted her Cireean head, 15° Her eyes in torture fix9d, and anguish
BluahM a live damask, and swift-lisping drear, ..,.„, ^ ,
said, Hot, glazM, and wide, with lid*l*ahes all
"I was a woman, let me have once more sear,
"* hw
JOHN KEATS
The colors all mflam'd throughout her
train,
She wnth'd about, oonvuls'd with scarlet
pain:
165 A deep volcanian yellow took the place
Of all her milder-mooned body's grace;
And, as the lava ravishes the mead,
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden
brede;1
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks,
and bars,
1*0 Eclips'd her crescents, and liek'd up her
stars •
So that, in moments few, she was undrest 20°
To unperplez bliss from its neighbor pain ;
Define their pettish limits, and estrange
Their points of contact, and swift counter*
i»5 intrigue with 'the specious chaos, and dis-
part
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art;
As though in Cupid 9s college she had spent
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still un-
shent,1
And kept his rosy terms9 in idle languish-
ment
And rubious-argent • of all these bere
Nothing but pain and ^liness were left,
still shone her crown; that vanish "d, also
she
Melted and disappear fd *s suddenly;
And m the air, her new voice luting soft,
Cried, "Lyoras! gentle Lyciusl"-Borne
aloft
With the blight mists about the mountains
hoar
These words dissolv'd: Crete's forests
heard no more.
Why this fair creature chose so f airily
By the wayside to linger, we shall see;
But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse
And dream, when in the serpent prison-
house,
Of all she list, strange or magnificent :
205 How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit
went;
Whether to faint Elysium, or where
Down through tress-lifting waves the
Nereids fair
Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly
stair;
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups
divine,
210 Stretch 'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous
pine;
Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine9
Mulcibcr's columns gleam in far piaadan
line.
And sometimes into cities she would send
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ,
Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,
A full-bom beauty new and exquisite!
She fled into that valley they pass o'er
Who tn\ to Connth from Cenchreas'
176 And rested at the foot of those wild hills, ^ w _ _fc _ .WMMB w „«..« ,
The indeed founts of the Pencan nils, 2iB And once whi!e fcmong mortals dreaming
And of that other ridge whose barren back ft '
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy ghe gaw the yo^g Corinthian Lycius
rack, Charioting foremost in the envious race,
South-westward to Cleone. There she Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,
stood And fell into a swooning love of him.
«o About a yonnp bird 's flutter from a wood, 220 yow on the moth-time of that evening dim
Fair, on a sloping preen of mossy tread, He would Tetam ^^ TOy> ag wdl Ae
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned ^j—
To see herself escap'd from so sore ills, To ^^^ from ^ Am for fpesh,
While her robe«« flaunted with the daffo- Wew
W* The eastern soft wind, and his galley now
Grated the quaystones with her brazen
prow
226 Tn port Cenchreas, from Eginft isle
Fresh anchor 'd; whither he had
185 Ah,
More beaui
Or agh'd,
or
/cms1— for she was a maid
than ever twisted braid,
blush M, or on spring
iBow'red lea
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:
A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore
Of love deep learned to the red heart
core!
Not one hour old, yet of sciential2 brain
been
awhile
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there
Waits with ^ high marble doors for blood
and incense rare.
Jove heard his vows, and better 'd hi*
desire;
» brnM . embroidery » endowed with knowledge « unharmed , Innocent •mwrioiift 'palatial
838 NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTIC1BTS
880 For by some fruitful chance he made270 Thy memory will waste me to a shade:—
retire For pity do not melt!"-* 'If I should
From his companions, and set forth to stay/'
walk, Said Lamia, "here, upon this floor of
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth clay,
talk. And pain my steps upon these flowers too
Ovei the solitary hills he tared, rough,
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star What canst thou say or do of charm enough
appear 'd 276 To dull the nice remembrance of my
246 Hib phantasv was lost, where reason fades, home?
In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades Thou canst not ask me with thee here to
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more roam
near— Over these hills and vales, where no joy
Close to her passing, in indifference drear, is,—
His silent sandals swept the mossy green; Empty of immortality and bliss!
240 So neighbor M to him, and yet so unseen Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know
She stood: he pasa'd, shut up in mysteries, 28° That finer spirits cannot breathe below
His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while In human climes, and live Alas' poor
her eyes youth,
Follow fd his steps, and her neck regal What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
white My essence f What serener palaces,
Turn'd — syllabling thus, "Ah, Lycius Where I may all my many senses please,
bright, 28B And by mysterious sleights a hundred
345 And will you leave me on the hills alone t thirsts appeasef
Lycius, look bark' and be some pity It cannot be— Adieu'" So said, she rose
shown " Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick
He did, not with cold wonder fearingly, to lose
But Orpheus4jke at an Enrydice , The amorous promise of ber lone complain,
For so delicious were the words she sung, Swoon 'd, murmuring of love, and pale
250 it geem'd he had lov'd them a whole sum- with pain.
mer long: 29° The cruel lady, without any show
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty Of sorrow for her tender favorite's woe,
up, But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,
Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup, With brighter eyes and slow amenity,
And still the cup was full,— while he, Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh
afraid 29B The life she had so tangled in her mesh
Lest she should \anish ere his lip had paid And as he from one trance was wakening
255 Due adoration, thus began to adore; Into another, she began to sing,
Her soft look growing coy, she saw hw Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every-
cham so sure: thing,
' ' Leave thee alone I Look back f Ah, God- A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,
dess, see 30° While, like held breath, the stars drew in
Whether my eyes can ever turn from the* f their panting fires.
For pity do not this sad heart belie— And then she whisper M in such trembling
260 Even as thou vanishes! so shall I die. tone,
Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay9 As those who, safe together met alone
To thy far wishes will thy streams obey . For the first time through many anguish 'd
Stay I though the greenest woods be thy days,
domain, Use other speech than looks; bidding him
Alone they can drink up the morning rain • raise
365 Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 806 His drooping head, and clear his soul of
Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune doubt,
Thy spheres,1 and as thy silver proxy For that she was a woman, and without
shinef Any more subtle fluid in her veins
So sweetly to these ravish M ears of mine Than throbbing blood, and that the self-
Game thy sweet greeting, that if thou same pains
shonldst fade Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his
iA Mfcroe, tothe.ndentbelUfth.tth.moT,-
ment of the celestial sphere* produced marie. nnss
JOHN KEATB
887
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she »• As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
»*id, Throughout her palaces imperial
She dwelt bat half retir'd, and there had And all her populous street s and temples
led lewd.1
Days happy as the gold coin could invent Mutter M, like tempest in the distance
Without the aid of love, yet in content brew'd, ^^
«* Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him To the wide-spreaded night above her
by, towers.
Where gainst a column he leant thought- *« Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool
fully hours,
At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement
heap'd white,
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly Companioned or alone; while many alight
reap'd Flar'd, here and there, from wealthy fes-
Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before tivals,
320 The Adonian feast;1 whereof she saw no And threw their moving shadows on the
more, walls,
But wept alone those days, for why should *•<> Or found them clustered in the corniced
she adore T shade
Lycins from death awoke into amaze, Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays; colonnade.
Then from amaze into delight he fell
MB To hear her whisper woman 's lore so well ; Muffling his face, of greeting friends in
And every word she spake en tic 'd him on fear,
To unperplez'd delight and pleasure Her fingers he press 'd hard, as one came
known. near
Let the mad poets say whatever they please With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes and
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, smooth bald crown,
880 There is not such a treat among them all, *** Slow-stepp'd, and rob'd in philosophic
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, gown:
As a real woman, lineal indeed Lycins shrank closer, as they met and past,
From Pyrrha's pebbles8 or old Adam's Into his mantle, adding wings to haste
seed. While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah "
Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd said he,
..* _ , ari.8H ^ liy^y do von shudder, love, so ruefully 1
836 That Lycius could not love in half a fright, *TO Why does your tender palm dissolve in
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart dew f ' '—
More pleasantly by playing woman 's part, "I'm wearied, ' ' said fair T^mio :" tell me
With no more awe than what her beauty who
£*v*> Is that old man f I carnot bring to mind
That, while it smote, still guaranteed to His features-— Lycius! wherefore did vou
save. blind
340 Lycius to all made eloquent reply, Yourself from his quick eyesf" Lycins
Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh ; replied,
And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her «™ « Tis Appllonius sage, my trusty guide
sweet, And good instructor; but tonight he seems
If 'twas too far that night for her soft The ghost of folly haunting my sweet
feet dreams "
The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness
846 Made, V a spell, the triple league de- While yet he spake they had arriv'd
crease before
To a few paces; not at all snrmis'd A pillar 'd porch, with Iqfty portal door,
By blinded Lycius, so in her compris'd 38° Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor
They pass'd the city gates, he knew not glow
how, Reflected in the slabbed steps below.
So noiseless, and he never thought to know. Mild as a star in water ; for so new.
1 The festival In honor of AdonhL
• \fter the delate. Deucalion and Pyrrha repeo- « That in, templet or buildings devoted to lewd
pled the earth by carting behind them atone- practices In the service ofVe - lewd
which became men and women W. Corinth WM * Bent of
838
NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTIC1BT8
And go unsullied was the marble's hue,
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,
*** Ran the dark veins, that none but feet
divine
Could e'er have touch 'd there. Bounds
Breath 'd from the hinges, as the ample
span
Of the wide doors disclos'd a place un-
known
Some time to any, but those two alone,
890 And a few Persian mutes, who that same
year
Were seen about the markets: none knew
where
They could inhabit , the most curious
Were foil'd, who watch M to trace them to
their house*
And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,
895 For truth's sake, what woe afterwards
befel,
Twould humor many a heart to leave them
thus,
Shut from the busy world of more incred-
ulous.
PART II
Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is — Love, forgive us! — cinders, ashes,
dust;
Love in a palace is perhaps at last
More grievous torment than a hermit's
fast -
6 That is a doubtful tale from fairy land,
Hard for the non-elect to understand.
Had Lyems liv'd to hand his story down.
He might have given the moral a fresh
frown,
Or clench 'd it quite: but too short was
their bliss
10 To breed distrust and hate, that make the
soft voice hiss.
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare.
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,
Hover M and buas'd his wings, with fear-
ful roar,
Above the lintel1 of their chamber door,
15 And down the passage cast a glow upon
the floor.
For all this came a ruin: side by side
They were enthroned, in the even tide,
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining
Whose airy texture, from a golden string.
80 Floated into the room, and let appear
Unveil 9d the summer heaven, blue and
clear,
1 A horizontal piece spanning tn opening
Betwixt two marble shafts:— there they
repos'd,
Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids
clos'd,
Saving a tithe which love still open kept,
25 That they might sec1 each other while they
almost slept,
When from the slope side of a suburb hill,
Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a
thrill
Of trumpets— Lycius started— the sounds
fled,
But left a thought, a buzzing in bis head.
80 For the first time, since first he harbor'd in
That purple-lined palace of sweet sin,
His spirit pass'd bevond its (golden bourn
Into the noisy world almost forsworn.
The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,
35 Saw this with pain, so larguing a want
Of something more, more than her empery
Of joys; and she began to moan and
sigh
Because he mus'd beyond her, knowing
well
That but a moment's thought is passion's
passing1 bell
40 "Why do yon sigh, fair creature!" whis-
per *d he:
"Why do you think!" return'd she ten-
derly:
"You have deserted me;— where am I
now!
Not in your heart while care weighs on
your brow •
No, no, you have dismiss 'd me; and I go
45 From vour breast houseless : aye, it must
be so."
He answer 'd, bendinjr to her open eyes,
Where he was mirror'd small in paradise,
"My silver planet, both of eve and morn!
Why will you plead yourself so sad for-
lorn,
60 While I am striving how to fill my heart
With deeper crimson, and a double smart !
How to entangle, trammel up, and snaie
Tour soul in mine, and labyrinth you there
Like the hid scent in an unbudded row!
55 Aye, a iweet kiss— yon see your mighty
woes*
My thoughts I shall I unveil them ! Listen
then!
What mortal hath a prize, that other men
May be confounded and abash 'd withal,
But lets it sometimes pace abroad majea-
tical,
** And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice
Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice.
Let my foes choke, and my friends shout
afar,
- JOHN KEATS 889
While through the thronged streets your Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade
bridal ear l06 Of deep sleep in a moment was bet ray 'd.
Wheels round its dazzling spokes.99— The
lady's cheek It was the custom then to brmg away
** Trembled , she nothing said, but, pale and The bnde from home at blushing shut of
meek, day,
Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along
Of sorrows at his words, at last with By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage
pain song,
Beseeching him, the while his hand she uo With other pageants: but this fair tin-
wrung, known
To change his purpose. He thereat was Had not a friend So being left alone,
stung, (Lycius was gone to summon all his kin)
70 Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim And knowing surely she could never win
Her wild and timid nature to his aim : His foolish heart from its mad pompous-
Besides, for all his love, in self despite, ness,
Against his better self, he took delight n* She set herself, high-thoughted, how to
Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. dress
76 His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue The misery in fit magnificence.
Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and
In one whose brow had no dark veins to whence
swell Came, and who were her subtle servitors.
Fine was the mitigated fury, like About the halls, and to and from the doors,
Apollo's presence when in act to strike 12° There was a^noise of wings, till in short
*° The serpent— Ha, the serpent! certes, she spa<-e '
Was none. She burnt, she lov'd the tyr- The glowing banquet-room shone with
tony, wide-arched grace.
And, all subdued, consented to the hour A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone
When to the bndal he should lead his Supportress of the fairy roof, made moan
paramour. Throughout, as fearful the whole charm
Whispering in midnight silence, said the might fade.
youth, 125 Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade
• " Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, Of palm and plantain, met from either
by my truth, side,
I have not ask 'd it, ever thinking thee High in the midst, in honor of the bride :
Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, Two palms and then two plantains, and
As still I do. Hast any mortal name, so on,
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame T From either side their stems branch 'd one
90 Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, to one
To share our marriage feast and nuptial 18° AH down the aisled place; and beneath all
mirth f " There ran a stream of lamps straight on
" I have no friends, 9 9 said Lamia, ' ' no, not from wall to wall.
one; Ho canopied, lay an nntarted feast
My presence in wide Corinth hardly Teeming with odors. Lamia, regal drest,
known: Silently pac'd about, and as she went,
My parent^ bones are in their dusty urns 18B In pale contented sort of discontent,
w Sepulchred, where no kindled incense Mission 9d her viewless servants to enrich
burns. The fretted splendor of each nook and
Seeing all their luckless nee are dead, niche,
save me, Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at
And I neglect the holy rite for thee first,
Even as you list invite your many guests; Came jasper panels; then, anon, there
But if, as now it seems, your vision rests burst
l°0 With any pleasure on me, do not bid 14° Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees,
Old Apollonins— from him keep me hid.99 And with the larger wove in small intrica-
Lycius, perplex 9d at words so blind and eiea.
blank. Approving all, die faded at self-will,
Made close inquiry; from whose touch she And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd
shrank, and still,
840 NINETEENTH QENTUBY BOMANTIC1BT8
Complete and ready for the revels rode, 175 Before each lucid panel fuming stood
146 When dreadful guests would come to spoil A censer fed with myrrh and spieed wood,
her solitude. Each by a sacred tripod held aloft
Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the
The day appear 'd, and all the gossip soft
rout Wool-woof ed carpets: fifty wreaths of
0 senseless Lycms! Madman! wherefore smoke
flout 18° From fifty centers their light voyage took
The bilent-blessmff fate, warm cloister 'd To the high roof, still mimick'd as they
hours, rose
And show to common eyes these secret Along the mirror 'd walls by twin-clouds
bowers t odorous.
160 The herd appioach'd, each guest, with Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats in-
busy brain, spher d,
Arriving at the portal, gaz'd amain, High as the level of a man's breast rear'd
And enter 'd marveling- for they knew the 18B On libbard's1 paws, upheld the heavy
street, gold
Remember 'd it from childhood all com- Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice
plete told
Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine
155 That royal porch, that high-built fair Come from the gloomy tun with merry
demesne, shine
So in they humed all, amaz'd, curious, Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,
and keen • 19° Each shrining in the midst the image of a
Save one, who look'd thereon with eye God.
severe.
And with calm-planted steps walk'd in When in an antechamber every guest
austere; Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure
'Twas Apollonius: something too he press 'd,
laugh 'd, By minist'nng slaves, upon his hands sand
160 As though some knotty problem, that had feet,
daft1 And fragrant oils with ceremony meet
His patient thought, had now begun to 195 Pour'd on his hair, they all mov'd to the
thaw, feast
And solve, and melt:— 'twas just as he In white robes, and themselves in order
foresaw. plac'd
Around the silken couches, wondering
He met within the murmurous vestibule Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of
His young disciple " 'Tis no common wealth could spnnp
rule,
166 Lycms," said he, ''for uninvited guest Soft went the music the soft air along,
To force himself upon you, and infest zo° While fluent Greek a vowel 'd undersong
With an unbidden presence the bright Kept up among the guests, discoursing
throng low
Of younger fnends , yet must I do this At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow;
wrong, But when the happy vintage touch 'd their
And you forgive me." Lycius blush 'd, brains,
and led Louder they talk, and louder come the
170 The old man through the inner doors strains
broad-spread, 206 Of powerful instruments:— the gorgeous
With reconciling words and courteous mien dyes,
Turning into sweet milk the sophist's The space, the splendor of the draperies,
spleen. The roof of awful richness, nectarous
cheer,
Of wealthy lustre was the banquet- Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, apoear,
room. Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,
Fill'd with pervading brilliance and per- 21° And every soul from human trammels
fume: freed,
Heoparffs
JOHN KEATS
t
No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet *46 And pledge him. The bald-head philoso-
wine, pher
ake Elysia
Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too Had fiz'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir
divine. Full on the alarmed beauty of the bnde,
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height , Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling
Flush 'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes her sweet pnde
double bright * Lycius then press 'd her hand, with devout
->1G Garlands of every green, and every scent touch,
From vales deflower 'd, or forest-trees 25° As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:
branch-rent, ' 'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his
In baskets of bright osier 'd gold1 were veins;
brought Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains
High as the handles heap'd, to suit the Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.
thought "Lamia, what means this? Wherefore
Of every guest • that each, as he did please, dost thou start f
22° Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow 'd 25& Know'st thou that man?" Poor Lamia
at his ease. answer 'd not
He gaz'd into her eyes, and not a jot
What wreath for Lamia f What for Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal:
Lycius f More, more he gaz'd* his human senses
What for the sage, old Apollonms? reel :
Upon her aching forehead be there hung Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs,
The leaves of willow2 and of adder's 26° There was no recognition in those orbs
tongue: " Lamia'" he cried— and no soft-ton 'd
225 And for the youth, quick, let us stnp for reply.
him The many heard, and the loud revelry
The tlryisns,8 that Ins watching eyes nun Grew hush; the stately music no more
swim breathes;
Into forpetfulnefis; and, for the sage, The myrtle1 sicken 'd in a thousand
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wreaths
wage 266 By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure
War on his temples Do not all charms fly ceas'd ;
280 At the mere touch of cold philosophy t A deadly silence step by step increased
There TV as an awful rainbow once in Until it seem M a homd presence there,
heaven * And not a man but felt the terror in his
We know her woof, her texture; she is hair.
given "Lamia!" he shriek M; and nothing but
Tn the dull catalogue of common things. the shriek
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, S7° With its sad echo did the silence break
23* Conquer all mvsteries by rule and line, "Begone, foul dream'" he cned, gazing
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed again
mine— In the bride's face, where now no azure
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made vein
The tender-person 'd Lamia melt into a Wander 'd on fair-spac'd temples; no soft
shade. bloom
Misted the cheek; no passion to illume
By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, *7B The deep-recessed vision —all was blight,
240 gcarcc saw in all the room another face, Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took white
Full bnmm'd, and opposite sent forth a "Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou
look ruthless man!
'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous
From his old teacher's wrinkled counte- ban
nance. Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images
i willow orerlald with told 2W Here represent their shadowy presences,
t «* "mounted by F ucn ™ *
a nine cone • an attribute of Bacchu. thorn
- Keats thought .that Newton bad Jjjteojred all Qf painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn,
the Doetry of the ralnoow DY rpanoinf ic to f m r **
the prismatic colon. ' The myrtle wan sacred to Venn*
842
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIC1ST8
In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright
Of conscience, for their long-offended
might,
*** For all thine impious proud-heart sophis-
tries,
Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.
Corinthians I look upon that gray-beard
wretch!
Mark how, possess 'd, his lashless eyelids
stretch
Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see !
**° My sweet bride withers at their potency."
"Fool!" said the sophist in an under-tone
Gruff with contempt; which a death-nigh-
ing moan
From Lycius answer 'd, as heart-struck and
lost,
He sank supine beside the aching ghost
»« "Fool ! Fool ! ' ' repeated he, while his eyes
still
Relented not, nor mov'd; "from every ill
Of life have I preserv'd thee to this day.
And shall I see thee made a serpent's
Then Lamia breath 9d death breath; the
sophist's eye,
300 I&B a gfcarp spear, went through her
utterly,
Keen, cruel, perceant,1 stinging* she, as
well
As her weak hand could any meaning tell,
Motion 'd him to be silent; vainly so,
He look'd and look'd again a level-No!
305 "A serpent •" echoed he; no sooner said,
Than with a frightful scream she vanished :
And Lycins9 arms were empty of delight,
As were his limbs of life, from that same
night
On the high conch he lay! -His friends
came round—
«o Supported him— no pulse, or breath they
found,
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body
wound.
THE EVE OF BT. AGNES
1819 1820
1 St. Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was*
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ,
The hare limp'd trembling through the
frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold :
Numb were the beadsman V fingers,
while he told
His rosary,8 and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem 'd taking flight for heaven, without
a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his
prayer he eaith.
2 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy
man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his
And back retumeth, meagre, barefoot,
wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees :
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem
to freeze,
Empraon'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb ora-
t'nes,
He passetli by ; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods
andi
3 Northward he turneth through a little
door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's
golden tongue
Flatter 'd to tears this aged man and
poor;
But no— already had his deathbell rung-
The joys of all his life were said and
sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes'
Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's ie-
prieve,
And all night kept awake, for smneis'
sake to grieve.
4 That ancient beadsman heard the prel-
ude soft;
And so it chane'd, for many a door was
wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
1 The silver, snarling trumpets *gan to
' chide:
The level chambers, ready with their
pnde,
Were glowing to receive a thousand
• n
„ in an atau&miM tad n-
Iti founder
on Ma rowiry
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star'd, where upon their heads the cor-
nice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put
cross-wise on their breasts.
5 At length burst in the argent1 revelry.
With plume, tiara,« and all rich array,
•Aorownllkehead
JOHN KKATB
848
Numerous as shadows haunting f airily
The brain, new stuff M, in youth, with .
triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish
away,
And turn, sole-thonghted, to one lady
there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 9
day,
On love, and wmg'd St. Agnes' saintly
care,
As she had heard old dames full many
times declare.
They told her how, upon St Agnes ' Eve,
Young virgins might ha\e visions of
delight,
And soft adonngs from their loves re-
ceive
Tpon the honey M middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, suppei less to bed they must retire,
And couch MI pine their beauties, lily 10
white,
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but re-
quire
Of Hem en with upward eves for all that
they desire
Full of this whim was thouerhtful Made-
line*
The music, y cam me: like a god in pain,
She scaicely heaid her maiden eyes
divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping
train1
Pass by— slie heeded not at all in vain
Tame many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 11
And back letir'd, not cool'd by high
disdain,
But she saw not • her heart was other-
where •
She sigh 'd for Agnes * dreamsr, the sweetest
of the year
I She danc'd along with vague, regardless
eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick
and short :
The hallow M hour was near at hand*
hhe sighs
Amid the timbrels,2 and the throng'd le-
sort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ;
Ilid looks of love, defiance, hate, and 12
scorn,
Rklrta aweeDing along the floor."— -Keata
dnnll hand druma, or tambourines. x Minded
Hoodwink 'd1 with faery fancy; all
amort,"
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs un-
shorn,
And all the bliss to be before tomorrow
morn
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger M still. Meantime, across the
moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart
on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress M from moonlight, stands he,
and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all un-
seen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss— in
sooth such things have been.
He ventures in: let no bnzz'd whisper
tell-
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will stoim his heart, Love's fev'rous
citadel
For him, those chambers held baibarian
hoides,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast
affords
linn any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and
in soul
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature
came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand.
To wheie he stood, hid fiom the torch's
flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
The sound of memment and chorus
bland :
He startled her; but soon she knew his
face,
And grasp 'd his fingers in her palsied
hand,
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro' hie thee
from this place •
They are all here tonight, the whole blood-
thirsty race !
"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarf-
ish Hildebrand;
He had a fever late, and in the fit
• Fdnnll
•dead
844
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
He cursed thee and thine, both house 16
and land : %
Then there's that old Lord Maunee, not
a whit
More tame for his gray hairs— Alas me f
flit!
Flit like a ghost away."— "Ah, gossip1
dear,
We'ie safe enough, here in this arm-
chair sit.
And tell me how "-"Good Saints! not
here, not here,
Follow me, child, or else these stones will
be thy biei "
13 He follow 'd through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 17
plume,
And as she muttei'd "Well-a— well-a-
day»"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb
"Now tell me wheie is Madeline," said
he,
"0 tell me. Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may
see,
When they St Agnes' wool are weaving
piously "
14 ' ' St Agnes ' Ah ' it is St. Agnes' Eve-
Yet men will murder upon holy days-
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 15
And be liege-lord of all the elves and
fays,
To \enture so* it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro! — St Agnes'
E\e!
God's help1 my lady lair the conjuror
plays
This very night, good angels her de-
cei\ e !
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle2 time
to gneve."
16 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face doth
look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle- 19
book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when
she told
TIis lady 's purpose ; and he scarce could
brook
Tears, at the thought of those enchant-
ments cold,
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
i godmother • much ; ample
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown
rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained
heart
Made purple not . then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame
start:
44 A cruel man and impious thou art •
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and
dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go'— I
deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that
thou didst seem."
"I will not harm her, by all saints 1
swear,"
Quoth Porphyro "O may I ne'er find
grace
When my weak \oice shall whisper its
last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets 1 displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment 's space,
Awake, with hoi rid shout, my foemen's
eais,
And beard them, though they be more
fang'd than wolves and bears "
''Ah! why wilt thou
soulf
A poor, weak, palsy-si iicken, church-
yaid thing,
Whose passing-bell may cie the mid-
night toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and
evening,
Were never miss'd "—Thus plaining,
doth she bnng
A gentler speech from burning Poi-
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal 01
woe.
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there
hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespied,
And win perhaps that night a peerless
bride,
While legion 'd faeries pac'd the cover-
let,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-
eyed. *
JOHN KEATS
845
Never on such a night have lovers met, 23 Out went the taper as she harried in;
20
Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon-
strous debt l
"11 shall be at thou wishest," said the
dame :
All cates2 and dainties shall be stored
there
Quickly on thib feast-night : by the tam-
bour frame8
Her own lute thou wilt see: no tune to
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce
dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head
Wait here, my child, with patience;
kneel in prayer
The while Ah! thou must needs the
lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the
dead."
21 So saying, she hobbled off with busy
fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly
pass'd,
The dame re turn 'd, and whisper 'd in his
ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd,
and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas 'd
amain *
Mis poor guide hurried back with agues in
her biain.
22 Her fait 'ring hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed
maid,
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine,
died:
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spmtb of the air, and visions wide*
No uttered byllable, or, woe betide !
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy bide ,
As though a tongueless nightingale
should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled,
m her dell. ,
A casement high and triple-arch 'd there
was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of
knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint
device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask 'd
wings;
And in the midst, 'mid thousand
heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazon-
ings,
A shielded scutcheon blush 'd with blood of
queens and kings.
£6 Full on this casement shone the wintry
Full on this casement
moon,
And threw warm gules1 on Madeline's
fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace
and boon ;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together
prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint :
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly
drest,
Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro
mortal taint
m, ..... A giew faint:
Rose, like a mission 'd spirit, unaware: ghe j^ TO pure a ^mg ^ free from
With silver taper's light, and pious care,
She tum'd, and down the aged gossip
led 26
To a safe level matting. Now prepare.
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that
bed,
She comes, she comes again, like ringdove
fray'd5 and fled
i According to one legend, Merlin, the magician
of Artfinr'B court, wan begdtten bj demons
and wu killed by one of hu own ipelli. Bee
Tennyson'* Jferff* did Fivto*.
a A druntllke embroidery frame.
* exceedingly
& alarmed
Anon his heart revives: her vespers
done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she
frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ,
Loosens her fragi ant bodice; by degree*
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awqjce, land
i red color (a term In heraldry)
846
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
SI
In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,
But dam not look behind, or all the charm
is fled.
/
27 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly
nest.
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex M she
lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep op-
press'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued
away,
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-
Bhssfully haven M both from joy and
pain ;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Pay-
nuns pray;1
Blinded alike from sunshine and from
lain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a
bud again.
88 Stol 'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress
And listen 'd to her breathing, if it
chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ,
Which when he heard, that minute did
he bless,
And breath 'd himself: then from the
closet crept,
Noiseless as fear8 in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush 'd carpet, silent, stepl,
And 'tween the curtain peep'd, where,
lo f — how fast she slept.
29 Then by the bed-side, where the faded
moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish 'd, threw
thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and
jet.-
0 for some drowsy Morphean amulet !
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-beard clarinet, 33
Affray his ears, though but in dying
tone*—
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise
is gone.
30 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and laven-
der'd,'
* glint, unopened, like a prayer book, which
paeans would nave DO occardon to unclaap
•That is, a person In fear,
•perfumed with lavender (a European mint)
While he from forth the closet brought
aheap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and
gourd;
With jellies soother1 than the creamy
curd,
And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy2 tiansferr'd
From Fez, and spiced dainties, every
one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar 'd Leba-
non.
These delicates he heap'd with glowing
hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver* sumptuous they
stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with peifume
"And now, my love, my seraph fan,
awake !
Thou art my heaven, and I thine
eremite ••
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes'
sake,
Or I shall drowse beside fhee. so my soul
doth ache."
Thus whispering, his waim, unnerved
arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her
dream
By the dusk curtains:— 'twas a midnight
charm
Impossible to melt as iced stieam •
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight
gleam ;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet
lies:
It seem'd he never, never could redeem
From such a Medfnst spell bis lady's
eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed
phantasies.
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
Tumultuous,— and, in choids that ten-
derest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since
mute,
In Provence callM, "La belle dame sans
mercy:"*
' smoother (Cf this banquet with that pre
pared toy Eve for Raphael, Paradise Lost, 3,
2 V large merchant vessel. 'hermit
• The beautiful lady without pity : the title of a
poem by Alain Charter, a translation of
which KPfttH found in a volume of Chaucer.
Hoe KratfTH poem of thin title (p 829)
JOHN KEATS
847
Close to her ear touching the melody;—
Wherewith disturb M, she utter 'd a soft
moan:
He ceased— she panted quick— and sud-
denly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone :
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-
sculptured stone.
34 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep :
There was a painful change, that nigh
expell'd
The blisses of her dream so pure and
deep 38
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with
many a ugh ,
While still her gaze on Porphyro would
keep,
Who knelt, with joined bands and pit-
eous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so
dreamingly.
"Ah, Porphyro »" said she, "but even
now
Thy voice was at hweet tremble in mine
car,
Made tuneable with e\ery sweetest vow; 39
And those sad eyes were spiritual and
clear *
How chang 'd thou art ! how pallid, chill,
and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complain-
ings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou die«t, my love, I know not
where to go.11
35
36
Beyond a mortal man impassion 'd far
At these voluptuous accents, be arose,
Ethereal, flush 'd, and like a throbbing
star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep 4Q Rfae hunied
repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odor with the violet,—
Solution sweet: meantime the front-
wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp
sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes'
moon hath set.
'Tis dark: the iced gustb btill rave and
beat:
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is
mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and
pine.—
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither
bring!
T curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
Though thou forsakebt a deceived
thing,—
A dove forlorn and lost with bick un-
pruned wing.19
"My Madeline1 sweet dreamer! lovely
bnde!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and
vermeil-dyed T
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my
rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famish 'd pilgrim,— sav'd l>y miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy
nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou
think 'st well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery
land,
Of haggard seeming,1 but a boon indeed :
Arise— arise * the morning is at hand ,—
The bloated wassaillers will never
heed:-
Let us away, my love, with happy
speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to
see,—
Drown vd all in Rhenish3 and the bleepy
mead '
Awake* arise! my love, and fearless be.
For o 'er the southern moors I have a home
for thee. "
37 'Tis dark- quick pattereth the flaw-
blown sleet •
"This is no dream, my bride, my Made-
line'"
his words, beset with
fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all
around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready
spears-
Down the wide stairs a darkling way
they found.—-
In all the house was heard no human
sound.
A chain-droop 9d lamp was flickering by
each door;
rlld appearance , fV fermented drink
HOP from the vine * " "
Mirds of the Rhine
9\ fermented
made of
water, etc.
848
NINETEENTH GENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
The arras,1 rich with horseman, hawk,
and hound,
Flutter M in the besieging wind's up-
roar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty
floor.
41 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide
hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they
glide,
Where lay the porter in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side*
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and
shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one and one, the bolts full easy
slide —
The chains he silent on the footworn
stones,—
The key turns, and the door upon its
*hingps groans.
42 And they are gone- aye, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm
That night the Baron dreamt of many a
woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade
and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-
worm,
Were long be-nightmar'd Angela the
old
Died palsy-t witch 'd, with meagre face
deform,
The beadsman, after thousand aves2
told,
For aye unsought -for slept among his
ashes cold
THE EVE OF ST. MARK
A TBAOMINT
1819 1S48
Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That eall'd the folk to evening prayer;
The city streets were clean and fair
6 From wholesome drench of April rains.
And, on the western window panes,
The chilly snnset faintly told
Of unmatnr'd green valleys cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge.
10 Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
Of primroses by shelter M rills,
And daisies on the aguish1 hills,
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell-
The silent streets were crowded well
16 With staid and pious companies,
Warm from their fire-side orat'nes;
And moving, with demurest air,
To even-song, and vesper prayer.
Each arched porch, and entry low,
20 Was fill'd with patient folk and slow,
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While play'd the organ loud and sweet.
The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun,
And Bertha had not yet half done
25 A curious volume, patch M and torn,
That all day long, from earliest mom,
Had taken captive her two eyes,
Among its golden broideries,
Perplex 'd her with a thousand things,—
80 The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,
Martyrs in a fiery blaze,
Azure saints in silver rays.
Hoses' breastplate,3 and the se\en
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,8
85 The winged Lion of Saint Mark,4
And the Oovenantal Ark,c
With its many mysteties,
Cherubim ana golden mice.0
Bertha was a maiden fan ,
40 Dwelling in thf old Minster-square;
From her fireside she could see,
Sidelong, its rich antiqiuh ,
Far as the Bishop's garden -u all ,
Where sycamores and elm-liee^ tall,
45 Full-lea vM, the forest had outstnpt,
By ifo sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelter 'd by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and lead awhile,
With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.
80 Again she tried, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St Mark.
From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin,
65 With aching neck and swimming eyes,
And daz'd with saintly imageries.
All was gloom, and silent all,
Save now and then the fltill foot-fall
Of one returning homewards late,
80 Past the echoing minster-gate
The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
ItanMtry honjoni
•The beads of a r<
the Aves, or stli
are tittered.
on the wills
dotations to '
««XlM,28:15:308 N
j?0V0totfOfl 1 12
« A winged lion'wu the emblem of St Mark,
• Be? J&S35? aSScMffi' 37 1-9
•Seel floiMiel, 0 -1-11.
JOHN KEATS
Pair by pair bad gone to rest,
Each in its ancient belfry-nest,
16 Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music of the drowsy chimes
All was silent, all was gloom,
Abroad and in the homely room :
Down she sat, poor cheated soul v
70 And struck a lamp from the dismal
coal;
Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair
And slant book, full against the glare.
Her shadow, in uneasy guise,
Hover 'd about, a giant size,
76 On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
The parrot's cage, and panel square;
And the warm angled winter-screen,
On which were many monsters seen,
Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mire,
80 And legless birds of Paradise,
Macaw, and tender av'davat,1
And mlken-furr'd Angora cat.
Untir'd she read, her shadow still
Qlower'd about, as it would fill
86 The room with wildest forms and shades.
As though some ghostly queen of spades
Had come to mock behind her back,
And dance, and ruffle her garments black
Untir'd she read the legend page,
90 Of holy Mark, from youth to age,
On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
Rejoicing for his many pains.
Sometimes the learned eremite,2
With golden star, or dagger bright,
95 Referr'd to pious poesies
Written in smallest crow-quill size
Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme
Was parcelled out from time to time •
— "Als8 writith he of swevenis,4
100 Men ban5 befome they wake in bliss,
Whanne that hir6 friendes thinke hem
bound
In crimped7 shroude f arre under grounde ,
And how a litling child mote8 be
A saint er9 its nativitie,10
105 Gif" that the modre" (God her blesse!)
Kepen in solitarinesse,
And kissen devoute the holy croce.
Of Qoddes love, and Sathan's force,—
He writith ; and thinges many mo •
110 Of swiche18 thinges I may not show
Hot I must tellen verilie
Somdel" of Saint* Cicilie,
til Indian tone-
And chieflie what he auctorethe1
Of Saint* Markis life and dethe:"
116 At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom ;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
At Venice,—
•also
•have
JJSifltod: folded
HYPKBION
A FRAGMENT
1820
BOOK I
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of
morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one
star,
Sat gray-hair M Saturn, quiet as a stone,
5 Still as the silence round about his Ian ,
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was
there,
Not so much life ns on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather M
grass,
10 Rut wheie the dead leaf fell, there did it
rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened
more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a bhade; the Naiad 'mid her
reeds
Press 'd her cold finger closer to her lips.
15 Along the margin-rand large foot-
marks went,
No further than to where his feet had
stray'd,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden
ground
HIH old right hand lay nerveless, listless,
dead,
Unsceptred, and his realmless eyes were
closed;
20 While his bow'd head &eem'd listening to
the Earth.
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It Reem'd no force could wake him from
his place;
But theie came one,2 who with a kindred
hand
something
Hyperion's sister and wife, and one of
the female Titan*
850
NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTI01OTS
Touch fd MB wide shoulders, after bending
low
With reverence, though to one who knew
it not.
She was a Goddess of the infant world ;
By her in stature the tall Amazon
Had stood a pigmy's height: she would
have ta'en
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck;
> Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.
Her face was large as that of Memphian
sphinx,
Pedestal M haply in a palace court,
When sages look'd to
lore
Egypt for their
But ok I how unlike marble was that face:
36 How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
There was a listening fear in her regard,1
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
40 Had spent their malice, and the sullen
rear
Was with* its stored thunder laboring up
One hand she press 'd upon that aching
ats the human heart, as if just
there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain:
45 The other upon Saturn's bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she
spake
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone:
Some mourning words, which in our feeble
tongue
50 Would come in these like accents; O how
frail
To that laige utterance of the early Gods!
"Saturn, look up!— though wherefore,
poor old King?
I have no comfort for thee, no not one:
I cannot say, ' 0 wherefore sleepest thouf '
M For heaven is parted from thee, and the
earth
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God;
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the
air
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
*° Thy thunder, conscious of the new com-
mand,
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised
hands
Scorches and burns our once serene do-
main.
0 aching time! 0 moments big as years!
>look: aspect
66 All as ye pass swell out the monstrous
truth,
And press it so upon our weary griefs
That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
Saturn, sleep on:— 0 thoughtless, why
did I
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude 1
70 Why should I ope thy melancholy eyest
Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I
weep."
A6 when, upon a tranced summer-night,
Those green-rob 'd senators of mighty
woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest
stars,
7r> Dream, and so dream all night without a
stir,
Save from one gradual solitary gubt
Which comes upon the silence, and dies
oft,
As if the ebbing air had but one wa\e;
So came these words and went; the while
in tears
80 She touch 'd her fair large forehead to the
ground,
Just where her falling hair might be out-
spread
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed
m Her silver seasons four upon the night,
83 And still these two were postured motion-
less,
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ;
The frozen Ood still couchant on the
earth,
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet :
Until at length old Saturn lifted up
•° His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom
gone,
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,
And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then
spake,
As with a palsied tongue, and while his
beard
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady:
95 "0 tender spouse of gold Hyperion,
Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face;
Look up, and let me see our doom in it ,
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape
Is Saturn's; tell me, if thon hear'st the
voice
100 Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling
brow,
Naked and bare of its great diadem,
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who
had power
To make me desolate f whence came the
strength*
JOHN KEATS 851
How was it nurtur'd to such bursting Found way unto Olympus, and made
forth, quake
106 While Fate seem'd strangled in my nerv- The rebel three.1— Thea was startled up,
oufl grasp f And in her bearing was' a sort ot hope,
But it is so, and I am smother 'd up, As thus she quick- voicM spake, yet full
And buried from all godlike exercise of awe.
Of influence benign on planets pale, ,RA ,/rm. . « „ ,
Of admonitions to the winds and seas, 1B° "™» <ncef <>«r falle» houM? come *"
"» Of peaceful sway abcne man 's harvesting, ^ 0 °ur /"ends,
And all those acts which Deity supreme ° batuin ' come away, and give them
Doth ease its heart of love in.— 1 am gone _ , heart;
Away from n.y own bosom: I have left T kno* *he ,™vert' for thence canie l
My stiong identity, my ieal self, mi _ *l™er;1 , ,
H5 Somewhere between the throne, and where Thus bnef5 tlien Wlth ^seeching eyes she
I sit wcnt
Here on this spot of eai tli Search, Thea, Wlth ^kward footing through the shade
search ! a BPa<>e "
Open thine eyes eteine, and sphere them 155 He followed, and she tmn'd to lead the
Upon aTsJace: space starred, and lorn of Through aged boughs, that >ielded like
light- the mist
Spnce regioii'd with life-air; and bairen Winch eagles cleave upmountmg fiora
void; their nest
120 S1"1? ™hlC' fl"d iall tlM3 yVT" °f Wr"" Meanwhile in other realms big tears
Seal eh, Then, search f and tell me, if thou were ^^
seest More sorrow like to this, and «uch like
A ceitain shape 01 shadow, making way woe
With wings 01 diaiioi ijeice to repossess iio TOO huge 'for moital tongue or pen of
A heaven lie lost erewlnle* it must— it scribe
IOE ^ * niust « , v The Titans fierce, self-hid, 01 pnson-
'-& He of i ipe progi ess— Satin n must be King bound
Yes there must be a golden victoiy , Groan 'd for the old allesiuuoe once mm*.
^heic must be Gods thrown do^vn, and And ijgten'd in shaip pain foi Satuin's
t mm pets blown voice
Of triumph calm, and h>mns of festival But one of the whoh mammoth-brood still
Upon tlie Rold clouds iiietro]>ontan, f kept
«0 Voices of soft proclaim, and silver rtn 165 Hib sovereignty, and lule, and majesty ,-
Of stnngs in hollow shells; and there shall Blazmg Hyperion on his orbed fire
b6 „ Still sat, still snuff 'd the incense, teeming
Beautiful things made new, for the sur- T1p
prise From man to the sun 's God , yet insecuie
Of the sky-children ; I will give command For as ^tmg us mortals omens drear
Thea! Thea » Thea ' where is Batumi' no FHght and perplex, so also shuddeied he-
i« mt- • lAjt- L. * x Not at dog Js howl, or gloom-bird's2 hated
135 This passion lifted him upon his feet, screech,
And made his hands to struggle in the Qr the familiar visiting of one
TT ^ ani ,i , , , ^TP°n *e first to11 of hls passing-bell.
His Diuid locks to shake and ooze with Or prophesying* of the midnight lamp,
sweat, 175 Bnt horrois, portion M to a giant neive,
His eyes to fe\er out, his voice to cease Oft made Hyperion ache His palace
He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbmcr bright
i4A * r^id?p: ^ *i - ,. x ^ Bastion 'd witli pviamids of glowing gold,
140 A little time, and then again he snatch M ^nd touch M with shade of bronzed obe-
Utterance thus —"But cannot I create f ]\s^
Cannot I formf Cannot I fashion forth GlarM a blood-red through all its tliou-
Another world, another universe, sand courts,
To overbear and crumble this to nanehtf
IB nnnther nYinnaf TITluaiwf" * Jupiter, Pluto, and Neptune, who baa rebelled
j8 "lorner cnaosT WnereT — Hgnlnit their fiithn Saturn (rronus)
That word » owl's
852 NINETEENTH CENTURY BOHANTIGI8TB
180 Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries; From stately nave to ua\ef from vault to
And all its curtains of Aurorian1 clouds vault,
Flush M angerly while sometimes eagle's Through bowers of fragrant and en-
wings, wreathed light,
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 2*° And diamond-paved lustrous long: arcadeb,
Darken 'd the place, and neighing steeds Until he reach 'd the great main cupola,
were heard, There standing fierce beneath, he stamp 'd
185 Not heard before by Gods or wondering his foot,
meii And from the basement deep to the high
Also, when lie would taste the spicy toweis
wieaths m Jarr'd his own golden legion, and beioic
Of incense, breath 'd aloft from sacred 223 The quavenng thunder thereupon lind
hills, ceas'd,
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took His voice leapt out, despite of godlike
Savor of poisonous brans and metal sick curb,
190 And so, when harbor 9d in the sleepy west, To this result: "0 djuauis of dnv und
After the full completion of fair day,— night !
For rest divine upon exalted couch 0 monstrous forms! O effigies of pain '
And slumber in the arms of melody, O spectres busy m a cold, cold gloom f
He pac'd away the pleasant hours of case 23° O lank-eai 'd Phantoms of black-deeded
195 With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; pools!
While far within each aisle and deep re- Why do I know ye* why liaxe I seen yet
eess, why
His winged minions in close clusters stood, Ts my eternal essence thus distraught
Amaz'd and full of fear , like anxious men To see and to behold these hoi lois ue\\ ?
Who on wide plains gather in pan tine: Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall f
troops, 2SB Am I to leave this haven of my rest,
200 When earthquakes jar their battlements This cradle of my glory, this soft el line,
and towers This calm luxuriance of blissful light,
E\en now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy These crystalline pavilions, and puie fanes,
tiance, Of all my lucent empire? It is left
Went step for step with Thea through the 2*° Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine
woods, The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry .
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, I cannot see— but darkness, death and
Came slope upon the threshold of the west , darkness.
205 Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew \Even here, into my centie of repose,
ope The shady visions come to doraineei,
In smoothest silence, sa\e what solemn 245 Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp —
tubes, Fall !— No, by Tellus and her biiny robe** f
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, ga>e of Over the fiery frontier of my realms
sweet I will advance1 a tcnible right ami
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed Shall scare that infant thunderei, rebel
melodies ; Jove, i
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 25° And bid old Saturn take his throne
210 In fragrance soft, and coolness to the again "—
eye, He spake, and ceasM, the while a heavier
That inlet to severe magnificence thieat
Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. Held struggle, with his throat but came not
forth,
He enter'd, bnt he enter'd full of For as in theati-es of crowded men
wrath, Hubbub increases more they call out
His flaming robeh streamed out beyond-.. fl "HuB.hf',' , f „
his heels, ^ So at Hyperion 's words the Phantoms pale
•1* And gave a ioar, as if of earthly fire, BestirrM themselves, thrice homble and
That searM away the meek ethereal Hours . .,eoU,; .
And made their dove-wings tremble. On And " rom ™ minrord level where he stood
he flared, -*• mist arog€> •* 'rom a scummy marsh.
At this, through all his bulk an agony
1 pertaining to Anrnra, goddtra of the dawn * lift up
JOHN KEATS 853
**° Crept gradual, from the feet unto the 2W Stay M in their birth, even as here 'tis told
crown, Those silver wings expanded sisterly,
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide
Making slow way, with head and neck Open fd upon the dusk demesnes of night,
eonvuls'd And the bright Titan, frenzied with new
From over-strained might Releas'd, he woes,
fled 30° Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy His spirit to the sorrow of the time ;
hours And all along a dismal rack of clouds,
265 Before the dawn in season due should Upon the boundaries of day and night,
blush, He stretch 'd himself in grief and radiance
He breath 'd herce breath against the sleepy faint.
portals, 805 There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars
Clear 'd them of heavy vapors, burst them Look'd down on him with pity, and the
wide voice
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. Of Ccelus, from the universal space,
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode Thus whisper 'd low and solemn in his ear
270 Each day from east to west the heavens "0 brightest of my children dear, earth-
through, born
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds; 81° And sky-engendered, Son of Mysteries
Not therefoie \eiled quite, blindfold, and All unrevealed even to the powers
hid, Which met at thy creating, at whose joys
But ever and anon the glancing spheres. And palpitations sweet, and pleasmes soft,
Ciioles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,1 I, Grains, wonder, how they came and
275 Glow'd through, and wrought upon the ^ whence,
muffling daik «13 And at the fruits thereof what shapes they
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir2 be,
deep Distinct, and visible; bymbols divine,
Up to the zenith,— hieroglyphics old Manifestations of that beauteous hie
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers Diffused unseen throughout eternal space
Then living on the earth, with laboring Of these new-form 'd ait thou, oh brightest
thought child I
280 \Von from the gaze of many centuries: 32° Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses!
Now lost, sa\e -what we find on remnants There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion
huge Of son against his sire I saw him fall,
Of stone, or maible swart , their import I saw my first-born1 tumbled fiom his
gone, throne ?
Their wisdom long since fled —Two wings To me his anus were spread, to me his voice
this orb S25 Found wav from forth the thundeis round
Possess 'd foi gloiy, two fair argent3 wings, his head I
J85 E^er exalted at the God's approach Pale wox* I, and in vapors hid my face
And now, fiom foith the gloom their Art thou, too, neai such doom f vague fear
plumes immense there is :
Hose, one by one, till all outspieaded were , For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods
While still the dazzling globe maintain 'd Divine ye weie created, and divine
eclipse, <no In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturb'd,
Awaiting for Hypei ion's command. Unruffled, like high Gods, ye hv'd and
200 Fain would he have commanded, fain took ruled :
throne Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath ;
And bid the day begin, if but for change Actions of rage and passion , e\ en as
lie might not:— No, though a primeval I see them, on the mortal world beneath,
God : S35 In men who die.— This is the pnef , 0 Son !
The sacred seasons might not be disturb fd Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall !
Therefore the operations of the dawn Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable,
As thou cajirt move about, an evident God ;
' One of the two great t lowest .point : of the And canst oppose to each malignant hour
3fft£ttJSi . «aop»^
:PnbSTeBftttorl5tcU •H|f5?"b.hining My life is but the hfe of wmds and tides,
other 'Ritnra. "waxed; grew
854
NJLNh'TKKNTH CKNTUBV BOMANT1CISTS
No more than winds and tides can I
avail:—
Bat thon canst.— Be thou therefore in the
van
Of circumstance; yea, seise the arrow's
barb
346 Before the tense string murmur.— To the
earth!
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his
woes.
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright
sun,
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse. lf—
Ere half this region-whisper had come
down,
360 Hyperion arose, and on the stars
Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide
Until it ceas 'd ; and still he kept them wide :
And still they were the same bright, patient
stars.
Then with a slow incline of his broad
breast,
3'5 Like to a diver in the pearly seas,
Forward he stoop 'd over the airy shore,
And plung'd all noiseless into the deep
night.
BOOK II
Just at the self-same beat of Tune's wide
wings
Hyperion slid into the rustled air,
And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad
place
Where Cybele and the brnis'd Titans
mourn 9d.
6 Tt was a den where no insulting light
Could glimmer on their tears; where their
own gioans
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents
hoarse,
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.
10 Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that
seem'd
Ever as if just rising from a sleep,
Forehead to forehead with their monstrous
horns;
And thus in thousand hugest phantasies
Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe,
15 Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat
upon,
Conches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
Stubborn 9d with iron. All were not as-
sembled:
Some chain 9d in torture, and some wander-
Coras, and Gyges, and Briareus,
20 Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,
With many more, the brawniest in assault,
Were pent in regions of laborious breath;
Dungeon M in opaque element, to keep
Their clenched teeth still clench M, and all
their limbs ^
2G Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and
screw'd;
Without a motion, save of their big hearts
Heaving m pain, and horribly convuls'd
With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurgc1
of pulse.
Mnemosyne was straying in the world ;
w Far fiom her moon had Phoebe wandered ,
And many else were free to roam abroad,
But for the main, here found they coveit
diear.
Scarce images of life, one heie, one theie,
Lay Aast and edgeways; like a dismal
cirque
36 Of Diuid stones, upon a forlorn moor,
When the chill ram begins at shut of e>e.
In dull No\ ember, and then chancel vault,
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout
night
Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbor
gave
4a Or word, or look, or action of despan
Creus was one; his ponderous iron mace
Lay by him, and & shatter M rib of rock
Told of hib rage, era he thus sank and
pined.
lapetns another; in his grasp,
45 A serpent's plashy2 neck, its barbed
tongue
Squeez'd from the gorge, and all its un-
curl'd length
Dead, and because the creature could not
spit
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove
Next Cottus: prone he lay, chin upper-
most,
50 As though in pain; for still upon the flint
He ground seAcre his skull, with open
mouth
And eyes at horrid woiking Nearest him
Asia, born of most enormous Caf ,
Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs,
65 Though feminine, than any of her sons
More thought than WOP was in her dusky
face,
For die was prophesying of her glory;
And in her wide imagination stood
.Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes,
60 By Oxns or in Ganges' sacred isles.
Even as Hope upon her anchor leans,8
So leant she; not so fair, upon a tusk
Shed from the broadest of her elephants.
i whirlpool
••peckled
JOHN KEATS
855
Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve,
M Upon his elbow rais'd, all prostrate else,
Shadow 'd.Eneeladus; once tame and mild
As grazing ox unworried in the meads;
Now tiger-passion 'd, lion-thoughted,
wroth,
He meditated, plotted, and even now
70 Was hurling mountains in that second
war,1
Not long delay 'd, that scar'd the younger
Gods
To hide themselves in forms of beast and
bird.
Not far hence Atlas; and beside him prone
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbored
close
75 Oceanna, and Tethys, in whose lap
Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair.
In midht of all lay Themis, at the feet
Of Ops the queen all clouded round from
sight;
No shape difctmguishpble, more than when
80 Thick night confounds the pine-tops with
the clouds:
And many else whose names may not be
told.
For when the Muse's wings are air-ward
spread,
Who shall delay her flight T And she must
chant'
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had
climb 'd
8* With damp and slippery footing from a
depth
More horrid stilL Above a sombre cliff
Their heads appear 'd, and up their stature
grew
Till on the level height their steps found
ease:
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling
arms
And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's
face:
There saw she direst strife; the supreme
God
At war with all the frailty of grief,
Of rage, or fear, anxiety, revenge,
*& Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all
despair.
Against these plagues he strove in vain;
for Fate
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head,
A disanointing poison : so that Thea,
Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass
100 First onwards in, among the fallen tribe.
of
and MnK
As with us mortal men, the laden fcpart
Is persecuted more, qpd fever'd more,
When it is nighing to the mournful house
Where other hearts are sick of the same
bruise;
10* So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst,
Felt faint, and would have sunk among
the rest,
But that he met Enceladus's eye,
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once
Tame like an inspiration ; and he shouted,
no "Titans, behold your God!91 at which
some groan 'd;
Some started on their feet; some alpo
shouted ;
Some wept, some wail 'd,— all bow'd with
reverence ;
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil,
Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her fore-
head wan,
n* Her eyebrows thin and jet, and hollow
eyes.
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines
When Winter lifts his voice; there is a
noise
Among immortals when a God gives sign,
With hushing finder, how he means to load
1*0 His tongue with the full weight of utter-
less thought,
With thunder, and with music, and with
pomp:
Such noibe is like the roar of bleak-grown
pines:
Which, when it ceases in this mountain 'd
world,
No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here,
125 Among these fallen, Saturn 's voice there-
from
Grew up like organ, that begins anew
Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt
short,
Leave the dmn'd air vibrating silverly.
Thus grew it up — ''Not in my own sad
breast,
130 Which is its own great judge and searcher
out,
Can I find reason why ye should be thus :
Not in the legends of the first of days,
Studied from that old spint-lea\ed book
Which starry Uranus with finger bright
186 Sav'd from the shores of cltirknet.**, when
the waves
Low-ebb 'd still hid it up in shallow
gloom ;—
And the which book ve know I ever kept
For my firm-based footstool.— Ah, infirm !
Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent
or
856 NINETEENTH CENTUHV BOMANTIOJSTS
One against one, or two, or three, or all But for this reason, that thou art the King,
fiach several one against the other three, 185 And only blind from sheer supremacy,
As fire with air loud waning when rain- One avenue was shaded from thine eyes,
floods Through which I wandered to eternal truth. .
145 Drown both, and prets them both Against And first, as thou wast not the first of
earth's face, powers,
Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath So art thon not the last ; it cannot be :
Unhinges the poor world;— not in that 19° Thou are not the beginning nor the end
stnf e, From chaos and parental darkness came
Wheref rom I take strange lore, and read Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil.
it deep, That sullen ferment, which for wondroub
Can I find reason why ye should be thus . ends
150 No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search, Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour
And pour on Nature's universal scroll came,
Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities, 10C And with it light, and light, engendering
The first-born of all shap'd and palpable Upon its own producer, forthwith touch 'd
Gods, The whole enormous matter into life.
Should cower beneath what, in comparison, Upon that very hour, our parentage,
155 Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, The Heavens and the Earth, were mani-
O'erwhelm'd, and spurn 'd, and batter 'd, feet:
ye are here ! *°° Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race,
0 Titans, shall I say, 'Arise I '—Ye groan Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous
Shall I say ' Crouch!'— Ye groan. What realms.
can I thenf Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis
O Hea^ en wide ? 0 unseen parent dear ' pain ;
"M What can I? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 0 folly ! for to bear all naked truth*,
How we can war, how engine1 our great And to envisage circumstance, all calm,
wrath ! 2°r> That is the top of boveieignty. Mark well !
O speak your counsel now, for Saturn 'h ear As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though
Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy fare once chiefs ;
'"r> I see, astonicd, that severe content And as we show beyoiid that Heaven and
Which comes of thought and musing: give Earth
us help f " In form and shape compact and beautiful,
J1° In will, in action free, companionship,
So ended Saturn, and the God of the And thousand other signs of purer life;
Sea, So on our heels a fresh perfection treadb,
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, A power more strong in beauty, born of us
But cogitation in his watery shades, And fated to excel us, as we pass
170 Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, Jlj> In glory that old Darknette nor are we
In murmurs, which his first-endeavoring Thereby more conquer 'd, than by us the
tongue rule
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil
sancK Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed,
"0 ye, whom wrath consumes! who, And feedeth still, more comely than itself f
passion-stung, -20 Con it deny the chief dom of green groves 1
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies I Or shall the tree be envious of the dove
175 Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, Because it cooeth, and hath rniowy wings
My voice is not a bellows unto ire. To wander wherewithal and find its jovst
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof We are such forest-trees, and our fair
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop : boughs
And in the proof much comfort will I give, 22S Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves,
1*0 if ye ^11 take that comfort in its truth. But eagles golden-feather 'd, who do towei
We fall by course of Nature's law, not Above us in their beauty, and must reign
force In right thereof ; for 'tis the eternal law
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, That first in beauty should be first in
thou might:1
Hast sifted well the atom-universe; mm __, ^. ^M „ ^ _ __.__ ,
1 i Bee Keats'H Ode on a Grecian 17m, 49-50 (p.
* plan , execute 828) ; aJao bin letter to Bailey (p 862t, 1.)
JOHN KEATS 857
280 Yea, by that law, another race may dnve The dull shell 'B echo, from a bowery strand
Oar conquerors to mourn as we do now 27B Just opposite, an island of the sea,
Have ye beheld the young God of the There came enchantment with the shifting
Seas,1 wind,
My dispossessed Have ye seen his facet That did both brown and keep alive my
Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along ears.
285 By noble winged creatures be hath madel I threw my shell away upon the sand,
I saw him on the calmed waters scud, And a wave fill fd it, as my sense was fill fd
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 28° With that new blissful golden melody.
That it enforced me to bid sad farewell A living death was in each gush of sounds,
To all my empire: farewell sad I took, Each family of rapturous burned notes,
3«° And hither came, to see how dolorous fate That fell, one after one, yet all at once,
Had wrought upon ye; and how I might Like pearl beads dropping sudden from
best their string:
Give consolation in this woe extreme. 285 And then another, then another strain,
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm. " Each like a dove leaving its olive perch,
With music wing'd instead of silent
Whether through poz'd2 conviction, or plumes,
disdain, To hover round my head, and make me sick
245 They guarded silence, when Oceanus Of joy and giief at once. Gnef overcame,
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can m And I was stopping up my frantic ears,
tell? When, past all hindrance of my trembling
But so it was, none answer M for a space, hands,
Save one whom none regarded, Clvmene . A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune,
And yet she answer M not, only com- And still it cued, 'Apollo! young Apollo!
plain 9d, Themornuig-bnght Apollo I young Apollo ! '
*50 With hectic lips, and eyes up-lookinp mild, 29B 1 fled, it follow 'd me, and cried ' Apollo !'
Thus woiding timidly aimmp the fieice 0 Father, and 0 Brethren, had ye <
"0 Father, lam here the simplest \oice. Those pains of mine; 0 Saturn, badst
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone, tliou felt,
And this tiling woe crept m among our \e would not call this too-indulged tongue
hearts, Presumptuous, m thus ^entunngr to be
266 There to remain forever, as I fear: heard."
I would not bode of evil, if I thought
So weak a creature could turn off the help *°° So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous
Which by just right should come of mighty brook
Oods, That, lingering along a pebbled coast,
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell Doth fear to meet the sea: but sea it met,
260 Of what I heai d, and how it made me weep, And shudder 'd ; for the overwhelming
And know that we had parted from all voice
hope. Of huge Enceladus swallow 'd it m wrath .
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, *05 The ponderous syllables, bke sullen waves
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a In the half-glutted hollows of reef -rocks,
land Came booming thus, while still upon hi«
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and arm
flowers He lean'd; not rising, from supreme con-
?*r> pull of calm joy it was, as I of grief ; tempt.
Too full of joy, and soft delicious warmth ; * ' Or shall we listen to the over- wise.
So that I felt a movement in my heart 81° Or to the over-foolish, giant God**
To chide, and to reproach that solitude Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all
With son ps of misery, music of our woes , That rebel Jove 's whole armory were spent,
*7° And sat me down, and took a mouthed Not world on world upon these shoulder*
shell* piled,
And murmur'd into it, and made melody— Could agonize me more than baby-words
0 melody no more ! for while I sang, 3t5 In midst of this dethronement horrible
And with poor skill let pass into the breeze Speak ! roar I shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Titans
all
358
NINETEENTH GENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
Dost thon forget, sham Monarch of the
Waves,
-lao Thy scalding in the seasf What! have I
rous'd
Tour spleens with so few simple words as
these!
Ojoy! for now I see ye are not lost:
Ojoy! for now I see a thousand eyes
Wide-glaring for revenge!"— As this be
said,
3* He lifted up his stature vast, and stood,
Still without intermission speaking thus :
"Now ye are flames, 111 tell yon how to
bum,
And purge the ether1 of our enemies,
How to feed fierce the crooked stingb of
fire,
330 And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove,
Stifling that puny essence in its tent
0 let him feel the evil he hath done;
For though I scorn Oceanus's lore,
Much pain have I for more than lot* of
realms:
886 The days of peace and slumberous calm
are fled;
Those days, all innocent of scathing war,
When all the fair Existences of heaven
Came open-eyed to guess what we would
speak:—
That was before our brows were taught to
frown,
uo Before our lips knew else but solemn
sounds;
That was before we knew the winged thing,
Victory, might be lost, or might be won.
And be ye mindful that Hyperion,
Our brightest brother, still is un disgraced-
All eyes were on Enceladus's face,
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's
name
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks,
A pallid gleam across his features stern :
Not savage, for he saw full many a God
Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them
all,
And in each face he saw a gleam of light,
But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar
locks
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel
When the prow sweeps into a midnight
cove.
In pale and silver silence they remain 'd,
Till suddenly a splendor, like the morn,
Pervaded afl the beetling ploomy steeps,
All the sad spaces of oblivion,
And every gulf, and every chasm old,
' upper nflont
And every height, and every sullen depth,
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented
streams:
And all the everlasting cataracts,
And all the headlong torrents far and
near,
m Mantled before m darkness and huge
shade,
Now saw the light and made it terrible.
It was Hyperion :— a granite peak
His bright feet touch 'd, and there he stay 'd
to view
The misery his brilliance had betray'd
37° To the most hateful seeing of itself.
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl,
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade
In midst of his own brightness, like the
bulk
Of Memnon's image at the set of sun
37B To one who travels from the dusking East
Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon't.
harp,2
He utter 'd, while his hands contemplative
He press 'd together, and in silence stood
Despondence seus'd again the fallen Godb
38° At Bight of the dejected King of Day,
And many hid their faces from the light
But fierce Enoeladus sent forth his eyes
Among the brotherhood; and, at their
glare,
Uprose lapetus, and Creus too,
38C And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode
To where he towered on his eminence
There those four shouted forth old Sat-
urn's name;
Hyperion from the peak loud answered,
"Saturn'1'
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods,2
890 In whose face was no joy, though all the
Gods
Gave from their hollow throats the name
of "Saturn!"
BOOK III
Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace,
Amazed were those Titans utterly.
0 leave them, Muse I 0 leave them to their
woes;
™°r thon art weak to sing such tumult ^
dire :
6 A solitary sorrow best befits
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief
Leave them, 0 Muse ! for thou anon wilt
find
-
by tie iflrtt
*
-Ops (ffbea).
nvp of
» t
BOO, WM
the mapping of a
JOHN KEATS
Many a fallen old Divinity
Wandering in vain about bewildeied sboies.
10 Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,
And not a wind of heaven but will breathe
In aid soft warble from the Doiian flute,
For lo' 'tife for the Father of all verse.
Flush every thing that hath a \enneil hue,
15 Let the rose glow intense and warm the air.
And let the clouds of even and of morn
Float in voluptuous fleeces o 'er the hills ;
Let the red *ine within the goblet boil,
Cold as a bubbling well, let famt-hpp'd
shells,
20 On sands, or m great deeps, veiimhon turn
Through all their labyrinths, and let the
maid
Blush keenh, as mill some waim kiss sur-
pris'd.
Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades,
Rejoice, O Delop, with thuie olives green,
25 And poplais, and lawn-shod ing palms, ami
beech,
In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest
song,
And hazels thick, daik-stemm'd beneath
the shade :
Apollo is once moie the golden theme f
Where was he, when the Qiant of the
Sun1
30 Stood bright, amid the bon ow of his peers f
Together had he left his mother fair
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,
And in the morning twilight wandered
forth
Beside the osiers2 of a rivulet,
•!& Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.
The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few stars
Were lingering in the heavens, while the
thrush
Began calm-tin oated. Throughout all the
isle
There was no covert, no retired cave
10 Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of
waves,
Though &cairely heaid in many a green
recess.
He listen 'd, and he wept, and his bright
tears
Went trickling1 down the golden bow he
held
Thus with half -shut suffused eyes he stood,
*B While from beneath some cumbrous boughs
hard by
With solemn step an awful Goddess came,
And there was purport in her looks for
him,
Which he with eager guess began to read
Perplex 'd, the while melodiously he said*
* Hyperion. «wlllow»
50 "How cam'st thou over the unfooted seat
Or hath that antique mien and robed form
Mov'd in these vales invisible till now I1
Sure I have heard those vestments sweep-
ing o'er
The fallen leaves, when I ha\e sat alone
55 In cool mid-foiest. Surely I have traced
The rustle of those ample skirts about
Those grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers
Lift up their heads, as still the whisper
pass'd
Goddess* I ha\e beheld those eyes before,
60 And their eternal calm, and all that face,
Or I have dream 'd."-" Yes," said the
supreme shape,
" Thou hast dream M of me; and awaking
up
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,
Whose strings touch 'd by thy fingers, all
the \ast
65 Unwearied ear of the whole universe
Listen 'd in pain and pleasure at the birth
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not
stiange
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted! Tell
me, youth,
What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad
70 When thou dost shed a tear- explain thy
griefs
To one who in this lonely isle hath been
The catcher of thy sleep and hours of life,
Fiom the young day when first thy infant
hand
Pluck 'd witless the weak floweis, till thine
aim
75 Could bend that bow heroic to all times.
Show thy heart's secret to an ancient
Power
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake
Of loveliness new born. "— Apollo then,
80 With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,
Thus answerM, while his white melodious
throat
Throbb'd with the syllables.- "Mnemos-
yne1
Thy name is oil my tongue, I know not
how;
Why should I tell thee what thou so well
scestt
85 Why should I strive to show what from thv
hps
Would come no mystery T For me, dark,
dark,
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes :
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,
Until a melancholy numbs my limbs;
' PoMlbly rantalBcuit of the Orfjwey. 1. 173 ft.
860
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
90 And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,
Like one wno once had wings.— 0 why
should I
Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the liege-
less air
Yields to my step aspirant T why should I
Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet t
95 Goddess benign, point forth some 'unknown
thing:
Are there not other regions than this islet
What are the stars! There is the sun, the
sun!
And the most patient brilliance of the
moon!
And stars by thousands ! Point me out the
way
100 To any one particular beauteous star,
And I will fit into it with my lyre,
And make its silvery splendor pant with
bliss.
I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where
is power t
Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity
106 Makes this alarum in the elements,
While I here idle listen on the shores
In feailess yet in aching ignorance t
0 tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp,
That waileth every morn and eventide,
no Tell me why thus I rave, about these
gro\es!
Mute thou remainest— mute ! yet I can read
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me
Names, deeds, giay legends, dire events,
rebellions,
115 Majesties, smran voices, agonies,
Creations and destroymgs, all at once
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,
And deify me, as if some blithe wine
Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,
120 And so become immortal. "—Thus the God,
While hib enkindling eves, with level glance
Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast
kept
Trembling with light upon JAnemosyne*
Soon wild commotions shook him, land made
flush
185 All the immortal fairness of his limbs ;
Most like the struggle at the gate of death ;
Or hker still to one who should take leave
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang
As hot as death's is chill, with fierce con-
vulse
130 Die into life : so young Apollo anguish M :
His very hair, his golden tresses famed
Kept undulation round his eager neck*
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
Her arms as one who prophesied. — At
length
Apollo shriek'd;— and lo! from all his
limbs
CelMtial -
• ••*•*
TO AUTUMN
1820
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing
sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and
bless
With fruit the vines that round the
thatch-eaves run;
5 To bend with apples the moss'd oottage-
trees,
And fill all fruit with ripenebs to the
core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the
hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding
more,
And still more, later flowers for the beef,
10 Until they think warm day* will never
ceabe,
For Summer has o'er-biimmM their
clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy
store f
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may
find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
16 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing
wind ;
Or on a half-reap 'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies,
while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its
twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost
keep
20 Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozmsfs hours
by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring* Ay,
where are theyf
Think not of them, thou hast thy music
too,—
*' While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying
day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy
hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats
mourn
Among the river willows,1 borne aloft
* willows
JOHN K&VTfl
861
Or sinking as the light wind lives or
dies;
80 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from
hilly bourn ;'
Hedge-crickets bing; and now with
tieble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-
croft;2
And gathering swallows twitter in
the skies.
TO FANNIET
1819 1848
I cry your mercy— pity— love!— aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalizes not,
One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless
Unmask M, and being seen— without a blot f
B 0! let me ha\e thee whole,— all— all— be
mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor
zest
Of lo\ e, vour kiss,— those hands, those eyes
divine,
That warm, white, lucent, mil lion -pleasured
breast,—
Yourself — your soul— in pity give me all,
10 Withhold no atom f* atom or I die,
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life's purposes.— the palate of my mind
Losing it* gust, and my ambition blind !
BRIGHT STAB, WOULD 1 WEBE
STEADFAST AS THOU ART
1820 1848
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou
art!
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Natuie's patient, sleepless eremite,4
6 The moving waters at their priesthke task
Of pure ablution round earth's human
shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the
moors:
No— yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
1° Pillow fd upon my fair love's ripening
breast,
To feel forever its soft, flail and swell,
Awake forever in a sweet unrest
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever— or else swoon to death.
1 boundary (perhaps, region)
• MUBll piece of enclosed grou
•Fanny Brawne, a yonng we
was fondly devoted.
« hermit
ground
woman to whom Keatu
Tram KEATS fB LETTERS
1816-tO 1848-91
To BENJAMIN BAILIT
[BuBtORD BRIDGE, November 22, 1817. J
My dear Bailey— I will get over the first
part of this (toihaid) lettei as boon as pos-
sible, for it relates to the affairs of poor
Cnpps.— To a man of your nature such a
6 letter as Haydon 's inufct have been extremely
cutting— What occasions the greater part
of the world's quarrels f— simply this— two
minds meet, and do not undei stand each
other time enough to pi event any shock or
10 surprise at the conduct of either party—
AB soon a* I had known Uavdon three days,
I had got enough of his chaiacter not to
have been suipnsed at such a letter as he
has hurt you with. Nor, when 1 knew it, was
15 it a principle with me to drop his acquaint-
ance; although with you it would have been
an imperious feeling
I wish you knew all that I think about
genius and the heart— and yet I think that
20 you are thoroughly acquainted with my
innermost breast in that respect, or you
could not have known me even thus long,
and still hold me worthy to be your dear
inend. In passing, howe\er, I must say one
26 thing that has pressed upon me lately, and
increased my humility and capability of sub-
mission—mid that is this tiuth— men of gen-
ius aie great a<» ceitain ethereal cheuncaK
operating on the mass of neutral intellect—
80 but they have not any individuality, any de-
termined character— I would call the top
and head of those who have a proper self.1
men of power.
But I am running my head into a subject
as \\hich I am certain I could not do justice
to under five years' study, and 3 vols. octavo
—and, moreover, I long to be talking about
the imagination— so my dear Bailey, do not
think of this unpleasant affair, if possible
« do not— I defy any.haim to come of it—
I defy. I shall wnte to Cnpps this week,
and request him to tell me all his goings-on
from time to time by lettei wherever I may
be. It will go on well— so don't because
45 you have suddenly discovered a coldness in
Haydon suffer yourself to be teased— Do
not my dear fellow— Of I wish I was as
certain of the end of all vour troubles as
that of your momentary start about the
80 authenticity of the imagination. I am cer-
tain of nothing but of the holiness of the
heart's affections, and the truth of imagi-
nation. What the imagination seizes as
1 That It, tboee who have an individuality
862
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
beauty must be truth1— whether it existed
before or not,— for I have the same idea
of all our passions as of love: they are
all, in their sublime, creative of essential
beauty. In a woid, you may know my 6
favonte speculation by my first Book, and
the httle Song1 I sent in my last, which is
a representation from the fancy of the
probable mode of operating in these mat-
ters. The imagination may be compared to 10
Adam's dream,— he awoke and found it
truth:8— I am more zealous in this affair,
because I have never yet been able to per-
ceive how anything can be known for truth
by consecutive reasoning— and yet it must K
be. Can it be that even the greatest philos-
opher e^er arrived at his goal without put-
ting aside numerous objections f However
it may be, 0 for a life of sensations rather
than of thoughts^ It is "a vision in the 20
form of youth," a shadow of reality to
come— And this consideration has further
convinced me,— for it has come as auxiliary
to another favonte speculation of mine,—
that we shall enjoy oursehes hereafter bv 2fi
having what we called happinesR on earth
repeated in a finer tone— And yet such a
fate can only befall those who delight in
sensation, rather than hunger as you do
after truth. Adam's dream will do here, 80
and seems to be a conviction that imagina-
tion and its empyreal reflection, is the same
as human life and its spiritual repetition.
But, as I was saying, the simple imagina-
tive mind may have its reward in the repe- 86
tition of its own silent working coming
continually on the spirit with a fine sudden-
ness—to compare great things with small,
have you never bv being surprised with an
old melody, in a delicious place by a deli- 40
cious voice, felt over again your very spec-
ulations and surmises at the time it first
operated on your soul T— do you not re-
member forming to yourself the singer's
face— more beautiful than it was possible, 46
and yet with the elevation of the moment
you did not think sot Even then you were
mounted on the wings of imagination, so
high that the prototype must be hereafter
—that delicious face you will see. What a 60
time! I am continually running away from
the subject. Sure this cannot be exactly the
case with a complex mind— one that is
imaginative, and at the same time careful
of its frnits,— who would exist partly on w
Bee Keats'* Ode on a Grecian Urn. 49-50
828) ; also hla Hyperion, 2, 228-9 ?p 8ST
• Supposed to be the poem entitled lA*r* (p.
i Bee ParadlM Lout, 8, 478-84.
sensation, partly on thought— to whom it is
necessary that years should bring the philo-
sophic mind T1 Such a one I consider yours,
and therefore it is necessary to your eti»i-
nal happiness that you not only drink this
old wine of heaven, which I shall call the
redigestion of our most ethereal musings
upon earth, but also increase in knowledge
and know all things. I am glad to hear
that you are in a fair way for Easter. You
will soon get through your unpleasant read-
ing, and then!— but the world is full of
troubles, and I have not much reason to
think nivself pestered with many
Your affectionate friend,
JOHN KEATS
To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
HAUFtTKAD, I February 8, 1818 J
My dear Reynolds— I thank you for your
dish of tilbeits-'— would I could get a bas-
ket of them by way of dessert e^ery day
for the sum of twopence. Would we were
a sort of ethereal pigs, and turned loose to
feed upon spiritual mast and acorns— which
would be merely being a squirrel and feed-
ing upon filberts, for what is a squirrel but
an airy pig, or a filbert but a sort of arch-
angelical acorn f About the nuts being
worth cracking, all 1 can say is, that where
there are a throng of delightful images
ready drawn, simplicity is the only tiling.
The first is the best on account of the first
line, and the "arrow, foil'd of its antler 'd
food," and moreover (and this is the only
word or two I find fault with, the more be-
cause I have had so much reason to shnn it
as a quicksand) the last has "tender and
true." We must cut this, and not be rattle-
snaked into any more of the like. It may
be raid that we ought to read our contem-
poraries, that Wordsworth, etc , should luue
their due from us. But, for the Rake of a
few fine imaginative or domestic passages
are we to be bullied into a cei tain philoso-
phy engendered in the whims of an egotist f
Every man has his bpeculations, but everv
man does not brood and peacock o\er them
tiU he makes a false coinage and deceives
himself Many a man can travel to the
very bourne of heaven, and yet want confi-
dence to put down- his half-seeing. Sancho
will invent a journey heavenward as well
as anybody. We hate poetry that has n
1 Bee WordHwortb'fl Ode Tntimationt of
WO (D f Iff la? • ? '«"««Woii« o/ /mmor
p. 765). «Tw?jIonnetfi which Re/nolds had written on
Ilobfn Hood and which he had ncnt to Ki»nt^
JOHN KEATS
palpable design upon us, and, if we do not
agree, seems to pat its band into its breeches
pocket.^ Poetry should be great and un-
obtrusive, a thing which enters into one's
soul, and does not startle or amaze it with
itself —but with its subject How beautiful
are the retired flowers!— how would they
lose their beauty were they to throng into
the highway9 crying out, "Admire me, I am
a violet 1 Dote upon me, I am a primrose ! "
Modern poets differ from the Elizabethans
in this : each of the moderns like an Elector
of Hanover governs big petty state and
knows how many straws are swept daily
from the causeways in all his dominions,
and has a continual itching that all the
housewives should have their coppers well
scoured: the ancients were emperors of
vast provinces, they had only heard of the
remote ones and scarcely cared to visit them.
I will cut all this— I will have no more of
Wordsworth or Hunt in particular— Why
should we be of the tribe of Manasseh,
when we can wander with Esau I1 Why
should we kick against the pricks,8 when we
can walk on roses f Why should we be
owls, when we can be eagles! Why be
teased with "nice-eyed wagtails," when
we have in sight "the Cherub Contempla-
tion"!8 Why with Wordsworth's "Mat-
thew with a bough of wilding in his hand,994
when we can have Jacques "under an
oak,1'8 etc.t The secret of the bough of
wilding will run through your head faster
than I can write it. Old Matthew spoke to
him some years ago on some nothing, and
because he happens in an evening walk to
imagine the figure of the old man, he must
stamp it down in black and white, and it is
henceforth sacred. I don't mean to deny
Wordsworth's grandeur and Hunt's merit,
but I mean to say we need not be teased
with grandeur and merit when we can have
them uncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let
us have the old poets and Robin Hood.
Tour letter and its sonnets gave me more
pleasure than will the Fourth Book of
Harold and the whole o( anybody's
i That Is, why should we dwell In dties when we
can roam the fields* Bee Gemetto, 2,1 27;
tfwiiDer*. 82 '88 ft Wordsworth's unfriendly
attitude toward the paganism expressed In
Keats's "Hymn to Pan, In JFndysttoft, X, 232
806 (p. T70). may account for Keats'* esti-
mate of Wordsworth expressed In this* letter
Keats bad recited the Hymn to Wordsworth.
•ftit_10tf.9«
K/s The Two April Morning*, 59 M
life and opinions. In return for your dish
of filberts, I have gathered a few catkins,1
I hope they'll look pretty ......
Your sincere friend and co-scribbler,
fi JOHN KEATS.
To JOHN TAYLOR
[HAMPSTEAD, February 27, 1818.]
10 My dear Taylor—
...... It is a sorry thing for me
that any one should have to overcome prej-
udices in reading my verses— that affects
me more than any hypercnticism on any
15 particular passage— In Endymum, I have
most likely but moved into the go-cart from
the leading-strings— In poetry I have a few
axioms, and you will see how far I am
from their centre.
» 1st I think poetry shotdd surprise by a
fine excess, and not by singularity; It
should strike the reader as a wording of his
own highest thoughts, and appear almost a
remembrance.
» 2d. Its touches of beauty should never
be half-way, thereby making the reader
breathless, instead of content. The rise, the
progress, the setting of imagery should,
like the sun, come natural to him, shine
30 over him, and set soberly, although in mag-
nificence, leaving him in the luxury of twi-
light. But it is easier to think what poetry
should be, than to write it— And this leads
me to
as Another axiom— That if poetry comes
not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it
had better not come at all— However it
may be with me, I cannot help looking into
new countries with "0 for a Muse of Fire
40 to ascend!"* If Endymion serves me as a
pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content— I
have great reason to be content, for thank
God I can read, and perhaps understand
Shakspeare to his depths; and I have I
45 am sure many friends, who, if I fail, will
attribute any change in ray life and temper
to humbleness rather than pride— to a
cowering under the wraps of great poets,
rather than to a bitterness that I am not
10 appreciated .......
Tour sincere and obliged friend,
JOHN KSATS.
» A reference to Setts'* two poemg. £f*e» on f*f
Mermaid Taier* (p. TW and Robin Hood (p.
Tee), which accompanist the letter.
F, choruK, 1
864
NINETEENTH CENTtfBY BOM A NTI CISTS
To JAMIB AUGVSTUS HISBIT
[HAMPBTIAD, October 8, 1818.]
My dear Hessey— You are very good in
sending me the letters from The Chronicle1
—and I am very bad in not acknowledging
such a kindness sooner— pray forgive me.
It has so chanced that I have had that paper 6
every day— I have seen today's. I cannot
but feel indebted to those gentlemen who
have taken my part— As for the rest, I
begin to get a bttle acquainted with my
own strength and weakness. — Praise or 10
blame has but a momentary effect on the
man whose love of beauty in the abstract
makes him a severe critic on his own works.
My own domestic criticism has given me
pain without comparison beyond what u
Blackwood or The Quarterly2 could pos-
sibly inflict— and also when I feel I am
right, no external praise can give me such
a glow as my own solitary reperception and
ratification of what is fine. J. S.' is per- 20
fectly right in regard to the slip-shod
Endymion. That it is so is no fault of
mine. Not- though it may sound a little
paradoxical. It is as good as I had power
to make it— by myself —Had I been nervous 25
about its being a perfect piece, and with
that view asked advice, and trembled over
every page, it would not have been written ,
for it is not in my nature to fumble4— I will
wnte independently.— I have written inde- 80
pendently without judgment. I may write
independently, and with judgment, here-
after The genius of poetry must work out
its own salvation in a man. It cannot be Ca-
tered by law and precept, but by sensation »
and watchfulness in itself— That which is
creative must create itself— In Endymion,
I leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby
have become better acquainted with the
soundings, the quicksands and the rocks, 40
than if I had stayed upon the green shore,
land piped a silly pipe, and took tea and
comfortable advice. I was never afraid of
failure; for I would sooner fail than not
be among the greatest— But I am nigh get- 46
ting into a rant. So, with remembrances to
Tavlor and Woodhouse, etc., I am
Yours very sincerely, JOHN KEATS.
i Two letter* to the editor of Tne Morning fftrofi-
Me, a London dally, printed Oct. 3 and 8, 00
1818.
* Blackwood't Edtrturph M agafine and The Quar-
terly Review were both hostile to Keats. Be*
Shelley's Adonai*. 17. 7-9 (p 782) ; Byron'*
Don Juan. 11. 60. 1. and n. B (P. 610) ; and
Croker'0 review of Endymion (p 913)
•John Scott, author of one of the letters to The
Horning Chronicle
4 grope about perplexedly
To Orate! AND GBORGIAKA KEATS
[HAKMTIAD, October 25, 1818.1
My dear George—
.... I shall in a short time write you
as far as I know how I intend to pass my
life— I cannot think of those things now
Tom1 is so*uuwell and weak. Notwithstand-
ing your happiness and your recommenda-
tion I hope I shall never marry. Though
the most beautiful creature were waiting
for me at the end of a journey or a walk;
though the carpet were of silk, the curtains
of the morning clouds; the chairs And sofa
stuffed with cygnet's8 down; the food
manna, the wine beyond claret, the window
opening on Winander mere, I should not
feel— or rather my happiness would not be
so fine, as my solitude is sublime. Then
instead of what I have described, there is
a sublimity to welcome me home— The roar-
ing of the wind is my wife and the stars
through the window pane are my children.
The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty
m all things stifles the more divided and
minute domestic happiness— an amiable
wife and bweet children I contemplate as
a part of that beauty, but I must have a
thousand of those beautiful particles to
fill up my heart. I feel more and more
every day, as my imagination strengthens,
that I do not live in this world alone but
in a thousand worlds— No sooner am I alone
than shapes of epic greatness are stationed
around me, and serve my spirit the office
which is equivalent to a king's bodyguard-
then "Tragedy with sceptred pall comes
sweeping1 by."8 According to my state of
mind I am with Achilles shouting in the
trenches,4 or with Theocritus in the vales of
Sicily. Or I throw mv whole beinjr into
Troilus, and repeating those lines, "I wan-
der like a lost soul upon the stygian banks
staying for waft age,'10 I melt into the air
with a voluptuousness so delicate that I
am content to be alone. These things, com-
bined with the opinion I have of the gener-
ality of worilen— who appear to me as chil-
dren to whom I would rather give a sugar
plum than my time, form a barrier against
matrimony which I rejoice in.
I have written this that you might see T
have my share of the highest pleasures, and
that though I may choose to pass my days
alone I shall be no solitary. You nee there
is nothing spleenical in all this. The only
' 'Keats'* brother. He died Ifec 1, 1818
* young Bwan'« • n Pcntcroto, 98.
*»eethe/Winl,18, 217ff.
B Troilv* and Cmritfa, III, 2, 10
JOHN EEAT8
865
thing that can ever affect me personally for
more than one short passing day, is any
doubt about my powers for poetry— I sel-
dom have any, and I look with hope to the
nighing time when I shall have none. I am
as happy as a man can be— that is, in my-
self I should be happy if Tom was well,
and I knew you were passing pleasant
days. Then I should be most enviable—
with the yearning passion I have for the
beautiful, connected and made one with the
ambition of my intellect. Think of my
pleasure in solitude in comparison of my
commerce with the world— there I am a
child— there they do not know me, not even
my most intimate acquaintance— I give in to
their feelings as though I were refraining
from irritating a little child. Some think
me middling, others silly, others foolish—
every one thinks he sees my weak side
against my will, when in truth it is with
ray will— I am content to be thought all this
because I have in my own breast so great a
resource. This is one great reason why
they like me so; because they can all show
to advantage in a room and eclipse from a
certain tact one who is reckoned to be a
good poet I hope I am not here playing
tricks "to make the angels weep":1 1 think
not- for I luue not the least contempt for
my species, and though it may sound para-
doxical, my greatest elevations of soul lea\p
nw every time more humbled— Enough of
tins— though in your love for me you will
not think it enough ....
Believe me, mv dear brother and sister,
Tour anxious and affectionate Brother,
JOHN
To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
WivcmssiVR, August 25, [1819]
My dear Reynolds— By this post I write
to Rice, who will tell you why we have left
Sbankhn; and how we like this place. I
have indeed scarcely anything else to say,
leading so monotonous a life, except I was
to give you a history of sensations, and day-
nightmares You would not find me at all
unhappy in it, as all my thoughts and feel-
ings which are of the selfish nature, home
speculations, every day continue to make
me more iron — I am convinced more and
more, every dav, that fine writing is, next
to fine doing, the top thing in the world;
the Paradise Lost becomes a greater won-
der The more I know what my diligence
may in time probably effect, the more does
» Mcaaurf for Mcamnrc, II, 2, 117.
my heart distend with pnde and obstinacy—
I feel it in my power to become a popular
writer— I feel it in my power to refuse the
poisonous suffrage of a public. My own
5 being which I know to be becomes of more
consequence to me than the crowds of
shadows in the shape of men and women
that inhabit a kingdom. The soul is a world
of itself, and has enough to do in its own
10 home. Those whom I know already, and
who have grown as it were a part of my-
self, I could not do without: but for the
rest of mankind, they are as much a dream
to me as Milton's Hierarchies l I think if I
16 had a free and healthy and lasting organiza-
tion of heart, and lungs as strong as an ox's
so as to be able to bear unhurt the shock
of extreme thought and sensation without
weariness, I could pass my lite very nearly
» alone though it should last eighty years.
But I feel my body too weak to support
me to the height, I am obliged continually
to check myself, and be nothing It would
be vain for me to endeavor after a more
B reasonable manner of writing to you. I
have nothing to speak of but myself, and
what can I say but what I feelt If you
should have any reason to regret this state
of excitement in me, I will turn the tide of
80 your feelings in the right channel, by men-
tioning that it is the only state for the beat
sort of poetry— that is all I care for, all I
Hve for. Forgive me for not filling up the
whole sheet; letters become so irksome to
SB me, that the next time 1 leave London I
shall petition them all to be spared me. To
give me credit for constancy, and at the
same time waive letter writing will be the
highest indulgence I can think of.
40 Ever your affectionate friend,
JOHN KEATS.
To PEROT BYSSHK SHELLEY
[HlMPBTEJLD, August, 1820]
My dear Shelley —I am ^erv much erati-
45 fied that you, in a foreign country, and with
a mind almost o\er-occupied, should write
to me in the strain of the letter beside me
If I do not take advantage of youi invita-
tion, it will be prevented by a circumstance
•0 I have very much at heart to prophesy.
There is no doubt that an English winter
would put an end to me, and do so in a
lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I
must either voyage or journey to Italy, as
M a soldier marches up to a battery. Mv
nerves at present are the worst part of me,
iTbe three division Into which the nine order*
of angela were divided. Bee Por*ttt» Lett,
866 NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
yet they feel soothed that, come what ex- Of pines:— all wood and garden was the
treme may, I shall not be destined to remain rest,
in one spot long enough to take a hatred Lawn, and green lane, and covert:— and it
of any four particular bedposts. I am glad had
5 you take any pleasure in my poor poem, 245 A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
which I would willingly take the trouble to With here and there a swan, the creature
unwnte, if possible, did I care so much as born
I have done about reputation. I received To be the only graceful shape of scorn.1
a copy of The Cenci, as from yourself, from The flowei-hedh all were liberal of delight •
10 Hunt There is only one part of it I am Roses in heaps were there, both red and
judge of— the poetry and dramatic effect, white,
which by many spirits nowadays is consul- 25° Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms
ered the Mammon. A modern work, it is Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and
said, must have a purpose, which may be blooms
16 the Qod. An artist must serve Mammon; Hanging thick clusters from light boughs ;
he must have " self-concentration91— selfish- in short,
ness, perhaps. You, I am sure, will forgive All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
me for sincerely remarking that you might With plots of grass, and leafier walks be-
curb your magnanimity, and be more of an tween
SO artist, and load every rift of your subject 256 Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,
with ore. The thought of such discipline And orange, whose warm leaves so finely
must fall like cold chains upon you, who suit,
perhaps never sat with your wings furled And look as if they shade a golden fruit ,
for six months together. And is not this And midst the fiow'rb, turf M round be-
16 extraordinary talk for the writer of En- neath a shade
dyvnion, whose mind was like a pack of Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain
scattered cards 1 I am picked up and sorted play'd,
to a pip.1 My imagination is a monastery, 26° And 'twist their shafts you saw the water
and I am its monk I am in expectation of bright,
80 Prometheus* every day. Could I have my Which through the tops glimmer 'd with
own wish effected, you would have it still in show 'ring light
manuscript, or be but now putting an end So now you stood to think what odors best
to the second act I remember you advis- Made the air happy in that lovely nest ,
ing me not to publish my first blights, on And now you went beside the flowers, with
85 Harapstcad Heath. I am returning advice eyes
upon your hands Most of the poems in 265 Earnest as bees, lestless as butterflies,
the volume I send you have been written And then turn 'd off into a shadier walk,
above two years, and would never have been Close and continuous, fit for lo\ ere * talk ,
published but for hope of gam ; so you see And then pursued the stream, and as you
40 I am inclined enough to lake your advice trod
now. I must express once more my deep Onward and ouwaid o'er the velvet sod,
sense of your kindness, adding my sincere 27° Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
thanks and respects for Mrs Shelley And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet
In the hope of soon seeing you, I remain At last you enter M shades indeed, the
45 most sincerely yours, ' wood,
JOHN KEATS Broken with glens and pits, and glades
far-view 'd,
JAMBS HENRY LEIGH HUNT Through which the distant palace now and
(1784-1859) then
THE STOBY OF BIMTNI 276 Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd
1812-ic 1816 ken;
Prom CANTO III A land of trees,— which reaching round
e°nd3 aTool' *> ***** *-*« their old arms
A small sweet house o'erlook'd it from a with Bpo£ of gunny open5nRS> flnd ^
nest nookg
i That I«, minutely. A pip IB one of tbe spots
on 4 lavlnff cnidn * Born to exprem acorn and grace at the tame
> Rhellev'H drama, l*romcthev* Unbound tune.
JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 867
To he and read in, sloping into brooks, And through the dome the only light camo
280 Where at her drink you startled the slim in,
deer, *16 Ting'd as it enter'd by the vine-leaves thm
Retreating lightly. with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house, It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill.
And sung and darted in and out the Spar'd from the rage of war, and perfect
boughs, still;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue By some suppob'd the work of fair}
28t» Clearly was felt, or down the leaves hands,—
laugh M through. Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of
And here and there, in ev'ry part, were lands,
seats, 32° Alema or Morgana,— who from fights
Some in the open \valks, some in retreats,— And eirant1 fame inveigled amorous
With bow'nng leaves overhead, to which knights,
the eye And hv'd with them in a long round ol
Look'd up half sweetly and half aw- blisses,
fully,— Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-en-
290 Places of nestling green, for poets made, shaded kisses.
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow But 'twas a temple, as its sculptuie told,
shade, 32r> Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of
The rugged tiunks, to inward peeping old;
sight, Fur o'er the door was carv'd a sacufice
Throng 'd in dark pillars up the gold green By girls and shepherds brought, with rev-
light eieiit eyes,
Of sylvan dnnks and foods, simple and
But 'twixt the wood and floweiy walks, sweet,
half-way. And goats with struggling horns and
295 And forni'd of both, the loveliest poition planted feef
lay,— 33° And round about ran, on a line with this
A spot, that struck you like enchanted In like relief, a woild of pagan bliss,
ground :— That show 'd, m various scenes, the nympliN
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound themselves ;
Of sloping orchards,— fig, and almond Some by the water-side, on bowery shelve-
tiees, Leaning at will, — some in the stream al
Cheiry and pine, and some few cypi esses, play» —
300 Down" bv whose roots, descending darkly 335 Some pelting the young Fauns with bud-
utill, of May,—
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd Or half asleep pretending not to see
a nil, m m The latter in the brakes2 come creepingh ,
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it While from their careless urns, lying; aside
said, In the long grass, the struggling watei*.
Something eteinal to that happy shade. glide.
The ground within was lawn, with fruits 840 Never, be sure, before or since was seen
and flowers A summer-house so fine in such a nest of
.105 Heap'd towards the centre, half of citron preen.
bowers;
And in the middle of those golden trees, TO HAMPSTKAD
Half seen amidst the globv oranges,
Lmk'da rare summer-house, a loveh
« „ „ .. f, ISIS 1813
Small, maible, well-proportionM, creamy
•white, Sueet upland, to \\hosc walks, with fond
Its top with vine-leaves sprinkled,— but no icpair,4
more,— Out of thy western slope I took my rise
And a young bay-tree either side the
A~™ l belonging to ohivalrlc enterprise
«o°r« _ _ _ , , 'thlckctB
The door was to the wood, forward and "Hunt was Imprisoned for an unfriendly chat
.„„« acterUatlon of the Prince Regent, publish.,]
square, m in ^c Exawtincr, 1812.
The re«t was domed at top, and circular ; « journey
968 NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTIG18T8
Day after day, and on these feverish eyes And times and things, as in that vision,
Met the moist fingers of the bathing air ;— seem
5 If health, unearn'd of thee, I may not Keeping along it their eternal stands,—
share, c Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd
Keep it, I pray thee, where my memory bands
lies, That roamed through the young world, the
In thy green lanes, brown dells, and breezy glory extreme
skies, Of high Sesostns, and that southern beam,
Till I return, and hml (her doubly ian. The laughing queen1 that caught the
world's great hands
Wait then my coming, on that lightsome
land, Then comes a mightier silence, stern and
10 Health, and the joy that out of nature strong,
springs, lft As of a world left empty of its throng,
And Freedom's air-blown locks;— but stay And the void weighs on us; and then we
with me, wake,
Friendship, frank enteimg with the coi- And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
dial hand, 'Twixt villages, and think how we shall
And Honor, and the Muse with growing take
wings, Our own calm journey on for human sake.
And Love Domestic, smiling equably
MAHMOUD
TO THE GRASSHOPPEB AND THK 1828
C51^2^- There came a man, making his hasty
2829 WIT moan
Green little vaulter in the sunny arrays Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his tbione,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June, And crying out-' ' Mv soi i ow is my right,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lasy And I will see the Sultan, and tonight/'
noon, 5 ' < Sorrow, f ' said Mahmoud, ' ' is a re\ erend
When even the bees lag at the summoning thing.
brass1 I recognize its right, as king with king;
5 And you, warm little housekeepei, who gp^ On."— "A fiend has pot into my
class house,"
With those who think the candles come too Exclaim 'd the staring man, "and tortiues
soon, us
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome One of thine officers ;-he comes, the ab-
tune horr'd,
Nick the glad silent moments ah they pass; 10 And takes possession of my house, mv
board,
Oh sweet and tinv cousins, that belong, My bed:-I have two daughters and a
" One to the fields, the other to the hearth, ' wjfe,
Both have yoiu sunshine; both, though And the wild villain comes, and makes me
small, are strong mad with life "
At your clear hearts; and both seem given «Tg he there now!" said Mahmoud -
to earth "No;-heleft
To ring in thoughtful ears this natutnl The house when I did, of my wits bereft;
song— m i« And laugh 'd me down the street, because
In doors and out, summer find winter, Ivow'd
""»*• I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in
bis shroud.
THE NILE T>m mad ^h want-I'm mad with misery,
1818 1818 And, oh thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries
It flows through old hush 9d Egypt and its Ont for thee ! "
sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading The Sultan comforted the man, and said,
a dream, 20 "Go home, and I will send thee wine and
*A reference to the old custom of betting on bread,"
pans to cause swarming beei to Mttle HO , M ^_
that they can be captured. * Cleopatra,
JAMES HENBY LEIGH HUNT
(For be was poor) "and other comforts.
Go;
And, should the wretch return, let Sultan
Mahmoud know/'
In three days' time, with haggard eyes
and beard,
And shaken voice, the suitor reappear 'd,
25 And said, "He's come "-Mahmoud said
not a word,
But rose and took four slaves, each with a
sword,
And went with the vex 'd man. They reach
the place,
And hear a voice, and see a woman 's face,
That to the window flutter 'd in affright
3° "Go in," said Mahmoud, "and put out
the light;
But tell the females first to leave tbc
room;
And when the dninkard follows them, we
come."
The nian went in Theie was a en,
and hark'
A table falls the window is struck daik.
*B Forth rush the breathless women , and
behind
With curse* conies the fiend in despeiatc
mind
In vain* the fcahres soon cut short the
strife,
And chop the shrieking wretch, and dunk
his bloody life
"Now light the light," the Sultan cued
aloud.
40 'Twas done, he took it in his hand, and
bow'd
Ovei the corpse, and lookM upon the face .
Then tnrn'd, and knelt, and to the tin one
of grace
Put up a prayer, and from his lips there
crept
Some gentle words of plensme. and ho
wept
*5 In reveient silence the beholder* wait.
Then bring him at his call both wine and
meat.
And when he had refresh 'd his noble
heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to
depart.
The man amaz'd, all mildness now, and
tears,
"Fell at the Sultan's feet with many
prayers,
And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his
slave
The reason first of that command be gave
About the light; then, when he saw the
face,
Why he knelt down; and, lastly, how it
was
66 That fare so poor as his detain 'd him in
the place.
The Sultan said, with a benignant eye,
"Since first I saw thee come, and heard
thy cry,
T could not nd me of a dread, that one
By whom such danng villainies were done,
60 Must be some lord of mine,— aye, e'en,
perhaps, a son
Whoe'er he wan, I knew my task, but
fear'd
A father's heart, in case the worst ap-
pear'd
For this I had the light put out ; but when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
65 I knelt and thank 'd the sovereign Arbiter,
Whose work I had perform 'd through
pain and fear;
And then T rose and was refresh 'd with
food,
The first time since thy \oice had marr'd
my solitude "
SONG OF FAIRIES ROBBING ORCHARD
18SO 1830
We tbe fairies blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us
Oft in orchards f risk and peep us
5 Stolen sweetb are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer;
Stolen looks are nice in chapels ,
Stolen, stolen be your apples.
When to bed the world are bobbing,
10 Then 's the time for orchard-robbing :
Yet the fruit were scaice woith peehntr
Were it not for stealing, stealing
ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE AXGEL
183 J, 1S44
Abou Ben Adheni (may his tribe in-
crease)
Awoke one night from a deep dieam of
peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his
room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
5 An angel writing in a book of gold :—
870
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem
bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
''What writest thout"— The vision rais'd
its head.
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
10 Answer M, "The names of those who love
the Lord. "
"And is mine onef " said Abou. "Nay,
not so, "
Replied the angeL Abou spoke more low,
Bat cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee
then,
"Write me as one that loves his fellow
men.
15
The
The angel wrote, and vanish M
nest night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God
had bless 'd,
And lo! Ben Adhem 's name led all the
rest
THE GLOVE AND THE LTONSi
1836 1836
King Francis2 was ft hearty king, and
loved a royal spoil,
And one day, as his lions fought, bat look-
ing on the court
The nobles filled the benches, with the
ladies in their pride,
And 'mong&t them sat the Count de Lorge,
with one for whom he sighed *
5 And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that
crowning show,
Valor and lo\e, and a king above, and the
royal beasts below.
Ramped and roaied the lions, with horrid
laughing JH\\S,
They bit, they glared, gave blows like
beams, a wind went with their paws ,
With wallowing might and stifled roar they
rolled on one another,
10 Till all the pit with sand and mane was in
a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the barb came
whiskuu> through the air,
Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen.
we're better here than there. "
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a
beauteous lively dame,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes,
which Always seemed the same ,
»8ee poem*
Browning and Bchlller on the
of France (1510-47).
15 She thought, the Count, my lover, is brave
as brave can be,
He surely would do wondrous things t<>
show his love of me ,
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occa-
sion is divine ,
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great
glory will be mine.
She dropped her glove, to prove his lo> e,
then looked at him and smiled ,
20 He bowed, and in a moment leaped amoni:
the lions wild ,
The leap was quick, retuin was quick, he
has regained his place,
Then thiew the glove, but not with kne,
right in the lady's face
"By Heaven," said Francis, "uglith
done I'9 and he rose from wheie he
sat;
"No love,11 quoth he, "but vanity, sets
love a task like that "
KONDJEAU •
1838 1838
•Jenny kissed me when we met.
Jumping flora the chair she sat in
Time, you thief, who lo\e to get
Sweets into v«mr list, put that in
5 Say J 'm weary, sav 1 'm sad.
Say that health and wealth ha\e
missed me,
Sav I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me
THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE
SPIRIT
18R7
To Fivlt
You stiange, astonish 'd-looking, an^lr-
faced,
Dreary-mouth 'd, gaping wretches of the
sea,
Gulping salt-water everlastingly.
Cold-blooded, though with red youi hloml
be graced,
6 And mute, though dwellers in the roan MI:
waste , '
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,—
Some round, some flat, some long, all dev-
ilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste*—
0 scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring
wights,1
1° What is't ye dot what life lead! eh, dull
goggles*
1 creatures
JAMES HENBY LEIGH HUNT
871
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?
How pass your Sundays f Are ye still but
joggles1
In ceaseless washf Still nought but gapes
and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with
boggles I2
A Fish Answers
15 Amazing monster f that, for aught I know.
With the first sight of thee didst make our
race
Forever stare ' Oh flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided fiom the brea&t below'
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go
80 With a split body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-use less-fin ned, hair'd, upright, mi
wet, blow !
0 breather of unbreathable, swoid-sharp
air,
How canst exist f How bear thyself , thou
dry
26 And dreary hlotli What paiticle ean^t
share
Of the only blessed life, the watery f
1 sometimes see of ye an actual pait
Go by ! link 9d fin by fin ' most odiously.
The Ftsh turns into a Man, and then into a
Spirit, and again speak*
Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling «?til1,
20 0 man1 and loathe, but with a sort of
love
For difference must its use by difference
prove,
And, in sweet clang, the spheres with music
fill •
One of the spirits am I, that at his will
Live in whatever has life— fish, eagle,
dove—
25 No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor
above,
A visitor of the rounds of God'* sweet
skill
Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves
and pia\efe,
Boundless in hope, honor 'd with pangs
austere,
Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he
craves-
40 The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet
clear,
• A refffence to the andent belief that the move-
ment of the celestial sphere* produced music
A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapp'd in round
waves,
Quicken 'd with touches of transporting
fear
HEABING MUSIC
1857
When lovely sounds about my ears
Like winds in Eden's tree-tops rise,
And make me, though my spirit hears,
For very luxury close my eyes,
6 Let none but friends be round about
Who love the smoothing joy like me,
That so the charm be felt throughout,
And all be harmony.
And when we reach the close divine,
10 Then let the hand of her I love
Come with its gentle palm on mine,
As soft as snow or lighting dove;
And let, by stealth, that more than friend
Look sweetness in my opening eyes,
15 For only so such dreams should end,
Or wake m Paradise.
THE OLD LADY
1816
If the Old Lady is a widow and lives
alone, the manners of her condition and
time of bfe are so much the more apparent.
She generally dresses in plain silks, that
make a gentle rustling as she moves about
the silence of her room, and she wears a
nice cap with a lace border, that comes under
the chin In a placket at her side is an old
enamelled watch, unless it is locked up in a
10 drawer of her toilet, for fear of accidents
Her waist is rather tight and trim than
otherwise, as she had a fine one when young,
and she is not sorry if you see a pair of her
stockings on a table, that yon may be aware
15 of the neatness of her leg and foot Con-
tented with these and other evident indica-
tions of a good shape, and letting her young
friends understand that she can afford to
obscure it a little, she wears pockets, and
20 uses them well too. In the one is her hand-
kerchief, and any heavier matter that is not
likely to come out with it, such as the change
of a sixpence ; in the other is a miscellaneous
assortment, consisting of a pocket-book, a
« bunch of keys, a needle-case, a spectacle-
case, crumbs of biscuit, a nutmeg and
grater, a smelling-bottle, and, according to
the season, an orange or apple, which after
many days she draws out, warm and glossy,
10 to give some little child that has well be-
haved itself. She generally occupies two
rooms, in the neatest condition possible. In
872
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
the chamber IB a bed with a white coverlet,
built up high and round, to look well, and
with curtains of a pastoral pattern, consist-
ing alternately of large plants, and shep-
herds and shepherdesses. On the mantel- 5
piece are more shepherds and shepherdesses,
with dot-eyed sheep at their feet, all in
colored ware the man, perhaps, in a pink
jacket and knots of ribbons at his knees and
shoes, holding his crook lightly in one hand, 10
and with the other at his breast, turning his
toes out and looking tenderly at the shep-
herdess; the woman holding a crook, also,
and modestly returning his look, with a
gipsy-hat jeiked up behind, a very slender 16
waist, with petticoat and hips to counteract,
and the petticoat pulled up through the
pocket-holes, in order to show the tnmness
of her ankles. But these patterns, of course,
are various. The toilet1 is ancient, carved 20
at the edges, and tied about with a snow-
white drapery of muslin. Beside it are
various boxes, mostly Japan; and the set
of drawers are exquisite things for a little
girl to rummage, if ever little girl be so 25
bold,— containing ribbons and laces of vari-
ous kinds; linen smelling of lavender, of
the flowers of which there is always dust in
the corners, a heap of pocket-books for a
series of years; and pieces of dress long ao
gone by, such as head-fronts, stomachers,
and flowered satin shoes, with enormous
heels. The stock of letters are under espe- •
cial lock and key. So much for the bed-
room. In the sitting-room is rather a spare as
assortment of shining old mahogany furni-
ture, or carved arm-chairs equally old, with
chintz drapenes down to the ground; a
folding or other screen, with Chinese figures,
their round, little-eyed, meek faces perking 40
sideways; a stuffed bird, perhaps in a glass
case (a living one is too much for her) ; a
portrait of her husband over the mantel-
piece, in a coat with frog-buttons, and a
dekcate frilled hand lightly inserted in the 46
waistcoat ; and opposite him on the wall, is a
piece of embroidered literature, framed and
glazed, containing some moral dfetich or
maxim, worked in angular oapitaMetters,
with two trees or parrots below, in their 60
proper colors; the whole concluding with
an ABC and numerals, and the name of the
fair industrious, expressing it to be "her
work, Jan. 14, 1762. ' ' The rest of the fur-
niture consists of a looking-glass with 66
carved edges, perhaps a settee, a hassock
for the feet, a mat for the little dose, and a
small set of shelves, in which are The Spec-
'dressing table
tator and Guardian, The Turkish Spy, a
Bible* and Prayer Book, Young's Night
Thoughts with a piece of lace in it to flatten,
Mrs. Howe's Devout Exercises of the Heart,
Mrs. Glasse's Cookery, and perhaps Sir
Charles Grandtson, and Clarissa. John
Buncle is in the closet among the pickles
and preserves. The clock is on the landing-
place between the two room doors, where it
ticks audibly but quietly , and the landing-
place, as well as the stairs, is carpeted to a
nicety. The house is most in character, and
properly coeval, if it is in a retired suburb,
and strongly built, with wainscot rather
than paper inside, and lockers in the win-
dows. Before the windows should be some
quivering poplars Ueie the Old Lady re-
ceives a few quiet visitors to tea, and per-
haps an early game at cards: or you may
sec her going out on the same kind of visit
herself, with a light umbrella running up
into a stick and crooked ivory handle, and
her little dog, equally famous for his love
to her and captious antipathy to strangers
Her grand-children dislike him on holidays,
and the boldest sometimes ventures to give
him a sly kick under the table. When she
returns at night, she appears, if the
weather happens to be doubtful, in a
calash1; and her servant in pattens8, fol-
lows half behind and half at her side, with a
lantern
Her opinions are not many nor new She
thinks the clergyman a nice man. The Duke
of Wellington, in her opinion, is a very
great man ; but she has a secret prefeience
for the Marquis of Granby. She thinks
the young women of the piesent day too
forward, and the men not respectful enough ;
but hopes her grandchildren will be better;
though she differs with her daughter in sev-
eral points respecting their management.
She sets little value on the new accomplish-
ments; is a great though delicate connois-
seur in butcher's meat and all sorts of
housewifery, and if you mention waltzes,
expatiates on the grace and fine breeding
of the minuet She longs to have seen one
danced by Sir Charles Grandibon, whom slie
almost considers as a real person. She likes
a walk of a summer's evening, but avoids
the new streets, canals, etc , and sometimes
goes through the churchyard, where her
children and her husband he buried, serious,
but not melancholy. She has had three
great epochs in her life,— her marriage, her
1 A kind of bond which can be drawn forward or
thrown back.
• A kind of overshoe with a wooden sole,
JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT
873
having beer at court to see the King and
Queen and Royal Family, and a compliment
on her figure she once received, in passing,
from Mr. Wilkes, whom she describes as a
sad, loose man, but engaging. His plain-
ness she thinks much exaggerated If any-
thing takes her at a distance from home, it "is
still the court; but she seldom stirs, even
for that. The lasl time but one that she
went, was to see the Duke of Wirtemberpr;
and most probably for the last time of all,
to see the Princess Charlotte and Prince
Leopold From this beatific vision she re-
turned with the same admiration as ever for
the fine comely appearance of the Duke of
York and the rest of the family, and great
delight at having had a near view of the
Princess, whom she speaks of with smiling
pomp and lifted mittens, clasping them as
passionately as she can together, and call-
ing her, in a transport of mixed loyalty and
self-love, a fine royal young creature, and
"Daughter of England "
GETTING UP ON COLD MOBNINGS
1820
An Italian author, Oiulio Cordara, a
Jesuit, has wntten a poem upon insects,
which he begins by insisting, that those
troublesome and abominable little animals
were created for our annoyance, and that
they were certainly not inhabitants of Para-
dise. We of the North may dispute this
piece of theology ; but on the other hand, it
is as clear as the snow on the house-tops,
that Adam was not under the necessity of
shaving; and that when Eve walked out of
her delicious bower, she did not step upon
ice three inches thick.
Some people say it is a very easy thing
to get up of a cold mornjng. Tou have only,
they tell you, to take the resolution; and
the thing is done. This may be very true,
just as a boy at school has only to take a
flogging, and the thing is over. But we have
not at all made up our minds upon it; and
we find it a very pleasant exercise to dis-
cuss the matter, candidly, before we get up.
This, at least, is not idling, though it may be
lying. It affords an excellent answer to
those who ask how lying in bed can be in-
dulged in by a reasoning being,— a rational
creature. fiowt Why, with the argument
calmly at work in one's head, and the clothes
over one's shoulder. Oh—it is a fine way
of Fmendiner a sensible, impartial half-hour.
If these people wnnM h* more charitable
thqr would get on with their argument bet-
ter. But they are apt to reason so ill, and
to assert so dogmatically, that one could
wibh to have them stand round one's bed, of
a bitter morning, and he before their faces.
They ought to hear both sides of the bed,
5 the inside and out. If they cannot enter-
tain themselves with their own thoughts for
half-an-hour or so, it is not the fault of
those who can.
Candid inquiries into one's decumbency1,
10 besides the greater or less privileges to be
allowed a man in proportion to his ability
of keeping early hours, the work given his
faculties, etc , will at least concede their due
merits to such representations as the f ollow-
15 ing In the first place, says the injured but
calm appealer, I have been warm all night,
and find my system in a state perfectly suit-
able to a warm-blooded animal To get out
of this state into the cold, besides the in-
20 harmonious and uncritical abruptness of the
transition, is so unnatural to such a creature,
that the poets, refining upon the tortures of
the damned, make one of their greatest
agonies consist in being suddenly trans-
26 ported from heat to cold, from fire to ice
They are "haled" out of their "beds,"
says Milton, by "harpv-footed furies,"2—
fellows who come to call them. On my first
movement towards the anticipation of
80 getting up I find that such parts of the
sheets and bolsters as are exposed to the air
of the room are stone-cold. On opening my
eyes, the first thing that meets them is my
own breath rolling forth, as if in the open
86 air, like smoke out of a chimney. Think of
this symptom. Then I turn my eyes side-
ways and see the window all frozen over.
Think of that Then the servant comes in.
"It is very cold this morning, is it nott"—
40 "Very cold, sir."-" Very cold indeed, isn't
itt"-"Very cold indeed, sir."-"More
than usually so, isn't it, even for this
weather f" (Here the servant's wit and
good-nature are put to a considerable test,
46 and the inquirer lies on thorns for the an-
swer.) "Why, sir-I think it &." (Good
creature! There is not a better or more
truth-telling servant going ) "I must rise,
however— get me some warm water."—
80 Here comes a fine interval between the de-
parture of the servant and the arrival of
the hot water, during which, of course,
it is of "no use!" to get up The hot
water comes. "Is it quite hot! "-"Yes,
68 sir "—"Perhaps ton hot for shaving: I
must wait a little f"-" No, mr; it will
just do." (There is an over-nice pro-
of bring down
*
874
NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTICISTS
priety sometimes, an officious zeal of virtue,
a little troublesome.) " Oh— the shirt— you
must air my clean shirt;— linen gets very
damp this weather.' '—"Yes, sir." Here
another delicious five minutes. A knock at 6
the door. "Oh, the shirt— very well My
stockings— I think the stockings had better
be aired too. "-"Very well, sir. "-Here
another interval At length everything is
ready, except myself. I now, continues 10
our incumbent (a happy word, by-the-bye,
for a country vicar)— I now cannot help
thinking a good deal— who cant— upon the
unnecessary and villainous custom of shav-
ing: it is a thing so unmanly (here I nestle u
closer) —so effeminate (here I recoil from an
unlucky step into the colder part of the bed) .
—No wonder that the Queen of France1
took part with the rebels against that degen-
erate King, her husband, who first affronted 20
her smooth visage with a face like her own.
The Emperor Julian never showed the lux-
uriancy of his genius to better advantage
than in reviving the flowing beard. Look
at Cardinal Bembo's picture— at Michael 15
Angelo's— at Titian's— at Shakespeare's—
at Fletcher's— at Spenser's— at Chaucer's
—at Alfred's— at Plato's— I could name a
great man for every tick of my watch.—
Look at the Turks, a grave and otiose2 ao
people —Think of Haroun Al Raschid and
Bed-ridden Hassan.— Think of Wortley
Montague, the worthy son of his mother,
above the prejudice of his time.— Look at the
Persian gentlemen, whom one is ashamed of 85
meeting about the suburbs, their dress and
appearance are so much finer than our own
—Lastly, think of the razor itself— how
totally opposed to every sensation of bed-
how cold, how edgy, how hard ! how utterly 40
different from anything like the warm and
circling amplitude, which
Sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle sense* a
Add to this, benumbed fingers, which may
help you to cut yourself, a quivering body, a
frozen towel, and a ewer full of ice; and he
that says there is nothing to oppose in all
this, only shows that he has no merit in 60
opposing it.
Thomson the poet, who exclaims in his
Seasons
Falsely luxurious! Will not roan awake t*
* Eleanor of Aonltalne, wife of Louis VIT of
France (1137-80), and later of Henry II of
England (llr>4-89) Louis VII ted shaved
offals beard in compliance with an episcopal
11Ctot • Macbeth, 1, 6, 2. « Summer, 67
used to lie in bed till noon, because he said
he had no motive in getting up. He could
imagine the good of rising; but then he could
also imagine the good of lying still; and
his exclamation, it must be allowed, was
made upon summer-time, not winter. We
must proportion the argument to the indi-
vidual character. A money-getter may be
drawn out of his bed by three or four pence;
but this will not suffice for a student. A
proud man may say, "What shall I think
of myself, if I don't get up V but the more
humble one will be content to waive this pro-
digious notion of himself out of respect to
his kindly bed. The mechanical man shall
get up without any ado at all; and so shall
the barometer. An ingenious her-m-bed
will find hard matter of discussion even on
the score of health and longevity. He will
ask us for our proofs and precedents of the
ill effects of lying later in cold weather;
and sophisticate much on the advantages of
an even temperature of body , ot the natural
propensity (pretty universal) to ha\e one's
way , and of the animals that roll themselves
up and sleep all the winter. As to longevity,
lie will ask whether the longest is of neces-
sity the best, and whether Holborn is the
handsomest street in London '
Prom ON THE REALITIES OP
IMAGINATION
1820
Theie is not a more unthinking way of
talking than to say such and such pains and
pleasures are only imaginary, and therefore
to be got rid of or undervalued accordingly.
There is nothing imaginary in the common
acceptation of the word The logic of
Moses in The Vicar of Wake field is food
argument here : — " Whatever is, is. * fl
Whatever touches us, whatever moves us,
does touch land does move us. We recognize
the reality of it, as we do that of a hand
in the dark. We might as well say that a
sight which makes us laugh, or a blow which
brings tears into our eyes, is imaginary, as
that anything else is imaginary which makes
us laugh or weep. We can only judge of
things by their effects. Our perception con-
stantly deceives us, in things with which we
suppose ourselves perfectly conversant; but
our reception of their effect is a different
matter. Whether we are materialists or im-
materialists, whether things be about us or
within us, whether we think the sun is a sub-
1 Holborn was not the longest street In London,
but in some districts it was very unattractive.
• Goldwnlth, The Vicar of Wakeflcld, ch. 7.
JAMES flENBV LEIGH HUNT
876
stance, or only the image of a divine thought,
an idea, a thing imaginary, we axe equally
agreed as to the notion of its warmth. But
on the other hand, as this warmth is felt dif-
ferently by different temperaments, so what
we call imaginary things affect different
minds. What we have to do is not to deny
their effect, because we do not feel in the
same proportion, or whether we even feel it
at all ; but to see whether our neighbors may
not be moved. If they are, there is, to all
intents and purposes, a moving cause But
we do not see it t No ;— neither perhaps do
they. They only feel it; they are only sen-
tient,—a word which implies the sight given
to the imagination by the feelings. But
what do you mean, we may ask in return, by
seeing! Some rays of light come in contact
with the eye; they bnng a sensation to it;
in a word, they touch it; and the impression
left by this touch we call sight. How far
does this differ in effect from the impression
left by any other touch, however mysterious f
An ox knocked down by a butcher, and a
man knocked down by a fit of apoplexy,
equally feel themselves compelled to drop.
The tickling of a straw and of a comedy
oqually move the muscles about the mouth.
The look of a beloved eye will so thrill the
frame, that old philosophers have had re-
course to a doctrine of beams and radiant
particles Hying from one sight to another*
In fine, what is contact itself, and why
does it affect nst There is no one cause
more mysterious than another, if we look
into it.
Nor does the question concern us like
moral causes. We may be content to know
the eaith bv its fruits; but how to increase
and improve them is a more attractive
<-tudy If, instead of saying that the causes
which moved in us this or that pain or
pleasure were imaginary, people were to say
that the causes themselves were removable,
they would be nearer the truth. When ft
stone trips us up, we do not fall to disputing
its existence : we put it out of the way In
like manner, when we suffer from what is
called an imaginary pain, our business is not
to canvass the reality of it Whether there
\B any cause or not in that or any other per-
ception, or whether everything1 consists not
in what is called effect, it is sufficient for us
that the effect is real. Our sole business is
to remove those second causes, which always
accompany the original idea. As in de-
liriums, for instance, it would be idle to go
about persuading the patient that he did not
behold the figures he says he does He
might reasonably ask us, if he could, how
we know anything about the matter; or how
we can be sure that in the infinite wonders
of the universe certain realities may not
5 become apparent to certain eyes, whether
diseased or not. Our business would be to
put him into that state of health in which
human beings are not diverted from theii
offices and comforts by a liability to such
in imaginations. The best reply to his ques-
tion would be, that such a morbidity is
clearly no more a fit state for a human
being: than a disarranged or incomplete
state of works is for a watch; land that
is seeing the general tendency of nature to this
completeness or state of comfort, we natur-
ally conclude that the imaginations in ques-
tion, whether substantial or not, are at least
not of the same lasting or prevailing de-
ft scription.
We do not profess metaphysics. We are
indeed so little conversant with the masters
of that art, that we are never sure whether
we are using even its proper terms. All
» that we may know on the subject comes to
us from some reflection and some experi-
ence ; and this all may be so little as to make
a metaphysician smile; which, if he be a
true one, he will do good-naturedly The
so pretender will take occasion, from our very
confession, to say that we know nothing
Our faculty, such as it is, is rather in-
stinctive than reasoning; rather physical
than metaphysical; rather sentient because
» it loves much, than because it knows much;
rather calculated by a certain retention of
boyhood, and by its wanderings in the green
places of thought, to light upon a piece of
the old golden world, than to tire ourselves,
40 and conclude it unattainable, by too wide
and scientific a search We pretend to see
farther than none but the worldly and the
malignant And yet those who see farther
may not see so well. We do not blind our
tt eyes with looking upon the sun in the
heavens We believe it to be there, but we
find its light upon earth also; and we would
lead humanity, if we could, out of misery
and coldness into the shine of it Pain
BO might still be there; must be so, as long as
we are mortal;
For oft we still must weep, since we are human;
but it should be pain for the sake of oth-
56 m. which is noble; not unnecessary pain
inflicted by or upon them, which it is ab-
surd not to remove. The very pains of
mankind struggle towards pleasures; and
such pains as are proper for them have this
876
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
inevitable accompaniment of true humanity,
—that they cannot but realize a certain gen-
tleness of enjoyment Thus the true bearer
of pain would come round to us; and he
would not grudge us a bliare of his burden,
though in taking from bis trouble it might
diminish bib pnde. Pride is but a bad
pleasure at the expense of others. The
great object of humanity is to enrich every-
body. If it is a task destined not to sue*
ceed, it is a good one from its very nature;
and fulfills at least a glad destiny of its
own. To look upon it austerely is in reality
the reverse of austerity. It is only such an
impatience of the want of pleasure as leads
us to grudge it in others ; and this impatience
itself, if the sufferer knew how to use it, is
but another impulse, in the general yearning,
towards an equal wealth of enjoyment.
But we shall be getting into other discus-
sions.—The ground-work of all happiness
\k health. Take care of this ground, and
(he doleful imaginations that come to warn
us against its abuse will avoid it. Take care
of this ground, and let as many glad imagi-
nations throng to it as possible. Read the
magical works of the poets, and they will
come If you doubt their existence, ask
yourself whether you feel pleasure at the
idea of them ; whether you are moved into
delicious smiles, or tears as delicious. If
you are, the result is the same to yon,
whether they exist or not It is not mere
\\orls to say that he who goes through a
rich man 's park, and sees things in it which
ne\er bless the mental eyesight of the pos-
sessor, is richer than he. He is richer.
More results of pleasure come home to him,
The pound is actually more fertile to him:
the place haunted with finer shapes. He has
more servants to come at his call, and admin-
ister to him with full hands. Knowledge,
sympathy, imagination, are all divining-
rods, with which he discovers treasure. Let
a painter go through the grounds, and he
will see not only the general colors of green
and brown, but their combinations and con-
trasts, and the modes in which they might
again be combined and contrasted He will
also put figures in the landscape if there are
none there, flocks and herds, ^or a solitary
spectator, or Venus lying with her white
body among the violets and primroses Let
a musician go through, and he will hear
"differences discreet191 in the notes of the
birds and the lapsing of the water-fall.
He will fancy a serenade of wind instru-
ments in the open air at a lady's window,
* Spenser, The Paaie 0*00*0, II, 12, 71, 7.
with a voice rising through it; or the horn
of the hunter; or the musical cry of the
hounds,
Matched in mouth-like bells,
6 Each under eachji
or a solitary voice in a bower, singing for
an expected lover; or the chapel organ,
waking up like the fountain of the winds.
10 Let a poet go through the grounds and he
will heighten and increase all these sounds
and images. He will bring the colors from
heaven, and put an unearthly meaning into
the voice. He will have stones of the sylvan
16 inhabitants, will shift the population
through infinite varieties; will put a senti-
ment upon every sight and sound; will be
human, romantic, supernatural; will make
all nature send tribute into that spot 2
We may say of the love of nature what
Shakespeare says of another love, that it
Adds a precious seeing to the eye "*
25 And we may say also, upon the like princi-
ple, that it adds a precious hearing to the
ear. This and imagination, which ever fol-
lows upon it, are the two purifiers of our
sense, which rescue us from the deafening
80 babble of common cares, and enable us to
hear all the affectionate voices of earth and
heaven. The starry orbs, lapsing about in
their smooth and sparkling dance, Ring to us
The brooks talk to us of solitude The
85 birds are the animal spirits of nature, carol-
ling in the air, like a careless lass.
The gentle gales,
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes; and whisper whence they
40 stole
Those balmy spoils.— ^ Paradise Lost, 4, 156-9
The poets are called creators, because with
their magical words they bring forth to our
eyesight the abundant images and beauties
45 of creation. They put them there, if the
reader pleases; and so are literally creators
But whether put there or discovered, whethei
created or invented (for invention means
nothing but finding out), there they are
so If they touch us, they exist to as much pur-
pose as anything else which touches us. If
a passage in King Lear brings the tears into
our eyes, it is real as the touch of a sorrow-
ful hand. If the flow of a song of Anacre-
55 on's intoxicates us, it is as true to a pulse
IV, 1, 127. ,fc
MWS.SJK
JAMES HKNB7 LEIGH HUNT
877
within us as the wine he drank. We hear
not their Bounds with ears, nor see their
Bights with eyes; but we hear and see both
BO truly, that we are moved with pleasure,
and the advantage, nay even the test, of
seeing and hearing, at any time, is not in
the seeing and hearing, but in the ideas we
realize, and the pleasure we derive. Intel-
lectual objects, therefore, inasmuch as they
come home to us, are as true a part of the
stock of nature as visible ones; and they
are infinitely more abundant. Between the
tree of a country elown and the tree of a
Milton or Spenser, what a difference in point
of productiveness! Between the plodding
of a sexton through a church-yard and the
walk of a Gray, what a difference ! What
a difference between the Bermudas of a
ship-builder and the Bermoothes of Shakes-
peare ' the isle
Full of notes,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and
hurt not,*
the isle of elves and fairies, that chased the
tide to and fro on the sea-shore, of coral-
bones and the knell of sea-nymphs; of
spirits dancing on the sands, and singing
amidst the hushes of the wind; of Caliban,
whose brute nature enchantment had made
poetical; of Ariel, who lay in cowslip bells,
and rode upon the bat; of Miranda, who
wept when she saw Ferdinand work so
hard, and begged him to let her help ; telling
him,
T am your wife if you will marry me;
If not, 1 11 die your maul To be your f ellou
You may deny me , but 1 11 be your servant,
Whether yon will or no.*
Such are the discoveries which the poets
make for us , worlds to which that of Colum-
bus was but a handful of brute matter
Ameiica began to be richer for us the other
day, when Humboldt came back and told us
of its luxunant and gigantic vegetation; of
the myriads of shooting lights, which revel
at evening in the southern sky; and of that
grand constellation, at which Dante seems
to have made so remarkable a guess (Pttrga-
torio, cant, 1, 5, 22) The natural warmth
of the Mexican and Peruvian genius, set
free from despotism, will soon do all the
rest of it; awaken the sleeping riches of its
eyesight, and call forth the glad music of its
affections
• •••••
Imagination enriches everything. A gnat
library contains not only books, but
The assembled souls of all that men held wise.
— DAVENANT.I
The moon is Homer's and Shakespeare's
moon, as well as the one we look at The
5 sun comes out of his chamber in the east,
with a sparkling eye, "rejoicing like a
bridegroom."2 The commonest thing be-
comes like Aaron's rod, that budded.8 Pope
called up the spirits of the cabala4 to wait
10 upon a lock of hair,0 and justly gave it the
honors of a constellation; for he has hung
it, sparkling forever in the eyes of pos-
terity. A common meadow is a sorry thing
to a ditcher or a coxcomb ; but by the help of
is its dues from imagination and the love of
nature, the grass brightens for us, the air
soothes us, we feel as we did in the daisied
hours of childhood Its verdures, its sheep,
its hedge-row elms— all these, and all else
10 which sight, and sound, and associations can
give it, are made to furnish a treasure of
pleasant thoughts. Even brick and mortar
are vivified, as of old, at the harp of
Orpheus. A metropolis becomes no longer
V a mere collection of houses or of trades. It
puts on all the grandeur of its history, and
its literature; its towers, and rivers; its art,
and jewelry, and foreign wealth; its mul-
titude of human beings all intent upon ex-
ao citement, wise or yet to learn ; the huge and
sullen dignity of its canopy of smoke bv
day , the wide gleam upwards of its lighted
lustre at night-time; and the noise of its
many chariots, heard at the same hour, when
86 the wind sets gently towards some quiet
suburb.
A "NOW"
DESCRIPTIVE OF A HOT DAT
4D 1820
Now the rosy- (and lazy-) fingered Au-
rora, issuing from her saffron house, calls
up the moist vapors to sui round her, and
goes veiled with them as long as she can;
4B till PhoDbus, coming forth in his power,
looks everything out of the sky, and holds
sharp, uninterrupted empire from his throne
of beams. Now the mower begins to make
his sweeping cuts more slowly, and resorts
W oftener to the beer. Now the carter sleeps
a-top of his load of hay, or plods with
double slouch of shoulder, looking out with
eves winking under his shading hat, and
with a hitch upward of one side of his
W month. New the little girl at her grand-
mother's cottage-door watches the coaches
that go by, with her hand held up over her
8 ^ umbrr*,
11
17 8.
5, 140.
. TTT. 2 144 ff » /W<T 111, 1 88 ff. » SOP The Iff ape of the Loo*.
* mystic art
878
NINETEENTH CENT UK Y BOMANTIGI8T8
sunny forehead. Now laborers look well
resting in their white shirts at the doors of
rural ale-houses. Now an elm is fine there,
with a seat under it; and horses drink out
of the trough, stretching their yearning
necks with loosened collars; and the traveller
calls for his glass of ale, having been
without one for more than ten minutes; and
his horse stands wincing at the flies, giving
sharp shivers of his skin, and moving to and
fro his ineffectual docked tail; and now Miss
Betty Wilson, the host's daughter, comes
streaming forth in a flowered gown and ear-
rings, carrying with four of her beautiful
fingers the foaming glass, for which, after
the traveller has drank it, she receives with
an indifferent eye, looking another way, the
lawful twopence. Now grasshoppers
"fry," as Dryden says.1 Now cattle stand
in water, and ducks are envied. Now boots,
and shoes, and trees by the road-side, are
thick with dust ; and dogs, rolling in it, after
issuing out of the water, into which they
have been thrown to fetch sticks, come scat-
tering horror among the legs of the specta-
tors. Now a fellow who finds he has three
miles further to go in a pair ol tight shoes
is in a pretty situation. Now rooms with the
sun upon them become intolerable; and the
apothecary's apprentice, with a bitterness
beyond aloes, thinks of the pond he used
to bathe in at school. Now men with pow-
dered heads2 (especially if thick) envy thow
that are unpowdered, and stop to wipe them
up hill, with countenances that seem to ex-
postulate with destiny. Now boys assemble
round the village pump with ft ladle to it.
and delight to make a forbidden splash and
get wet through the shoes Now also they
make suckers of leather, and bathe all day
long in rivers and ponds, and make mighty
fishings for " tittle-bats. "» Now the bee,
as he hums along, seems to be talking heavily
of the heat. Now doors and brick-walls are
burning to the hand ; and a walled lane, with
dust and broken bottles in it, near a brick-
field, is a thing not to be thought of. Now
a green lane, on the contrary, thick-set with
hedge-row elms, and having the noise of a
brook "rumbling in pebble-stone,"4 is one
of the pleasantest things in the world.
Now, in town, gossips talk more than ever
to one another, in rooms, in door-ways, and
out of window, always beginning the con-
versation with saying that the heat is over-
iflee Dryden'* translation of Virgil's B<*Off*e9,
•The Eighteenth centaur habit of powdering the
hair was still In practice,
••stickleback; i(a kind of small flab)
* Spenser, VirgW* Onmt, 1<W.
powering. Now blinds are let down, and
doors thrown open, and flannel waistcoats
left off, and cold meat preferred to hot, land
wonder expressed why tea continues so re-
5 freshing, and people delight to sliver lettuces
into bowls, and apprentices water door-way*,
with tin canisters that lay several atoms of
dust. Now the water-cart, jumbling along
the middle of the stieet, and jolting the
10 bhowers out of its box of water, really does
something. Now fruiterers' shops and
dairies look pleasant, and ices are the only
things to those who can get them Now
ladies loiter in baths; and people make pres-
15 ents of flowers ; and wine is put into ice , ami
the after-dinner lounger recreates his head
with applications of perfumed water out ol
long-necked bottles. Now the lounger, who
cannot resist riding his new horse, feels hih
so boots burn him. Now buck-skins are not
the lawn of Cos.1 Now j'ockeys, walking in
great-coats to lose flesh, cuise inwardly
Now five fat people in a stage-coach hate
the sixth fat one who is coming in, and think
85 he has no right to be so huge Now cleiks
in office do nothing but drink soda-watei
and spruce-beer, and read the new&papei
Now the old-clothesman drops his solitary
cry more deeply into the areas on the hot
so and forsaken side of the stieet , and bakers
look vicious ; and cooks are aggravated ; and
the steam of a tavern-kitchen catches hold of
us like the breath of Tartarus Now deli-
cate skins are beset with gnats; and boys
85 make their sleeping companion start up,
with playing a burning-glass on his hand:
and blacksmiths are super-carbonated; and
cobblers in their stalls almost feel a wi&h t<»
be transplanted; and butter is too easy to
40 spread; and the dragoons wonder whethei
the Romans liked their helmets, and old
ladies, with their lappets unpinned, walk
along in a state of dilapidation; and the
servant maids are afraid they look vulgarly
4B hot; and the author, who has a plate of
strawberries brought him, finds that he has
come to the end of his writing.
SHAKING HANDS
BO 1820
Among the first things which we remem-
ber noticing in the manners of people, were
two errors in the custom of shaking hands
Some we observed, grasped everybody's
IB hand alike,— with an equal fervor of grip.
You would have thought that Jenkins was
the best friend they had in the world; but
* A kind of fine linen Introduced from the IiltBd
of COB, in the Agean Bea.
JAMES HENBY LEIGH HUNT
879
on succeeding to the squeeze, though a slight
acquaintance, you iovuid it equally flattering
to yourself, and on the appearance of some-
body else (whose name, it turned out, the
operator had forgotten), the crush was no
less complimentary.— the face was as
earnest and beaming, the "glad to see you"
as syllabical and sincere, and the shake as
close, as long, and as rejoicing, as if the
semi -unknown was a friend come home from
the Deserts
On the other hand, there would be a gen-
tleman, now and then, as coy of his hand, as
if he were a prude, or had a whitlow l It
was in vain that your pretensions did not
po beyond the "civil salute" of the ordinary
shake , or that being introduced to him in a
fnendly manner, and expected to shake
hands with the rest of the company, you
could not in decency omit his His fingers,
half coming out and half retreating, seemed
to think that you were going to do them a
mischief, and when you got hold of them,
the whole shake was on your side, the other
hand did but proudly or pensively acquiesce
—there was no knowing which , you had to
sustain it, as you might a lady's, in handing
her to a seat , and it was an equal perplexity
to know whether to shake or to let it go
The one seemed a violence done to the
patient, the other an awkwuid responsibility
brought upon yourself. You did not know,
all the evening, whether you were not an ob-
ject of dislike to the person; till, on the
party's breaking up, you saw him behave
like an equally ill-used gentleman to all
who practiced the same unthinking civility
Both these errors, we think, might as well
be avoided , but, of the two, we must sav we
prefer the former If it does not look so
much like paiticular sincerity, it looks more
like geneial kindness; and if those two vir-
tues are to be separated (which they as-
suredly need not be, if considered without
spleen), the world can better afford to dis-
pense with an unpleasant truth than a
gratuitous humanity Besides, it is more
difficult to make sure of the one than to
practice the other, and kindness itself is the
best of all truth*. As long as we are mire
of that, we are sure of something, and of
something pleasant It is always the best
end, if not in every instance the roost logical
means
This manual shvness is sometimes attrib-
uted to modesty, but never, we suspect, with
justice, unless it be that sort of modesty
whose fear of committing itself is grounded
1 An inflammation of the fingers.
in pride. Want of address is a better rea-
son, but this particular instance of it would
be grounded in the same feeling. It always
implies a habit either of pride or mistrust
5 We have met with two really kind men1
who evinced this soreness of hand. Neither
of them, perhaps, thought himself inferior
to anybody about him, and both had good
reason to think highly of themselves, but
10 both had been sanguine men contradicted
in their early hopes. There was a plot to
meet the hand of one of them with a fish-
slice, in order to show him the disadvantage
to which he put his friends by that flat mode
15 of salutation; but the conspirator had not
the courage to do it Whether he heard of
the intention we know not, but shortly
afterwards he took very kindly to a shake.
The other was the only man of a warm set
10 of politicians, who remained true to his first
hopes of mankind He was impatient at
the change of his companions, and at the
folly and inattention of the rest; but though
his manner became cold, his consistency
16 remained warm, and this gave him a right
to be as strange as he pleased.
From 13KNAM8 ON THE BORDEB8 OF
THE LAND OF POETRY
80 18X8 1828
I THE DEMANDS OF POETRY
I have not been in the habit of making
memorandums for my verses Such verse as
86 I could write I have written at once. But
the older I grow, the more reverent notions
I entertain of poetry, and as I cannot as-
pire to put anything into verse, and pretend
to call it poetry, without shaping it in the
40 best manner of which I am capable (for
poetry, without the fit sculpture of verse, is
no more to be called poetry, than beauty
conceived is beauty accomplished), so I have
neither leisure to pay it the requisite atten-
45 tion, nor can I afford the spirit and emotion
necessary for this task above all others. The
greatest of all poets (who, according to
Plato,2 is God) uttered the planets in his en-
ergy, and they went smgmpr around him,8
eo perfect. Milton (not to speak it with pro-
faneness,4 after that unieuehahle instance)
could pour forth his magnificent verses,
1 The second of these men was Hailitt ; the first
— has not been identified
66 »Sec Plato's /on, ftU (Jowett'H translation, lv
224). The some thought H expressed by
Mrs Browning in Hymn to Pan, at. 36, and by
Browning in Pctroccl8U&t 2, B48.
•A reference to the ancient belief that the move-
ment of the celestial spheres produced music.
• Bee Jfamlet, III, 3, 83.
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
mighty and foil of music, like a procession
towards a temple of glory. We conceive of
Shakespeare, that he had a still easier might,
and that the noblest verses to him were no
greater difficulty than talking. He dispensed 5
them as Nature does the summer showers and
the thunder. Alas! to us petty men, who are
not sure that we have even the right of being.
Proud to be leas," but of that godlike race,
to us and our inferior natures there are 10
sometimes toils in life less voluntary and
more exhausting than poetry, in reposing
from which it is not always possible for us
to labor even with the minor energies neces-
sary to throw out the forms within our 15
capacity. We cannot wrestle to fit purpose
even with that pettier god within us. We
cannot condense those lighter vapors of in-
spiration into their most vigorous and grace-
ful shape, and feel a right to say to the 20
world, "Behold'"
A poet's hand should be like the energy
within the oak, to make strong; and like
the wind that bends its foliage, to make
various. Without concentration, and with- 25
put variety, there is neither strength of
imagination, nor beauty of verse. Alas' T
could no more look to making verses with
an ambition of this sort, weaned as I am at
present, than I could think of looking ao
through burning glasses for eyes, or hew-
ing the solid rock into a dance of the Giacis
But I have the wish to be a poet, and
thoughts will arise within me as painful
not to express as a lover's. I therefore 85
write memorandums for verse ;— thoughts
that might perhaps be worthv of puttmir
into that shape, if they could be properh
developed;— hints and shadows of some-
thing poetical, that have the same relation- 40
ship to actual poetry as the little unborn
spirits that perish by the waters of Lethe
have to the souls that visit us, and become
immortal.
II. MY BOWER tf
I seek not for grand emotions when 7
muse My life has had enough of them 1
seek for enjoyment and repose; and, thanks
to the invincible youthfulness of my heart, 00
I find them with as much ease in my green
world as giant sorrows have found me in the
world of strife
Woods and meadows are to me an en-
chanted ground, of which a knight-errantry «
of a new sort has put me in possession.
In the indulgence of these effusions I lay
my head as on the pillow before I sleep, as
on the grass in summer, as on the lap that
soothes us. 0 lovers of books and of na-
ture, lovers of one another, lovers of love,
rest with me under my bowers; and the
shadows of pleasant thoughts shall play
upon your eyelids.
HL OK A BUST or BACCHUS
Gigantic, earnest, luxuriant, his head a
> ery bower of hair and ivy j1 his look a mix-
ture of threat, and reassurance, and the
giving of pleasure; the roughness of wine
in his eyes, and the sweetness of it on hi*
lips. Anmbal Caracci would have painted
such a face, and grown jealous when his
mistress looked at it.
To those shoulders belong the bands thnt
lifted the satyr8 by the nape of the neck.
and played with the lion 's mouth as with a
-
Cannot you see the glow in the face, even
though sculptured t a noontide of the south
in its strength f with dark wells m the eyes
under shining locks and sunny leaves f The
geniality of his father Jove is in it, with the
impetuosity of wine* but it is the lord, not
the servant, of wine ; the nrger of the bow]
among the divinities, when the pulses of
heaven are in movement with song and
dance, and goddess by the side of god lookb
downward
Such did he appear when Ari&dne turned
pale with loving him: and he said, with
divine insolence in his pyes, " Am I not then
belter than a mortal t"
OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS
From PART II
1888
In the general glance that we have taken
at shops, we found ourselves unwillingly
compelled to pass some of them too quickly
It is the object, therefore, of the present
article to enter into those more attractive
thresholds, and look a little about us. We
imagine a fine day, time, about noon ; scene,
any good brilliant street. The ladies are
abroad in white and green ; the beaux loung-
ing, conscious of their waists and neck-
cloths ; the busy pushing onward, conscious
of their bills.
1 The forehead of Bacchni wa» crowned with vine-
leavei or Ivy.
1 Probably Silenos, who was a boon companion of
BacchnH.
•A portion of the frieM of The Monument of
Li/dcrate* reprewntB Bacchuft with his hand
on the fnoe of a lion.
JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT
881
To begin, then, where our shopping expe-
rience began, with the toy-shop—
Visions of glory, spare our aching sight!
Te just-breech *a age*,1 crowd not on our soul I -
We still seem to have a lively sense of the
smell of that gorgeous red paint which was
on the handle of our fiiat wooden nword*
The pewter guard also— how beautifully
fretted and like silver did it look! How did
we hang it round our shoulder by the proud
belt of an old ribbon ,— then feel it well sus-
pended; then draw it out of tbe sheath,
eager to cut down four savage men for ill-
using ditto of damsels f An old muff made
an excellent gienadier's cap, or one's hat
and feather, with the assistance of three
surreptitious large pins, became fiercely
modern and military There it is, in that
corner of the window— the same identical
sword, to all appearance, which kept us
awake the fit at night behind our pillow We
still feel ourselves little boys while standing
in this shop; and for that matter, so we do
on other occasions. A field has as much
ment in our eyes, and ginger-bread almost
as much in our mouths, as at that dai^v-
plucking and cake-eating period of life
There is the trigger-rattling gun. fine of its
kind, but not so complete a thin* as the
sword. Its memoiies are not so ancient • for
Alexander or St George did not fisht with a
musket Nc'ther IB it so true a thins?; it is
not "like life " The tiigger is too much
like that of a cross-bow; and the pea which
it shoots, lionteier hard, produces, even to
the iniRpmali\e faculties of boyhood, a
humiliating Hash of the mock-heioic. It i"
difficult to fancy a cliagon killed with a pea •
but the shape and appurtenances of the
sword being genuine, the whole sentiment
of massacre is a<* much in its wooden blade
as if it were steel of Damascus The diuin
is still more real, though not so heroic —In
the corner opposite are battledores and
shuttle-cocks, which have their maturei
beauties; balls, which possess the additional
zest of the danger of breaking people's win-
dows;—ropes, good for swinging and skip-
ping, especially the long ones which otheis
turn for you, while you run in a masterly
manner up and down, or skip in one spot
with an easy and endless exactitude of toe.
looking alternately at their conscious face*,
—blood-allies, with which the possessor of
»Tbe ages at which bovs begin to wear breochei
The expression In used here to Inrtlcjite tlie
time wfien hove flrjt show an Mwt In
•Orav. Tlic JJarrf. 108-9 (p. 6..). Hunt
tritiN /HJ*f-ftrrro»V» for untom.
a crisp finger and thumb-knuckle causes the
smitten marbles to vanish out of the ring,
kites, which must appear to more vital birds
a ghastly kind of fowl, with their grim,
6 long, white faces, no bodies, and endless
tails,— ciicket-bats, manly to handle,—
hap-bats,1 a genteel inferiority,— swim-
ming-coiks, despicable;— horses on wheels,
an imposition on the infant public;—
10 lock ing -horses, too much like Pegabus, ar-
flcnl yet never getting on,— Dutch toys, so
like life, that they ought to be better;—
Jacob's ladders, flapping down one over
another with tmtmnabulary2 shutters;—
16 dissected maps, from which the infant
statesmen may learn how to dovetail prov-
inces and kingdoms;— paper posture-mak-
ers, who hitch up their knees against their
shoulder-blades, and dandle their legs like
20 an opera dancer,— Lilliputian plates, dishes,
and other household utensils, in which a
giand dinner is served up out of half an
apple;— boxes of paints, to color engrav-
ings with, always beyond the outline,— ditto
9 of bncks, a very sensible and lasting toy,
which we except from a grudge we have
asamsl the gra\ity of infant geometries,—
whips, very useful for cutting people's eyes
unawares,— hoops, one of the most ancient
80 as well as excellent of toys;— sheets of pic-
tures, from A apple-pie up to f aiming,
military, and zoological exhibitions, always
taking care that the Fly is as large as the
Elephant, and the letter X exclusuely ap-
» preprinted to Xerxes;— musical deal-boxes,9
rather complaining than sweet, and more
like a peal of bodkins than bells, — penny
ti umpcts, awfnl at Bartlcmy-tide,4— jews*
harps, that tin ill and bieathe between the
40 lips like a metal tongue,— caits— carnages
—hobby-horses, upon which the infant
equestrian prances about proudly on his
own feet;— in short, not to go through the
whole representative body of existence—
46 dolls, which are so dear to the maternal
instincts of little girls We protest, how-
ex er, against that abu«*e of them, which
makes them full-dressed young ladies in
body, while they remain infant in face;
00 especially when they arc of frail wax It
is cultivating flnerv instead of affection
TVe prefer good, honest, plump limbs of
cotton and sawdust, dressed in baby-linen;
or even our ancient young friends, with
6* their staring dotted eyes, red varnished
i ftmall bats used in playing; traphall
• Jingling, rattling
• boxen made of nine or flr
'the time of the festival of Rt llartholomew,
Aug. 24
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTICISTB
faces, triangular noses, and Rosinante1
wooden limbs— not, it must be confessed,
excessively shapely or feminine, but the
i-everse of fragile beauty, and prepared
against all disasters.
The next step is to the Pastry-cook's,
where the plain bun is still the pleasantest
thing in our eyes, from its respectability in
those of childhood The pastry, less patron-
ized by judicious mothers, is only so much
elegant indigestion yet it is not easy to
forget the pleasure of nibbling away the
crust all around a raspberry or currant tart,
in order to enjoy the three or four delicious
semicircular bites at the fruity plenitude re-
maining There is a custard with a wall of
paste round it, which provokes a siege of
this kind ; and the cheese-cake has its ameni-
ties of approach. The acid flavor is a relief
to the mawkishness of the biffin2 or pressed
baked apple, and an addition to the glib and
quivering lightness of the jelly Twelfth
Cake,8 which, when cut, looks hke the side
of a rich pit of earth covered with snow, is
pleasant from warmer associations Confec-
tionery does not seem in the same request as
of old, its paint has hurt its reputation
Yet the school-boy has still much to say for
its humbler suavities Kisses aie very ami-
able and allegorical. Eight or ten of them,
judiciously wrapped up in pieces of letter-
paper, have saved many a loving heart the
trouble of a less eloquent billet-doux Can-
died citron we look upon to ^be the very
acme and atticism4 of confectionery grace.
Preserves are too much of a good thing,
with the exception of the jams that retain
their fruit-bkins. "Jam satis "B They
qualify the cloying. Yet marmalade must
not be passed over in these times, when it
has been raised to the dignity of the peer-
age The other day there was a Duke of
Marmalade in Hayti, and a Count of
Lemonade,6— so called, from places m which
those eminent relishes are manufactured.
After all, we must own that there is but
one thing for which we care much at a
pastry-cook's, except our old acquaintance
the bun ; especially as we can take up that
and go on. It is an ice. Fancy a very hot
day; the blinds down; the loungers un-
usually languid; the pavement burning
one's feet; the sun, with a strong outline
i long and bony like Rosinante (the steed of Don
Quixote, the hero of CervanteB'B Bpaniah ro
mance Don Quixote)
* An Engllfth variety of apple
•A cake made for the celebration held on the
twelfth night after Christina*.
« highest quality (characteristic of Attic Greek)
•already enough
•already enough
•This IB said to
be a fact
in the street, baking one whole side of it
like a brick-kiln; so that everybody is
crowding on the other, except a man going
to intercept a creditor bound for the Con*
6 tinent Then think of a heaped-up ice,
brought upon a salver with a spoon. What
statesman, of any warmth of imagination,
would not pardon the Neapolitans in sum-
mer, for an insurrection on account of the
10 want of icet Thmk of the first sidelong
dip of the spoon in it, bringing away a well-
shced lump; then of the sweet wintry
refreshment, that goes lengthening down
one's throat, and lastly, of the sense of
15 power and satisfaction resulting from hav-
ing "had the ice.
Not heaven itself can do away that slice;
But what has been, ban been, and I have had
ray ice
BO
PROEM TO SELECTION PROM KEATS 'S
POETRY
2844 1844
tt Keats was born a poet of the most poeti
cal kind. All his feelings came to him
through a poetical medium, or were speedily
colored by it. He enjoyed a jest as heartily
as any one, and sympathized with the low-
ID best commonplace; but the next minute his
thoughts were in a garden of enchantment
with nymphs, and fauns, and shapes of
exalted humanity;
35 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace 1
It might be said of him that he never beheld
an oak tree without seeing the Dryad. His
fame may now forgive the critics who dis-
liked his politics, and did not understand
40 Inc. poetry Repeated editions of him in
England, France, and America attest its tri-
umphant survival of all obloquy; and theie
can be no doubt that he has taken a perma-
nent station among the British poets, of a
46 very high, if not thoroughly mature, de-
scription.
Keats 's early poetry, indeed, partook plen-
tifully of the exuberance of youth ; and even
in most of his later, his sensibility, sharp-
ID ened by mortal illness, tended to a morbid
excess. His region is "a wilderness of
sweets"1— flowers of all hue, and "weeds
of glorious feature,'18— where, as he says,
the luxuriant soil brings
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth.*
* Wordsworth, Laodamia, 95 (p. 307)
•Paradite Lost, 5,204
•Rpcnser, Muiopotmus, 213
•KeiLtfl. tondymion, 1, 241 (p. 770).
JAMES HENBY LEIGH HUNT
883
But there also IB the "ram-wented eglan-
tine,' n and buhhea of May-flowers, with bees,
and myrtle, and bay, —and endless paths
into forests haunted with the loveliest as
well as pentlest being*; and the gods live
in the distance, amid notes of majestic
thunder. I do not need to say that no
"surfeit" is ever there, but I do, that
there u. no end of the "Declared sweels "2
In what other English poet (however supe-
nor to him in other respects) are you so
certain of never opening a page without
lighting upon the loveliest imagery and the
most eloquent expressions f Name one
Compare any succession of their pages at
random, and see if the young poet is not
sure to present his stock of beauty; crude it
may be, in many instances; too indiscrimi-
nate in general ; never, perhaps, thoroughly
perfect m cultivation; but there it is, ex-
quiute of its kind, and filling envy with
despair. He died at fi ve-and-twenty ; he
had not revised his eai her works, nor given
his genius its last pi unmg. His Kndtjmion, '
in resolving- to be free from all cntical
trammels, had no versification ; and his last
noble fragment, Hyperion* IB not faultless
—but it is neai ly «o. The Krc of St. Agnes*
betrays morbidity only in one instance (no-
ticed in the comment).6 Even in his earliest
productions, which are to be considered as
those of youth just emerging from boyhood.
are to be found passages of as masculine a
beauty as ever were written Witness the
Sonnet on Reading Chapman's Homer?—
epical m the splendor and dignity of its
imaaes, and( terminating with the noblest
Greek simplicity. Among his finished pro-
ductions, however, of any length, The Eve
of St. Agnes still appears to me the most
delightful and complete specimen of his
genius. It stands midway between his most
sensitive ones (which, though of rare beauty,
occasionally sink into feebleness) and the
less generally characteristic majesty of the
fragment of Hyperion Doubtless his
greatest poetry is to be found in Hyperion;
and had he lived, there is as little doubt he
would have written chiefly in that strain;
rising supeiior to those languishments of
i KMt* Endymlon, 1, 100 (p. 788)
8 Comus, 479 • Bee p 767.
« Bee p. 840. * See p. 842.
•The commentary which accompanied selections
from Keats and other poeti published In 1844
In a volume entitled Imagination and Fanev.
The Proem hen* printed la from the same vol-
ume The notes on T9if Eve of Bt A one* orig-
inally were published with the poem In Hnntfk
The London, Joyntal, Jan 21, 18SR The In-
stance of morbidity which Hnnt notes la In
Porphvro's growing faint, st 25, 8 (p. 845).
7 Bee p. 753.
16
love which made the critics so angry, and
which they might so easily have pardoned
at his tune of life. But The Eve of St.
Agnes had already bid most of them adieu,
6 --exquisitely loving as it is It is young,
but full-grown poetry of the rarest descrip-
tion ; graceful as the beardless Apollo ; glow-
ing and gorgeous with the colors of romance
I have therefore reprinted the whole of it
10 in the present volume, together with the
comment alluded to in the Preface; espe-
cially as, m addition to felicity of treat-
ment, its subject ife m every respect a happy
one, and helps to ' ' paint ' ' this our bower of
"poetry with delight." Melancholy, it i*
true, will ' ' break in ' ' when the reader thinks
of the early death of such a writer; but it
is one of the benevolent provisions of nature
that all good things tend to pleasure in the
recollection, when the bitterness of then
loss is past, their own sweetness embalniM
them.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.*
While writing this paragraph, a hand-
organ out-of-doors has been playing one of
the mournfullest and loveliest airs of Bel-
lini—another genius who died young. The
sound of music always gives a feeling either
of triumph or tenderness to the state of
mind m nhich it is heard, in this instance it
aeemed like one departed spirit come to bear
testimony to another, and to say how true
indeed may be the union of sorrowful and
sweet recollections.
Keats knew the youthful faults of his
poetry as well as any man, as the reader may
see by the Preface to Endymion,2 and its
touching though manly acknowledgment of
them to cntical candor. I have this moment
read it again, after a lapse of years, and
have been astonished to think how anybody
could answer such an appeal to the mercy
of strength, with the cruelty of weakness
All the good for which Mr. Gifford* pre-
tended to be zealous, he might have effected
with pain to no one, and glory to himself:
and therefore all the evil he mixed with it
was of his own making. But the secret at
the bottom of such unprovoked censure is
exasperated inferiority. Toung poets,
upon the whole,— at least very young poets,
-had better not publish at all. They are
pretty sure to have faults; and jealousy
on, 1, 1 (p. 787)
KratR'B
!¥<*!_.. . ^
lo^ thought' to he £
. hostile article on Keatrt Bn
...bed In The Quarterly K jt*«0,
(ToL 19, 204-08) Rc» p 911
author of
io*, njib-
, April, 1818
884
NINETJsIENTH OENTUfiY BOMANTIOI8T8
and envy are as sure to find them out, and
wreak upon them their own disappoint-
ments. The critic ife often an unsuccessful
author, almost always an inferior one to a
man of genius, and possesses his sensibility 6
neither to beauty nor to pain. If he does,— if
by any chance he is a man of genius himself
(and such things have been), sure and cer-
tain will be his regret, some day, for having
given pains which he might have turned 10
into noble pleasures; and nothing will con-
sole him but that very chanty towards him-
self, the grace of which can only be secured
to us by our having denied it to no one.
Let the student of poetry observe that in UK
all the luxury of The Eve of St. Agnes there
is nothing of the conventional craft of arti-
ficial writers; no heaping up of words or
similes for their own sakes or the rhyme's
sake; no gaudy commonplaces, no borrowed *>
airs of earnestness; no tricks of inversion;
no substitution of reading or of ingenious
thoughts for feeling or spontaneity; no
irrelevancy or unfitness of any sort. All
flows out of sincerity and passion. The 16
writer is as much in love with the heroine as
his hero is; his description of the painted
window, however gorgeous, has not an un-
true or superfluous woid; and the only
speck of fault in the whole poem arises from *>
an excess of emotion.
FRANCIS JEFFREY (1773-1850)
From OR ABBE '8 POEMSi 86
1808 1808
We receive the proofs of Mr. Crabbed
poetical existence, which are contained in
this volume,-2 with the same sort of feeling
that would be excited by tidings of an an- 40
cient friend, whom we no longer expected to
hear of in this world. We rejoice in his
resurrection, both for his sake and for our
own ; but we feel also a certain movement of
Relf-condemnation, for having been remiss 46
in our inquiries after him, and somewhat too
negligent of the honors which ought, at any
rate, to have been paid to his memory.
It is now, we are afraid, upwards of
twenty years since we were first struck with BO
the vigor, originality, and truth of descrip-
tion of The Village;* and since, we regretted
that an author who could write so well
should have written so little. From that
* For text of Crabbe's poems, see pp 154 ff. 66
•An edition of Crabbed poems, published in Oct .
1807, and containing, besides reprints of The
TAbrant, The VMtpe, and The Nwmpapcr,
some new poem*, of which the most slgnifl
rant was Ttir Pariah
• Bee p. 154.
tune to the present, we have heard little of
Mr. Crabbe, and fear that he has been in
a great measure lost sight of by the public,
as well as by us. With a singular, and
scarcely pardonable indifference to fame, he
has remained, during this long interval, in
patient or indolent repose; and, without
making a single movement to maintain or
advance the reputation he had acquired, has
permitted others to usurp the attention
which he was sure of commanding, and
allowed himself to be nearly forgotten by a
public, which reckons upon being reminded
of all the claims which the living have on
its favor. His former publications, though
of distinguished merit, were perhaps too
small in volume to remain long the objects
of general attention, and seem, by some acci-
dent, to have been jostled aside in the crowd
of more clamorous competitors
Tet, though the name of Crabbe has not
hitherto been very common in the months of
our poetical critics, we believe there are few
real lovers of poetry to whom some of bis
sentiments and descriptions are not secretly
familiar. There is a truth and force in
many of his delineations of rubtic life, which
is calculated to sink deep into the memory ;
and, being confirmed by daily observation,
they are recalled upon innumerable occa-
sions, when the ideal pictures of more fanci-
ful authors have lost all their interest. For
ourselves at least, we profess to be indebted
to Mr. Crabbe for many of these strong im-
pressions; and have known more than one
of our unpoetical acquaintances, who de-
clared they could never pass by a parish
workhouse without thinking of the descrip-
tion of it they had read at school in the
Poetical Extracts. The volume before us
will renew, we trust, and extend many such
impressions. It contains all the former
productions of the author, with about
double their bulk of new matter, most of it
in the same taste and manner of composition
with the former, and some of a kind of
which we had no previous example in this
author. The whole, however, is of no ordi-
nary merit, and will be found, we have little
doubt, a sufficient warrant for Mr. Crabbe
to take his place as one of the most original,
nervous, and pathetic poets of the present
century.
His characteristic, certainly, is force, and
truth of description, joined for the most
part to great selection and condensation of
expression,— that kind of strength and origi-
nality which we meet with in Cowper, and
that sort of diction and versification whicli
FRANCIS JEFFREY
we admire in The Deserted Village of Gold-
smith, or The Vanity of Human Wishes of
Johnson. If he can be said to have imitated
the manner of any author, it is Goldsmith,
indeed, who has been the object of his imi-
tation ; and yet his geneial tram of thinking,
and his views of society, are so extremelv
opposite, that, when The Village was first
published, it waft commonly considered as
an antidote or an answei to the moie capti-
vating representations of Tlie Deserted Vil-
lage. Compared with this celebrated authoi ,
he will be found, we think, to have more
^ igor and less delicacy ; and while he must )>e
admitted to be inferior in the fine finish and
mnioim beauty of his composition, we c«ii-
not help considering him superior, both in
the variety and the truth of his pictures
Instead of that uniform tint of pensive ten-
derness which o\erspreads the whole poetry
of Goldsmith, we find in Mr Crabbe many
gleams of gaiety and humor. Though his
habitual views of life are mnre gloomy than
those of his rival, his poetical temperament
seems far more cheerful ; and when the occa-
sions of sorrow and rebuke are gone by, he
can collect himself for sarcastic pleasantry
or unbend in innocent plavf illness. His
diction, though generally pure and powerful,
is sometimes haish, and sometimes quaint; »
and he has occasionally admitted a couplet
or two in a state so unfinished as to give a
character of inelegance to the passages in
which thev occur. With a taste less disci-
plined and le«s fastidious than that of Gold- *
smith, he has, in our apjnehension, a keenei
eve for observation, and a readier hand fot
the delineation of what he has obsened
There is less poetical keeping in his whole
performance; but the groups of which it 40
consists are conceived, we think, with equnl
genius, and drawn with greater spirit as
well as far greater fidelitv.
It is not quite fair, perhaps, thus to dia*
a detailed parallel between a living poet, *
and one whose reputation has been sealed
by death, and by the immutable sentence of
a surviving generation. Yet there are so
few of his contemporaries to whom Mi
Crabbe bears any resemblance that we can »
scarcely explain our opinion of his meiit
without comparing him to some of his
predecessors. There is one set of writers,
fndeed, from whose works those of Mr
Crabbe might receive all that elucidation »
which results from contrast, and from an
entire opposition in all points of taste and
opinion. We allude now to the Words-
worths, and the Southeys, and Colendges,
and all that ambitious fraternity, that,
with good intentions and extraoidmary tal-
ents, are laboring to bung back our poetry
to the fantastical oddity and puling child-
ishness of Withers, Qua lies, or Maivel
These gentlemen wnte a si eat deal about
rustic life, as well as Mr. Crabbe; and they
even agree with him m dwelling much on it«
discomforts, but nothing can be moie oppo-
site than the views they take of the subject,
or the manner in which they execute their
representations of them.
Mr. Crabbe exhibits the common people
of England pretty much as they are, and as
they must appeal to every one who will take
the trouble of examining into their condi-
tion, at the same time that he renders his
sketches in a very high degree interesting
and beautiful by selecting what is most fit
for description, by grouping them into such
forms as must catch the attention or awake
the memory, and by scattering over the
whole such traits of moral sensibility, of
sarcasm, and of deep reflection, as every
one must feel to be natural, and own to be
powerful. The gentlemen of the new
school, on the other hand, scarcely ever con-
descend to take their subjects from any de-
scription of persons at all known to the
common inhabitants of the world; but in-
>ent for themselves certain whimsical and
unheard-of beings, to whom they impute
some fantastical combination of feelings,
and then labor to excite our sympathy for
them, either by placing them in incredible
situations, or by some strained and exag-
gerated moralization of a vague and tragical
description. Mr. Crabbe, in short, shows
us something which we have all seen, or mav
see, in real life ; and draws from it such feel-
ings and such reflections as every human be-
ing must acknowledge that it is calculated
to excite He delights us by the truth, and
\ ivid and picturesque beautv of his repre-
» mutations, and by the force and pathos of
the sensations with which we feel that they
are connected. Mr Wordsworth and his
associates, on the other hand, introduce us
to beings whose existence was not previously
suspected by the acutest observers of
nature; and excite an interest for them—
where they do excite any interest— more by
an eloquent and refined analysis of their
own capricious feelings, than by any obvious
or intelligible ground of sympathy in their
situation.
Those who are acquainted with the Lyrical
Ballads, or the more recent publications of
Mr. Wordsworth, will scarcely deny the
NINETEENTH GENTUB7 BOMANTIOZ8T8
justice of thu representation ; bat in order
to vindicate it to such as do not enjoy that
advantagey we must beg leave to make a few
hasty references to the former, and by far
the least exceptionable of those productions. 5
A village schoolmaster, for instance, is a
pretty common poetical character. Gold-
smith has drawn him inimitably,1 so hah
Shenstone, with the slight change of sex;-
and Mr. Crabber, in two passages, has f ol- 10
lowed their footsteps8 Now, Mr. Words-
worth has a village schoolmaster also, a
personage who makes no small figure in three
or four of his poems.4 But by what traits is
this worthy old gentleman delineated by the u
new poetT No pedantry, no innocent van-
ity of learning, no mixture of indulgence
with the pride of power, and of poverty
with the consciousness of rare acquirements
Every feature which belongs to the situa-
tion, or marks the character in common
apprehension, is scornfully discarded by Mi
Wordsworth, who represents his gray-haired
rustic pedagogue as a sort of half crazy,
sentimental person, overrun with fine feel-
ings, constitutional merriment, and a most
humorous melancholy. Here are the two
stanzas in which this consistent and intelli-
gible character is portrayed. The diction is
at least as new as the conception.
The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs
Of one tir'd out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
Were tears of light — the oil of gladness
Yet sometimes, when the secret cup *
Of still and serious thought went round
He seem'd as if he drank it up,
He felt with spirit so profound.
Thou soul of God's best earthly mould? etc.
A frail damsel again is a character com- "
mon enough in all poems, and one upon
which many fine and pathetic lines have been
expended. Mr. Wordsworth has written more
than three hundred on the subject; but, in-
stead of new images of tenderness, or deli-
cate representation of intelligible feelings,
he has contrived to tell us nothing whatevei
of the unfortunate fair one, but that her
name is Martha Ray, and that she goes up to
the top of a hill, in a red cloak, and cries,
"0 misery!'1 All the rest of the poem6 is
filled with a description of an old thorn and
a pond, and of the silly stories which the
neighboring old women told about them. K
* See The Deserted Fil
•See The Rch
, 1*A?18>
p. 40)
The sports of childhood, and the untimely
death of promising youth, is also a common
topic of poetry. Mr. Wordsworth has made
some blank verse about it, but, instead of
the delightful and picturesque sketches with
which so many authors of modern talents
have presented us on this inviting subject,
all that he ib pleased to communicate of Tits
rustic child is, that he used to amuse him-
self with shouting to the owls, and hearing
them answer. To make amends for this
brevity, the process of his mimicry is most
accurately described.
With fingers interwoven, both hands
Press M closely palm to palm, and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootmgs to the silent owls,
That they might answer him.i
This is all we hear of him , and for the
sake of this one accomphbhment, we are told
that the author has frequently stood mute,
and gazed on his grave for half an hour
together '
Love, and the fantasies of lovers, have
afforded an ample theme to poets of all ages
Mr. Wordsworth, however, has thought fit
to compose a piece, illustrating this copious
subject by one single thought. A lover trots
away to see his mistress one fine evening,
gazing all the way on the moon; when he
comes to her door,
O mercy! to myself I cried,
If Lucy should be dead I-
And there the poem ends!
Now, we leave it to any reader of common
candor and discernment to say whether these
representations of character and sentiment
are drawn from that eternal and universal
standard of truth and nature, winch every
one is knowing enough to recognize, and no
one great enough to depart from with im-
punity; or whether they are not formed, as
we have ventured to allege, upon certain
fantastic and affected peculiarities in the
mind or fancy of the author, into which it
is most improbable that many of his read-
ers will enter, and which cannot, in some
cases, be comprehended without much effort
and explanation. Instead of multiplying
instances of these wide and wilful Aberra-
tions from ordinary nature, it may be more
satisfactory to produce the author's own
admission of the narrowness of the plan
upon which he writes, and of the very ex-
traordinary circumstances which he himself
1 The Boy of Winan&er (There Was a Boy), The
Prelude.*, 864 ff (p. 247).
• Strange fits of Passion Have I Known (p 287).
FRANCIS JEFFBEY
887
sometimes thinks it necessary for his readers
to keep in view, if they would wish to
understand the beauty or propriety of his
delineations.
A pathetic tale of guilt or superstition ff
may be told, we are apt to fancy, by the poet
himself, in his general character of poet,
with full as much effect as by any other
person. An old nurse, at any rate, or a
monk or parish clerk, is always at hand to 10
give grace to such a nai ration. None of
these, however, would satisfy Mr. Words-
worth. He has written a long poem of this
sort,1 in which he thinks it indispensably
necessary to apprise the reader, that he has 15
endeavored to represent the language and
sentiments of a particular character-— of
which character, he adds, "the reader will
have a general notion, if he has ever known
a man, a captain of a small Irading vessel, 20
for example, who being past the middle age
of life, has retired upon an annuity, or
small independent income, to some village
or country town, of which he was not a
native, or in winch he had not been accus- 25
toraed to live'"2
Now, we must be permitted to doubt
whether, among all the readers of Mr
Wordsworth (few or many), there is a
single individual who has had the happiness 80
of knowing a person of tins \ery peculiar
description; or who is capable of forming
any sort of conjecture of the particular dis-
position and turn of thinking such a com-
bination of attributes would be apt to pro- 85
duce. To us, we will confess, the annoncc*
appears as ludicrous and absurd as it would
be in the author of an ode or an epic to sav,
"Of this piece the reader will necessarily
form a very erroneous judgment unless he 40
is apprised that it was written by a pale
man in a green coat— sitting cross-legged on
an oaken stool— with a scratch on his nose,
and a spelling dictionary on the table."4
i The Thorn (p 224) See Coleridge's Biographic
Uteraria, 18 (p SRlh 11 ff )
•Quoted from Wordsworth'* noto to The Thorn
(we CrlticRl Noto on Wordsworth's Tin
Thorn) See Coleridge's Bioffraphta Literaria.
17 (p 878b. 20 ff )
' announcement
4 "Some of our readers may have a curiosity to
know In what manner this old annuitant can
tain does actually express himself In the vil-
lage of his adoption For their gratification,
we annex t*e two first stances of his storv.
In which, with all the attention we have heen
able to bestow, we have heen utterly unable
to detect any traits that can be supposed to
characterise either a seaman, an annuitant,
or a stranger In a country town Tt Is a
style, on the contrary, which we should
ascribe, without hesitation, to a certain
poetical fraternity In the west of England,
and which, we verily believe, never was, and
never will be, used by anyone out of that
fraternity.
From these childish and absurd affecta-
tions, we torn with pleasure to the manly
sense and correct picturing of Mr. Crabbe;
and, after being dazzled and made giddy
with the elaborate raptures and obscure
originalities of these new artists, it is re-
freshing to meet again with the spirit and
nature of our old masters, in the nervous
pages of the author now before us.
Prom ALISON'S ESSAYS ON THE NA-
TUBE AND PBINCIPLES OF TASTE
I8H 1811
It is unnecessary, however, to pursue these
criticisms,1 or, indeed, this hasty review of
the speculation of other writers, any far-
ther. The few observations we have already
made, will enable the intelligent reader, both
to understand in a general way what has
been already done on the subject, and in
some degree piepare him to appreciate the
merits of that theory, substantially the same
with Mr Alison 's, which we shall now pro-
ceed to illustrate somewhat more in detail.
The basis of it is, that the beauty which
we impute to outward objects is nothing
more than the leflection of our own inward
emotions, and is made up entirely of certain
little poitions of lo've, pity, or other affec-
tions, which have been connected with these
objects, and still adhere, as it were, to them,
and nune us anew whenever they are pre-
Thorc la a thorn — It look* so old,
In truth AOU d find It hard to say
How it could e\er have been young f
It looks so old and gray
Not higher than a two-years' child.
It stand* erect, this aged thorn .
No leaves It has, no thornv point*, ,
It Is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thine forlorn.
It stands erect , and like a stone.
With lichens It Is overgrown.
lAKe rock or stone, it is oYrwofr*
With Iic/iriw,~to the very top ,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss
A melancholy crop
Up from the earth these mosses creep.
And this poor t horn, thev clasp It round
Ro close, you'd say that they were bent
With plain and manifest intent I
To drag It to the ground ;
\nd all had Joined In one endeavor
To bury this poor thorn forever.
And this. It seems. Is Nature, and Pathos, and
Poetry '" — Jeffrey
1 Jeffrey has pointed out the objections to the
most Important theories of beauty from the
earliest times to his o*n dav He has given
especial attention to the theories advanced
by Dugald Rtewart (17531828) In hla Philo-
sophical tt**aits. and by Richard Pavne
KnlgM (17RO-18241 In his Analytical Tn
Into the Nature and Principles of Taste.
888
NINETEENTH OBNTUBY BOMANTIGD9TB
Banted to our observation. Before proceed-
ing to bring any proof of the truth of this
proposition, there are two things that it may
be proper to explain a little more distinctly.
First, What are the primary affections, by
the suggestion of which we think the sense
of beauty is produced! And, secondly,
What is the nature of the connection by
which we suppose that the objects we call
beautiful are enabled to suggest these affec-
tionst
With regard to the first of these points, it
fortunately is not necessary either to enter
into any tedious details, or to have reconise
to any rice distinctions. All sensations that
are not absolutely indifferent, and are, at the
same time, either agreeable when experi-
enced by ourselves, or attractive when con-
templated in others, may form the founda-
tion of the emotions of sublimity or beauty
The love of sensation seems to be the ruling
appetite of human nature, and many sen At-
hens, in which the painful may be thought
to predominate, are consequently sought for
with avidity, and recollected with interest,
even in our own persons. In the persons of
others, emotions still more painful are con-
templated with eagerness and delight : and
therefore we must not be surprised to find
that many of the pleasing sensations of
beauty or sublimity resolve themselves ulti-
mately into recollections of feelings that
may appear to have a very opposite char-
acter. The sum of the whole is, that every
feeling which it is agreeable to experience,
to recall, or to witness, may become the
source of beauty in external objects, when it
is so connected with them as that their
appearance reminds us of that feeling. Now,
in real life, and from daily experience and
observation, we know that it is agreeable, in
the first place, to recollect our own pleasur-
able sensations, or to be enabled to form a
lively conception of the pleasures of other
men, or even of sentient beings of any de-
scription. We know likewise, from the same
sure authority, that there is a certain delight
in the remembrance of our past, or the con-
ception of pur future emotions, even though
attended with great pain, provided the pain
be not forced too rudely on the mind, and
be softened by the accompaniment of ary
milder feeling. And finally, we know, in
the same manner, that the spectacle or con-
ception of the emotions of others, even when
in a high degree painful, is extremely inter-
esting and attractive, and draws us away,
not only from the consideration of indiffer-
ent objects, but even from the pursuit of
light or frivolous enjoyments. All these are
plain and familiar facts, of the existence of
which, however they may be explained, no
one can entertain the slightest doubt— and
B into which, therefore, we shall have made no
inconsiderable progress, if we can resolve
the more mysterious fact of the emotions
we receive from the contemplation of sub-
limity or beauty.
10 Our proposition then is, that these emo-
tions are not original emotions, nor pro-
duced directly by any material qualities in
the objects which excite them; but are
reflections, or images, of the more radical
is and familiar emotions to which we have
already alluded; and are occasioned, not
by any inherent virtue in the objects before
us, but by the accidents, if we may so ex-
press ourselves, by which these may have
so been enabled to suggest or recall to us our
past sensations or sympathies We might
almost venture, indeed, to lay it down as an
axiom, that, except in the plain and pal-
pable case of bodily pain or pleasure, we can
26 never be interested in anything but the for-
tunes of sentient beings;— and that every-
thing partaking of the nature of mental
emotion, must have for its object the feel-
ings, past, present, or possible, of something
80 capable of sensation. Independent, there-
fore, of all evidence, and without the help
of any explanation, we should have been
apt to conclude that the emotions of beauty
and sublimity must have for their objects
8B the sufferings or enjoyments of sentient
beings;— and to reject, as intrinsically ab-
surd and incredible, the supposition that
material objects, which obviously do neither
hurt nor delight the body, should yet excite,
40 by their mere physical qualities, the very
powerful emotions which are sometimes ex-
cited by the spectacle of beauty
Of the feelings, by their connection with
which external objects become beautiful, we
45 do not think it necessary to speak more
minutely;— and, therefore, it only remains,
under this preliminary view of the subject,
to explain the nature of that connection by
which we conceive this effect to be produced.
BO Here, also, there is but little need for mi-
nuteness, or fulness of enumeration. Almost
every tie, by which two objects can be bound
together in the imagination, in such a man-
ner as that the presentment of the one shall
55 recall the memory of the other;— or, in other
words, almost every possible relation which
can subsist between such objects, may serve
to connect the things we call sublime and
beautiful, with feelings that are interesting
FRANCIS JEFFREY 889
or delightful. It may be useful, however, to controlled Power which IB the natural object
class these bonds of association between of awe and veneration.
mind and matter m a rude and general way
It appears to us, then, that objects are
sublime or beautiful, first, when they are 5 Hitherto we have spoken of the beauty
the natural signs and perpetual concomi- of external objects only. But the whole
tants of pleasurable sensations, or, at any difficulty of the theory consists in its appli-
rate, of some lively feeling of emotion in cation to them. If that be once adjusted,
ourselves or in some other sentient beings; the beauty of immaterial objects can occa-
or, secondly, when they are the arbitrary or 10 sion no perplexity. Poems and other corn-
accidental concomitants of such feelings; positions in words are beautiful in propor-
or, thirdly, when they bear some analogy or tion as they are conversant with beautiful
fanciful resemblance to things with which objects— or as they suggest to us, in a more
these emotions are necessarily connected In direct way, the moral and social emotions
endeavoring to illustrate the nature of these u on which the beauty of all objects depends,
several relations, we shall be led to lay be- Theorems and demonstrations, again, are
fore our readers some proof s that appear to beautiful according as they excite m us
us satisfactory of the truth of the general emotions of admiration for the genius and
theory. intellectual power of their inventors, and
The most obvious and the strongest asso- » images of the magnificent and beneficial
ciation that can be established between in- ends to which such discoveries may be ap-
ward feelings and external objects is where plied;— and mechanical contrivances are
the object is necessarily and universally con- beautiful when they remind us of similar
nected with the feeling by the law of nature, talents and ingenuity, and at the same time
so that it is always presented to the senses tt impress us with a more direct sense of their
when the feeling is impressed upon the mind vast utility to mankind, and of the great
—as the sight or the sound of laughter, with additional conveniences with which life is
the feeling of gaiety— of weeping, with dm- consequently adorned. In all cases, there-
tress— of the sound of thunder, with ideas fore, there is the suggestion of some inter-
of danger and power. Let us dwell for a » estmg conception or emotion associated
moment on the last instance.— Nothing, per- with a present perception, in which it is
haps, in the whole range of nature, is more apparently confounded and embodied—
strikingly and universally sublime than the and this, according to the whole of the pre-
sound we have just mentioned ; yet it seems ceding deduction, is the distinguishing
obvious that the sense of sublimity is pro- as characteristic of beauty,
duced, not by any quality that is pereenetl Having now explained, as fully as we
by the ear, but altogether by the impression think necessary, the grounds of that opin-
of power and of danger that is necessarily ion as to the nature of beauty which ap-
made upon the mind, whenever that sound pears to be most conformable to the truth,
is heard. That it is not produced by any 40 we have only to add a word or two as to
peculiarity in the sound itself, is certain, the necessary consequences of its adoption
from the mistakes that are frequently made upon several other controversies of a kin-
with regard to it The noise of a cart rat- dred description.
thng over the stones, is often mistaken for In the first place, then, we conceive that
thunder; and as long as the mistake lasts, 46 it establishes the substantial identity of the
this very vulgar and insignificant noise is sublime, the beautiful, and the picturesque;
actually felt to be prodigiously sublime It and consequently puts an end to all con-
is so felt, however, it is perfectly plain, troversy that is not purely verbal, r3 to the
merely because it is then associated with difference of those several qualities Every
ideas of prodigious power and undefined 10 material object that interests us, without
danger;— and the sublimity is accordingly actually hurting or gratifying our bodily
destroyed, the moment the association is feelings, must do so, according to this
dissolved, though the sound itself and its theory, in one and the same manner,— that
effect on the organ, continue exactly the is, by suggesting or recalling some emotion
same. This, therefore, is an instance in « or affection of ourselves or some other
which sublimity is distinctly proved to eon- sentient being, and presenting, to our
sist, not in any physical quality of the imagination at least, some natural object
object to which it is ascribed, but in its of love, pity, admiration, or awe. The
necessary connection with that vast and un- interest of material objects, therefore, is
890
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIOIBTB
always the same; and arises, in every case,
not from any physical qualities they may
possess, but from their association with
some idea of emotion. But though mate-
rial objects have but one means of exciting
emotion, the emotions they do excite are
infinite. They are mirrors that reflect all
shades and all colors, and, in point of fact,
do seldom reflect the same hues twice. No
two interesting objects, perhaps, whether
known by the name of beautiful, sublime,
or picturesque, ever produced exactly the
same emotion in the beholdei ; and no ob-
ject, it is most probable, ever moved any
two persons to the very same conceptions.
As they may be associated with all the
feelings and affections of which the human
mind is susceptible, so they may suggest
those feelings in all their variety, and, in
fact, do daily excite all sorts of emotions—
running through every gradation, from
extreme gaiety and elevation to the borders
of horror and disgust.
Now it is certainly true that all the
variety of emotions raised in this way on
the single basis of association may be
classed, in a rude way, under the denomina-
tions of sublime, beautiful, and picturesque,
according as they partake of awe, tender-
ness, or admhation; and we have no other
objection to this nomenclature except its
extreme imperfection, and the delusions to
which we know that it has given occasion.
If objects that interest by their association
with ideas of power and danger and terror
are to be distinguished by the peculiar name
of the sublime, why should (here not be a
separate name also for objects that interest
by associations of mirth and gaiety— an-
other for those that please by Rnggestions
of softness and melancholy— another for
such as are connected with impiessions of
comfort and tranquillity— and another for
those that are related to pity and admira-
tion and love and regret and all the other
distinct emotions and affections of our
nature 1 These are not in reality less dis-
tinguishable from each other than from the
emotions of awe and veneration that confer
the title of sublime on their representatives;
and while all the former are confounded
under the comprehensive appellation of
beauty, this partial attempt at distinction
is only apt to mislead us into an erroneous
opinion of our accuracy, and to make us
believe, both that there is a greater con-
formity among the things that pass under
the same name, and a greater difference
between those that pass under different
names, than is really the ease. We have
seen already that the radical error of al-
most all preceding inquirers has lain in
supposing that everything that passed
5 under the name of beautiful must have
some real and inherent quality in common
with everything else that obtained that
name. And it is scarcely necessary for us
to observe that it has been almost as gen-
10 eral an opinion that sublimity was not only
something radically different from beauty,
but actually opposed to it; whereas the
fact is, that it is far more nearly related
to some sorts of beauty than many sorts
15 of beauty are to each other; and that both
are founded exactly upon the same prin-
ciple of suggesting some past or possible
emotion of some sentient being.
Upon this point we are happy to find
flo our opinions confirmed by the authority of
Mr. Stewart, who, in hib Essay on the
Beautiful, already referred to, has ob-
served, not only that there appears to him
to be no inconsistency or impropriety in
0 finch expressions as the fubhme beauties of
nature, or of the Racred Scrip tmes,-- but
has added in express terms that "to op-
pose the beautiful to the sublime or to the
picturesque strikes him as something anal-
80 ogous to a contrast between the beautiful
and the comic— the beautiful and the
tragic— the beautiful and the pathetic—
or the beautiful and the romantic."
The only other advantage which we shall
85 specify as likely to result from the general
adoption of the theory we have been en-
deavoring to illustrate is, that it seems cal-
culated to put an end to all these perplexing
and vexatious questions about the standard
40 of taste, which have given occasion to so
much impertinent and so much elaborate
discussion. If things are not beautiful in
themselves, but only as they seive to sug-
gest interesting conceptions to the mind,
is then everything which does in point of fact
suggest such a conception to any individual,
is beautiful to that individual ; and it is not
only quite true that there is no room for
disputing about tastes, but that all tastes
BO are equally just and correct, in so far as
each individual speaks only of his own emo-
tions. When a man calls a thing beautiful,
however, he may indeed mean to make two
very different assertions;- he may mean
B that it gives him pleasure by suggesting to
him some interesting emotion; and, in this
sense, there ean be no doubt that, if he
merely speak truth, the thing is beautiful;
and that it pleases him precisely in the same
FBANCIS JEFFBEY
891
way that all other things please those to
whom they appear beautiful. But if he
mean farther to say that the thing possesses
some quality which should make it appear
beautiful to every other person, and that
it is owing to some prejudice or defect in
them if it appear otherwise, then he is as
unreasonable and absurd as be would think
those who should attempt to convince him
that he felt no emotion of beauty.
All tastes, then, are equally just and true,
in so far as coneeins the individual whoso
taste is in question , and what a man feels
distinctly to be beautiful, ts beautiful to
him, whatever other people may think of it
All this follows clearly from the theory no\\
in question : but if does not follow, from it
that all tastes aie equally pood or desirable,
or that there is any difficulty in describing
that uhich is really the best, and the most
to be envied. The only use of the faculty
of taste is to afford an innocent delight, and
to assist in the cultivation of a finer moral-
ity; and that man certainly will have the
most delight from this faculty, who has the
most numerous and most powerful peiccp-
tions of beauty But, if beauty consist in
the reflection of our affections and sympa-
thies, it is plain that lie will always see the
most beauty whose affections aie the warm-
est and most exercised— whose imagination
is the most poweiful, and who has most
accustomed himself to attend to the object"
by which he is surrounded. In so far as
mere feeling and enjoyment are concerned,
theiefore, it seems evident that the best taste
must be that which belongs to the best affec-
tions, the most active fancy, and the most
attentive habits of observation It will
follow pretty exactly, too, that all men's
perceptions of beauty will be nearly in pro-
portion to the degree of their sensibility
and social sympathies; and that those who
have no affections towards sentient being*,
will be as certainly insensible to beauty in
external objects, as he, who cannot hear the
sound of his friend's voice, must be deaf to
its echo.1
In so far as the sense of beauty is re-
garded as a mere source of enjoyment, this
seems to be the only distinction that deserves
to be attended to ; and the only cultivation
that taste should ever receive, with a view to
the gratification of the individual, should
be through the indirect channel of cultivat-
ing the affections and powers of observa-
tion. If we Aspire, however, to be creators,
* See Hunt's On the ftMffftet of Imtfftoatto* (p.
as well as observers of beauty, and place
any part of our happiness in ministering to
the gratification of others— as artists, or
poets, or authors of any sort— then, indeed,
ft a new distinction of tastes, and a far more
laborious system of cultivation, will be nec-
essary. A man who pursues only his own
delight, will be as much charmed with ob-
jects that suggest powerful emotions in
10 consequence of personal and accidental asso-
ciations, as with those that introduce similar
emotions by means of associations that are
universal and indestructible. To him, all
objects of the former class are really as
16 beautiful as those of the latter— and for his
own gratification, the cieation of that sort
of beauty is just as important an occupa-
tion: but if be conceive the ambition of
creating beauties for the admiration of oth-
0 eis, he must be cautious to employ only such
objects as are the natural signs, or the
inseparable concomitants of emotions, of
winch the greater pait of mankind are sus-
ceptible, and his taste will then deserve to
86 be called bad and false, if he obtnide upon
the public, as beautiful, objects that are not
likely to be associated in common minds with
nny inteiesting impiessions.
For a man himself, then, there is no taste
80 that is either bad or false; and the only
difference worthy of being attended to, is
that between a great deal and a very little.
Some who have cold affections, sluggish
imaginations, and no habits of observation,
86 can with difficulty discern beauty in any-
thing; while others, who are full of kind-
ness of sensibility, and who have been accus-
tomed to attend to all the objects around
them, feel it almost in everything. It is no
40 matter what other people may think of the
objects of their admiration; nor ought it
to be any concern of theirs that the public
would be astonished or offended, if they were
called upon to join in that admiration. So
46 long as no such call is made, this anticipated
discrepancy of feeling need give them no
uneasiness; and the suspicion of it should
produce no contempt in any other persons.
It is a strange aberration indeed of vanity
BO that makes us despise persons for being
happy— for having sources of enjoyment in
which we cannot share •— and yet this is the
true source of the ridicule which is sp gener-
ally poured upon individuals who seek only
66 to enjoy their peculiar tastes unmolested:—
for, if there be tiny truth in the theory we
have been expounding, no taste is bad for
any other reason than because it is peculiar
-as the objects in which it delights must
NINETEENTH CENTTJBY EOMANTICISTS
actually serve to suggest to the individual
those common emotions and universal affec-
tions upon which the sense of beauty is
everywhere founded. The misfortune is,
however, that we are apt to consider all per-
sons who make known their peculiar rel-
ishes, and especially all who create any
objects for their gratification, as m some
measure dictating to the public, and setting
up an idol for general adoration ; and hence
this intolerant interference with almost all
peculiar perceptions of beauty, and the un-
sparing derision that pursues all deviations
from acknowledged standards This intoler-
ance, we admit, is often provoked by some-
thing of a spirit of proselytwm, and arro-
gance, m those who mistake their own casual
associations for natural or unnersal rela-
tions; and the consequence is, that mortified
vanity ultimately dries up, even for them,
the fountain of their peculiar enjoyment;
and disenchants, by a new association of
general contempt or ridicule, the scenes that
had been consecrated by some innocent but
accidental emotion.
As all men must have some peculiar asso-
ciations, all men must have some peculiar
notions of beauty, and, of course, to a cei -
tain extent, a taste that the public would be
entitled to consider as false or vitiated For
those who make no demands on public ad-
miration, however, it is haid to be obliged
to sacrifice this source of enjoyment ; and,
even for those who labnr for applause, the
wisest coui«e, perhaps, if it were only prac-
ticable, would be to have two tastes— one to
enjoy, and one to woik by— one founded
upon universal asbociations, according to
which they finished those performances fur
which they challenged universal praise—
and another guided by all casual and indi-
vidual association, through which they might
still look fondly npon nature, and upon the
objects of their secret admiration
From WORDSWORTH'S THE EXCUR-
SIONi
1814
This will never do v Tt bears no doubt the
stamp of the author's heart and fancy; but
unfortunately not half so visibly as that of
his peculiar system. His former poems were
intended to recommend that system, and to
bespeak favor for it by their individual
merit; but this, we suspect, must be recom-
mended by the system, and can only expect
to succeed where it has been previously estab-
*For text of Book 1 of The Btcvnto*, see pp.
lished. It is longer, weaker, and tamer than
any of Mr. Wordsworth's other produc-
tions, with less boldness of originality, and
less even of that extreme simplicity and
6 lowliness of tone which wavered so prettily,
in the Lyrical Ballads, between silliness and
pathos. We have imitations of Cowper,
and even of Milton here, engrafted on the
natural drawl of the Lakers1— and all dilu-
10 ted into harmony by that profuse and irre-
pressible wordiness which deluges all the
blank verse of this school of poetry, and
lubricates and weakens the whole structure
of their style,
16 Though it fairly fills four hundred and
twenty good quarto pages, without note,
\ignette, or any sort of extraneous assist-
ance, it is stated in the title— with some-
thing of an imprudent candor— to be but
ao "a portion" of a larger work; and in the
preface, where an attempt is rather unsuc-
cessfully made to explain the whole design,
it is still moie rashly disclosed that it is but
"a part of flic second party of a long and
85 laborious work'9— which is to consist of
three parts!
What Mr. Wordsworth's ideas of length
are, we \\B\G no means of accurately judg-
ing. But we cannot help suspecting that
so they are liberal, to a degw that will alarm
the weakness of most modern readers As
far as we can gather fioin the preface, the
entiie poem— or one of them (for we really
are not sure whether there is to be one or
85 two) is of a biographical nature, and is to
contain the history of the author's mind,
and of the origin and progress of his poet-
ical powers, up to the period when they
were sufficiently matured to qualify him for
40 the great work on which lie has been so long
employed Now, the quarto before us con-
tains an account of one of his youthful
rambles in the vales of Cumberland, and
occupies precisely the period of three days '
45 So that, by the use of a very powerful
calculus, some estimate may be formed of
the probable extent of the entiie biography
This small specimen, however, and the
statements with which it is prefaced, have
ID been sufficient to net our minds at rest in
one particular. The case of Mr. Words-
worth, we perceive, is now manifestly hope-
less; and we give him up as altogether in-
curable, and beyond the power of criticism.
SI We cannot indeed altogether omit taking
precautions now and then against the
>A name given to Wordsworth. Coleridge, and
South*? bermme of their residence in the lake
district of England*
FRANCIS JEFFBEY
893
spreading of the malady; but for himself,
though we shall watch the progress of his
symptoms as a matter of professional cuu-
osity and instruction, we really think it right
not to harass him any longer with nauseous 6
remedies, but rather to throw in cordials
and lenitives, and wait in patience for the
natural termination of the disorder. In
order to justify this desertion of our patient,
however, it is proper to state why we despair 10
of the success of a more active practice.
A man who has been for twenty years at
work on such matter as is now before us,
and who comes complacently forward with
a whole quarto of it, after all the admnni- 16
tions he has received, cannot reasonably be
expected to "change his baud, or check his
pride," upon the suggestion of far weight-
ier monitors than we can pretend to be
Inveterate habits must now have given a »
kind of sanctitv to the errors of early taste,
nnd the very poweis of which we lament the
perversion, ha\e probably become incapable
of any other application. The very quan-
tity, too, that he has written, and is at tins 26
moment working up for publication upon
the old pattern, makes it almost hopeless to
look for any change of it All this is so
much capital alreadv «nmk in the concern,
which must be saciiflced if that be aban- so
doned ; and no man likes to give up for lost
the time and talent und labor which he hah
embodied in any permanent production We
were not previously aware of these obstacles
to Mr. Wordsworth's conversion; and, con- 85
sidering the peculiarities of his formei writ-
ings merely as the result of certain wanton
and capricious experiments on public taste
and indulgence, conceived it to be our dut\
to discourage their repetition by all the 40
means in our power. We now see clearlv.
however, how the case stands; and, making
up our minds, though with the most sincere
pain and reluctance, to consider him as
finally lost to the good cause of poetrv, 46
shall endeavor to be thankful for the occa-
sional gleams of tenderness and beauty
which the natural force of his imagination
and affections must still shed over all his
productions, and to which we shall ever turn 60
with delight, in spite of the affectation and
mysticism and prolixity, with which they
are so abundantly contrasted.
Long habits of seclusion, tad an excessive
ambition of originality, can alone account 66
for the disproportion which seems to exist
between this author's taste and his genius;
or for the devotion with which he has sacri-
ficed so many precious gifts at the shrine
of those paltry idols which he has set up
for himself among his lakes and his moun-
tains. Sohtaiy musings, amidst such scenes,
might no doubt be expected to nurse up the
mind to the majesty of poetical conception,
(though it is remarkable that all the gi eater
poets lived, or had lived, in the full current
of society) ; but the collision of equal minds
—the admonition of prevailing impressions
—seems necessary to reduce its redundan-
cies, and repress that tendency to extrava-
gance or puerility, into which the self-
indulgence and self-admiration of genius is
so apt to be betrayed, when it is allowed
to wanton, without awe or restraint, in the
triumph and delight of its own intoxication.
That its flights should be graceful and glo-
rious in the eyes of men, it seems almost to
be necessary that they should be made in
the consciousness that men's eyes are to be-
hold them, and that the inward transport
and vigor by which they are inspired should
be tempered by an occasional reference to
what will be thought of them by those ulti-
mate dispensers of glory An habitual and
general knowledge of the few settled and
permanent maxims which form the canon
of general taste in all large and polished
societies— a certain tact, which informs us
at once that many things, which we still love,
and are moved by in secret, must necessarily
be despised as childish, or derided as absurd,
in all such societies— though it will not stand
in the place of genius, seems necessary to
the success of its exertions, and though it
will never enable any one to produce the
higher beauties of art, can alone secure the
talent which does produce them from errors
that must render it useless. Those who have
most of the talent, howeier, commonly ac-
quire this knowledge with the greatest facil-
ity: and if Mr Wordsworth, instead of
confining himself almost entirely to the
society of the dalesmen and cottagers, and
little children, who form the subjects of his
book, had condescended to mingle a little
more with the people that were to read and
judge of it, we cannot help thinking that
its texture might have been considerably im-
pro\ed. At least it appears to us to be abso-
lutely impossible that any one who had lived
or mixed familiarly with men of literature
and ordinary judgment in poetry (of course
ue exclude the coadjutors and disciples of
his own school) could ever have fallen into
such gross faults, or so long mistaken them
for beauties. His first essays1 we looked
1 attempts (A reform c* to WordnwortVn poems
mihllabed In 1798 in a volume entitled Li/rfrol
ballad* )
891
NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTIOZSTfl
upon in a good degree as poetical para-
doxes,—maintained experimentally, in order
to display talent, and court notoriety;— and
so maintained, with no more serious belief
in their truth than is usually generated by
an ingenious and animated defence of other
paradoxes. But when we find that he lias
been for twenty years exclusively employed
upon articles of this very fabric, and that
he has still enough of raw material on hand
to keep him so employed for twenty years
to come, we cannot refuse him the justice
of believing1 that he is a sincere convert to
his own system, and must ascribe the pecu-
liarities of his composition, not to any tran-
sient affectation, or accidental caprice of
imagination, but to a settled perversity of
taste or understanding, which has been fos-
tered, if not altogether created, by the cir-
cumstances to which we have alluded.
The volume before us, if we were to de-
scribe it very shortly, we should characterize
as a tissue of moral and devotional ravings,
in which innumerable changes are rung upon
a very few simple and familiar ideas— but
with such an accompaniment of long words,
long sentences, and unwieldy phrases, and
such a hubbub of strained raptures and
fantastical sublimities, that it is often diffi-
cult for the most skilful and attentive stu-
dent to obtain a glimpse of the author's
meaning— and altogether impossible for an
ordinary reader to conjecture what he is
about. Moral and religious enthusiasm,
though undoubtedly poetical emotions, arc
at the same time but dangerous inspirers of
poetry, nothing being so apt to run into
interminable dulness or mellifluous extra\ n-
gance without giving the unfortunate au-
thor the slightest intimation of his danger
His laudable zeal for the efficacy of his
preachments, he very naturally mistakes for
the ardor of poetical inspiration ; and, while
dealing out the high words and glowing
phrases which are so readily supplied by
themes of this description, can scarcely avoid
believing that he is eminently original and
impressive. All sorts of commonplace no-
tions and expressions are sanctified in his
eyes by the sublime ends for which they
are employed ; and the mystical verbiage of
the Methodist pulpit is repeated till the
speaker entertains no doubt that he is the
chosen organ of divine truth and persua-
sion. But if such be the common hazards
of seeking inspiration from those potent
fountains, it may easily be conceived what
chance Mr. Wordsworth had of escaping
their enchantment, with his natural propen-
sities to wordiness, and his unlucky habit
of debasing pathos with vulgarity. The fact
accordingly IB, that in this production he is
more obscure that a Pindaric poet1 of the
s se\enteenth century; and more verbose
"than even himself of yore;" while the
wilfulness with which he persists in choos-
ing his examples of intellectual dignity and
tenderness exclusively from the lowest ranks
10 of society, will be sufficiently apparent,
fiom the circumstance of his having thought
fit to make his chief prolocutor* in this po-
etical dialogue, and chief advocate of Provi-
dence and Virtue, an old Scotch Pedlar,
16 retired indeed fiom bnsine&s, but still ram-
bling about in his former haunts, and gos-
Mping among his old customers, without his
pack on his shoulders The other persons of
the drama are a retired military chaplain,
20 who has grown half an atheist and half a
misanthrope, the wife of an unprosperous
weaver, a servant srnl with hrr natural
child, a parish pauper, and one or two other
personages of equal lank and dignity
26 The character of the work is decidedly
didactic; and more than nine-tenths of it
are occupied with a species of dialogue, or
lather a series of long sermons or harangues
which pass between the pedlar, the author,
w the old chaplain, and a worthy vicar, who
entertains the whole party at dinner on the
last day of their excursion. The incidents
which occur in the course of it are as few
and trifling as can well be imagined; and
56 those which the different speakers narrate
in the course of their discourses, are intro-
duced rather to illustrate their arguments or
opinions, than for any interest they are
supposed to possess of their own. The doc-
40 trine which the work is intended to enforce,
we are by no means certain that we have
discovered In so far as we can collect,
however, it seems to be neither more nor less
than the old familiar one, that a firm belief
46 m the providence of a wise and beneficent
Being must be our great stay and support
under all afflictions and perplexities upon
earth ; and that there are indications of his
power and goodness in all the aspects of
60 the visible universe, whether living or inani-
mate, every part of which should therefore
be regarded with love and reverence, as
exponents of those great attributes. We
can testify, at least, that these salutary and
66 important truths are inculcated at far
greater lengths, and with more repetitions,
1A poet, like Cowley, who write* ode* In Imita-
tion of the Greek poet Pindar
• Hpokesman
FRANCIS JBFFEBY
895
than in any ten volumes of sermons that we
ever perused. It is also maintained, with
equal conciseness and originality, that there
is frequently much good sense, as well as
much enjoyment, in the humbler conditions
of life; and that, in spite of great vices and
abuses, there is a reasonable allowance both
of happiness and goodness in society at
large. If there be any deeper or more re-
condite doctrines in Mr. Wordsworth's book,
we must confess that they have escaped us,
and, convinced as we are of the truth and
soundness of those to which we have alluded,
we cannot help thinking that they might
have been better enforced with less parade
and prolixity. His effusions on what may
be called the physiognomy of external na-
ture, or its moral and theological expres-
sion, are eminently fantastic, obscure, and
affected It is quite time, however, that we
should give the reader a more particular
account of this singular performance
It opens with a picture of the author
toiling across a bare common in a hot sum-
mer day, and reaching at last a ruined
hut surrounded with tall trees, where he
meets by appointment with a hale old
man, with an iron-pointed staff lying be-
side him. Then follows a retrospective
account of their first acquaintance —
formed, it seems, when the author was at fc
village school, and his aged friend occupied
"one room— the fifth part of a house"1—
in the neighborhood. After this, we have
the history of this reverend person at no
small length. He was bom, we are happy
to find, in Scotland— among the hills of
Athol; and his mother, after his father's
death, married the parish schoolmaster—
so that he was taught his letters betimes
But then, as it is here set forth with much
solemnity,
From his sixth year, the boy of whom 1 speak,
In summer tended cattle on the hills I >
And again, a few pages after, that there
may be no risk of mistake as to a point
of such essential importance—
From early childhood, even, as hath been said,
Prom his sixth year, he had been sent abroad,
In summer— to tend herds! Such was his task!*
In the course of this occupation it is next
recorded that he acquired such a taste for
rural scenery and the open air, that when
he was sent to teach a school in a neigh-
qnotations are from the
boring village, he found it "a misery to
him,"1 and determined to embrace the
more romantic occupation of a pedlar— or,
as Mr. Wordsworth more musically ex-
6 presses it,
A vagrant merchant, bent beneath his load,'
—and in the course of his peregrinations
had acquired a very large acquaintance,
10 which, after he had given up dealing, he
frequently took a summer ramble to visit.
The author, on coming up to this inter-
esting personage, finds him sitting with his
eyes half shut,— and not being quite sure
16 whether he is asleep or awake, stands
"some minutes' space"8 in silence beside
him.-" At length," says he, with his own
delightful simplicity—
£0 At length I hail M him— seeing that his hat
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim
Had newly scoop M a running stream I— -
—" 'Tis," said I, "a burning day!
25 My lips are parched with thirst; — but you, I
guess,
Have somewhere found relief! "*
Upon this, the benevolent old man points
so him out, not a running stream, but a well
in a corner, to which the author repairs,
and after minutely describing its situation,
beyond a broken wall, and between two
alders that "grew in a cold damp nook,"5
86 he thus faithfully chronicles the process of
his return:—
My thirst was slakM, and from the cheerless
spot
40 Withdrawing, straightway to the shade re-
turn 'd,
Where sat the old man on the cottage bench.*
The Pedlar then gives an account of the
last inhabitants of the deserted cottage
46 beside them. These were a good indus-
trious weaver and his wife and children.
They were very happy for awhile, till sick-
ness and want of work came upon them,
and then the father enlisted as a soldier,
so and the wife pined in that lonely cottage-
growing every year more careless and de-
sponding, as her anxiety and fears for her
absent husband, of whom no tidings ever
reached her, accumulated Her children
died land left her cheerless and alone; and,
at last she died also; and the cottage fell
to decav. We must say that there is very
considerable pathos in the telling of this
i Book 1, 814 » Book 1, 323. • Book 1. 448.
'Book 1, 444-50 IBook 1, 461 'Book 1,
896
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
simple story, and that they who can get over
thetxepugnance excited by the triteness of
its incidents, and the lowness of its objects,
will not fail to be struck with the author's
knowledge of the human heart, and the 5
power he possesses of stirring up its deep-
est and gentlest sympathies. His prolixity,
indeed, it is not so easy to get over. This
little story fills about twenty-five quarto
pages, and abounds, of course, with mawk- 10
ish sentiment and details of preposterous
minuteness. When the tale is told, the
travellers take their staffs and end their
first day's journey, without further adven-
ture, at a little inn. 15
The Second Book sets them forward be-
times in the morning They pass by a Vil-
lage Wake,1 and as they approach a more
solitary part of the mountains, the old man
tells the author that he is taking him to see »
an old friend of his who had formerly
been chaplain to a Highland regiment—
had lost a beloved wife— been roused from
his dejection by the first enthusiasm of the
French ^ Revolution— had emigrated, on its 9
miscarriage, to America— and returned dis-
gusted to hide himself in the retreat to
which they were now ascending That re-
treat is then most tediously described— a
smooth green valley in the heart of the 10
mountain, without trees, and with only one
dwelling. Just as they get sight of it from
the ridge above, they see a funeral tram
proceeding from the solitary abode, and
hurry on with some apprehension for the Iff
fate of the amiable misanthrope, whom
they find, however, in very tolerable condi-
tion at the door, and learn that the funeral
was that of an aged pauper who had been
boarded out by the parish in that cheap 40
farmhouse, and had died in consequence
of long exposure to heavy rain. The old
chaplain, or, as Mr Wordswoith is pleased
to call him, the Solitaiy, tells his dull story
at prodigious length, and after giving an 46
inflated description of an effect of moun-
tain mists in the evening sun, treats his
visitors with a rustic dinner— and they walk
out to the fields at the close of the Second
Book. BO
The Third makes no progress in the ex-
cursion. It is entirely filled with moral and
religious conversation and debate, and
•with a more ample detail of the Solitary's
past life than had been given in the sketch v
of his friend. The conversation is, in our
annual festival of the nature of a fair or
market Bee Book 2, 11K-G1. Originally, the
featlTal waa held In commemoration of the
dedication of a church. *
judgment, exceedingly dull and mystical,
and the Solitary's confessions insufferably
diffuse. Yet there is occasionally very con-
siderable force of writing and tenderness
of sentiment in this part of the work.
The Fourth Book is also filled with dia-
logues, ethical and theological, and, with
the exception of some brilliant and force-
ful expressions here and there, consists of
an exposition of truisms, more cloudy,
wordy, and inconceivably prolix, than any-
thing we ever met with.
In the beginning of the Fifth Book,
they leave the solitary valley, taking its
pensive inhabitant along with them, and
stray on to where the landscape sinks down
into milder features, till they arrive at a
church which stands on a moderate eleva-
tion in the centre of a wide and fertile
vale. Here they meditate for awhile among
the monuments, till the Vicar comes out
and joins them, and recognizing the Pedlar
for an old acquaintance, mixes graciously
in the conversation, which proceeds in a
very edifying manner till the close of the
book.
The Sixth contains a choice obituary, or
characteristic account of several of the per-
sons who lie buried before this group of
moralizers;— an unsuccessful lover, who
had found consolation in natural history—
a miner, who had worked on for twenty
years, in despite of universal ridicule, and
at last found the vein he had expected—
two political enemies reconciled in old age
to each other— an old female miser— a
seduced damsel— and two widowers, one
who had devoted himself to the education
of his daughters, and one who had pre-
ferred marrying a prudent middle-aged
woman to take care of them.
In the beginning of the Eighth Book, the
worthy Vicar expresses, in the words of
Mr Wordsworth^ own epitome,1 "his
apprehension that he had detained his
auditors too long— invites them to his house
—Solitary, disciplined to comply, rallies
the Wanderer, and somewhat playfully
draws a comparison between his itinerant
profession and that of a knight-errant—
which leads to the Wanderer giving an
account of changes in the country, from the
manufacturing spirit— Its favorable effects
—The other side of the picture, " etc.,
etc. After these very poetical themes are
exhausted, they all go into the house, where
they are introduced to the Vicar's wife
and daughter; and while they sit chatting
i Prefixed to Book 8.
FBANC1S JEFFBEY
897
in the parlor over a family dinner, his son
and one of his companions come in with a
fine dish of trouts piled on a blue slate,
and after being caressed by the company,
they are sent to dinner in the nursery.— 6
This ends the Eighth Book.
The Ninth and last is chiefly occupied
with a mystical discouise of the Pedlar,
who maintains that the whole universe is
animated by an active principle, the noblest 10
seat of which is in the human soul; and,
moreover, that the final end of old age is
to train and enable us
To hear the mighty stream of Tendency 15
Uttering, for ole\ation of oui thought,
A clear sonorous voice, inaudible
To the vast multitude whose doom it is
To run'the giddy round of vain delight — *
with other matters as luminous and em-
phatic The hostess at length breaks off
the harangue by proposing that they should
make a little excursion on the lake,— and £6
they embark accordingly, and after na\i-
gating for some time along its shores, and
drinking tea on a little island, land at lost
on a remote piomontory, from which they
see the sun go down,— nnd listen to a 90
solemn and pious, but lather long, prayei
from the Vicar Then they walk back to
the parsonage clooi, where the author and
hib fnend propose to spend the evening,—
but the Solitary piefers walking back in 35
the moonlight to his own valley, after
promising to take anothei i amble with
them—
If time, with free consent, be yours to give.
And season favors -' 40
—And heie the publication somewhat
abruptly closes.
Our abstract of the story has been so
extremely concise that it is more than usu- 45
ally necessarv for us to lay some specimens
of the woik itself before our readeib It*
grand staple, as we have already said, con-
sists of a kind of mystical morality: and
the chief characteristics of the style are that so
it is prolix, and \ery frequently unintelli-
gible and though wo are sensible that no
great gratification IK to be expected from
the exhibition of those qualities, yet it is
necessarv to t>ive our readers a taste of them, M
both to -justify the sentence we have passed,
and to satisfy them that it was really beyond
our power to present them with any abstract
or intelligible account of those long convei-
sations which we have had so much occasion eo
* Book 9, 87-91.
•Book 9, 782-83.
to notice in our brief sketch of its con-
tents We need give ourselves no trouble,
however, to select passages for this purpose
Here is the first that presents itself to us on
opening the volume, and if our readers can
form the slightest guess at its meaning, we
must give them credit for a sagacity to which
we have no pretension.
But by the storms of circumstance unshaken,
And subject neither to eclipse or wane,
Duty exists, — immutably &ur\i\e,
For our support, the measures and the forms,
Which an abstract Intelligence supplies,
Whose kingdom is where Time and Space are
not N
Of othei converse, which mind, soul, and heart,
Do, ^ith united urgency, require,
What more, that may not perish fi
'Tig, by comparison, an easy task
Earth to despise, but to converse with Heav'n,
This is not easy — to lehnquiah all
We have, or hope, of happiness and joj, —
And stand in freedom loosen M from this
world ,
I deem not arduous f — but must needs confess
That 'tis a tiling impossible to frame
Conceptions equal to the Soul 's desires.-2
This is a fair sample of that rapturous
mysticism which eludes all comprehension,
and fills the despairing reader with painful
giddiness and terroi The following, which
we meet with on the very next page, is in
the same general stiam, though the first part
of it affords a good specimen of the author's
talent for enveloping a plain and tnte ob-
servation in all the mock majesty of solemn
verbosity. A leader of plain understanding,
we suspect, could hardly recognize the fa-
miliar remark that excessive grief for our
departed friends is not \eiv consistent with
a firm belief m their mimoital felicity, in
the first twenty lilies of the following pas-
sage. In the succeeding hues we do not
ourselves pretend to recognize anything.
From this infirmity of mortal kind
Sorrow proceeds, which else ^ere not, — at
least,
rf grief be something hallow 'd and ordain 'd,
If, in proportion, it be just and meet,
Through thin, 'tis able to maintain its hold,
In that excess which conscience disapproves
For who could sink and settle to that point
Of selfishness, so senseless i*ho could be
In framing estimates of loss and gam,
As long and perseveringly to mourn
For any object of his love, remov'd
From this unstable world, if he could fix
A satisfying view upon that state
Of pure, imperishable blessedness,
Which reason promises, and Holy Writ
i Book 4. 71-79. • Book 4. 130-87
898
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Ensures to all believers t— Yet mistrust
Is of such incapacity, methinka,
No natural branch; despondency far less.
—And if there be whose tender frames have
droop M
Ev*n to the dust; apparently, through weight *
Of anguish unrehev'd, and lack of power
An agonizing sorrow to transmute;
Infer not hence a hope from those withheld
When wanted moat, a confidence impair M
80 pitiably, that, having ceas'd to see 10
With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love
Of what is lost, and perish through regret!
Ohl no, full oft the innocent Bufl'rer sees
Too clearly, feels too vividly, and longs
To realize the vision with intense
And overconstant yearning — There — there ken 16
The excess, by which the balance is destroy 'd
Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh,
This vital warmth too cold, these visual orb*.
Though inconceivably endow 'd, too dim
For any passion of the soul that leads 20
To ecstasy! and, all the crooked paths
Of time and change disdaining, takes its
course
Along the line of limitless desires.
I, speaking now from such disorder free,
Nor sleep, nor craving, but in settled peace, 25
I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore
Are glorified, "i
If any farther specimen be wanted of
the learned author's propensity to deal out
the most familiar truths as the oracles of
his own inspired understanding, the follow- 30
ing wordy paraphrase of the ordinary re-
mark that the best consolation in distress
is to be found in the exercises of piety and
the testimony of a good conscience, may he
found on turning the leaf. 36
"What then remains f— To seek
Those helps, for his occasions ever near,
Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, renew M
On the first motion of a holy thought !
Vigils of contemplation; praise; and pray'r, 40
A stream, which, from the fountain of the
heart,
Issuing however feebly, nowhere flows
Without access of unexpected strength.
But, above all, the victory is most sure tf
For him who, seeking faith by virtue strives
To yield entire submission to the law
Of conscience; conscience reverent 'd and
obey'd
As God 'a most intimate presence in the soul,
And his most perfect image in the world "s so
There is no beauty, we think, it must be
admitted, in these passages, and so little
either of interest or curiosity in the inci-
dents they disclose, that we can scarcely 66
conceive that any man to whom they had
actually occurred should take the trouble
a Book 4, 146-89 » Book 4, 214-27
to recount them to his wife and children by
his idle fireside; but that man or child
should think them worth writing down in
blank verse and printing in magnificent
quarto, we should certainly have supposed
altogether impossible, had it not been for
the ample proofs which Mr. Wordsworth
has afforded to the contrary.
Sometimes their silliness is enhanced by
a paltry attempt at effect and emphasis, as
in the following account of that very touch-
ing and extraordinary occurrence of ft lamb
bleating among the mountains. The poet
would actually persuade us that he thought
the mountains themselves were bleating,
and that nothing could be so grand or
impressive. "List!" cries the old Pedlar,
suddenly breaking off in the middle of one
of his daintiest ravings—
— "List»— I heard,
From yon huge breast of rock, a solemn
bleat*
Sent forth as if it were the mountain 's voice t
As if the visible mountain made the cry!
Again ' ' ' — The effect upon the soul was such
As he express 'd; for, from the mountain's
heart
TJie solemn bleat appear 'd to cornel There
was
No other — and the region nil around
Stood silent, empty of all shape of life
— It was a Lamb—left somewhere to itself It
What we have now quoted will give the
reader a notion of the taste and spirit in
which this volume is composed : and yet if
it had not contained something a good deal
better, we do not know how we should have
been justified in troubling him with any
account of it. But the truth is that Mr.
Wordsworth, with all his perversities, is a
person of great poweis; and has frequently
a force in his moral declamations, and a
tenderness in his pathetic narratives, which
neither his prolixity nor his affectation can
altogether deprive of their effect We shall
venture to give some extracts from the
simple tale of the Weaver's solitary cottage.9
Its heroine is the deserted wife, end its
chief interest consists in the picture of her,
despairing despondence and anxiety after
his disappearance. The Pedlar, recurring
to the well to which he had directed hia
companion, observes,
—"As I stoop'd to drink,
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years! a pensive sight
That mov'd my heart!— recalling former days
ifiook 4, 402-11. "In Book 1 (pp. 274 ft).
FRANCIS JEFFBEY
When I could never pass that road but ahe
Who liv'd within these walla, at my approach,
A daughter's welcome gave me; and I lov'd
her
AM my own child! O air! the good die first!
And they whose hearts are dry a§ summer dust
Burn to the socket. ffi
— "By some especial care
Her temper had been f ram 'd, as if to make
A being — who by adding love to peace
Might live on earth a life of happiness "»
The bliss and tranquillity of them pros-
perous yeaiR is well and copiously de-
scribed;— but at last came sickness and
want of employment j— and the effect on
the kmdhearied and indufttriouB mechanic
is strikingly delineated.
—"At his door he stood,
And whintl'd many a match of merry tunes
That had no mirth in them! or with his knife
Carv'd uncouth figures on the heads of sticks —
Then, not lew idly, sought, through every
nook
In house or garden, any casual work
Of use or ornament "« —
14 One while he uould *peak lightly of his
baheR,
And Tilth a cruel tongue* at other times
He tosd'd them with a false unnat'ral joy,
And 'twas a rueful thing to sec the look*
Of the poor innocent children."*
At last be steals from his cottage and enlists
as a soldier, and when the benevolent Ped-
lar comes, in his rounds, in hope of a
cheerful welcome, he meets 'with a «cene of
despair.
—"Having reach M the door 4
I knock M,— and, "hen 1 entei M tilth the
hope
Of usual greeting, Margaret lookM at me
A little while, then turn'd her head away
Speechless, — and sitting down upon a chair
Wept bitterly! I wist not what to do, 45
Or how to speak to her Poor wretch! at last
Rhe rose from off her seat, and then, — 0 sir!
I cannot tell how she pronouncd my name —
With fervent love, and with 'a face of grief
Unutterably helpless ; "i 60
Hope, however, and native cheerfulness
were not yet subdued; and her spint still
bore up against tbc pressure of this deser-
tion. «
— "Long we had not talk'd
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,
And with a brighter eye she look'd around
As if she had been shedding tears of joy.
We parted.— 'Twas the time of early spring;
I left her busy with her garden tools,
6 And well remember, o'er that fence she lookM,
And, while I paced along the footway path,
Called out, and sent a blessing after me,
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice
That seem'd the %eiy sound of happy
thoughts "i
10
The gradual sinking: of the spirit under
the load of continued anxiety, and the
destruction of all the finer springs of the
soul by a course of unvarying sadness, are
is very feelingly represented in the sequel oi
this simple narrative.
— "I journey M back this way
Towards the wane of summer, when the wheal
10 Was yellow, and the soft and bladed grass
Springing afresh had o'er the hay-field spread
Its tender verdure. At the door amv'd,
I found that she was absent In the shade,
Where now we sit, I waited her return.
» Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore
Its customary look, — only, I thought,
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,
Hung down in heavier tufts, and that bright
weed,
The yellow stone-crop,* suffer M to take root
80 Along the windo* fs edge, profusely grew,
Blinding the loner panes I turn'd aside
And stroll 'd into her garden. It appear 'd
To lag behind the season, and had lost
Its pride of neatness ' '»
"The sun was sinking m the west; and now
I sat with sad impatience From within
Her solitary infant cned aloud ;
Then, like a blast that does away self -still M
The voice was silent."4 —
The desolate woman had now an air of
btill and listless, though patient, sorrow.
— ' ' Evermore
Her eyelids droop 'd, her eyes were downward
cast;
And, when she at her table gave me food,
She did not look at me! Her voice was low,
Her body was subdu'd. In ev'ry act
Pertaining to her houae affairs, appear 'd
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied, to vthich all outward things
Are like an idle matter Still she sigh'd,
But yet no motion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire
We sat together, signs came on my ear,
I know not how, and hardly whence thev
•Book I', 616-1..
•Book 1, R68-74.
« Rook 1, R8Ci-ft9
• Rook 1, 646-R6.
t Book 1, 68646
9 V moM-llke European plant which grows on
rocks or wallfi.
•Book 1, 706-22.
* Rook 1. 7*4-a*; • Book 1, 791-809
900
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
— "I Tetura'd,
And took my rounds along this road again,
Ere on its bank the primrose flow 'r
Peep yd forth, to give an earnest of the spring.
I found her sad and drooping; she had
learn 'd
Xo tidings of her husband: if he livM
She knew not that he liv'd, if he were dead
She knew not he was dead. She seemM the
same
In person and ap]>earance. but her house
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence"1—
—"Her infant babe
Had from its mother caught the trick of grief.
And sigh'd among its playthings I "2
Returning seasons only deepened this
gloom, and confirmed this neglect Her
child died, and she spent her weary days
in i naming over the country, and repeating
hei fond and A am inquiries to eveiy
pabbei-by.
"Meantime her house by frost, and thnw,
and rain,
Wan sapp'd, and \\hile she slept, tho nightly
damps
Did chill her breant, and in the storim <hn
Her tatter M clothes were ruftVd by the wind,
Ev'n at the Hide of her own fire Yet still
She lo\ M this wretched Hpot , * * * and
heie, mv friend,
In HirknoHs she lemain'd, and here die died*
Last human tenant of these ruin 'd walls ' '*
The fetorv of the old Chaplain, though n
little less lowly, is oi the same mournful
east, and almost equally destitute of inci-
dents,— for Mr. Woidsworth delineates
only feelings— and all bis adventuies are
nf the heait The nairative which is given
bv the suffcier himself is, in our opinion,
the most spirited and interesting part of
the poem He begins thus, and addressing
himself, aftei a long pause, to his ancient
countryman and friend, the Pedlar—
"You never saw, your eyes did never look
On the bright form of her whom once I
lov MI-
TIer silver voice was heard upon the earth,
A sound unknown to you; else, honor 'd friend,
Your heart had torne a pitiable share
Of what I suffer 'd, when I wept that loss'
And fluffer now, not seldom, from the thought
That I remember — and can weep no morel "<
The following: account of big inarriapp
and early felicity is written with great
sweetness— a sweetness like that of Mas-
singer, in his softer, more mellifluous pas-
sages.
—"This fair bride—
In the devotedness of youthful love,
Preferring me to parents, and the choir
Of gay companions, to the natal roof,
6 And all known places and familiar sights,
(Besign'd with sadness gently weighing down
Her trembling expectations, but no more
Than did to her due honor, and to me
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime
10 In what I had to build upon)— this bride,
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led
To a low cottage in a sunny bay,
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks,
And the sea breece as innocently breathes,
1ft On Devon's leafy shores, —a shelter M hold,
In a soft clime, encouraging the soil
To a luxuriant bounty1 — AH our steps
Approach the embower 'd abode, our chosen
seat,
See, rooted in the earth, its kindly bed,
20 The unendanger'd myrtle, deck'd \utli
flowers,"* etc
— "Wild were our nalkn upon those lonelv
downs
**»*««
26 Whence, unmolested ivauderera, we beheld
The shining giver of the day diffuse
HIR biightnesH, o'er a tract of sea and land
(lay as our spirits, free as our desires,
As our enjoyments boundlcnn — From these
80 We dropp'd at pleasure into svlvan combs,
Where arbois of impenetrable shade,
And mossv seats detain yd us, side by side
With hearts at ease, and knowledge in 0111
hearts
'That all the grove and all the day wan
ours f "2
85
There, seven years of unmolested hap-
piness uero blessed with tan lo\elv chil-
dren.
40 "And on these pillar* rested, as on air,
Our solitude "<t
Suddenly a contagious malady swepi off
both the infants.
46 "Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless wind*
Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky,
The mother now remain 'd.«
— "Yet, stealing slow,
60 Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept
Insensibly I— The immortal and divine
Yielded to mortal reflux, her pure glory,
As from the pinnacle of worldly state
Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell
86 Into a gulf obscure of silent grief,
And keen heart-anguish— of itself asham'd,
Yet obstinately cherishing itself
i Book t, 819-82
» Book 1 .829-81
•Bookl.ftOft-lft
« Book 3, 480-87
i Book 3, H04-21.
•Book 91, 5*2-49.
•Book 3,
•Book 8,
FRANCIS JEFFREY
901
And, BO eonBum'd, she melted from my armal
And left me, on this earth, disconsolate,"!
The agony of mind into which the sur-
vivor was thrown IB described with a power-
ful eloquence, as well as the doubts and c
distracting- fears which the skeptical specu-
lations of his careless days had raised in
his spirit There is something peculiarly
grand and terrible to our feelings in the
imagery of these three lines— 10
"By pain of heart, now check M, and now im-
pellM,
The intellectual jxroer, thiougli words and
things,
Went Bounding on, — a dim and perilous *°
At last he is roubed from his dejected
mood by the glorious pi onuses which seemed
held out to human nature by the first dawn BO
of the French Revolution,— and it indi-
cates n fine perception of the seciet spnngs
of charactei and emotion, to choose a being
so circumstanced as the most ardent votary
of that far-bpread enthusiasm. 25
"Thus wan I reconverted to the world'
Society became my ghtt'rmg bnde,
And airy hopes my children 1 * * * If bus}
men
In sol>er conclave met, to *eave a ueb
Of amity, whose living threads should stretch 8°
Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole,
There did I Hit assisting If, with noise
And acclamation, crowds in open air
Express 'd the tumult of their minds, my voice
There mingled, heard or not The powers of 86
song
T left not uninvok'd, and, in still groves,
Where mild enthusiasts tun'd a pensive la}
Of thanks and expectation, in accord
With their belief, I Rang Baturnian rule
Return 'd,— a progeny of golden years 40
Permitted to descend, and bless mankind "*
On the disappearance of that bright
vision, he was inclined to take part with
the desperate party who still aimed at
establishing universal regeneration, though 41
by more questionable instruments than they
had originally assumed But the military
despotism winch ensued soon cloned the
scene against all such exertions; and, dis-
gusted with men and Europe, he sought for
shelter in the wilds of America. In the
calm of the voyage, Memory and Con-
science awoke him to a sense of his misery.
— < Teebly muBt they nave felt
Who, in old tune, attir'd with
snakes and
whips
fc
'01.
"Book 8. 73458
The vengeful Funes.1 Beautiful regards
Were turn'd on me— the face of her I lov'dl
The wife and mother, pitifully fixing
Tender reproaches, insupportable !"•*
His disappointment, and ultimate seclusion
in England, have been already sufficiently
detailed
Besides those moie extended passages of
interest or beauty, which we have quoted,
and omitted to quote, there aie scattered up
aiid down the book, aud in the midst of its
most lepulsive portions, a \ery great num-
ber of single lines and images, that sparkle
like gems in the deseit, and startle us by an
intimation of the great poetic powers that
lie buried in the rubbish that has been
heaped around them Tt is difficult to pick
up these, aftei we have once passed them
by; but we shall cndca\or to light upon one
or two The beneficial effect of intervals of
relaxation and pastime on vouthful minds
is finelv expressed, AU> think, in a single line,
when it is said to be-
Like vernal ground to Sabbath sunshine left.*
The following image of the blasting forth
of a mountain ^pinig seems 1o us also to be
conceived with great elegance and beauty
And a few steps mav bring us to the spot,
Wheie haply cronnM *itli AW Jiet«j and Rieen
herbs.
The mountain Infant to the Sun comes forth,
Like human life from darkness!*
The ameliorating effects of song and music
on the minds which most delight in them are
likewise very poetically expiessed.
— And when the stream
Which overflow M the soul wab pass'd away,
A consciousness remained that it had left,
Deposited upon the mleiit shoie
Of memory, images and precious thoughts,
That shall not die, and cannot be destroy VLP
Nor is anything more elegant than the repre-
sentation of the peaceful tranquillity occa-
sionally put on bv one of the author's
favorites, who, thouch imv and airy, in
general—
Was graceful, when it pleawl him, smooth and
still
AH the mntc swan that floats adoun the stream,
Or on the waters of th' unruffled lake
Anchors her placid beauty Not «i leat
1 J&schylus and BuripideN were tlic tint poets to
attire the Furiew with snakes 8oe .EBchyliw'a
ffcotfpftorl, 1048-50; Eurlpldes's Ipfcfoenia
U TVurfc*. 285 87, nnrt Orraftv 256
J Hook ft. 850 C5 « Book R 32-1S
• Book T 781 'Book 7, 25-30,
902
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
That flutters on the bough more light than ho,
And not a flow'r that droops in the green
shade
More winningly reserv'd.*
Nor are there wanting morsels of a sterner 5
and more majestic beauty, as when, assum-
ing the weightier diction of Cowper, he says,
m language which the hearts of all readers
of modern history mubt have responded—
—Earth is sick 10
And Heav 'n is weary of the hollow words
Which States and Kingdoms utter when they
speak
Of Truth and Justice.*
These examples, we percehe, are not very U
well chosen— but \ve have not leisure to im-
prove the selection; and, such as they are,
they may serve to give the leader a notion
of the sort of merit which we meant to illus-
trate by their citation. When we look back »
to them, indeed, and to the other passages
which we have now extracted, we feel half
inclined to rescind the severe sentence which
we pasbed on the woik at the beginning; but
when we look into the work itself, we per- 26
ceive that it cannot be rescinded. Nobody
can be more disposed to do justice to the
great powers of Mr. Wordsworth than we
are; and, from the first time that he came
before us, down to the present moment, we 80
have uniformly testified in their favor, and
assigned indeed our high sense of their value
as the chief ground of the bitterness with
which we resented their perversion. That
perversion, however, is now far more visible 8
than their original dignity; and while we
collect the fragments, it is impossible not to
mourn over the rums from which we are
condemned to pick them If any one should
doubt of the existence of such a perversion, 40
or be disposed to dispute about the instances
we have hastily brought forward, we would
just beg leave to refer him to the general
plan and character of the poem now before
us. Why should Mr. Wordsworth have 48
made his hero a superannuated pedlar Y
What but the most wretched affectation, or
provoking perversity of taste, could induce
any one to place his chosen advocate of wis-
dom and virtue in so absurd and fantastic a 80
condition f Did Mr. Wordsworth really
imagine that his favorite doctrines were
likely to gain anything in point of effect or
authority by being put into the month of a
person accustomed to higgle about tape or tt
brass sleeve-buttons f Or is it not plain
that, independent of the ridicule and dis-
gust which such a personification must ex-
> Book 6, 20298 'Book 5, 378-81.
cite in many of hu> reader*, its adoption
exposes his work throughout to the charge
of revolting incongruity and utter disregard
of probability or nature f For, after he has
thus wilfully debased his moral teacher by
a low occupation, is there one word that he
puts into his mouth, or one sentiment of
which he makes him the organ, that has the
most remote reference to that occupation 1
Is there anything in his learned, abstract
and logical harangues that savors of the
calling that is ascribed to himf Are any of
tlieir materials such as a pedlar could pos-
sibly have dealt int Are the manners, the
diction, the sentiments in any, the very
smallest degree, accommodated to a person
in that condition t or are they not eminently
and conspicuously such as could not by
possibility belong to itT A man who went
about selling flannel and pocket-handker-
chiefs in tins lofty diction would soon
frighten away all his customers, and would
infallibly pans cither for a madman or foi
some learned and affected gentleman, who,
in a frolic, had taken up a character which
he was peculiarly ill qualified for sup-
porting.
The absurdity in this ra<<e, we think, is
palpable and glaring, but it is exactly of
the same nature with that i\hich infects the
whole substance of the work, a puerile am-
bition of angularity engraited on an un-
lucky predilection for truisms, and an
affected passion for simplicity and humble
life, most awkwaidly combined with a taste
for mystical refinements, and all the gor-
geonsnesB of obscure phraseology. His taste
for simplicity is evinced by sprinkling up
and down his interminable declamations a
few descriptions of baby-houses, and of old
hats with wet brims; and his amiable par-
tiality for humble life, by assuring us that
a wordy rhetorician, who talks about Thebes,
and allegorizes all the heathen mythology,
was once a pedlar— and making him break
in upon his magnificent orations with two or
three awkward notices of something that he
had seen when selling winter raiment about
the country— or of the changes in the state
of society, which had almost annihilated hi*
former calling
Prom WOBDSWORTH'B THE WHITE DOE
OF BYL8TONE
1815 1815
This, we think, has the merit of being the
very worst poem we ever saw imprinted in a
quarto volume; and though it was scarcely
to be expected, we confess that Mr. Words-
FBANC18 JEFFREY
worth, with all his ambition, should BO soon
have attained to that distinction, the wonder
may perhaps be diminished when we state
that it seems lo us to consist of a happy
union of all the faults, without any of the
beauties, which belong to his school of
poetry. It is just such a work, in short, as
some wicked enemy of that school might be
supposed to have devised, on purpose to
make it ridiculous; and when we first took
it up we could not help suspecting that some
ill-natured critic had actually taken this
harsh method of instructing Mr. Words-
worth, by example, in the nature of those
errors against which our precepts had been
so often directed in vain. We had not gone
far, however, till we felt intimately that
nothing in the nature of a joke could be so
insupportably dull; and that this must be
the work of one who earnestly believed it to
be a pattern of pathetic simplicity, and gave
it out as such to the admiration of all intel-
ligent readers. In this point of view the
work may be regarded as curious at least,
if not in some degree interesting; and, at
all events, it must be instructive to be made
aware of the excesses into which superior
understandings may be betrayed, by lonu
self-indulgence, and the strange extrava-
gances into which they may run, when under
the influence of that intoxication which is
produced by unrestrained admiration ol
themselves. This poetical intoxication, in-
deed, to pursue the figure a little farther,
seems capable of assuming as many forma
as the vulgar one which arises from wine;
and it appears to require as delicate a
management to make a man a good poet D>
the help of the one as to make him a good
companion by means of the other. In both
cases, a little mistake as to the dose or the
quahtv of the inspiring fluid may make him
absolutely outrageous, or lull him over into
the most profound stupidity, instead ol
brightening up the hidden stores of his
cenius, and truly we are concerned to *ay
that Mr. Wordsworth seems hitherto to have
been unlucky in the choice of his liquor-or
of IUB bottle-holder In some of hw odes
and ethic exhortations he was exposed to
the public in a state of incoherent rapture
and glorious delirium, to which we think WP
have seen a parallel among the humbler
lovers of jollity. In the Lyrical Ballads he
was exhibited, on the whole, in a vem of
very pretty deliration ;l but in the poem be-
fore us he appears in a state of low and
maudlin imbecility, which would not have
' i delirium
misbecome Master Silence himself, in the
close of a social day. Whether this un-
happy result is to be ascribed to any adul-
teration of his Castahan cups,1 or to the
6 unlucky choice of his company over them,
we cannot presume to say. It may be that
he has dashed his Hippocrene with too
large an infusion of lake water, or assisted
its operation too exclusively by the study
10 of the ancient historical ballads of "the
north countne "* That there are palpable
imitations of the style and manner of those
venerable compositions in the work before
us is indeed undeniable, but it unfortu-
16 nately happens that while the hobbling ver-
sification, the mean diction, and flat stu-
pidity of these models are very exactly
copied, and even improved upon, in this
imitation, their rude energy, manly sim-
ao plicity, and occasional felicity of expres-
sion have totally disappeared; and, instead
of them, fc large allowance of the author's
own metaphysical sensibility and mystical
wordiness is forced into an unnatural com-
26 lunation with the borrowed beauties which
have just been mentioned.
The story of the poem, though not capa-
ble of furnishing out matter for a quarto
\olume, might yet have made an interesting
80 ballad, and, in the hands of Mr Scott or
Lord Byron, would probably have supplied
many images to be loved, and descriptions
to be remembered The incidents arise out
of the short-lived Catholic insurrection of
86 the Northern counties, in the reign of Eliz-
abeth, which was supposed to be connected
with the project of marrying the Queen of
the Scots to the Duke of Norfolk; and
terminated in the ruin of the Earls of
40 Northumberland and Westmoreland, by
whom it was chiefly abetted. Among the
victims of this rash enterprise was Richard
Norton of Rylstone, who comes to the
array with a splendid banner, at the head
46 of eight tall sons, but against the will and
advice of a ninth, who, though he refused
to join the host, yet follows unarmed in its
rear, out of anxiety for the fate of his
family; and, when the father and his gal-
60 Innt progeny are made prisoners, and led
to execution at York, recovers the fatal
banner, and is slam by a party of the
Queen's horse near Bolton Priory, in
i That is. source of poetic Inspiration. Castalla
was a fountain on Mount Parnassus, sacral
to Apollo and the Muses. Hlpnocrene waa a
similar fountain on Mount Helicon
eThe Hcene of many of the old ballads of Eng
land and Scotland Is in "the north countrie?
the traditional dwelling, place of fairies,
demons, giants, etc-
904
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIC1STS
which place he had been ordered to deposit
it by the dying voice of his father. The
stately halls and pleasant bowers of Byl-
stone are then wasted, and fall into desola-
tion, while the heroic daughter, and only 5
survivor of the house, is sheltered among
its faithful retainers, and wanders about
for niaiiy years in its neighborhood, accom-
panied by a beautiful white doe, which had
formerly been a pet in the family, and 10
continues, long after the death of this sad
survivor, to repair every Sunday to the
churchy aid of Bolton Pnory, and theie
to feed and wander among the graves, to
the wondei and delight of the rustic con- is
gregation that came there to worship.
This, we think, is a pretty subject for a
ballad, and, in the author's better day,
might have made a lyncal one of consider-
able interest Let us see, howevei, how he 80
deals with it, since he has bethought him
of publishing in quarto.
The First Canto merely contains the
description of the doe coming into the
church} ard on Sunday, and of the congre- gs
gation wondering at hei She is described
ns being as white as a lily— or the moon—
or a ship in the sunshine, and this is the
style in which Mi Wordsworth marvels
and moralizes about her through ten quarto 30
pages
The Se\enth and last Canto contains the
history of the desolated Emily1 and hei
faithful doe, but so discreetly and cau- 86
hously wiitten, that we will engage that
the most tender-hearted reader shall peruse
it without the least iisk of excessive emo-
tion. The poor lady runs about indeed foi
some years in a very disconsolate way, in *>
a worsted gown and flannel nightcap, but
at last the old white doe finds her out, and
takes again to following her— whereupon
Mr. Wordsworth breaks out into this fine
and natural rapture tf
Oh, moment ever blest' O pair!
Belov'd of Heaven, Heaven's choicest caret
This was for you a precious greeting,—
For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting
Join'd are they, and the sylvan doe
Can she depart? Can she forego
The lady, once her playful peer* »
That day, the first of a reunion
Which was to teem with high communion,
That day of balmy April weather,
They tarried in the wood together.*
What follows is not quite so intelligible.
•CMito 7. 115-88.
Went forth, the doe was ther/ in sight
She shrunk: — with one frail shock of pain,
Received and followed by a prayer,
Did she behold — saw once again,
Shun will she not, she feels, will bear, —
But wheresoever she look'd round
All now was tiouble-haunted giound.1
It certainly is not easy to guess what
was in the mind of the author when he
penned these four last inconceivable lines,
but we are willing to infer that the lady's
loneliness was cheered by this mute asso-
ciate; and that the doe, in return, found a
certain comfort in the lady's company—
Communication, like the ray
Of a new morning, to the nature
And prospects of the inferior creature !-
In due tune the poor lady dies, and is
laid beside her mother, and the doe con-
tinues to haunt the places which they hud
frequented together, and especially to come
and pasture every Sunday upon the line
glass in Bolton churchyaid, the gate oi
which is never opened but on occasion of
the weekly service —In consequence of ali
which, we are assured by Mi Woidsworth,
that she "is approved by earth and sky,
in their benignity,"3 and uinietnei, that the
old Pnory itself takes her for a daughter
of the Eternal Prime— which ^e have no
doubt is a very gieat compliment, though
we have not the good luck to know what
it means.
And aye, methinks, this hoary pile,
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks down upon her with a smile,
A gracious smile that seems to say,
"Thou, thou are not a child of Time,
But daughter of the Eternal Prime fM*
From CHELDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE,
CANTO THE THIRM
1816 1816
If the finest poetry be that which leaves
the deepest impression on the minds of its
readers— and tins is not the worst test of
its excellence— Lord Byion, we think, must
be allowed to take precedence of all his
distinguished contemporaries He has not
the variety of Scott, nor the delicacy of
Campbell, nor the absolute truth of Crabbe,
nor the polished sparkling of Moore; but
•ranto7.8ft»-54.
« Canto 7. 8ftff-80
iflde tforoWa Pilvrlmagt, see pp
FRANCIS JttFFBEY
905
in force of diction, and inextinguishable
energy of sentiment, he clearly surpasses
them all. "Words that breathe, and
thoughts that bum,"1 are not merely the
ornaments, but the common staple of his
poetry, and he is not inspired or impressive
only in Rome happy passages, but through
the whole body and tissue of his composi-
tion It was an unavoidable condition, pei-
haps, of this higher excellence, that his
scene should be narrow, and his persons
few. To compass such ends as he had in
view, it was necessary to reject all ordinary
agents, and all In vial combinations. He
could not possibly be amusing, or ingenious
or playful ; or hope to maintain the requisite
pitch of interest by the recitation of
sprightly adventures, or the opposition of
common chaiacteis To pioduce great
effects, in short, he foil that it was necessary
to deal only with the greater passions— with
the exaltations ol a daring fancy, and the
erroife of a lofty intellect — uith the pride,
the tenors, and 'the agonies oi strong emo-
tion—the fire and air alone of our human
elements -
In this respect, and in his geneial notion
of the end and means of poetry, we have
sometimes thought that his views fell more
m with those of the Lake poets,3 than of
any other existing party in the poetical com-
monwealth ; and, in some of his later pro-
ductions especially, it is impossible not to
be struck with his occasional approaches to
the style and manner of this class of writers.
Lord Byron, however, it should be observed,
like all other peisons of a quick sense of
beauty, and sure enough of their own orig-
inality to be in no f'eai of paltry imputa-
tions, is a great mimic of style* and man-
ners, and a gieat borrower of external
chaiactei He and Scott, accordingly, are
full of imitations of all the writers from
\\honi they have ever derived giatification;
and the two rao*t original writers of the ape
might appear, to superficial observers, to
be the most deeply indebted to their prede-
cessors In this particular instance, we have
no fault to find with Lord Byron For
iindoubtedlv the finer passages of Words-
worth and Southev have in them where-
withal to lend an impulse to the utmost
ambition of rival genius, and their diction
i Gray, The Progress of Poesy, 110 (p 63)
Words and thought* _are here trangpo««l
* V reference to the ancient belief that all forms
of physical ex tat rare were composed of earth
because they lived
land
, and South^ HO called
the lake district of Enp-
and manner of writing is frequently both
striking and original. But we must say that
it would afford us still greater pleasure to
find these tuneful gentlemen returning the
6 compliment which Lord Byron has here paid
to their talents, and forming themselves on
the model rather of his imitations, than of
their own originals. In those imitation*.
they will find that, though he is sometimes
10 abundantly mystical, he never, or at least
very rarely, indulges m absolute nonsense,
never takes his lofty flights upon mean 01
ridiculous occasions, and, above all, nevei
dilutes his strong conceptions, and magmn-
15 cent imagination*, with a flood of oppres-
sive veibosity. On the contrary, he is, of
all living wnteis, the most concise and con-
densed; and, we would fain hope, may go
far, by his example, to redeem the great
V> reproach of our modern literature— its in-
tolerable prolixity and redundance. In his
nervous and manly lines, we find no elab-
orate amplification of common sentiments,
no ostentatious polishing of pretty expres-
25 sums, and we really think that the brilliant
success which has rewarded his disdain of
those paltry artifices, should put to shame
forever that puling and self -admiring race,
who can li\e thiough half a volume on the
80 stock of a single thought, and expatiate o\er
divers fail quarto pages with the details of
une tedious description. In Lord Byion,
on the contrary, we have a perpetual stream
of thick-coming fancies,1 an eternal spring
85 of fresh-blown images, which seem called
into existence bv the sudden flash of those
glowing thoughts and o\ci whelming emo-
tions that stiuggle for expression through
the whole flow of his poetry, and impart to
40 a dictum that is often abrupt and irregular
a force and a charm winch f requently real-
ize all that is said of inspiration.
With all these undoubted claims to oui
admiration, however, it is impossible to
41 deny that the noble author before us has
still something to learn, and a good deal to
coirect. He is frequently abrupt and care-
less, and sometimes obscure There are
marks, occasionally, of cffoit and straining
60 after an emphasis which is generally spon-
taneous , and above all, there is far too great
a monotony in the moral coloring of his
pictures, and too much repetition of the
same sentiments and maxims He delights
65 too exclusively in the delineation of a cer-
tain morbid exaltation of charactei and
feeling, a sort of demoniacal sublimity, not
without some traits of the ruined Arch-
* Roe VnrftrtA V ft IS
906
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIG18TB
angel He is haunted almost perpetually
with the image of a being feeding and fed
upon by violent passions, and the recollec-
tions of the catastrophes they have occa-
sioned; and, though worn out by their past
indulgence, unable to sustain the burden of
an existence which they do not continue to
animate :— full of pride, and revenge, and
obduracy— disdaining life and death, and
mankind and himself— and trampling, in
his scorn, not only upon the falsehood and
formality of polished life, but upon its
tame virtues and slavish devotion; yet envy-
ing, by fits, the very beings he despises, and
melting into mere softness and compassion,
when the helplessness of childhood or the
frailty of woman make an appeal to his
generosity. Such is the person with whom
we are called upon almost exclusively to
sympathize in all the gieater productions
of this distinguished writer,— in ChOdc
Harold—in The Corsair— in Lara— in Hie
Siege of Corinth— in Paristna, and in most
of the smaller pieces.
It is impossible to represent such a char-
acter better than Lord Byron has done in
all these productions; or indeed to repre-
sent anything more terrible in its anger, or
more attractive in its relenting In point of
effect, we readily admit that no one char-
acter can be more poetical or impressive,
but it is really too much to find the scene
perpetually filled by one character, not only
m all the acts of each several drama, but
in all the different dramas of the series,
and, grand and impressive as it is, we feel
at last that these very qualities make some
relief more indispensable, and oppress the
spirits of ordinary mortals with too deep
an impression of awe and repulsion. There
is too much guilt in short, and too much
gloom, in the leading character; and though
it be a fine thing to gaze, now and then, on
stormy seas, and thunder-shaken mountains,
we should prefer passing our days in shel-
tered valleys, and by the murmur of calmer
waters1
We are aware that these metaphors may
be turned against us, and that, without
metaphor, it may be said that men do not
pass their days in reading poetry, and that,
as they may look into Lord Byron only
about as often as they look abroad upon
tempests, they have no more reason to com-
plain of him for being grand and gloomy,
than to complain of the same qualities in
the glaciers and volcanoes which they go
so far to visit. Painters, too, ft may be said,
» Bee PMtaM, 23 2.
have often gained great reputation by their
representations of tigers and other f erocious
animals, or of caverns and banditti; and
poets should be allowed, without reproach,
s to indulge in analogous exercises. We are
far from thinking that there is no weight
in these considerations; and feel how plaus-
ibly it may be said that we have no better
reason for a great part of our complaint
10 than that an author, to whom we are already
very greatly indebted, has chosen rather to
please himself than us, in the use he makes
of his talents.
This, no doubt, seems both unreasonable
15 and ungrateful But it is nevertheless true
that a public benefactor becomes a debtor
to the public, and is, in some degree, respon-
sible for the employment of those gifts
which seem to be conferred upon him, not
20 merely for his own delight, but for the de-
light and improvement of Ins fellows
through all generations. Independent of
this, however, we think there is a reply to
the analogy. A great living poet is not
26 like a distant volcano, or an occasional tem-
pest He is a volcano in the heart of our
land, and a cloud that hangs over our dwell-
ings; and we have some reason to complain,
if, instead of gfcmal warmth and grateful
80 shade, he voluntarily darkens and inflames
our atmosphere with perpetual fiery explo-
sions and pitchy vapors Lord Byron's
poetry, m short, is too attractive and too
famous to lie dormant or inoperative , and,
36 therefore, if it produce any painful 01 per-
nicious effects, there will be murmurs, and
ought to be suggestions of alteration. Now,
though an artist may draw fighting tigers
ftnd hungry lions in as lively or natural a
40 way as he can, without giving any encour-
agement to human ferocity, or even much
alarm to human fear, the case is somewhat
different when a poet represents men with
tiger-like dispositions; and yet more so
45 when he exhausts the resources of his genius
to make this terrible being interesting and
attractive, and to represent all the lofty
virtues as the natural allies of his ferocity
It is still worse when he proceeds to show
so that all these precious gifts of dauntless
courage, strong affection, and high imagi-
nation, are not only akin to guilt, but the
parents of misery; and that those only
have any chance or tranquillity or happiness
55 in this world whom it is the object of his
poetry to make us shun and despise.
These, it appears to us, are not merely
errors in taste, but perversions of morality;
and, as a great poet is necessarily a moral
FRANCIS JEFFREY
907
teacher, and gives forth his ethical lessons,
in general with far more effect and author-
ity than any of his graver brethren, he is
peculiarly liable to the censures reserved for
those who turn the means of improvement
to purposes of corruption.
It may no doubt be said that poetry in
general tends less to the useful than the
splendid qualities of our nature, that a char-
acter poetically good has long been dis-
tinguished from one that is morally so, and
that, ever since the time of Achilles, our
sympathies, on such occasions, have been
ohiefly engrossed by persons whose deport-
ment is by no means exemplary, and who,
in many points, approach to the tempera-
ment of Lord Byron's ideal hero. There is
some truth in this suggestion also. But
other poets, in the first place, do not allow
their favorites so outrageous a monopoly of
the glory and interest of the piece, and sin
less, therefore, against the laws either of
poetical or distributive justice. In the sec-
ond place, their heroes are not, generally,
either so bad or so good as Lord Byron's,
and do not indeed very much exceed the
standard of truth and nature, in either of
the extremes. His, however, are as mon-
strous and unnatural as centaurs2 and hip-
pognffs,2 and must ever figure in the eye of
sober reason as so many bright and hateful
impossibilities. But the most important dis-
tinction is, that the other poets who deal
in peccant heroes, neither feel nor express
that ardent affection for them which is vis-
ible in the whole of this author's delinea-
tions, but merely make use of them as neces-
sary agents in the extraordinary adventures
they have to detail, and persons whose
mingled vices and virtues are requisite to
bring about the catastrophe of their story.
In Lord Byron, however, the interest of the
story, where there happens to be one, which
is not always the case, is uniformly post-
poned to that of the character itself, into
which he enters so deeply, and with so extra-
ordinary a fondness, that he generally con-
tinues to speak in its language, after it has
been dismissed from the stage, and to incul-
cate, on his own authority, the same senti-
ments which had been previously recom-
mended by its example. We do not consider
it as unfair, therefore, to say that Lord
Byron appears to UH to be the zealous
apostle of a certain fierce and magnificent
misanthropy, which has already saddened
» Fabnlonfl monster*, half man and half hone
•Pabnlowi winged monfltm. part man. part lion,
and part raffle
his poetry with too deep a shade, and not
only led to a great misapplication of great
talents, but contributed to render popular
some very false estimates of the constitu-
6 ents of human happiness and merit It is
irksome, however, to dwell upon observa-
tions so general, and we shall probably
have better means of illustrating these re-
marks, if they are really well founded,
10 when we come to speak of the particular
publications by which they have now been
suggested.
We had the good fortune, we believe, to
be among the first who proclaimed the ris-
15 ing of a new luminary, on the appearance
of Chtlde Harold on the poetical horizon,
and we pursued his course with due atten-
tion through several of the constellations.
If we have lately omitted to record his prog-
BO ress with the same accuracy, it is by no
means because we have regarded it with
more indifference, or supposed that it would
be lens interesting to the public, but because
it was so extremely conspicuous as no longer
86 to require the notices of an official observer.
In general, we do not think it necessary,
nor indeed quite fair, to oppress our readers
with an account of works which are as
well known to them as to ourselves, or with
so a repetition of sentiments in which all the
world is agreed. Wherever a work, there-
fore, is very popular, and where the general
opinion of its merits appears to be substan-
tially right, we think oursehes at liberty to
36 leave it out of our chronicle, without incur-
ring the censure of neglect or inattention.
A very rigorous application of this maxim
might have saved our readers the trouble of
reading what we now write— and, to confess
« the truth, we write it rather to gratify our-
selves, than with the hope of giving them
much information. At the same time, some
short notice of the progress of such a writer
ought, perhaps, to appear in his contem-
45 porary journals, as a tribute due to his
eminence; and a zealous critic can scarcely
set about examining the merits of any work,
or the nature of its reception by the public,
without speedily discovering very urgent
BO cause for his admonitions, both tq the
author and his admirers
• •••••
The most considerable of [the author's
recent publications] is the Third Canto of
66 CMde Harold, a work which has the dis-
advantage of all continuations, in admitting
of little absolute novelty in the plan of the
work or the cast of its character, and must,
besides, remind all Lord Byron's readers
908
NINETEENTH CENTUKY ROMANTICISTS
of the extraordinary effect produced by the
sudden blazing forth of his genius, upon
their first introduction to that title. In
spite of all this, however, we are persuaded
that this Third Part of the poem will not 6
be pronounced inferior to either of the
former, and, we think, will probably be
ranked above them by those who have been
most delighted with the whole. The great
success of this singular production, indeed, 10
has always appeared to us an extraordinary
proof of its merits; for, with aU its genius,
it does not belong to a sort of poetry that
rises easily to popularity. It has no story
or action, very little variety of character, iff
and a great deal of reasoning and reflection
of no very attractive tenor. It is substan-
tially a contemplative and ethical work,
diversified with fine description, and adorned
or overshadowed by the perpetual presence SO
of one emphatic person, who is sometime*
the author, and sometimes the object, of
the reflections on which the interest is chiefly
rested It requned, no doubt, gieat force
of writing, and a decided tone of original- SB
ity to lecommend a performance of this
sort so powei fully as this has been recom-
mended to public notice and admiration,
and those high characteristics belong per-
haps still more eminently to the part that 80
is now before us, than to any of the former
There is the same stern and lofty disdain
of mankind, and their ordinary pursuits and
enjoyments, with the same bright gaze on
nature, and the same magic power of giving as
interest and effect to her delineations— but
mixed up, we think, with deeper and more
matured reflections, and a more intense sen-
sibility to all that is grand or lovely in the
cxteinal world. Harold, in short, is some- 40
what older since he last appeared upon the
scene;1 and while the vigor of his intellect
has been confirmed, and his confidence in
hifr own opinions increased, his mind has also
become more sensitive ; and his misanthropy, 45
thus softened over by habits of calmer con-
templation, appears less active and impa-
tient, even although more deeply rooted than
before Undoubtedly the finest parts of
the poem before us are those which thus n
embody the weight of his moral sentiments;
or disclose the lofty sympathy which binds
the despiser of Man to the glorious aspects
of Nature It is in these, we think, that the
great attractions of the work consist, and B
the strength of the author's genius is seen
The narrative and mere description are of
"The flint and second canto* had appeared 1n
1R12
far inferior interest. With reference to the
sentiments and opinions, however, which
thus give its distinguishing character to the
piece, we must say, that it seems no longer
possible to ascribe them to the ideal person
whose name it bears, or to any other than
the author himself. Lord Byron, we think,
has formerly complained of those who iden-
tified him with his hero, or supposed that
Harold was but the expositor of his own
feelings and opinions; and in noticing the
former portions of the work, we thought it
unbecoming to give any countenance to such
a supposition. In this last part, however,
it is really impracticable to distinguish them
Not only do the author and his hero travel
and reflect together, but, in truth, we
scarcely ever have any distinct intimation
to which of them the sentiments so ener-
getically expressed arc to be ascribed; and
in those which are unequivocally given as
those of the noble author himself, there is
the very same tone of misanthropy, sadness,
and scorn, which we weie formerly willing
to regard as a part of the assumed costume
of the Childe. We are far fiom supposing,
indeed, that Lord Byron would disavow any
of these sentiments, and though there are
some which we must ever think it most un-
fortunate to entertain, and otheis which it
appears improper to have published, the
greater part are admirable, and cannot be
perused without emotion, even bv those to
whom they may appear erroneous
The poem opens with a burst of grand
poetry and lofty and impetuous feeling, in
which the author speaks undwffuisedly in
his own person.
12]
Once more upon the waters! Yet once morel
And the waves bound beneath me, as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain 'd mast should qi
reed,
quiver as a
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rofk, on Ocean's foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's
breath prevail.
In my youth's summer, did I sing of one,
The wand 'ring outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seiie the theme then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bean the cloud onwards In that tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up
tears.
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
FRANCIS JEFFREY
909
O'er which all heavily the journeying yean
Plod the last Bands ot life,— where not a
flower appears
M ,
Since my young days of passion— goy, or pain.
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a
stringy ,
And both may jar. It may be that in vain
I would essay, as I have sung, to ung
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; 10
80 that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grid or gladness!-— so it fling
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem,
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful
theme.
Aftei a good deal more in the same strain,
he proceeds,
m
Yet must I think loss wildly: — I hate thought
Too long and <lai kly , till my brain became &>
In its own eddy boiling and overwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poison 'd —
Something too much of this* — but now 'tis «.
past,
And the spell closes with its silent seal!
Long absent Harold reappears at last.
The character and feelings of this un-
joyous personage aie then depicted with *>
great foice and fondness;— ami at last he
ib placed upon the plain of Waterloo.
[18]
in "pride of place" where late the eagle flew, #
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Piorc'd by the shaft of branded nations
through!
[19]
Fit retribution * Gaul may champ the bit ^
And foam in fetters; — but » earth more free!
Did nations combat to make one submit;
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty f
What! shall reviving thraldom again be
The patch 'd-up idol of enlighten 'd daysf
Shall we, who struck the lion down, shall we 4B
Pay the wolf homage!—
[20]
If not, o'er owe fall'n despot boast no more'
There can be no more remarkable proof
of the greatness of Lord Byron's genius so
than the spirit and interest he has con-
trived to communicate to his picture of the
often-drawn and difficult scene of the
breaking up from Brussels before the great
battle. It w a trite remark, that poets gen- »
erally fail in the representation of great
events, when the interest is recent, and the
particulars are consequently clearly and
commonly known: and the reason is ob-
vious; for as it is the object of poetry to
make us feel for distant or imaginary oc-
currences neaily as btronply as if they were
present and real, it is plain tha* there is no
scope for her enchantments where the im-
pressive reality, with all its vast prepon-
derance of interest, is already before us,
and wheie the concern we take in the
gazette1 far outgoes any emotion that can
be conjured up in us by the help of fine
descriptions. It is natural, however, for
the sensitive tribe of poets to mistake the
common interest which they then share with
the unpoetical part of their countrymen,
for a vocation to versify , and so they pro-
ceed to pour out the lukewarm distillations
of their phantasies upon the unchecked
effervescence of public feeling! All our
bards, accordingly, great and small, and
ot all sexes, ages, and professions, from
Scott and Sonthey down to hundreds with-
out names or additions,2 have ventured
upon this theme— and failed in the man-
agement of it' And while they yielded to
the patriotic impulse, as if they had all
caught the inspiring1 summons-
Let those rhyme now who never rhym'd before,
And those who ataay* rhyme, rhyme now the
more — »
The result has been that scarcely a line to
be remembered had been produced on a
subject which probably was thought, of it-
self, a secure passport to immortality. It
required some courage to venture on a
theme beset with so many dangers, and
deformed with the wrecks of so many for-
mer adventurers;— and a theme, too, which,
in its general conception, appeared alien to
the prevailing tone of Lord Byron '& poetry
See, however, with what easy strength he
enters upon it, and with how much grace
he gradually finds his way back to his own
peculiar vein of sentiment and diction.
[21]
There was a sound of revelry bv night;
And Belgium's capital had gather M then
Her beauty and her chivalrj ; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
*That In. the report published in an official gn
sette. or newspaper.
' Adapted from the refrain of Parnell's The
of Ve***> a translation of a Latin poem
cribed to Cirallns Jeffrey substitutes rhyme
infl rftym'tf for lore and lot'd.
910
NINETEENTH CENTTJBY EOMANTICIST8
Munc arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spoke
again,
And an went merry as a marriage boll;
But hush I hark I a deep sound strikes like a
rising knell! 5
[24]
Ah I then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis-
tress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 10
Blush M at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings; such as press
The life from out young hearts; and choking
sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: — who could
guess IB
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes.
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn
could risef
[25]
And there was mounting in hot haste: the &>
steed,
The must 'ring squadron, and the clatt'nng
car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war, K
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Rous'd up the soldier ere the morning star,
[27]
And Ardennes \\a\cs above them her green &
leaves,
Dewy with Nature's teardrop*, as they pass I
Grieving, if au&ht inanimate o'er grieves,
Over the unreturnmg brave, — alasf
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow H
In its next verdure! when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall fall and
moulder cold and low.
After some brief commemoration of the 40
worth and valor that fell in that bloody
field, the author turns to the many hopeless
mourners that survive to lament their ex-
tinction ; the many broken-hearted f amihes
whose incurable sorrow is enhanced by the 45
national exultation that still points, with
importunate joy, to the scene of their de-
struction There is a richness and energy
in the following passage which is peculiar
to Lord Byron, among all modern poets,— 80
a throng of glowing images, poured forth
at once, with a facility and profusion which
must appear mere wastefulness to more
economical writers, and a certain negligence
and harshness of diction, which can belong •*
only to an author who is oppressed with the
exuberance and rapidity of his conceptions.
131]
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's,
awake
Those whom they thirst for! though the sound
of Fame
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
The fever of vain longing; and the name
80 honor 'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer
claim.
[32]
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling,
mourn I
The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be
torn*
The roof -tree sings, but moulders on the hall
Fn massy hoarmess; the ruin'd wall
Stand when its wind-worn battlements are
gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral,
The day drags through, though storms keep
out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly
live on:
[33]
Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies; and makes
A thousand images of one that uas,
The same, and still the more, the more it
breaks ;
And thus the heart *ill do which not forsaken,
Living in shatter 'd guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,
Showing no visible sign,— for such things are
untold.
There is next an apostrophe to Napoleon,
graduating into a series of general reflec-
tions, expressed with infinite beauty and
earnestness, and illustrated by another clus-
ter of magical images,— but breathing the
very essence of misanthropical disdain, and
embodying opinions which we conceive not
to be less erroneous than revolting. After
noticing the strange combinations of gran-
deur and littleness which seemed to form the
character of that greatest of all captains
and conquerors, the author proceeds,
[39]
Yet well thy sonl hath brook M the turning
tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast
smilM
With a sedate and all-enduring eye; —
When fortune fled her spoil rd and favorite
child,
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills updn him
pll'd.
FBANCIfl JEFFBEY
911
[40]
Baonr than in thy fortunes: For in them
Ambition steel 'd thee on too f ar to ihow
That just habitual eoora which could contemn
Men a&d their thoughts. 'Twas wise to feel; .
not so ,
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow:
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose! —
Bo hath it prov'd to thee, and all such lot who 10
choose.
[42]
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And ftorehatii been thy bane ! There is a fire
And motion of the soul which will not dwell u
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
Andy but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure; nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. n
[43]
This makes the madmen, who have made men
mad
By their contagion; conquerors and kings, B
Founders of sects and systems,— -to whom add
Sophists, bards, statemen, all unquiet things,
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret
springs,
And are themselves the fools to those they
fool; »
Envied, yet how unenviable! What stings
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a
school
Which would nnteach mankind the lust to
shine or rule; M
Their breath is agitation; and their life,
A storm whereupon they ride, to uk at last;
And yet so nurs'd and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils pasty
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die I
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering; or a sword laid by
Which eats into itself, and rusts inglorionsly.
[45]
He who ascends to mountain-tope, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and
snow;
He who surpasses or subdue* mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Sound him are icy rocks; and loudly blow
Contending tempests on Us naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those sum-
mits led.
This is splendidly written, no doubt—
bat we trust it is not true; and as it is
delivered with much more than poetical
earnestness, find recurs, indeed, in other
forms in various parts of the volume, we
must really be allowed to enter our dissent
somewhat at large. With regard to con-
querors, we wish with all our hearts that
this were as the noble author represents it :
but we greatly fear they are neither half
so unhappy, nor half so much hated as
they should be. On the contrary, it seems
plain enough that they are very commonly
idolized and admired, even by those on
whom they trample; and we suspect, more-
over, that in general they actually pass their
time rather agreeably, and derive consid-
erable satisfaction from the rain and deso-
lation of the world. From Macedonia's
madman1 to the Swede2— from Nimrod to
Bonaparte, the hunters of men have pur-
sued their sport with as much gaiety, and
as little remorse, as the hunters of other
animals— and have lived as cheerily in their
days of action, and as comfortably in their
repose, as the followers of better pursuits.
For this, and for the fame which they have
generally enjoyed, they are obviously in-
debted to the great interests connected with
their employment, and the mutual excite-
ment which belongs to its hopes and haz-
ards. It would be strange, therefore, if the
other active, but more innocent spirits,
whom Lord Byron has here placed in the
same predicament, and who share all their
sources of enjoyment, without the guilt and
the hardness which they cannot fail of con-
tracting, should be more miserable or more
unfriended than those splendid curses of
their kind —And it would be passing
strange, and pitiful,3 if the most precious
gifts of Providence should produce only
unhappiness, and mankind regard with hos-
tility their greatest benefactors
we do not believe in any such prodigies.
Great vanity and ambition may indeed lead
to feverish and restless efforts— to jeal-
ousies, to hate, and to mortification— but
these are only their effects when united to
inferior abilities. It is not those, in short,
who actually surpass mankind, that are un-
happy; but those who straggle in vain to
surpass them: and this moody temper,
which eats into itself from within, and pro-
vokes fair and unfair opposition from with-
out, is generally the result of pretensions
which outgo the merits by which they are
•See
the Gnat, King of Macedonia (836-
rles XII. King of Sweden (1097-1718). See
's Matcppa (p. 5«9>.
1&*T
912
NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS
supported— and disappointments, that may
be clearly traced, not to the excess of
genius, but its defect.
It will be found, we believe, accordingly,
that the master spirits of their age have 5
always escaped the unhappiness which is
here supposed to be the inevitable lot of
extraordinary talents; and that this strange
tax upon genius has only been levied from
those who held the secondary shares of it 10
Men of truly great powers of mind have
generally been cheeiful, social, and indul-
gent, while a tendency to sentimental whin-
ing, or fierce intolerance, may be ranked
among the surest symptoms of little souls 16
and mfenor intellects In the whole list of
our English poets, we can only remember
Shenstone and Savage— two, certainly, of
the lowest— who were querulous and dis-
contented. Cowley, indeed, used to call him- 80
self melancholy;— but he was not in earn-
est; and, at any rate, was full of conceits
and affectations; and has nothing to make
us proud of him. Shakespeare, the greatest
of them all, was evidently of a free and »
joyous temperament;— and so was Chau-
cer, their common master. The same dis-
position appeals to have predominated in
Fletcher, Jonson, and their great contem-
poraries The genius of Milton partook 80
something of the austerity of the party to
which he belonged, and of the controversies
in which he was involved; but even when
fallen on evil days and evil tongues,1 his
spirit seems to have retained its serenity 85
as well as its dignity; and in his private
life, as well as in his poetry, the majesty
of a high chaiacter is tempered with great
sweetness, genial indulgences, and practical
wisdom In the succeeding age our poets 40
were but too gay; and though we forbear
to speak of living authors, we know enough
of them to speak with confidence, that to
be miserable or to be hated is not now, any
more than heretofore, the common lot of «
those who excel.
If this, however, be the case with poets,
confessedly the most irritable land fantastic
of all men of genius— and of poets, too,
bred and born in the gloomy climate of 60
England, it is not likely that those who
have surpassed their fellows in other ways,
or in other regions, have been more distin-
guished for unhappiness. Were Socrates
and Plato, the greatest philosophers of an- 66
tiquity, remarkable for unsocial or gloomy
tempers t— Was Bacon, the greatest in mod-
ern times f— Was Sir Thomas More— or
iBeePararfi«fLo«t,7,26.
Erasmus—or Hunie— or Voltaire f— Was
Newton— or Fenelonf— Was Francis L, or
Henry IV., the paragon of kings and con-
querors t— Was Fox, the most ardent, and.
in the vulgar sense, the least successful of
statesmen! These, and men like these, are
undoubtedly the lights and the boast of the
world. Yet theie was no alloy ot misan-
thropy or gloom in their genius They did
not disdain the men they had surpassed,
and neither feared nor experienced then
hostility. Some detractois they might have,
from envy or misapprehension; but, be-
yond all doubt, the prevailing sentiments
zn respect to them have always been those
of gratitude and adnmation, and the error
of public judgment, where it has ened,has
much oftener been to overrate than to
undervalue the merits of those who had
claims on their good opinion On the whole,
we are far from thinking that eminent men
are actually happier than those who glide
through life in peaceful obscurity but it
is their eminence, and the consequences of
it, rather than the mental supenonty bj
which it is obtained, that interferes with
their enjoyment. Distinction, however won,
usually leads to a passion for more distinc-
tion: and is apt to engage us in labori-
ous efforts and anxious undertakings and
those, even when successful, seldom repay,
in our judgment, at least, the ease, the leis-
ure, and tianquilhty, of which they require
the sacrifice but it really surpasses oui
imagination to conceive that the very high-
est degrees of intellectual vigor, or fancy,
or sensibility, should of themselves be pro-
ductive either of unhappiness or general
dislike.
In passing Ferney and Lausanne, there
is a fine account of Voltaire and Gibbon;1
but we have room for but one more extract,
and must take it from the characteristic re-
flections with which the piece is concluded
These, like most of the preceding, may be
thought to savor too much of egotism ; but
this is of the essence of such poetry, and
if Lord Byron had only been happier, or
even in better humor with the world, we
should have been delighted with the con-
fidence he ^has here reposed m his read-
ers'—as it is, it sounds too like the last dis-
dainful address of a man who is about to
quit a world which has ceased to have
any attractions— like the resolute speech of
Pierre—
* Statute 105-8
JOHN WILSON CBOKEB
913
For this vile world and I have long been
jangling,
And cannot part on better terms than now. — *
The reckoning, however, is steadily and
sternly made, and though he does not spare *
himself, we must say that the world comes
off much the worst in the comparison. The
passage is very singular, and written with
much force and dignity.
[Ill] "
Thus far I hate proceeded in a theme
Benew'd with no kind auspices.— To feel
We are not what we might have been, and to
deem
We are not what we should be; — and to steel u
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or
aught,-—
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, —
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, JQ
Is a stern task of soul! — No matter! — it is
taught
[113]
1 have not lov'd the world — nor the world me?
I have not flatter 'd its rank breath, nor bo\\ 'd
To its idolatries a patient knee. —
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,— nor cried
aloud
In worship of an echo In the crowd
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood
Among them, but not of them, etc. so
J114]
I have not lo\ M tho \\orld, nor the world mef
But let us part fan foes, I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there
may be »
Words which are things, — hopes which will not
deceive
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Hnares for the failing! 1 *ould also deem
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two or one, are almost what they seem, — "
That goodness is no name, and happiness no
dream.
The closing stanzas of the poem are ex-
tremely beautiful,— but we are immovable
in the resolution that no statement of ours 4S
shall ever give additional publicity to the
mibjeets of whieh they treat -
JOHN WILSON CROKBR (1780-1857) w
ENDYMIOX A POETIC ROMANCE*
BY JOHN KLATS
J818 1818
Reviewers have been sometimes accused
of not raiding the works which they affected R»
to criticize. On the present occasion we
'Otwa>. rmfrr JVrncrrfd, IV 2, 224 2H
°Bvron*B famllv troubles
1 For tp\t of Jfffftftf *MON. HOP pp TdT IT
shall anticipate (he author's complaint, and
honestly confess that we have not read his
work. Not that we have been wanting in
our duty— far from it; indeed, we have
made efforts almost as superhuman as the
story itself appears to be, to get through it;
but with the fullest stietch of our pei se-
verance, we are fenced to confers that we
have not been able to struggle beyond tho
first of the four books of which this "Poetic
Romance'9 consists. We should extremely
lament this want of eneigy, or whate\er it
may be, on our parts, were it not for one
consolation— namely, that we are no bet-
ter acquainted with the meaning of the
book through which we have so painfully
toiled, than we aie with that of the throe
winch we have not looked into
It is not that Mr. Keats (if that be his
real name, for -we almost doubt that any
man in his senses would put his real name
to such a rhapsody), it is not, we say, that
the author has not poweis of language, rays
cif fancy, and gleams of genius— he has all
the**; but he is unhappily a disciple of the
new school of what has been somewhere
called Cocknev poetry,1 which may be de-
fined to consist of the most incongruous
ideas m the most uncouth language
Of this school. Mi. Leigh Hunt, as we
observed in a former Number,8 aspires to
be the hierophant Our rendeis will recol-
lect the pleasant iet»ipes for harmonious
and sublime poetry TV Inch he gave us in his
Preface to Rimtnt* and the still more face-
tious instances of his harmony and pubhm-
irv in the verses themselves, and thev will
recollect above all the contempt of Pope,
Johnson, and such poetasters and pseudo-
critics, which so forcibly contrasted itself
with Mr Leigh Hunt's self-complacent ap-
probation of
—an the things itself had wrote,
Of special merit though of little note
This author is a copyist of Mr Hunt;
but he is more unintelligible, almost as
rugged, twice as diffuse, and ten times more
tiresome and absurd than his prototype,
who, though he impudently presumed to seat
himself in the chair of criticism, and to
measure his own poeti> by his own stand-
1 \ nickname applied bv ixx-kbart and other Knp
llsh critlin to the pootn of Leigh Hunt, Khol
ler, Rents and othois Koo Mart M owl •
VfliwM'. Ort and No* . 1817 (Vol 2. 18-41
194201) Tnlv and AUK, 1**18 (Vol 3, 4.t:t
*««» Tlir Qunrterltt Pnlw. J«n 181JJ (Vol 34
471-81) and Jan. 181R (Vol 18. 124-W
i For a ^election from The Rtorii of JNmttif, M*
pp 86ft ff For the Profarr m* Tiltlcal Note
on Hunt* Th< *torit of
914
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8T8
ard, yet generally had a meaning. But Mr
Keats had advanced no dogmas which he
was hound to support by examples; his non-
sense, therefore, is quite gratuitous; he
writes it for its own sake ; and, being bitten i
by Mr. Leigh Hunt's insane criticism, more
than rivals the insanity of his poetry.
Mr. Keats 's Preface hints that his poem
was produced under peculiar circum-
stances.1 10
"Knowing within myself (he says) the man-
ner in which this poem has been produced, it
is not without a feeling of regret that I make
it public.— What manner I mean, will be quite
clear to the reader, who must soon perceive 15
great inexperience, immaturity, and every
error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than
a deed accomplished." — Preface, p. vii.
We humbly beg his pardon, but this does
not appear to us to be quite so clear— we so
really do not know what he means— but the
next passage is more intelligible.
"The two first books, and indeed the two
last, I feel sensible are not of such completion-'
as to warrant their passing the press."— v
Preface, p. vii.
Thus "the two first books" are, even in
his own judgment, unfit to appear, and
"the two labt" aie, it seems, in the same
condition— and as two and two make four, so
and as that is the whole number of books,
we have a clear and, we believe, a very just
estimate of the entire work.
Mr. Keats, however, deprecates criticism
on this "immature and feverish work" in 8S
terms which aie themselves sufficiently
feverish; and we confess that we should
have abstained from inflicting upon him any
of the tortures of the "fierce hell" of criti-
cism, which terrify his imagination, if he 40
had not begged to be spared in order that he
might write more; if he had not observed
in him a certain degree of talent which do-
sen es to be put in the right way, or which,
at least, ought to be warned of the wrong; 6
and if, finally, he had not told us that he is
of an age and temper which imperiously
require mental discipline.
Of the story we have been able to make
out but little; it seems to be mythological, so
and probably relates to the loves of Diana
and Endymion ; but of this, as the scope of
the work has altogether escaped us, we can-
not speak with any degree of certainty ; and
must therefore content ourselves with gjv- K
ing some instances of its diction and versifi-
cation; and here again we are perplexed
and puzzled. At first it appeared to us that
* 8ee Critical Note on Ktatrt E*«vm1o*.
• perfection
Mr. Keats had been amusing himself and
wearying his readers with an immeasurable
game at bouts-rtmSs;1 but, if we recollect
rightly, it is aft indispensable condition at
this play, that the rhymes when filled up
shall have a meaning; and our author, as
we have already hinted, has no meaning.
He seems to us to write a line at random,
and then he follows not the thought excited
by this line, but that suggested by the rhyme
with which it concludes. There is hardly a
complete couplet inclosing a complete idea
in the whole book.2 He wanders from one
subject to another, from the association, not
of ideas but of sounds, and the work is com-
posed of hemistichs8 which, it is quite evi-
dent, have forced themselves upon the
author by the mere force of the catchwords
on which they turn.
We shall select, not as the most striking
instance, but as that least liable to suspicion,
a passage from the opening of the poem.4
Such the sun, tho moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear
rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season , the mid-forest brake,*5
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk -rose
blooms ;
And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead ; etc .
etc. —[11 13-21]
Here it is clear that the word, and not
the idea, moon produces the simple sheep
and their shady boon, and that "the doom*
of the mighty dead" would never have in-
truded themselves but for the "fair musk-
rose blooms."
Again.
For 'twas the mom: Apollo's upward fire
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to the well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
Man's voice was on the mountains; and the
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.
—[11. 95-106]
1 riming words proposed to fill out verm
•The 18th century couplet usually expressed a
complete thought.
•Incomplete linen
4 AH of the quotations which follow are from
T.A1TR
915
Hare Apollo's fire produces a pyre, a
silvery pyre of clouds, where** a spirit
might 10m oblivion and melt his essence
fine, and scented eglantine gives sweets to
the aim, and cold springs had nm into the
grass, and then the pulse of the mass pulsed
tenfold to feel the glories old of the new-
born day, etc.
One example more.
Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings, such as dodge
Conception to the very bonne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven,
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
Gives it a touch ethereal— a new birth.
PL 203-298]
Lodge, dodge— heaven, leaven— earth, birth ;
such, in six words, is the sum and substance
of six lines.
We come now to the author's taste in
\ersifiration. He cannot indeed write a
sentence, but perhaps he may be able to
spin a line. Let us see. The following1 are
of his prosodial notions of our
English heroic metre.
Dear as the temple's self, so <toen the moon.
The passion poesy, glories infinite —[11. 28, 29]
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots.— [1 6 3 ]
Of some strange* history, potent to send
Before the deep intoxication. — [1 502]
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion.— [1. 628]
The rtubborn canvas for my voyage prepared
-4 772]
"EndymionY the cave is secrrter
Than the isle of Delos Echo hence shall stir
No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise
Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling
clovs
And trembles through my labyrinthine hair ' '
— [11. 965-969]
Bv this time our readers must be pretty
well featured as to the meaning of his sen-
tences and the structure of his lines. We
now present them with some of the new
words with which, hi imitation of Mr. Leigh
Hunt, he adorns our language.
We are told that "turtles passion their
voices'1 [1. 248] ; that an "arbor was nested
| L 431] ; and a lady's locks "gordian'dup"
[1. 614] ; and to supply the place of the
nouns thus verbalised, Mr. Keats, with great
fecundity, spawns new ones; such as "men-
slugs and human serpentry" [1. 821]; the
honey-feel of bite" \l 008] ; "wives pre-
pare'needments" [L 208] -and so forth.
Then he has formed new verbs by the
process of cutting off their natural tails,
the adverbs, and affixing them to their fore-
heads; thus, "the wine out-sparkled"
[L 154], the "multitude up-followed"
[I. 164], and "night up-took" [L 561].
ft "The wind up-blows" [L 627]; and the
"hours are down-sunken'9 [L 708].
But if he sinks some adverbs in the verbs,
he compensates the language with adverbs
and adjectives which he separates from the
10 parent stock. Thus, a lady "whispers pant-
ing and close" [L 407], makes "hushing
signs" [L 409], and steers her skiff into a
"npply cove" [1. 430]; a shower falls
"refreshfully" [L 898] ; and a vulture has
is a "spreaded tail" [1. 867].
But enough of Mr. Leigh Hunt and his
simple neophyte. If any one should be
bold enough to purchase this "Poetic Ro-
mance," and so much more patient than
so ourselves as to get beyond the first book,
and so much more fortunate as. to find a
meaning, we entreat him to make us ac-
quainted with his success; we shall then
return to the task which we now abandon
is in despair, and endeavor to make all due
amends to Mr Keats and to our readers.
CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834)
THE MIDNIGHT WIND
1794 1706
0' I could laugh to hear the midnight
wind,
That, rushing on its way with careless
sweep,
Scatters the ocean wa\es And I could
weep
Like to a child For now to my raised mind
6 On wings of winds comes wild-eyed
Phantasy.
And her rude visions give severe delight.
0 wingM bark! how swift along the night
Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go
by
Lightly of that drear hour the memory,
10 When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,
Fnbonneted,1 and gazed upon the flood,
Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to
die,—
To be resolv'd into the elemental wave,
Or take my portion with the winds that
rave.
WAS IT SOME SWEET DEVICE
OF FAERY
1794 MOT
Was it some sweet device of Faery
That mocked my steps with many a lonely
glade,
JFhiff Lew, III, 1, 14.
916
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And fancied wanderings with a f air-hair 'd
maid!1
Have these things beent or what rare
witchery,
5 Impregning with delights the channM air,
Enhghted up the bemblanre of a smile
In those fine eyes! methought they spake
the while
Soft soothing things, which might enforce
Despair
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
10 His foul resolve. And does the lonely
glade
Still court the footsteps of the f air-hair 'd
maidt
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh t
While I forlorn do wander reckless where.
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna
there
IF FBOM MY LIP8 SOME ANGBY
ACCENTS PELL
1795 1797
If from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof un-
kind,
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer
well,
5 And waters clear, of Reason , and for me
Ijet this my verse the poor atonement be—
My verse, which thou to praise wert e'er
inclined
Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
No blemish Thou 1o me didst ever show
10 Kindest affection ; and would of t -times lend
An ear to the desponding love-sick lay,
Weeping my sorrows with me, who repaj
But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
CHILDHOOD
1796 1797
In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by , to act in thought
Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ,
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
6 Down which the child would roll; to pluck
gay flowers,
Make posies in the sun, which the child's
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled)
Would throw away, and straight take up
again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the
lawn
i Ann Simmons, a Hertfordshire girl. Lamb's
boyhood sweetheart She ia probably th*
Alice Winter-ton of Lamb's Dremm Children
(p 94Rav 3) See also bis New Veer's ffrr
and JHofceamoor in F — tfctre.
10 Bound with W> playful and so light a foot,
That the pressed daisy scarce declined her
head.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES
1798 1798
Where are they gone, the old familiar
facesf
I had a mother, but she died, and left me,
Died prematurely in a. day of horrors1—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
6 I have had playmates, I have had com-
panions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful
school-days—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carous-
ing*
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bottom
cronies—
10 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces
I loved a love once,2 fanest among
women.
Closed are her doois on me, I must not
see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces
T have a friend,3 a kinder friend has no
man.
ir' Like an mgrate, I lett my in end abrupt l\ ,
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces
Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of
my childhood
Earth seemed a rleseit T wn<. bound to
traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar face*
20 Friend of my bosom,4 thou nioie tlian d
brother '
Why wert not thou born in my fathei 's
dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces
For some they have died, und some they
have left me,
\nd some are taken from me, all are
departed;
25 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
1 Lamb's mother wan kill*! In 17ft« by MM «Is
ter Mary, who was suffering an attack of
insanity
•Ann Simmons, referred to in Wan It Some
Sweet Device of Pa*ry (p 915).
•Charlea Lloyd (1775-1815), a minor EnRlluli
poet He was a pupil of Coleridge, nlth
-w- he lived for some time
CHABLBS LAMB
917
HESTER*
1803 1818
When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavor.
6 A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot T hy foice be Jed
To think upon the wormy bed,
And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
10 A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush 'd her spirit.
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:— if 'twas not pride,
15 Tt was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.
Hci parents hold the Qnakei rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool,
But she was train 'd in Nature's school,
20 Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, n prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sicht \e cannot blind,
Yet could not Hester.
25 My sprightly neighbor, gone before
To that unknown and silent shoie,
Slnll we not meet, as heretofore,
Some Bunmiei morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
10 Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go a way,
A sweet foiewarning*
THE THREE GRAVES
1820
Close by the evei -burn ing brimstone beds
Wheie 'Bcdloe, Gates and Judas hide
their heads,
T saw great Satan like a sexton stand
With his intolerable spade in hand,
r» Digging three graves Of coffin-shape
they were,
For those who, coffin lens must enter there
With unblcst lites. The shrouds were of
that cloth
Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest
wrath •
The dismal tinct oppress M the eye, that
dwelt
™ Upon it long, like darkness to be felt
The pillows to those baleful beds were
toads,
i Heater Ravarv a yonnff Qn&kereM with whom
Lamb had fallen In love In 1800 She died
in ift on
Large, living, livid, melancholy loads,
Whose softness shock 'd Worms oi all
monstrous size
Crawl 'd round, and one, upcoil'd, which
never dies. '
15 A doleful bell, inculcating despair,
Was always ringing in the heavy air.
And all about the detestable pit
Strange headless ghosts, and quaiter'd
forms, did flit ;
Rivers of blood, from dripping traitois
spilt,
20 By treachery stung fioni poveity to guilt
I ask'd the fiend for whom these rites were
meant
"These graves, " quoth he, "when life's
bnef oil is spent.
When the dark night comes, and they'ie
sinking bedwaids,
T mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards "
THE GIPSY'S MALISON
1829
"Suck, baby, suck, mother's lo\e grows
by gnmg,
Dram the sweet founts that only thrne bv
wasting;
Black manhood comes, when notous guilty
hung
Hands thee the cup that shall he death in
tasting.
r> "Kiss, baby, kiss; mother's lips shine bv
kisses;
Choke the warm breath that else \\ould
fall in blessings
Black manhood comes, \\lien turbulent
guilty blisses
Tend thee the kiss 'that poisons 'nnd
caressmgs.
"Hang, baby, hang; mother's love loves
such forces,
10 Strain the fond neck that bends still to
. thy clinging*
Black manhood comes, when violent law-
less courses
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swing-
ing."
So sang a wither M Beldam energetical.
And bann'd the ungivmg door with lip«
prophetical
ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON
AS BORNi
18Z7 1829
I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's woik
1Th!fi poom wan Inspired bv the death of
ThonmH Flood'* flrat child
018
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
A floweiet crushed in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
6 Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying,
So soon to exchange the imprisoning
womb
For darker closets of the tomb*
She did but ope an eye, and put
10 A clear beam forth, then straight up
shut
Foi the long dark ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
n What thy errand here below t
Shall we say, that Nature blind
Checked her hand, and changed her mind,
Just when the had exactly wrought
A finished pattern without fault Y
20 Could she flag, or could she tire,
Or lacked she the Promethean fire1
(With her nine moons' long workings
sickened)
That should thy little limbs have quick-
ened t
Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure
25 Life of health, and days mature •
Woman's wlf in miniature f
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
80 Or did the stem-eyed Fate descry,
That babe, or mother, one must die ,
So in mercy left the stock,
And cut the bianch ; to save the shock
Of young yeais widowed; and the pain,
85 When Single State comes back again
To the lone man who, reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimed life*
The economy of Heaven is dark ;
And wisest clerks2 have missed the mark,
40 Why human buds, like this, should fall,
More brief than fly ephemeral,
That has MR day; while shrivelled cronea
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
45 In sinners of an hundred years
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thon ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells and baby clothes;
r>° Coral redder than those lips,
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infant's glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, tbon shalt have
them,
i According to mythology, Prometheus stole f re
f from heaven and bentowed ft upon man.
B"' Loving hearts were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse1
Of infant slain by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have
«° Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
A more harmless vanity f
SHE IS GOING
For their elder sister's hair
Martha does a wreath prepare
Of bridal rose, ornate and gay •
Tomorrow is the wedding day •
c She is going.
Mary, youngest of the three,
Laughing idler, full of glee,
Arm m arm doth fondly chain hei,
Thinking, poor tnfler, to detain her—
10 But she'b going.
Vex not, maidens, nor regret
Thus to part with Margaret
("harms like yours can ne\ei stay
Long within doors; and one day
You'll be going
16
LETTER TO WORDSWORTH
January SO, 1801
Thanks for your letter and present. I
had already borrowed your second volume 2
What most pleases me are the Song of
Lucy*—Stmon'8 sickly dan (jitter* in Tin*
6 Sexton made me cry. Next to these are the
description of the continuous echoes in the
story of Joanna's laugh/' wheie the moun-
tains and all the scenery absolutely seem
alive—and that fine Shakespenan charac-
10 ter of the happy man, in Tlte ttrotliers,
— that creeps about the fields,
Following hfo fancier by the hour, to bring
Tears down hiR cheek, or Bolitarv aimleR
Into his fare, until the netting sun
15 Write fool upon his forehead."
T will mention one more: the delicate
and curious feeling in the wish for the
Cumberland Beggar, that he may have
about him the melody of birds, altho' he
» hear them not.7 Here the mind knowingly
passes a Action upon herself, first substi-
1 coffin
* A copv of the second edition of Lvrical Ballad*.
published In two volume* in 1800
• r,«ov CFray (p 2411. * See To a Srafon, 14
•Bee To Joanna. 5141ft Thin poem was addrwMd
to Joanna Flutchlnwm, Mrs Wordnworth'i
•liter
•LI 108-12
'See The Old Cumbrrland Beggar, 184 5 (p
OHABLBB T.AVR
919
tilting her own feelings for the — re ----
and, m the same breath detecting the fallacy,
will not part with the wish— 2'ftf Poet's
Epitaph1 IB disfigured, to my taste, by the
vulgar satire upon parsons and lawyers in 6
the beginning, and the coarse epithet of
pin-point in the 6th stanza. All the rest
is eminently good, and your own. I will
just add that it appears to me a fault in
the Beggar that the instructions conveyed 10
in it are too direct and like a lecture, they
don't slide into the mind of the reader
while he is imagining no such matter. An
intelligent reader finds a sort of insult in
being told: I will teach yon how to think 16
upon this subject. This fault, if I am
nght, is in a ten-thousandth worse degree
to be found m Sterne and many, many nov-
elists and modern poets, who continually
put a sign post up to show where you are to
to feel They set out with assuming their
readers to be stupid. Very different from
Robinson Crusoe, The Vicar of Wakefield,
Roderick Random, and other beautiful bare
narratives There is implied an unwritten IK
compact between author and reader: I will
tell you a story, and I suppose you will
understand it. Modern novels, St Leons
and the like, are full of such flowers as
these- "Let not my reader suppose"— 80
" Imagine, if i/ou can99— modest!— etc.— I
will here have done with praise and blame
I have written so much, only that you may
not think I have passed over your book
without observation.— I am sorry that Cole- 86
ridge has christened his Ancient Mannere2
"a Poet'sReverie"— it is as bad as Bot-
tom the Weaver's declaration that he is
not a lion but only the scenical representa-
tion of a lion * What new idea is gained 40
by this title, but one subversive of all credit,
which the tale should force upon us, of its
truth 1 For me, I was never so affected
with any human tale. After first reading
it, I was totally possessed with it for many «
days— I dislike all the miraculous part of
it, but the feelings of the man under the
operation of such scenery dragged me along
like Tom Piper's magic whistle.4 I totally
differ from your idea that the Marinere »
should have had a character and profes-
J D. S8D
» 1 Midtummer Jfyfcft Dream, III, 1, 40 ff. ;
* Probably a reference to the legend of the piper
who by hii music freed the dtjr of Hamelln
^ -ats, and who, because the townsmen
I to pay him for his workL enticed their
sum.1 This is a beauty m Gulhvei'a Tiav-
cls, where the mind is kept in a placid state
of little wonderments; but the Ancient
Marinere undergoes such trials as over-
whelm and bury all individuality or mem-
ory of what he was, like the state of a man
in a bad dream, one terrible peculiarity of
which is that all consciousness of person-
ality is gone Your other observation is, I
think, as well a little unfounded: the Mari-
nere from being conversant in supernatural
events has acquired a supernatural and
strange cast of phrase, eye, appearance,
etc., which frighten the wedding-guest Ton
will excuse my remarks, because I am hurt
and vexed that you should think it neces-
sary with a prose apology to open the
eyes of dead men that cannot see. To sum
up a general opinion of the second vol.— I
do not feel any one poem in it so forcibly
as The Ancient Marinere, The Mad Mother/
and the Lines at Tintem Abbey,9 in the
first.4— I could, too, have wished the crit-
ical preface5 had appeared in a separate
treatise. All its dogmas are true and just,
and most of them new, as criticism. But
they associate a diminishing idea with the
poems which follow, as having been written
for experiment on the public taste, more
than having sprung (as they must have
done) from living and daily circumstances
—I am prolix, because I am gratified in
the opportunity of writing to you, and
I don't well know when to leave off.
I ought before this to have reply M to
your very kind invitation into Cumberland.
With you and your sister I could gang6
anywhere; but I am afraid whether I shall
ever be able to afford so desperate a jour-
ney. Separate from the pleasure of your
company, I don't much care if I never see
a mountain in my life. I have passed all
my days in London, until I have formed
as many and intense local attachments as
'In a note on The Ancient Variitcr, a Poet9*
Rtverir, published in the first volume of
Lyrical Balled*, Wordsworth Raid "The poem
of my friend haH, indeed, great defect* first,
that the principal person has no distinct char-
acter, either in his profession of mariner or as
A human being who. having been long under
the control of supernatural Impressions, might
he supposed himself to partake of something
supernatural; secondly, that he does not act
but is continually acted upon; thirdly, that
the events, having no necessary connection, do
not produce each other : and lastly, that the
' is somewhat too laboriously arcumn-
•In later editions entitled Her Xwt Are Wild.
JIafteifa, see Olos
4 For the contents of
• Bee p. 317
••o
NINETEENTH CBNTUBY ROMANTICISTS
any of you mountaineers can have done with
dead Nature. The lighted shops of the
Strand and Fleet Street; the innumerable
trades, tradesmen and customers, coaches,
wagons, playhouses; all the bustle and wick- s
edness round about Covent Garden; the
very women of the Town, the watchmen,
drunken scenes, rattles; hie awake, if you
awake, at all hours* of the night , the impos-
sibility of being dull in Fleet Street; the u
crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun
shining upon houses and pavements, the
print shops, the old-book stalls, parsons
cheapening1 books, coffee-houbes, steams of
soups from kitchens, the pantomimes— Lon- 15
don itself a pantomime and a masquerade-
all these things work themselves into my
mind, and feed me. without a power of
satiating me. The wonder of these sights im-
pels me into night-walks about her crowded 10
streets, and T often shed tears in the mot lev
Strand from fulness of joy at so much hie
All these emotions must be sttange to you,
so are your rural emotions to me. But con-
sider, what must I have been doing all my «
life, not to have lent great portions of mv
heart with usury to such scenes f
My attachments are all local, purely
local. I have no passion (or have had none
since I was in love, and then it was the 80
spurious engendering- of poetry and books)
to groves and valleys. The rooms where I
was born, the furniture which has been lie-
fore my eyes all mv life, a book-case which
has followed me about (like a faithful dog, 85
only exceeding him in knowledge), wher-
ever I have moved, old chairs, old tables,
streets, squares, where I have sunned mv-
self, my old school,— these are my mis-
tresses Have I not enough, without your «
mountains! I do not envy you. I should
pity you, did I not know that the mind will
make friends of anything Your sun, and
moon, and skies, and hills, and lakes, affect
me no more, or scarcely come to me in more 45
venerable characters, than as ft gilded room
with tapestry and tapers, where I might live
with handsome visible objects. I consider
the clouds above me but as a roof beauti-
fully painted,8 but unable to satisfv my «o
mind ; and at last, like the pictures of the
apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford
him any longer a pleasure. So fading upon
me, from disuse, nave been the beauties of
Nature, as they have been eonfinediy called ; »
so ever fresh, and green, and warm are all
the inventions of men, and assemblies of
* bargaining for
• Bee Hamlet, II,
2, 218.
men in this great city. I should certainly
have laughed with dear Joanna.
Give my kindest love and my sister's to
D l and yourself; and a kiss from me to
little Barbara Lewthwaite.2 Thank you f 01
hking ray play.8 C. L
From CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRIT-
KRS CONTEMPORARY WITH
SHAKSPEARE*
1808-18
When I selected for publication, in 1808,
Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who
lived about the time of Shakspeare, the
kind of extracts which I was anxious to
give were, not so much passages of wit and
humor, though the old plays are rich in
such, as scenes of passion, sometimes of the
deepest quality, interesting situations, seri-
ous descriptions, that which is more nearly
allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic
rather than to comic poetry. The plays
which I made choice of were, with few ex-
ceptions, such as treat of human life and
manners, rather than masques and Arca-
dian pastorals, with their train of abstrac-
tions, unimpassioned deities, passionate
mortals— Claim*, and Medorus, and Amin-
tas, and Amanllis My leading design was,
to illustrate what may be called the moral
sense of our ancestors. To show in what
manner they felt, when they placed them-
selves by the power of imagination in trying
circumstances, m the conflicts of duty and
passion, or the strife of contending duties,
what sort of loves and enmities theirs were ,
how their griefs were tempered, and their
fnll-swoln joys abated; how much of
Shakspeare shines in the great men his
contemporaries, and how far in his divine
mind and manners he surpassed them and
all mankind I was also desirous to bring
together some of the most admired scenes
of Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation
of the world the only dramatic poets of that
age entitled to be considered after Shaks-
peare. and, by exhibiting them in the same
volume with the more impressive scenes of
old Marlowe, Heywood, Tourneur, Web-
ster, Ford, and others, to show what we had
slighted, while beyond all proportion we
had been crying up one or two favorite
names. From the desultory criticism which
|rai^^^ T** Pet
• JofcM Wnoti II
-The following Mltctloni are Lamb'i
BA&ft
OHABLEB
921
10
accompanied that publication, I have se-
lected a few which I thought would best
stand by themselves, as requiring least im-
mediate reference to the play or passage by
which they were suggested.
THOMAS HEYWOOD
A Woman Killed with Kindness Hey-
wood is a sort of prose Shakspeare His
scenes are to the full as natural and affect-
ing. But we miss the poet, that which in
Shakspeare always appears out and above
the surface of the nature Heywood '& chai -
acters in this play, for instance, his coun-
try gentlemen, etc, are exactly what we
see, but of the best kind of what we see, in
life Shakspeare makes us believe, while
we are among his lovely creations, that they
are nothing but what we are familiar with,
as in dreams new things seem old, but we
awake, and sigh for the difference.
The English Traveller. Heywood 's pref-
ace to this play is interesting, as it shows
the heroic indifference about the opinion of
posterity, which some of these great writers
seem to have felt. There is a magnanimity
in authorship as in everything else His
ambition seems to have been confined to the
pleasure of heanng the players speak his I
lines while he lived. It does not appear
that he ever contemplated the possibility of
being read by after ages. What a slender
pittance of fame was motive sufficient to
the production of such plays as The Eng- ,
hsh Traveller, The Challenge for Beauti/,
and The Woman Killed with Kindness/
Posterity is bound to take care that a writer
loses nothing by such a noble modesty
JOHN WEBBTIE
The Duchess of Malfy. All the several
parts of the dreadful apparatus with which
the death of the Duchess is ushered in, the
waxen images which counterfeit death, the
wild masque of madmen, the tomb-maker,
the bellman, the living person's dirge, the
mortification by degrees,— are not more re-
mote from the conceptions of ordinary ven-
geance, than the strange character of suffer-
ing which they seem to bring upon their
victim is out of the imagination of ordinary
poets. As they are not like inflictions of
this life, so her language seems not of this
world. She has lived among horrors till
she is become "native and endowed unto
that element.911 She speaks the dialect of
' Jftmlef . TV, 7 180-1
despair, her tongue has a smateh1 of Tar-
tarus and the souls in bale.8 To move a
horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick,
to lay upon fear as much as it can bear,
5 to wean and weary a life till it i»» leady to
drop, and then step in with mortal instru-
ments to take its last forfeit tins only a
Webster can do. Infenoi geniuses ma>
"upon horror's head horrors accumulate, lfl
but they cannot do this They mistake quan-
tity for quality; they "terrify babes with
painted devils;"4 but they know not how a
soul is to be moved Their terrors want dig-
nity, their affnghtments are without de-
corum.
16
JOHN FOBD
The Broken Heart I do not know where
to find, in any play, a catastrophe so grand,
»o so solemn, and so surprising, as in thu>
This is indeed, according to Milton, to de-
scribe high passions and high actions 5 The
fortitude of the Spartan boy, who let a
beast gnaw out his bowels till he died with-
*• out expressing a groan,6 is a faint bodily
image of this dilareration7 of tbe spirit,
and exenteiation8 of the inmost mind, which
Calantha, with a holy violence against her
nature, keeps closely covered, till the last
so duties of a wife and a queen are fulfilled
Stories of martyrdom are but of chains and
the stake; a little bodily suffering Those
torments
On the purest spirits prey,
8ft As on the entrails, joints, and limta,
With answerable pains, but more intense"
What a noble thing is the soul in its strengths
and in its weaknesses! Who would be less
weak than Calantha? Who can be so
40 strong f The expression of this transcend-
ant scene almost bears us in imagination to
Calvary and the Cross; and we seem to
perceive some analogy between the scenical
sufferings which we are here contemplating,
and the real agonies of that final completion
to which we dare no more than hint a refer-
ence Ford was of the fhst order of poets
He sought for sublimity, uot by parcels, ID
taste • fr«nn«nt *ot?i*1io Til 1 170
4 Webster, The WJtitf Dei tl, III, 2, 140 See, also
Marbcth. II, 2, 15
"• Pee P*wU*r Keotuted. 4 ?««
•The atorr Is told bv Plutarch In his Life of
Lvcwr&u, 18. to Illustrate the power of endur-
ance of the Spartan boys as well as their serf
cms attitude toward stealing, training in which
was a vital part of their education A boy
had stolen a fox, which he concealed under his
cloak ; but rsther than have the theft detected
the boy suffered death by allowing his bowels
to be torn out by the fox
» tearing f •
•Milton./
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIOIBT8
metaphors or visible images, bat directly
where she has her full residence in the heart
of man; in the actions and sufferings of
the greatest minds. There is a grandeur of
the soul above mountains, seas, and the ele-
ments. Even in the poor perverted reason
of Giovanni and Annabella, in the play1
which stands at the head of the modern
collection of the works of this author, we
discern traces of that fiery particle, which,
in the irregular starting from out the road
of beaten action, discovers something of a
right line even in obliquity, and shows hints
of an improvable greatness in the lowest
descents and degradations of our nature.
GEORGE CHAPMAN
Bn8sy D'Ambcns, Byron's Conspiracy,
Byron1 a Tragedy f etc., etc. Webster^hab
happily characterized the "full and height-
ened style"2 of Chapman, who, of all the
English play-writers, peihaps approaches
nearest to Shakspeaie in the descriptive
and didactic, in pasbageb which are less
purely dramatic. He could not go out of
himself, as Shakbpeaie could shift at pleas-
me, to inform and animate other existences,
but in himself he had an eye to perceive
and a soul to embrace all forms and modes
of being. He would have made a great
epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly
shown himself to be one; for his Homer is
not so pioperly a translation as the stoneb
of Achilles and Ulysses rewritten The
earnestness and passion which he has put
into every part of these poems, would be
incredible to a reader of mere modern trans-
lations His almost Greek zeal for the glory
of his heroes can only be paralleled by that
fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which
Milton, as if personating one of the zealots
of the old law, clothed himself when he sat
down to paint the acts of Samson against
the uncircumcised.8 The great obstacle to
Chapman's translations being read is their
unconquerable quaintness. He pours out in
the same breath the most just and natural,
and the most violent and crude expressions
He seems to grasp at whatever words come
first to hand while the enthusiasm is upon
him, as if all other must be inadequate to
the divine meaning. But passion (the all
in all in poetry) is everywhere present,
raising the low, dignifying the mean, and
', prefaced to
play The White Devil.
Mn sSm«<m
putting sense into the abburd. He makes
his readers glow, weep, tremble, take any
affection which he pleases, be moved by
words, or in spite of them, be disgusted and
5 overcome their disgust,
FRANCIS BIAD MONT.— JOHN FLETCHER
Maid's Tragedy. One characteristic of
10 the excellent old poets is their being able to
bestow grace upon subjects which naturally
do not seem susceptible of any I will men-
tion two instances. Zelraane in the Arcadia
of Sidney, and Helena in the All's Well that
15 Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can be
more unpromising at first sight, than the
idea of a young man disguising himself in
women's attire, and passing himself oft
for a woman among women; and that
to for a long space of time! Tet Sir Philip
has preserved so matchless a decorum, that
neither does Pryocles' manhood buffer anv
stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, nor is
the respect due to the princesses at all
» diminished when the deception comes to be
known. In the sweetly constituted mind of
Sir Phihp Sidney, it seems as if no ugly
thought or unhandsome meditation could
find a harbor. He turned all that he touched
so mto images of honor and virtue. Helena in
Shakspeare is a young woman seeking a
man in marriage. The ordinary rules of
courtship are reversed, the habitual feelings
are crossed. Yet with such exquisite address
K this dangerous subject is handled, that Hel-
ena's forwardness loses her no honor; deli-
cacy dispenses with its laws in her favor;
and nature, in her single case, seems content
to suffer a sweet violation. Aspatia, in The
40 JtfotcTs T raged i/f is a character equally diffi-
cult, with Helena, of being managed with
grace. She too is a slighted woman, refused
by the man who had once engaged to marry
her. Yet it is artfully contrived that while
45 we pity we respect her, and she descends
without degradation. Such wonders true
poetry land passion can do, to confer dignity
upon subjects which do not seem capable of
it. But Aspatia must not be compared at
60 all points with Helena; she does not so abso-
lutely predominate over her situation but
she suffers some diminution, some abatement
of the full lustre of the female character,
which Helena never does Her character
a has many degrees of sweetness, some of deli-
cacy; but it has weakness, which, if we do
not despise, we are sorry for. After all.
Beaumont and Fletcher were but an inferior
sort of Shakspeares and Sidneys.
CHAfiLES LAMB
923
a»
PEABB. CONSIDERED WITH BEFEH-
ENCB TO THEIB JTTNEBH POR
8TAOK BEPBBBENTATION
delightful in the reading, as when we read
Of fl^ youthful dalliances m Paradise-
youwuui uauiances m ™™™
It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help
being of opinion that the plays of Shak- 5
speaie are lew calculated for performance
on a stage, than those of almost any other
dramatist whatever. Their distinguished
excellence is a reason that they should be^o
There is so much in them which comes not u>
under the province of act ing, ^ith which eye,
and tone, and gesture, have nothing to do
The glory of the scenic ait is to personate
passion, and the tuins of passion, and the
more coarse and palpable the passion is, u»
the more hold upon the eyes and ears of the
spectators the performer ob\iously pos-
senses For this reason, scolding scenes,
scenes where two persons talk themselves
into a fit of fury, and then in a surprising »
znanner talk tbemsches out of it again, lune
always been the most popular upon our
stage. And the leason is plain, because the
spectators are heie most palpably appealed
to; they are the proper judges in this war »
of words; they are the legitimate ring that
should be formed lound such "intellectual
prize-fighters " Talking is the direct ob-
leet of the imitation here But in all the
best diamas, and in Shakspeare above all, »
how obvious it is that the form of speaking.
whether it be in soliloquy or dialogue, is
only a medium, and often a highly artificial
one, for putting the reader or spectator into
possession of that knowledge of the inner 86
structure and workings of mind in a char-
acter, which*he could otherwise never have
arrived at tn that form of composition by
any gift short of intuition. We do here as
we do with novels written in the epistolant «
form. How many improprieties, perfect
solecisms in letter-writing, do we put up
with in Clarissa and other books, for the
sake of the delight with which that form
upon the whole gives us. «
But the practice of stage representation
reduces everything to a controversy of elo-
cution. Every character, from the bolster-
ous blasphemings of Bajazet to the shrink-
ing timidity of womanhood, must play the GO
orator. The love-dialogues of Romeo and
Juliet, their silver-sweet sounds of lovers'
tongues by night; the more intimate and
sacred sweetness of nutial collou between
Alone :*
by the inherent fault of stage representa-
tion, how are these things sullied and turned
from their very nature by being exposed to
a large assembly , when such speeches as Im-
ogen addresses to her lord,'' come drawling
out of the mouth of a hired actress, whose
courtship, though nominally addressed to
the personated Posthumus, is manifestly
aimed at the spectatois, who are to judge
of her endearments and her returns of love
The character of Hamlet is perhaps that
by which, since the days of Betterton, a
succession of popular performers have had
the greatest ambition to distinguish them-
selves. The length of the part may be one
of their reasons. But for the character it-
self, we find it in a play, and therefore wo
judge it a fit subject of dramatic represen-
tation. The play itself abounds in maxims
and reflections beyond any other, and there-
fore we consider it as a proper vehicle foi
conveying moral instruction. But Hamlet
himself —what does he suffer meanwhile by
being dragged forth as a public school-
master, to give lectures to the crowd f Why,
nine parts in ten of what Hamlet does are
transactions between himself and his moral
sense, they are the effusions of his solitary
musings, which he retires to holes and cor-
ners and the most sequestered parts of the
palace to pour forth; or rather, they are
the silent meditations with which his bosom
is bursting, reduced to words for the sake
of the reader, who must else remain igno-
rant of what is passing there. These pro-
found sorrows, these hght-and-noiae-abhor,-
nng ruminations, which the tongue scarce
dares utter to deaf walls and chambers, how
can they be represented by a gesticulating
actor, who conies and mouths them out be-
fore an audience, making four hundred
people his confidants at oncet I say not
that it is the fault of the actor so to do,
he must pronounce them ore rotundo? he
must accompany them with his eye, he must
insinuate them into his auditory by some
trick of the eye, tone, or gesture, or he fails.
He must be thinking all the while of his
appearance, because he knows that all the
while the spectators are judging of if. And
this is the way to represent the shy, negli-
gent, retiring Hamlet.
an Othello or a Posttramus with ther mar- , p^^. j^ 4, 888-40
ried wives, all those delicacies which are so » c#mbtUne, T, i
an orotund voice
924
NINETEENTH GENTUBT BOMANTICI8T8
It ib true that there IB no other mode of
conveying a vast quantity of thought and
feeling to a great portion of the audience,
who otherwise would never earn it for them-
selves by reading, and the intellectual acqui- 5
tntion gamed this way may, for aught I
know, be inestimable , but I am not arguing
that Hamlet should not be acted, but how
much Hamlet ife made another thing by being
acted. I have heard much of the wonders 10
which Gaiuck performed jn this part; but
as I never saw him, I must have lea\e to
doubt whethei the lepiesentation of such a
character came within the province of his
art Those who tell me of him, speak of his 15
eye, of the magic of his eye, and of his
commanding voice: physical properties,
vastly desirable in an actor, and without
which he can never insinuate meaning into
an auditory,— but what have they to do with 20
Hamlet? \vhat ha\e they to do with intel-
lect? In fact, the things aimed at in theat-
rical representation are to arrest the spec-
tator's eye upon the foirn and the gesture,
and so to gam a moie fa\nrable healing to 25
what is spoken it is not what the chaiacter
is, but how he looks, not what he says, but
how he speaks it 1 we no leason to think
that if the play of Hamlet ^eie written over
again by some such writer as Hanks or Lillo, ao
retaining the process of the stuw, but totally
omitting all the poetry of it, all the drune
features of Rhakspeaie, his stupendous in-
tellect, and only taking care to give us
enough of passionate dialectic, which Banks 85
or Lillo were never at a loss to furnish,— I
see not how the effect could be much differ-
ent upon an audience, nor how the actor has
it in his power to represent Shakspeare to
us differently from his representation of 40
Banks or Lillo. Hamlet would still be a
youthful accomplished prince, and must be
iriacefully personated; he might be puz-
zled in his mind, wavering in his conduct,
seemingly-cruel to Ophelia; he might see a 45
ghost, and start at it, and address it kindly
when he found it to be his father; all this,
in the poorest and most homely language
of the servilest creeper after nature that
ever consulted the palate of an audience, w
without *roublmg Shakspearc for the mat-
ter and T see not but there would be room
for all the power which an actor has, to
display itself. All the passions and changes
of passion might remain: for those are 58
much less difficult to write or act than is
thought ; it is a trick easy to be attained ; it is
but rising or falling a note or two hi the
voice, a whisper with a significant forebod- *
ing look to announce its approach, and so
contagious the counterfeit appearance of
any emotion is that, let the words be what
they will, the look and tone shall cuny it
off and make it pass for deep skill in the
It is common for people to talk of Shak-
speare 's plays being so natural; that every-
body can understand him They aie natutal
indeed ; they are grounded deep in nature, so
deep that the depth of them lies out oi the
reach of most of us. You shall hear the
samfe persons say that George Barnwcll is
very natuial, and Othello very natural, thnt
they are both very deep ; and to them they
are the same kind of thing At the one they
sit and shed tears, because a good soit of
young man is tempted by a naughty woman
to commit a trifling peccadillo, the murder of
an uncle or so,1 that IK all, and so conies to
an untimely end, which is *o moving; and at
the other, because a blackamoor in a fit of
jealousy kills his innocent white wile and
the odds aie that ninety-nine out of a hun-
dred would willingly behold the same catas-
trophe happen to both the heioes, and June
thought the rope more due to Othello than
to Bainwell. For of the textuie of Othello's
mind, the inward constiucdon manelloiisly
laid open with all its sticngths and weak-
nesses, its heroic confidences and its human
misgivings, its agonies of hate spimgnm
from the depths of lo\e, thev see no nioie
than the spectators at a cheaper inle, A\!JO
pay their pennies apiece to look through
the man's telescope in LeiceMei -fields, see
into the mwaid plot and topogiaphy of Ihe
moon. Some dun thing or other they see,
they see an actoi petsonating a passion, of
grief or anger, for instance, and Jhey recog-
nize it as b copy of the usual external effects
of such passions; for at least as being true
to that symbol of the emotion winch passes
current at the theatre for it, for it is often
1 "If this note could hope to meet the eye of am
of the manage™. I would entreat and beg of
them, in the name of both the gallcrlm, that
this insult upon the morality of the common
people of fxmdon should cease to he eternalh
repeated in the holiday week* Why are the
'prentices of thin famous and well-governed
elty, tafttead of an anuniement, to he treated
over and over again with the nauseous Mer-
men of George Barn* ell* Why at the ntcf of
their I'tofOM are we to plare the pft7/oic«f
Were T an uncle, I should not much like n
nephew of mine to have such an example
placed liefore hi* eyeh ft IH really making
uncle-murder too trivial to exhibit It as done
upon the slight motives •— it In attributing
too much to such characters as Millwood • -
It is putting thing* into the heads of good
which they would never otherwise
ad of. Uncles that think anything
r lives should fairly petition the chnm
berlaln against If— Lamb
CHABLE8 LAMB
925
no more than that: but of the grounds of
the passion, its correspondence to a great or
heroic nature, which is the only worthy ob-
ject of tragedy,— that common auditors
know anything of this, or can have any 6
such notions dinned into them by the meie
strength of an actor's lungs,— that appre-
hensions foieign to them should be thus in-
fused into them by storm, 1 can neither be-
lieve, nor understand how it -can be possible. 10
We talk of Shakspeare's admirable ob-
servation of life, when we should feel, that
not f i om a petty inquisition into those cheap
and every-day characters which surrounded
linn, as they surround us, but from his own 16
mind, which was, to borrow a phiase of Ben
Jonson's the very "sphere of humanity,1'1
he fetched those images of virtue and of
knowledge, of which every one of us recog-
nizing a pait, think we comprehend in our to
natures the whole, and oftentimes mistake
the powers which he positively creates in us,
for nothing more than indigenous faculties
of our own minds which only waited the
application of con esponding virtues in him 26
•to return a full and clear echo of the same.
To return to Hamlet.— Among the distin-
guishing features of that wonderful charac-
ter, one of the most interesting (yet pain-
ful) is that soreness of mind which makes so
him tieat the intinsions of Poloinus with
harshness, and that asperity which he puts
on m Ins interviews with Ophelia. These
tokens of an unhinged mind (if they be not
mixed in the lattei case wth a profound 81
artifice of love, to alienate Ophelia by af-
fected discouitesies, so to prepare her mind
foi the bi eaking off of that loving inter-
couise, winch can no longer find a place
amidst business so seiious as that which he 40
has to do) are parts of his character, which
to reconcile with our admiration of Hamlet,
the most patient consideration of his situa-
tion is no more than necessary; they are
what we forgive afterwards, and explain by *§
the whole of his character, but at the time
thev are harsh and unpleasant. Yet such in
the actoi 's necessity of giving strong blows
to the Audience, that T have never seen a
player in this character who did not exag- 60
Derate and strain to the utmost these ambig-
uous features,— these temporary deformities
in the character. They make him express a
vulgar scorn at Polonius, which utterly de-
grades his gentility, and which no explana- 66
tion can render palatable; they make him
• Jonnon, 4 Pindaric Ode to the Immortal Mem-
or;/ and Vrttndehto of T*«J Noble PfAr. Sir
Ltirftr* fiarv <i*<f Mr H. Jfortoon, 2, 80.
show contempt, and curl up the nose at
Ophelia's father,— contempt in its very
grossest and most hateful form, but they
get applause by it • it is natural, people say ,
that is, the words are scornful, and the aetoi
expresses scorn, and that they can judge of •
but why so much scorn, and of that sort,
they never think of asking
So to Ophelia -All the Hamlets that I
have ever seen, lant and ra\e at her as if she
had committed some great crime, and the
audience aie highly pleased, because the
words of the pait aie satirical, and they are
enforced by the st longest expression of sa-
tirical indignation of which the face and
voice are capable But then, whether Ham-
let is likely to ha\e put on such brutal
appearances to a lady whom he loved so
deaily, is never thought on The truth is
that in all such deep affections as had sub-
sisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, there is
a stock of mpereiogatory love (if I may
venture to use the expression), which in any
great grief of heart, especially where that
which pieys upon the mind cannot be com-
municated, confers a kind of indulgence
upon the giieved paitv to express itself,
even to its heart's dearest object, in the lan-
guage of a temporary alienation ; but it is
not alienation, it is a distraction purely, and
so it always makes itself to be felt by that
object: it is not anger, but grief assuming
the appearance of anger,— UN c awkwardh
counterfeiting: hate, as sueet countenances
when they try to frown but such sternness
and fierce disgust as Hamlet is made to show
is no counteifeit, but tho ieal face of abso-
lute aversion,— of irreconcilable alienation
It may be said he puts on Ihc madman ; but
then he should only so fai put on tins
counterfeit lunacy as his own real distrac-
tion will give him leave, that is, incom-
pletely, impel fectly, not in that confirmed
practiced way, like a master of his art, or,
as Dame Quickly would sav, "like one of
those harlohv players >f1
• .
The truth is, the character of Shaks-
peare are so much the objects of meditation
rather than of interest or curiositv as to
their actions, that while we aie reading any
of his great criminal characters-Macbeth,
Richard, even lago,— we think not so much
of the crimes which they commit, as of the
ambition, the aspiring spirit, the intellectual
activity, which prompts them to overleap
those moral fences. Barnwell is ft wretched
murderer; there is a certain fitness between
* 1 Henry IV, II 4. 437
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIGI8T8
his neck and the rope; he is the, legitimate in
heir to the gallows; nobody who thinks at real
all can think of any alleviating circum-
stances in his case to make him a fit object
of mercy. Or to take an instance from the 8
higher tragedy, what else but a mere assas-
sin is Glenalvon! Do we think of any-
thing but of the crime which he commits,
and the rack which he deserves! That is
all which we really think about him 10
Whereas in corresponding characters in
Shakspeare so little do the actions com-
paratively affect us, that while the impulses,
the inner mind in all its perverted great-
ness, solely seems leal and is exclusively 15
attended to, the enme is comparatively
nothing. But when we see these thing**
represented, the acts which they do are
comparatively everything, their impulses
nothing. The state of sublime emotion into 10
which we are elevated by those images of
night and horror which Macbeth is made to
utter, that solemn prelude with which he
entertains the time till the bell shall strike
which is to call him to murder Duncan,— 16
when we no longer read it in a book, when
we have given up that vantage-ground oi
abstraction which reading possesses over
seeing, and come to see a man in bib bodily
shape before our eyes actually preparing »
to commit a murdei, if the acting be true
and impressive, as I ha^e witnessed it in
Mr. K.V performance of that part, the
painful anxiety about the act, the natural
longing to prevent it while it yet seems un- 85
perpetrated, the top close pressing sem-
blance of reality, give a pain and an un-
easiness which totally destroy all the delight
which the words in the book convey, where
the deed doing never presses upon us with 40
the painful sense of presence, it rathei
seems to belong to history,— to something
past and inevitable, if it has anything to
do with time at all. The sublime images,
the poetry alone, is that which is present 41
to our minds in the reading.
So to see Lear acted,— to see an old man
tottering about the stage with a walking-
stick, turned out of doors by his daughters
m a rainy night, has nothing in it but what 50
is painful and disgusting. We want to
take him into shelter and relieve him. That
18 all the feeling which the acting of Lear
ever produced in me. But the Lear of
Shakspeare cannot be acted The con- 55
temptitte machinery by which they mimic
the storm which he goes out in, is not more
'John Phnip Kemble (17B7-1«M>, the noted
~ '- ' i actor. " *<* Jo*n. 3 •
to represent the horrors of the
than any actor can be to
represent Lear: they might more easily
propose to personate the Satan of Milton
upon a stage, or one of Michael Angelo's
terrible figures. The greatness of Lear is
not in corporal dimension, but in intellect-
ual • the explosions of his passion are ter-
rible as a volcano : they are storms turning
up and disclosing to the bottom that sea,
his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his
mind which is laid bare. This ease of flesh
and blood seems too insignificant to be
thought on ; even as he himself neglects it.
On the stage we see nothing but corporal
infirmities and weakness, the impotence of
rage, while we read it, we see not Lear,
but we are Lear,— we are in his mind, we
are sustained by a grandeur which baffles
the malice of daughters and storms; in
the aberrations of his reason, we discover
a mighty irregular power ot reasoning, im-
methodized from the ordinary purposes of
life, but exerting its powers, us the wind
blows where it listeth,1 at will upon the
corruptions and abuses of mankind. What
have looks, or tones, to do with that sub-
lime identification of his age with that of
the heavens themselves, when in his re-
proaches to them for conniving at the in-
justice of his children, he reminds them
that "they themselves are old"!2 What
gesture shall we appropriate to this? What
has the voice or the eye to do with such
things 1 But the play is beyond all art, as
the tamperings with it show it is too hard
and stony; it must have love-scenes, and
a happy ending. It is not enough that Cor-
delia is a daughter; she must shine as a
lover too Tate has put Ins hook in the
nostrils of this Le\iathan, for Garnck and
his followers, the showmen of the scene, to
draw the mighty beast about more easily
A happy ending!— as if the living martyi-
dom that Lear had gone through,— the
flaying of his feelings alive, did not make a
fair dismissal from the stage of life the
only decorous thing for him. If he is to
live and be happy after, if he could sus-
tain this world's burden after, why all this
pndder and preparation,— why torment us
with fell this unnecessary sympathy 1 As
if the ehildiah pleasure of getting his gilt
robefl and sceptre again could tempt him to
act over again his misused station,— as if at
hifl years, and with his experience, anything
was'left but to die
'jn»0L<vr, II, 4, 194
CHABLE8 LAMB
927
THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE
1820
Reader, in thy passage from the Bank—
where thou hast been receiving thy half-
yearly dividends (supposing thou art a lean
annuitant1 like myself)— to the Flower Pot,
to secure la place for Balaton, or Shackle-
well, or some other thy suburban retreat
northerly,— didst thou never observe a mel-
ancholy looking, handsome, brick and stone
edifice, to the left— where Threadneedle-
street abuts upon Bishopsgatel I dare say
thou hast often admired its magnificent por-
tals ever gaping wide, and disclosing to view
a grave court, with cloisters and pillars,
with few or no traces of goers-m or comers-
out— a desolation something1 like Balcln-
tha's.*
This was once a house of trade,— a centre
of busy interests. The throng of merchants
was here— the quick pulse of gain— and
here some forms of business are still kept
up, though the soul be long since fled. Here
are still to be seen stately porticoes; impos-
ing staircases; offices roomy as the state
apartments in palaces— deserted, or thinly
peopled with a few straggling clerks; the
still more sacred intenois of court and com-
mittee rooms, with venerable faces of bea-
dles,8 door-keepers—directors seated in form
on solemn days (to proclaim a dead divi-
dend) at long worm-eaten tables, that have
been mahogany, with tarnished gilt-leather
coverings, supporting massy bilver ink-
stands long since dry ;— the oaken wainscots
hung with pictures of deceased governors
and sub-governors, of Queen Anne, and the
two first monarohs of the Brunswick dy-
nasty,4—huge charts, which subsequent dis-
coveries have antiquated ;— dusty maps of
Mexico, dim as dreams,— and soundings of
the Bay of Panama!— The long passages
hung with buckets, appended in idle rows,
to walls, whose substance might defy any,
short of the last, conflagration;— with vast
ranges of cellarage under all, where dollars
and pieces of eight5 once lay, an "unsunned
heap,"8 for Mammon to have solaced his
solitary heart withal,— long since dissipated,
or scattered into air at the blast of the
breaking of that famous Bubble.7
'Lamb was not an annuitant when thin emav
waa written
"•I paiwed l>v the walla of Bnlcluthn and the?
irere desolate.— Oa»lanM— Lamb, Bee p. 87b,
_ 89-40 _ •Se.rrantft In charge of the offices
•Qeorce I and George IT
•BpanTfthdi
. . i dollara, or peaoft Each coin wa» narked
with the Ajmre 8, which indicated ita value In
fgffjmm 1 ft MMtia Af)R
'The failure of the South Sea Company, In which
great nnmheri of ihareholdert were rained by
the diflhonenty of the manngen.
Such is the South-Sea House. At least,
such it was forty years ago, when I knew
it,— a magnificent relic! What alterations
may have been made in it since, I have had
5 no opportunities of verifying. Time, I take
for granted, has not freshened it. No wind
has resuscitated the face of the sleeping
waters. A thicker crust by this time stagnates
upon it. The moths, that were then batten-
10 mg upon its obsolete ledgers and day-books,
have rested from their depredations, but
other light generations have succeeded, mak-
ing fine fretwork among their single and
double entries. Layers of dust have accu-
15 mulated (a superf (station1 of dirt!) upon
the old layers, that seldom used to be dis-
turbed, save by some curious finger, now and
then, inquisitive to explore the mode of
bookkeeping, in Queen Anne's reign; or,
20 with less hallowed curiosity, seeking to un-
veil some of the mysteries of that tremen-
dous hoax, whose extent the petty peculators
of our day look back upon with the same
expression of incredulous admiration, and
25 hopeless ambition of rivalry, as would be-
come the puny faces of modern conspiracy
contemplating the Titan size of Vaux'ti
superhuman plot.5
Peace to the manes8 of the Bubble! Si-
ao lence and destitution are upon thy walls,
proud house, for a memorial !
Situated as thou art, in the very heart of
stirring and living commerce,— amid the
fret and fever of speculation— with the
% Bank, and the 'Change, and the India-house
about thee, in the hey-day of present pros-
perity, with their important faces, as if
were, insulting thee, their poor neighbor out
of business— to the idle and merely contem-
40 plative,— to such as me, old house; there IB
a charm m thy quiet'— a cessation— a cool-
ness from business— an indolence almost
cloistral-which is delightful! With what
reverence have I paced thy great bare rooms
« and courts at eventide ! They spoke of the
past:— the shade of some dead accountant,
with visionary pen in ear, would flit by me,
stiff as in life. Living- accounts and account-
ants puzzle me. I have no skill in figuring
M But thy great dead tomes, which scarce
three degenerate clerks of the present day
could lift from their enshrining shelves—
with their old fantastic flourishes and deco-
rative rubric interlacing4— their sums in
leeoond engendering.— 4 0. double layer
•The plot of fluldo Vaux (Guy Fawkea) and
other* to blow up the Honnen of Parliament
In 1GOT>
g _i__ _•__
« Flourish** after rignatarea were called rabrlra,
from being written In red Ink
928
NINETEENTH CENTUB? ROMANTICISTS
triple colnmmafconft,1 set down with formal
superfluity of cyphers— with pious sentences
at the beginning, without which our religious
ancestors never ventured to open a book of
business, or bill of lading— the costly vellum
covers of some of them almost persuading
us that we are got into some better library,—
are very agreeable and edifying spectacles
1 can look upon these defunct dragons with
complacency Thy heavy odd-shaped ivory-
handled pen-knives (our ancestors had every
thing on a larger scale than we have hearts
for) are as good as anything from Hereu-
laneum The pounce-boxes3 of our days
have gone retrograde.
The very clerks which I remember in the
South-Sea House— I speak of forty years
back— had an air very different from those
in the public offices that I have had to do
with since. They partook of the genius of
the place !
They were mostly (for the establishment
did not admit of superfluous salaries) bach-
elors. Generally (for they had not much to
do) persons of a curious and speculative
turn of mind Old-fashioned, for a reason
mentioned before. Humorists,8 for they
were of all descriptions; and, not having
been brought together in eaily life (which
has a tendency to assimilate the members of
corporate bodies to each other), but, for the
most part, placed m this house in ripe or
middle age, they necessarily earned into it
their separate habits and oddities, unquali-
fied, if I may so speak, as into a common
stock. Hence they formed a sort of Noah's
ark4 Odd fishes A lay-monastery Domes-
tic retainers in a great house, kept more for
show than use Yet pleasant fellows, full of
chat— and not a few among them arrived at
considerable proficiency on the German
flute.
The cashier at that time was one Evans, a
Gambro-Bnton. He had something of the
choleric complexion of his countrymen
stamped on his visage, but was a worthy
sensible man at bottom. He wore his hair,
to the last, powdered and frizzed out, in the
fashion which I remember to have Been in
caricatured of what were termed, in my
young days, Maccaroniei He was the last
of that race of beaux. Melancholy as a gib-
cat5 over his counter tall the forenoon, I
i column! under three headlnn,— «., • , 4. . ,.
•Boxes with perforated lids for •Drlnkllng
pounce a flue powder, on manuncrtptu to drr
the Ink
. T, 2, 88 >
•male cat (fee 1
think 1 see him, making up his cash (as they
call it) with tremulous fingers, as if he
feared every one about him was a defaulter;
in his hypochondry ready to imagine him-
l self one; haunted, at least, with the idea of
the possibilities of his becoming one: his
tristful visage clearing up a little over his
roast neck of veal at Anderton's at two
(where his picture still hangs, taken a little
K> before his death by desire of the master of
the coffee-house, which he had frequented
for the last five-and-twenty years), but not
attaining the meridian of its animation till
evening brought on the hour of tea and
13 visiting. The simultaneous sound of his
well-known rap at the door with the stroke
of the clock announcing six, was a topic of
never-failing mirth in the families which this
dear old bachelor gladdened with his pres-
S> ence. Then was his forte, his glorified hour !
How would he chup, and expand, over a
muffin! How would he dilate into secret
history ! His countryman, Pennant himself,
in particular, could not be more eloquent
25 than he in relation to old and new London—
the site of old theatres, churches, streets
gone to decay— where Rosamond's pond
stood— the Mulberry-gardens— and the Con-
duit in Cheap— with many a pleasant anec-
80 dote, derived from paternal tradition, of
those grotesque figures which Hogarth has
immortalized in his picture of Noon,— the
worthy descendantR of those historic con-
fe&ois,1 who, flying to this country, from
36 the wrath of Louis the Fourteenth and his
dragoons, kept alive the flame of pure re-
ligion in the sheltering obscmities of Hog-
lane, and the vicinity of the Seven Dials!
Deputy, under Evans was Thomas Tame
40 He had the air and stoop of a nobleman.
Yon would have taken him for one, had you
met him in one of the passages leading to
Westminster-hall By stoop, I mean that
gentle bending of the body forwards, which,
45 in great men, must be supposed to be the
effect of an habitual condescending atten-
tion to the applications of their inferiors.
While he held you in converse, yon felt
strained to the height2 in the colloquy. The
30 conference over, you were at leisure to smile
at the comparative insignificance of the pre-
tensions which had just awed you. His in-
tellect was of the shallowest order. It did
not reach to la saw or a proverb. His mind
56 was in its original state of white paper. A
sucking babe might have posed8 him. What
i Huguenot refugee*.
•Bee JtoraiHfff Lout. 8. 464
• punted him by patHnu • question
CHARLES LAMB
929
was it then! Was he richt Alan, no*
Thomas Tame was very poor. Both he and
his wife looked outwardly gentlefolks, when
I fear all was not well at all times within
She had a neat meagre person, which it was
evident she had not sinned in over-pamper-
ing; but in its veins was noble blood. She
traced her descent, by some labyrinth of
telationship, which I never thoroughly un-
derstood, — much less can explain with any
heraldic certainty at this time of day,— to
the illustrious, but unfortunate house of
Derwentwater. This was the secret of
Thomas's stoop. This was the thought—
the sentiment— the bnght solitary star of
your lives,— ye mild and happy pair,—
which cheered you in the night of intellect,
and in the obscurity of your station ! This
was to you instead of riches, instead of
rank, instead of glittering attainments- and
it was woi th them all together. You in-
sulted none with it; but, while you wore it
as a piece of defensive armor only, no insult
likewise could reach you through it. Decus
et solamen 1
Of quite another stamp was the then ac-
countant, John Tipp. He neither pretended
to high blood, nor in good truth cared one
fig about the matter. He " thought an ac-
countant the greatest hero in the world, and
himself the greatest accountant in it."2 Yet
John was not without his hobby. The fiddle
leheted his vacant hours. He sang, cer-
tainly, with other notes than to the Orphean
lyre.1 He did, indeed, scream and scrape
most abominably His fine suite of official
rooms in Threadneedle-street, which with-
out anything very substantial appended to
them, were enough to enlarge a man's no-
tions of himself that lived in them (I know
not who is tlie occupier of them now),* re-
sounded fortnightly to the notes of a concert
of " sweet breasts,"5 as our ancestors would
have called them, culled from club-rooms
and orchestras— chorus singers— first and
second violoncellos— double basses— and
clarionets— who ate his cold mutton, and
and consolation C&fieftf, 10, 859)
apted from Fielding's The Adventure* of Jo-
Hcph Andrei* H, ft, R.
• Bee Paraditc Lnnt. :t, 17
• ' I ha\e since been Informed that the present
truant of thftn is a Mr Lamb, a gentleman
who Is happy In the possession of some choice
pictures, and among them a rare portrait of
Milton, which I mean to do my»elf the plea*
ure of going to see, and at the same time to
refresh mv memory with the sight of old
scenes Mr Lamb has the character of a
right courteous and communicative collector
—-Lamb. r\fr Lamb was Lamb's brother
voices (Bee Twelfth
)
II 'I, 2o
drank his punch, and praised his ear. He
sate like Lord Midas among them.1 But at
the desk Tipp was quite another sort of
creature. Thence all ideas, that were purely
5 ornamental, were banished You could not
speak of any thing romantic without re-
buke. Politics were excluded. A newspaper
was thought too refined and abstracted The
whole duty of man consisted in writing off
10 dividend warrants. The striking of the an-
nual balance m the company's book (which,
perhaps, differed from the balance of last
year in the sum of 252. 10. 6d.) occupied his
days and nights for a month previous. Not
is that Tipp was blind to the deadness of
things (as they call them in the city) in his
beloved house, or did not sigh for a return
of the old stirring days when South Sea
hopes were young— (he was indeed equal to
20 the wielding of any the most intricate ac-
counts of the most flourishing company in
these or those days) :— but to a genuine
accountant the difference of proceeds is a*
nothing. The fractional farthing is as dear
25 to his heart as the thousands which stand
before it. He is the true actor, who,
whether his part be a prince or a peasant,
must act it with like intensity With Tipp
form was everything. His life was formal
ao His actions seemed ruled with a ruler His
pen was not less erring than his heart He
made the best executor in the world • he was
plagued with incessant executorslnps ac-
cordingly, which excited his spleen and
ffi soothed his vanity in equal ratios He would
swear (for Tipp swore) at the little or-
phans, whose rights he would guard with a
tenacity like the grasp of the dying hand,
that commended their interests to his pro-
40 tection. With all this there was about him
* sort of timidity (his few enemies used
to give it a worse name)— a something
which, in reverence to the dead, we will
place, if you please, a httle on this side of
45 the heroic. Nature certainly had been
pleased to endow John Tipp with a suffi-
cient measure of the principle of self-
preservation. There is a cowardice which
we do not despise, because it has nothing
BO base or treacherous in its elements, it be-
trays itself, not you* it is mere tempera-
ment ; the absence of the romantic and the
enterprising; it sees a lion in the way,2 and
will not, with Portinbras, "greatly find
66 quarrel in a straw,"8 when some supposed
honor is at stake. Tipp never mounted the
'That Is. without any skill Jn judging music
Bee Glossary.
•See Jtwerb*. 20 in
' ffmf'f. IV, 4, B5.
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
box of a stage-coach in his bfe, or leaned
against the rails of a balcony ; or walked
upon the ridge of a parapet; or looked
down a precipice; or let off a gun j or went
upon a water-party;1 or would willingly let
you go if he could have helped it: neither
was it recorded of him, that for lucre, or for
intimidation, he ever forsook friend or
principle.
Whom next shall we summon from the
dusty dead,2 in whom common qualities be-
come uncommon f Can I forget thee, Henry
Man, the wit, the polished man of letters,
the author, of the South-Sea House f who
never enteredst thy office in a morning, or
qnittedst it in mid-day (what didst thou
in an office t)— without some quirk that left
a sting! Thy gibes and thy jokes are now
extinct, or survive but in two forgotten vol-
umes,8 which I had the good fortune to res-
cue from a stall in Barbican, not three days
ago, and found thee terse, fresh, epigram-
matic, as alive. Thy wit is a little gone by
in these fastidious days— they topics are
staled by the "new-born gauds"4 of the
time*— but great thou used to be in Public
Ledgers, and m Chronicles, upon Chatham,
and Shelburne, and Roekingham, and Howe,
and Burgoyne, and Clinton, and the war
which ended in the teanng from Great Brit-
ain her rebellious colonies,— and Keppel,
and Wilkes, and Sawbridge, and Bull, and
Dunning, and Pratt, and Richmond,— and
such small politics.
A little less facetious, and a great deal
more obstreperous, was fine rattling, rattle-
beaded Plumer. He was descended,— not
in a right line, reader, (for his lineal pre-
tensions, bke his personal, favored a little
of the Mnister bend8) from the Pliuners of
Hertfordshire. So tradition gave him out,
and certain family features not a little sanc-
tioned the opinion Certainly old Walter
Plumer (his reputed author) had been a
rake in his days, and \iflited much in Italy,
•and had seen the world. He was uncle,
bachelor-uncle, to the fine old whig6 still
living, who has represented the county in
so many successive parliaments, and has a
fine old mansion near Ware. Walter flour-
ished in George the Second's days, and was
h, V, 5, 22
nir works fw Verte and Pro*r nf Me
late Henry Man (1802).
<Troilu$ on/ rrwtfcfe. III. 1, 176
•A term Inheraldry signifying Illwrlttmacv.
• William Plumer, for whom Lamb1* grandmother,
Mm Field, bad.been housekeeper.
the same who was summoned before the
House of Commons about a business of
franks,1 with the old Duchess of Marlbor-
ough. You may read of it in Johnson's
5 Life of Cave. Cave caine off cleverly in
that business. It is certain our Plumer did
nothing to discountenance the rumor. He
rather seemed pleased whenever it was, with
all gentleness, insinuated. But, besides his
10 family pretensions, Plumer was an engag-
ing fellow, and sang gloriously.
Not so sweetly sang Plumer as thou sang-
est, mild, childlike, pastoral M—;2 a flute's
breathing less divinely whispering than thy
is Arcadian melodies, when, in tones worthy
of Arden, thou didst chant that song sung
by Amiens to the banished Duke,8 which
proclaims the winter wind more lenient
than for a man to be ungrateful. Thy sire
20 was old surly M— , the unapproachable
churchwarden of Bisliopsgate He knew
not what he did, when he begat thee, like
spring, gentle offspring of blustering- win-
ter:—only fortunate in thy ending, which
25 should have been mild, conciliatory, swan-
like4
Much remains to sing. Many fantastic
shapes rise up, but they must be mine in
private:— already I have fooled the reader
80 to the top of his bent ,6— else could I omit
that strange creature Woollott, who existed
in trying the question, and bought ktiga-
tioHst— and still stranger, inimitable sol-
emn Hepworth, from whose gravity New-
36 ton might have deduced the law of gravita-
tion How profoundly would he nib0 a
pen— with what deliberation would he wet
a wafer IT
But it is time to close— night's wheels
40 are rattling fabt over me— it is proper to
have done with this solemn mockery.
Reader, what if I have been playing with
thee all this while— peradventiire the very
names, which I have summoned up before
« thee, are fantastic — insubstantial — like
Henry Pimpernel, and old John Naps of
Greece-—
Be satisfied that something answering to
them has had a being Their importance is
60 from the past.
1 free mall aerrlce
• T Maynard. a clerk who. according to Lamh,
hanged himself.
It.II, 7.
e swan was said to ring melodiously wbeo
..
• sharpen the point
CHABLE8 LAMB
931
CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE AND
THIBTY TEAB8 AGO
1820
In Mr. Lamb's "Works," published a
year or two since, I find a magnificent eulogy
on my old school,1 such as it was, or now
appears to him to have been, between the
years 1782 and 1789. It happens, very oddly,
that my own standing at Christ's was nearly
corresponding with his; and, with all grati-
tude to him for his enthusiasm for the
cloisteis, I think he has contrived to bring
together whatever can be said in praise of
them, dropping all the other side of the
argument most ingeniously.
I remember L. at school, and can well
recollect that he had some peculiar advan-
tages, which I and others of his school-
fellows had not. His fnends lived in town,
and were near at hand ; and he had the privi-
lege of going to see them, almost as often
as he wished, through some invidious dis-
tinction, which was denied to us. The pres-
ent worthy sub treasurer2 to the Inner Tem-
ple can explain how that happened. lie
had his tea and hot rolls in a morning.
while we were battening upon our quarter of
a penny loaf— our cra^8— moistened with
attenuated small beer, in wooden piggins,4
smacking of the pitched leathern jack it
was poured from Our Monday 's milk poi-
ntch, blue and tasteless, and the pease soup
of Saturday, coarse and choking, were en-
riched for him with a slice of "extraordi-
nary bread and butter," from the hot-loaf
of the Temple. The Wednesday's mess of
millet, somewhat less repugnant (we had
thiee banyan5 to four meat tla>s in the
week), was endeared to his palate with a
lump of double-iefined,6 and a smack of
ginger (to make it go down the more gliblv)
or the fragrant cinnamon. In lieu of our
lialf-pickled Sundays, or qwte fresh boiled
beef on Thursdays (strong as cam equina*),
with detestable marigolds floating in the
pail to poison the broth— our scanty mutton
ciaps" on Fridays— and rather more savory,
but 'grudging, portions of the same flesh,
rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tnesdavs (the
onlv dish which excited our appetites, and
disappointed our stomachs, in almost equal
proportion)— he had his hot plate of roast
1 A reference to Lamb'* Jta*o7fooffON« of Wrf*/ V
fllang for bread.
«nmall pall* with upright , stave* aa handle*
'The day* on which *allora have no allowance
of meat*
J That I*, *wur T honwile*h
veal, or the more tempting griskin1 (ex-
otics unknown to our palates), cooked in
the paternal kitchen (a great thing), and
brought him daily by his maid or aunt !2 1
5 remember the good old relative (ui whom
love forbade pnde) squatting down upon
some odd stone in a by-nook of the cloisters,
disclosing the viands (of higher regale than
those cates8 which the ravens ministered to
10 the Tishbite4) ; and the contending passions
of L. at the unfolding. There was love for
the bringer; shame for the thing brought,
and the manner of its bringing, sympathy
for those who were too many to share in it ,
15 and, at top of all, hunger (eldest, strongest
of the passions') predominant, breaking
down the stony fences of shame, and awk-
wardness, and a troubling over-conscious-
ness.
ao I was a poor friendless boy. My parents
and those who should care for me, were fai
away. Those few acquaintances of theirs,
which they could reckon upon being kind
to me in the great city, after a little foiced
23 notice, which they had the trrace to take ol
me on my first arrival in town, soon grew
tired of my holiday visits They seemed to
them to lecur too often, though 1 thought
them few enough; and one after another
30 they all failed me, aud I felt myself alone
among six hundred playmates.
0 the cruelty of separating a poor lad
from his early homestead* The yearning*
which I used to have towards it in those
35 unfledged years! How, in my dreams, would
my native town (far in the west) come
back, with its church, and trees, and faces '
How I would wake weeping, and in the
anguish of my heart exclaim upon sweei
40 Calne in Wiltshire!
To this late hour of my life, I trace im-
pressions left by the recollection of thos<
friendless holidays The long warm day
of summer never return but they bring
45 with them a gloom from the haunting mem-
ory of those whole-day-lraves, when, b>
some strange arrangement, we were turned
out, for the live-long day, upon our own
hands, whether we had friends to go to
so or none. I remember those bathing-excur-
sions to the New-River, which L. recall"
with such relish, better, I think, than he
can— for he was a home-seeking lad, and
did not much care for such water-pastimes
1 pork chop
9 Lamb'* Aunt Hettv, mentioned In the e**ay Tftr
<mijah
Bee 1 King*, IT; aim PamOiim
2, 206 ff
932
NINETEENTH CENTU6Y ROMANTICISTS
How merrily we would sally forth into the
fields; and strip under the first warmth of
the sun; and wanton like young dace1 in
the streams; getting us appetites for noon,
which those of us that were pennyless (our
scanty morning crust long since exhausted)
had not the means of allaying— while the
cattle, and the birds, and the fishes, were
at feed about us, and we had nothing to
satisfy our cravings— the very beauty of
the day, and the exercise of the pastime, and
the sense of liberty, setting a keener edge
upon them I— How faint and languid,
finally, we would return, towards nightfall,
to our desired morsel, half-rejoicing, half-
reluctant, that the hours of our uneasy lib-
erty had expired!
It was worse in the days of winter, to go
prowling about the streets objectless— shiv-
ering at cold windows of print-shops, to
extract a little amusement; or haply, as a
last resort, in the hope of a little novelty,
to pay a fifty-times repeated visit (where
our individual faces should be as well
known to the warden as those of his own
charges) to the Lions in the Tower— to
whose levee2 by courtesy immemorial, we
had a prescriptive title to admission.
L.'s governor3 (M> we called the patron
who presented us to the foundation) lived
in a manner under his paternal roof. Any
complaint which he had to make was sure
of being attended to. This was understood
at Christ's, and was an effectual screen to
him against the sevei ity of masters, or worse
tyranny of the monitors. The oppressions
of these young brutes are heart-sickening
to call to recollection. I have been called
out of my bed, and waked for the purpose,
in the coldest winter nights— and this not
once, but night after night— in my shirt,
to receive the discipline of a leathern thong,
with eleven other sufferers, because it
pleased my callow overseer, when there has
been any talking heard after we were gone
to bed, to make the six last beds in the dor-
mitory, where the youngest children of us
slept, answerable for an offense they neither
dared to commit, nor had the power to hin-
der. The same execrable tyranny drove the
younger part of UR from the fires, when
our feet were perishing with snow; and,
under the cruelest penalties, forbad the in-
dulgence of a drink of water, when we lay
in sleepless summer nights, fevered with the
season, and the day's sports.
• A kind of f rwih-water flab.
• reception (The lions were tranfrfrared to the
Zoological Gardens in 1831.)
• Samuel Rait Bee Glossary.
There was one H - ,l who, I learned,
in after days was seen expiating some
maturer offense in the hulks.8 (Do I flatter
myself in fancying that this might be the
ff planter of that name, who suffered— at
Nevis, I think, or St. Kits,— some few
years since f 'My fnend Tobin was the
benevolent instrument of bringing him to
the gallows.) This petty Nero actually
10 branded a boy, who had offended him, with
a red hot iron; and nearly starved forty
of us, with exacting contributions, to the
one-half of our bread, to pamper a young
ass, which, incredible as it may seem, with
15 the connivance of the nurse's daughter (a
young flame of his) he had contrived to
smuggle in, and keep upon the leads* of
the ward, as they called our dormitories.
This game went on for better than a ueek,
» till the foolish beast, not able to fare well but
he must cry roast meat4— happier than
Caligula's minion,5 could he have kept bin
own counsel— but, f oohsher, alas ! than any
of his species in the fables— waxing fat, and
25 kicking,0 in the fuhiesb of bread,7 one un-
lucky minute would needs proclaim his good
fortune to the world below; and, laying out
his simple throat, blew such a ram's-horn
blast, as (toppling down the walls of his
30 own Jericho8) set concealment any longer
at defiance. The client was dismissed,
with certain attentions, to Smithfield; but
1 never understood that the patron under-
went any censure on the occasion. This
35 was in the stewardship of L.'s admired
Perry.
Under the same facile administration, can
L. have forgotten the cool impunity with
which the nurses used to carry away openly,
40 in open platters, for their own tables, one
out of two of every hot joint, which the
careful matron had been seeing scrupulously
weighed put for our dinners! These things
were daily practiced in that magnificent
45 apartment, which L. (grown connoisseur
since, we presume) praises so highly for
the grand paintings "by Verrio, and
others," with which it is "hung round and
adorned.919 But the sight of sleek well-fed
50
1 veaaela uned an prlnonii
8 flat rooffl covered with nheefci of lead
4 That In, publlHh hi* good fortune
•Indtatus, a hone which the Roman Emperor
„ Caligula made a coniul and a priest He wan
66 kept In a marble stable, and fed with wine
and glided oat*
ee Deuteronomy, 82 15.
•Bee
J Hee Jfeefctol. 16
•Quoted* from
; Hamltt, III, ft. 80
m Lamb'i eaaaj Recollection* of
Hospital
CHARLES
blue-coat1 boys in pictures was, at that time,
I believe, little consolatory to him, or us,
the living ones, who saw the better part oi
our provisions earned away before our
faces by harpies; and ourselves reduced
(with the Trojan2 in the hall of Dido)
To feed our mind with idle portraiture.*
L. has recorded the repugnance of the
school to gaga, or the fat of fresh beef
boiled; and sets it down to some supersti-
tion. But these unctuous morsels are never
grateful to young palates (children are uni-
versally fat-haters) and in strong, coarse,
boiled meats, uncalled, are detestable A
gag-eater in our time was equivalent to a
goul4 and held in equal detestation. "*
buffered uuder the imputation :
'Twas said
lie ate strange fieah.°
He was observed, after dinner, carefully
to gather up the lemuants7 left at his table
(not many, nor very choice fragments, you
may credit me)-— and, in an especial man-
ner, these disreputable morsels, which he
would convey away and secretly stow in the
settle that stood at his bed-side. None saw
when he ate them. It was rumored that
he privately devoured them in the night.
He was watched, but no traces of such mid-
night practices were discoverable. Some
reported that, on leave-days, he had been
seen to carry out of the bounds a large blue
check handkerchief, full of something
This then must be the accursed thing1*
Conjecture next was at work to imagine how
he could dispose of it. Some said he sold
H to the beggars. This belief generally pre-
vailed. He went about moping. None spake
to him. No one would play with him. He
was excommunicated; put out of the pale
of the school. He was too powerful a boy
to be beaten, but he underwent every mode
of that negative punishment, which is more
grievous than many stripes. Still he per*,
severed. At length he was observed bv two
of his schoolfellows, who were determined
to get at the secret, and had traced him one
leave-day for that purpose, to enter a large
irhrl«t> HoRplUl wan called the Blue-Coat
School from the drew of the
• JSneao. wrecked on the eoart
Into the newly-built Temple
._
t of^Afrlca. went
of Dido, hut found
tf 1 4B4.
J/an imaginary evil being who rolm gravcR
and feeds upon the cornea
• It ts not known to whom Lamb refciw
[ •** ?toop**r*> 1. *• 67
21S;7-18.
worn-out building, such as there exist speci-
mens of in Chancery-lane, which are let out
to various scales of pauperism with open
door, and a common staircase. After him
ft they silently slunk in, and followed by
stealth up four flights, and saw him tap at
a poor wicket, which was opened by an
aged woman, meanly clad. Suspicion was
now ripened into certainty. The informers
10 had secured their victim. They had him in
their toils. Accusation was formally pre-
ferred, and retribution most signal was
looked for. Mr. Hathaway, the then stew-
ard (for this happened a little after my
13 time), with that patient sagacity which tem-
pered all his conduct, determined to investi-
gate the matter, before he proceeded to
sentence. The result was that the supposed
mendicants, the receivers or purchasers of
20 the mysterious scraps, turned out to be the
parents of , an honest couple come to
decay,— whon this seasonable supply had,
in all probability, saved from mendicancy ;
and that this young stork, at the expense of
23 his own good name, had all this while been
only feeding the old birds*— The governors
on this occasion, much to their honor, voted
a present relief to the family of , and
presented him with a silver medal The
ao lesson which the steward read upon RASH
JUDGMENT, on the occasion of publicly de-
Inenng the medal to , I believe, would
not be lost upon his auditory I had left
school then, but I well remember . He
35 was a tall, shambling youth, with a cast in
Ins eye, not at all calculated to conciliate
hostile prejudices. I have since seen him
carrying a baker's basket I think I heard
he did not do quite so well by himself, as
40 he had done by the old folks
T was a hypochondriac lad, and the
sight of a boy in fetters, upon the day of
my first putting on the blue clothes, was
not exactly fitted to assuage the natural
46 terrors of initiation. I was of tender years,
barely turned of seven ; and had only read
of such things in books, or seen them but
in dreams I was told he had run away.
This was the punishment for the first of-
50 fence As a novice I was soon after taken
to see the dungeons. These were little,
square. Bedlam cells, where a boy could just
He at his length upon straw and a blanket—
a mattress, I think, was afterwards sub-
65 stituted— with a peep of light, let in askance,
from a prison-orifice at top, barely enough
to read by. Here the poor boy was locked
in by himself all day, without sight of an\
but the porter who brought him his bread
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
and water— who might not speak to Wm;—
or of the beadle,1 who came twice a week to
call him out to receive his periodical chas-
tisement, which was almost welcome, because
it separated him for a brief interval from
solitude:— and here he was shut by himself
of nights, out of the reach of any sound,
to suffer whatever horrors the weak nerves,
and superstition incident to his time of life,
might subject him to.2 Tins was the penalty
for the second offence.— Wouldbt thou like,
reader, to see what became of him in the
next degree!
The culprit, who had been a third time
an offender, and whobe expulsion was at
this time deemed irreversible, was brought
forth, as at some solemn auto da fe* arrayed
in uncouth and most appalling attire— all
trace of his late "watchet weeds"4 care-
fully effaced, he was exposed in a jacket,
resembling those which London lamplight-
ers formerly delighted in, with a cap of
the same. The effect of tint* divestiture was
such as the ingenious deMsera of it could
have anticipated. With his pale and
f righted features, it was as if some of those
disfigurements in Dante5 had seized upon
him. In this disguisement be was brought
into the hall (L 's favorite state-room),
where awaited him the whole number of
his school-fellows, whose joint lessons and
sports he was thenceforth to share no more ,
the awful presence of the steward, to be
seen for the last time; of the executioner
beadle, clad in his state robe for the occa-
sion; and of two faces more, of direr im-
port, because ne\er but in these extremities
visible. These weie governors; two of
whom, by choice, or cbaiter, were always
accustomed to officiate at these Ultima Sup-
phcia;* not to mitigate (so at least we
understood it), but to enforce the uttermost
stripe. Old Bamber Oascoigne, and Peter
Anbert, I remember, were colleagues on one
occasion, when the beadle turning rather
pale, a glass of brandy was ordered to pre-
pare him for the mysteries.7 The scourg-
i An officer who looked after the school buildings.
•"One or two InrtiweB of lunacy, or attempted
Hnlcidc, accordingly, at length convinced the
governor* of the Impolicy of thiH part of the
sentence, ami the midnight torture of the
ajilrlte was dispensed with. Tbte fancy of
flnogeons for children waa a sprout of How
£ brain, for which (saving the reverence
i to Holy Paul) tnethlnka I could willingly
_f faith (The ceremony of ezeeatiaga Jndg
ment of the Bpaniflh TnqnUritton The con-
<t««nned neretten were strangled or burned )
•light blue amrmente (Collins, T*e JTmiMMf, 68;
Drayton, TolyolWon, 5 13)
•In the Inferno, 28 and 80.
• extreme tormentR T ceremonies
ing waft, after the old Roman fashion, long
and stately. The kctor1 accompanied the
criminal quite round the hall. We were
generally too faint with attending to the
6 previous disgusting circumstances, to make
accurate report with our eyes of the degree
of corporal punishment inflicted. Report,
of course, gave out the back knotty and
livid. After scourging, he was made over,
10 in his tian Bentto* to his friends, if he had
any (but commonly such poor runagates
were friendless), or to his parish officer,
who, to enhance the effect of the scene, had
his station allotted to him on the outside of
15 the hall gate.
These solemn pageantries were not played
off so often as to spoil the geneial mirth of
the community. We had plenty of exercise
and recreation after school hours, and, for
20 myself, I must confer, that I was never
happier, than in them. The Upper and
Lower Grammar Schools were held hi the
same room; and an imaginary line only
divided their bounds. Their character was
25 as different as that of the inhabitants of
the two sides of the Pvienees The Rev
James Boyer was the Fppei Master; but
the Rev. Matthew Field presided over that
portion of the apailment of which I had
30 the good f 01 tune to be a menihei We lived
a life as careless as birds. We talked and
did just what we pleased, and nobody mo-
lested us. We earned an accidence, or a
grammar, for form; but for any ti cubic
86 it gave us, we might take two years in get-
ting through the verbs deponent, and an-
other two m forgetting all that we bad
learned about them. There was now and
then the formality of saving a lesson, but
40 if you had not learned it, a brush across
the shoulders (just enough to disturb a fly)
was the sole remonstrance. Field never used
the rod; and in truth he wielded the cane
with no great good will -holding it "like
45 a dancer.9'3 It looked in his hands rather
like an emblem than an instrument of
authority; and an emblem, too, he was
ashamed of He was a good easy man, that
did not care to ruffle hig own peace, nor
60 perhaps set any great consideration upon
the ^alue of juvenile time. Ho came among
in*, now and then, but often staid away
whole days from us; and when he came, k
made no difference to us— he had his pri-
66 vate room to retire to, the short time he
* A Roman ofleer whom duty was to punish
•The draw won by penom condemn*) by the
end Cleopatra, III, 11, 86.
CHARLES LAMB
935
staid, to be out of the sound of our noise
Our mirth and uproar went on. We had
classics of our own, without being beholden
to "insolent Greece or haughty Rome,"1
that passed eurrent among us— Peter Wil>
kins— The. Adventures of the Hon Capt
Robert Boyle— The Fortunate Blue Coat
Boy— and the like. Or we cultivated a
turn for mechanic or scientific operations,
making little sun-dials of paper; or weav-
ing those ingenious parentheses, called cat-
cradles, or making dry peas to dance upon
the end of a tin pipe, or studying the art
military over that laudable game "French
and English,"2 and a hundred other such
devices to pass away the time— mixing the
useful with the agreeable— as would have
made the souls of Rousseau and John Locke
chuckle to have seen UB 8
Matthew Field belonged to that class of
modest divines who affect to mix in equal
proportion the gentleman, the scholar, and
the Christian; but, T know not how, the first
ingredient is generally found to be the pre-
dqminatmg dose in the composition He
was engaged in gay parties, or with his
courtly bow at some episcopal levte, when
he should have been attending upon us
He had for many years the classical charge
of a hundred children, during the four or
five first years of their education ; and his
very highest form seldom proceeded further
than two or three of the introductory fables
of Phcdrus How things were suffered to
go on thus, I cannot guess Boyer, who
was the proper person to have remedied
these abuses, always affected, perhaps felt,
a delicacy in interfering in a province not
strictly his own I have not been without
my suspicions that he was not altogether
displeased at the contrast we presented to
his end of the school We were a sort of
TTelota to his young Spartans * He would
sometimes, with ironic deference, send to
borrow a rod of the Under Master, and then,
with sardonic grin, observe to one of his
upper boys, "how neat and fresh the twigs
looked." While his pale students were bat-
tering their brains over Xenophon and
' Jonoon. To tlie Jfrmory of jfv Belorrd Mattel
William Bhakctpeart, and What He Hath Left
8 A ga'me'in which the players,— one French and
one English,— with eyes closed, draw a pencil
across a piece of paper covered with dots
The player wins whose pencil strikes the most
dots
•Rousseau and Locke advocated a system of edu-
cation which combined the practical with the
*A reference to the practice of the Spartans of
exhibiting to their sons, as a warning, a
drunken Helot, or slave.
Plato, with a silence as deep as that en-
joined by the Samite,1 we were enjoying
ourselves at our ease in our little Goshen 2
We saw a little into the secrets of his dis-
6 ciplme, and the prospect did but the more
reconcile us to our lot His thunders rolled
innocuous for us; his storms came near, but
never touched us, contrary to Gideon's mir-
acle, while all around were drenched, our
10 fleece was dry.8 His boys turned out the
better scholars; we, I suspect, have the ad-
vantage in temper. His pupils cannot speak
of him without something of terror allay-
ing their gratitude, the remembrance of
is Field comes back with all the soothing
images of indolence, and summer slumbers,
and work like play, and innocent idleness,
and Elysian exemptions, and life itself a
"playing holiday "4
20 Though sufficiently removed from the
jurisdiction of Boyer, we were near enough
(as I have said) to understand a little of
his system. We occasionally heard sounds
of the Ululantes* and caught glances of
25 Tartarus. B. was a rabid pedant His
English style was crampt to barbarism
His Easter anthems (for his duty obliged
him to those periodical flights) were grating
as scrannel* pipes 7 He would laugh, ay, and
»> heartily, but then it must be at Flaccus's
quibble about Rex* or at the tnstis
*eventas in rvZtu,9 or insptcere in patinas,™
of Terence— thin jests, which at their first
broaching could hardly have had tn*11
35 * Pythagoras (6th cent R C ). the Crook phll
osopher of Samos, *ho enjoined silence upon
his pupils until they had listened to MR lee
turos for five years They \vere also hound to
keep everything secret from the outer "world
* See Genesis, 47 b ; Exodus, 6 22
•» Lamb cites Cowley an the source of this phrase
40 See Cowle\ « TTir Complaint, 69 74 , also,
Juttqta, « H7 'JX
5 howling suneiers ( £7tieuf, (I, 557)
"thin, dry (Hee &f/ctc/<u, 124 )
7 "In this and everything B was the antipodes
of his coadjutor. While the former was dig-
ging his brains for crude anthems, worth a
pignut, F would be recreating his gentlo
manly fancy in the more flowery walks of the
Muses A little dramatic effusion of his
under the name of Vertvmnus and Pomona is
not yet forgotten by the chroniclers of that
sort of literature It was accepted by Oai
rick, but the town did not give ft their sane
tion B. used to say of it, in a way of half
compliment, half Irony, that it was too cfcffi
Irol for reprc*mtat1on "—Lamb
* Flaccui.— i. c, Horace, in his Satires, I, 7, 33.
uses the word Rex with the double meaning
of king, a monarch, and King, a surname
•gloomy rt«T*n«»M on t*e countenance (A comt<
character in Terence's Andria, V 2, 16. uses
this phrase to describe a bearer of lies )
10 to look into the utewnins (A servant in
Terence's The Adtlphi, ITT, 8f 74, parodies the
words of an old man to bin son — <rto look into
the lives of men as Into a mirror" — by saving
that he directs his fellows to look into their
stewpana as into a mirror
» force
936
NINETEENTH OENTUBT BOMANTIOI8T8
enough to move Roman muscle.— He had
two wigs, both pedantic, but of differing
omen. The one serene, smiling, fresh pow-
dered, betokening a mild day. The other,
an old discolored, unkempt, angry caxon,1
denoting frequent and bloody execution.
Woe to the school, when he made his morn-
ing appearance in his paswjt or passionate
wig. No comet expounded surer.2— J. B.
had a heavy hand. I have known him dou-
ble his knotty fist at a poor trembling child
(the maternal milk hardly dry upon its
lips) with a "Sirrah, do you presume to
set your wits at me!' '—Nothing was more
common than to see him make a headlong
entry into the schoolroom, from his inner
recefes, or library, and, with turbulent eye,
singling out a lad, roar out, "Od's my life,3
Sirrah" (his favonte adjuration), "I have
a great mind to whip you,"— then, with as
sudden a retracting impulse, fling back into
his lair— and, after a cooling lapse of some
minutes (during which all but the culprit
had totally forgotten the context) drive
headlong out bgara, piecing out his imper-
fect sense, as if it had been some Devil's
Litany, with the expletory yell— "and 7
WILL, too."— In his gentler moods, when
the rdbidus furor* \sns assuaged, he had re-
sort to an ingenious method, peculiar, for
what I have heard, to himself, of whipping
the boy, and reading the Debates, at the
same time; a paiagiaph, and a lash be-
tween; which in those times, when parlia-
mentary oratory was most at a height and
flourishing in these realms, was not calcu-
lated to impress the patient with a venera-
tion for the difftwer graces of rhetoric.
Once, and bnt once, the uplifted rod was
known to fall ineffectual from his hand-
when dioll squinting W - B having been
caught putting the inside of the master's
desk to a use for winch the architect had
clearly not designed it, to justify himself.
with great simplicity averred, that "he did
not know that the iking had been fore-
warned. Tliis exquisite irrecognition of any
law antecedent to the oral or declarator*!,
struck so irresistibly upon the fancy of all
who heard it (the pedagogue himself not
except ed) that remission was unavoidable
L. has given credit to B.'s great merits
as an instructor Coleridge, in his Literary
Life,9 has pronounced a more intelligible
i An old kind of wfc ^ a
•Cometi were regarded a* omen* of Impending
38)
and ampleencomium on them. The author of
The Country Spectator1 doubts not to com-
pare him with the ablest teachers of an-
tiquity. Perhaps we cannot dismiss him
5 better than with the pious ejaculation of
C — when he heard that his old master was
on his death-bed— "Poor J. B.!— may all
his faults be forgiven, and may he be
wafted to bliss by little cherub boys, all
10 head and wings, with no bottoms to reproach
his sublunary infirmities "
Unjler him were many good and sound
scholaih bred. — Fiist Grecian2 of my tune
was Lancelot Pepys Stevens, kindest of
15 boys and men, since Co-grainmar-master
(and inseparable companion) with Dr
T e.8 What an edifymcr spectacle diil
this brace of friends present to those *hn
remembered the anti-socialities of their
20 predecessors !— You never met the one by
chance in the street without a wonder, which
was quickly dissipated by the almost im-
mediate sub-appearance of the other. Gen-
erally arm in arm, these kindly coadjutors
2> lightened for each other tho toilsome duties
of their profession, and when, in advanced
age, one found it convenient to retire, the
other was not long in discovering that it
suited him to lay down the fasces* also.
x> Oh, it is pleasant, as it IB rare, to find the
same arm linked in yours at forty, which
at thirteen helped it to turn over the Cicero
De Am tc 1 1 id? or some tale of Antique
Friendship, which the young heart even
86 then was burning to anticipate!— Co-Gre-
cian with S. was Th — ,° who has since exe-
cuted with ability various diplomatic func-
tions at the Northern courts. Th — was a
tall, dark, saturnine youth, sparing of
40 speech, with raven locks Thomas Fan-
shaw Middleton followed him (now Bishop
of Calcutta) a scholar and a gentleman in
his teens. He has the reputation of an ex-
cellent critic; and is author (besides The
*& Country Spectator) of A Treatise on the
Greek Article, against flharpe.— M. is said
to bear his mitre7 in India, where the regm
novitaa* (I dare say] sufflrientlv justifies
the bearing. A humility quite as primitive
60 as that of Jewel or Hooker might not be
* Thorn** Fanshaw Middleton
* \ name given to the students of the flrat class
in Christ's Hospital.
Tlr Arthur William Trollop*, who succeeded
Bow aajieadmaster ' ~
4 Bundle*
Roman
* Cicero's £MOV~ Concerning Prtaitfi
•Sir Bdward Thornton mee-1852)
T The tiBdal head-dreaa of a hinhop
•newness of rale.— 4. <*.. British rnle (flee the
W»*M, 1, 062 )
thnr William Trollope. who succeedeil
• as headmaster of the school.
• of fpda carried by llrtow before the
A magistrates aa a symbol of authority :
nei*e< f OP ftifos) TOO.
CHAELES LAMB
937
exactly fitted to impress the minds of those
Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with a reverence
for home institutions, and the church which
those fathers watered.1 The manners of M.
at school, though firm, were mild, and un-
assuming;.—Next to M. (if not senior to
him) was Richards, author of The Aborig-
inal Britons, the most spirited of the Oxford
Prize Poems; a pale, studious Grecian.—
Then followed poor
ill-fated
M !8 of these the Muse is silent.
Finding some of Edward's race
Unhappy pass their annals by.4
Come back into memory, like as thou wert
in the day-spnng of thy fancies, with hope
like a fiery column before thee0— the dark
pillar not yet turned— Samuel Taylor Cole-
ridge—Logician, Metaphysician, Bard1—
How have I seen the casual passer through
the Cloisters stand still, intranced with ad-
miration (while he weighed the dispropor-
tion between the speech and the garb of the
young Mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in
thy deep and sweet intonations, the mys-
teries of Jambhchns, or Plotmus (for even
in those years thou waxedst not pale at
such philosophic draughts), or reciting
Homer in his Cheek, or Pindar while the
walls of the old Giev Fnnr» re-echoed to
the accents of the tmpired chanty-boy *-
Many weie the "wit-cnmbats"6 (to dallv
awhile with the wonls of old Fuller), be-
tween him and C V LeG ,7 ''winch two
I behold like a Spanish great galleon, and
an English man of war. Master Coleridge,
like the foimer, was built far higher in
learning, solid, but slow in Ins perform-
ances. C. V. L , with the English man of
war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing
could turn with all tides, tack about, anil
take advantage of all winds, by the quick-
ness of his wit and invention."
Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be quickly
forgotten, Allen, with the cordial Rmile,
and still more cordial laugh, with which thou
wert wont to make the old Cloisters shake,
in thy cognition of some poignant jest of
i See 1 Portof ftfrn*. 1 -fl-R
- V ntuilont DHiuod Hcott. who died In an Insane
' V student named Mnnnde, who was dismissed
from school.
« Prior Carmen flmitorr /or the Year /700, st
ft. 4R The reference Is to the stndents of
Christ's Hospital, which was founded by Ed-
ward VI In 16M *„«««,
• Bee E*odv*. 11 21 : Number*. 9 15-25 «, *
•Adapted from a passage In Wfr^iTke Htotory
p/ f*r TfortMrji in Enaland (1662), In which
is described a wit combat between flhakaperc
and Ben Jonwn. ,
» Charles Valentine 1
the Grecians at C
ce (im-l
H Hospital
. one of
theirs j or the anticipation of some more
material, and, peradventure, practical one,
of thine own. Extinct are those smiles,
with that beautiful countenance, with which
ft (for thou wert the Nireus formosus1 of the
school), in the days of thy maturer wag-
gery, thou didst disarm the wrath of inf un-
ated town-damsel, who, incensed by pro-
voicing pinch, turning tigress-like round,
10 suddenly converted bv thy angel-look, ex-
changed the half-formed terrible "W ,"
for a gentler greeting— "bless thy hand-
some face!"
Next follow two, who ought to be now
15 alive, and the fnends of Elia— the junior
Le G * and F ,* who impelled, the
former by a roxing temper, the latter by
too quick a sense of neglect— ill capable of
enduring the slights poor sizars4 are some-
20 times subject to in our seats of learning-
exchanged their Alma Mater for the camp;
perishing, one by climate, and one on the
plains of Salamanca:— Le O , sanguine,
volatile, swcet-natured; F , dogged,
2r> faithful, anhcipative of insult, warm-
hearted, with something of the old Roman
height about him.
Fine, finnk-hearted Fi ,* the pres-
ent master of Hertfoid, \\ith Marmaduke
a> T ,• mildest of missionaries— aud both
my good friends still— close the catalogue
of Orecianb in iny time
THE TWO RACES OP MEN
35 1820
The human species, according to the best
theory I can form of it, is composed of two
distinct races, the men wlto borrow, and the
men who lend To these two original diver-
<o sities may be reduced all those impertinent
classifications of Gothic and Celtic tnbes,
white men, black men, led men All the
dwellers upon earth, "Partluans, and
Medes *nd EIamiteV'r flock hither, and do
45 naturally fall in with one or other of these
primary distinctions The infinite superior-
ity of the former, which I choose to desig-
nate as the great race, is discernible in their
figure, port, and & certain instinctive sov-
M ereignty. The latter are bom degraded
1handaome Nlrenn fNlrenn wan the handsomest
man among the Greeks before Troy. See the
Tlted , 2. 673 )
9 Ramnel Lo Grlce. * ho became a soldier and died
In the West Indlen
8 Toseph Pavell. who left Cambridge because he
was ashamed of Ms father, a Jionse-palnter
Tie In the "noor W" of Lamb's Poor Relation*
(p. 955b, 45).
4 students exempted from college fees
• Frederick William Franklin
•Mnrmadnke Thompson * 4rf»( 2 9.
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTB
"He shall serve hia brethren.'91 There is
something in the air of one of this cast, lean
and suspicions;2 contrasting with the open,
trusting, generous manners of the other.
Observe who have been the greatest bor-
rowers of all ages— Alcibiades— Falstaff—
Sir Richard Steele— our late incomparable
Brinsley— what a family likeness in all
four I
What a careless, even deportment hath
your borrower I what rosy gills! what a
beautiful reliance on Providence doth he
manifest,— taking no more thought than
lilies!8 What contempt for money,— ac-
counting it (yours and mine especially) no
better than dross. What a liberal confound-
ing of those pedantic distinctions of mewn
and tuuttt/4 or rather, what a noble simpli-
fication of language (beyond Tooke), re-
solving these supposed opposites into one
clear, intelligible pronoun adjective!—
What near approaches doth he make to the
primitive community*— to the extent of one
half of the principle at least !
He is the true taxer who "calleth all the
world up to be taxed",6 and the distance is
as vast between him and one of us, as sub-
sisted betwixt the Augustan Majesty7 and
the poorest obolary8 Jew that paid it trib-
ute-pittance at Jerusalem!— His exactions,
too, have such a cheerful, voluntary airf
So far removed from your sour parochial
or state-gatherers,— those ink-horn varlets,
who carry their want of welcome in their
faces! He coraeth to you with a smile, and
troubleth you with no receipt, confining
himself to no set season. Every day is his
Candlemas, or his Feast of Holy Michael °
He appheth the lene tormentum10 of a pleas-
ant look to your purse,— which to that gentle
warmth expands her silken leaves, as nat-
urally as the cloak of the traveler, for which
sun and wind contended rn He is the true
Propontic which never ebbeth!12 The sea
which taketh handsomely at each man's
hand. In vain the victim, whom he delight-
eth to honor,18 struggles with destiny; he is
in the net Lend therefore cheerfully, O
e8t§ 0*25
Julius Ooaar. 1,2, 194-98
The History of
the Life of the Late Mr Jonathan Wild the
Great/ 3, 14 )
•Bee Ac/«.2 44.
• Lute, 2 1
'The Imperial Government.
• impoverished; possessing only Hmall coins like
man ordained to lend— that thou lose not
in the end, with thy worldly penny, the re-
version promised.1 Combine not preposter-
ously in thine own person the penalties of
5 Lazarus and of Dives H— but, when thou
seest the proper authority coming, meet it
smilingly, as it were half-way. Come, a
handsome sacrifice 1 See how light he makes
of it! Strain not courtesies with a noble
10 enemy.
Reflections like the foregoing were forced
upon my mind by the death of my old friend,
Ralph Bigod, Esq., who departed this life
on Wednesday evening, dying, as he had
16 lived, without much trouble He boasted
himself a descendant from mighty ances-
tors of that name, who heretofore held ducal
dignities in this realm. In his actions and
sentiments he belied not the stock to which
20 he pretended Early in lite he found him-
self invested with ample revenues, which,
with that noble disinterestedness which I
have noticed as inherent in men of the great
race, he took almost immediate measures
25 entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing:
for there is something revolting in the idea
of a king holding a private purse; and the
thoughts of Bigod were all regal Thus
furnished, by the very act of disfurnish-
30 ment, getting rid of the cumbersome lug-
gage of riches, more apt (as one sings)
To slacken virtue, and abate her edge,
Than prompt her to do aught may ment
piaisejs
OP
he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his
great enterprise, "borrowing and to bor-
row'1!4
In his periegesis,8 or triumphant progress
40 throughout this island, it has been calcu-
lated that he laid a tythe6 part of the inhab-
itants under contnbution I reject this esti-
mate as greatly exaggerated :— but having
had the honor of accompanying my f nend,
45 divers times, in his perambulations about
this vast city, I own I was greatly struck
at first with the prodigious number of faces
we met who claimed a sort of respectful
acquaintance with us. He was one day so
60 obliging as to explain the phenomenon. It
seems, these were his tributaries; feeders
of his exchequer; gentlemen, his good
friends (as he was pleased to express him-
self), to whom he had occasionally been
65 beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did
t
"gentle
"In one of the
» See Othello, I
» Bee Either, 6
tenth
GHABLE8 LAMB
989
no way disconcert him. He rather took a
pride in numbering them; and, with Comas,
seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fan
a herd/11
With such sources, it was a wonder how
he contrived to keep his treasury always
empty He did it by force of an aphorism,
which ho had often in his mouth, that
''money kept longer than three d«y<»
stinks. " So he made use of it while it was
fresh A good part he drank away (for he
was an excellent toss-pot), some he gave
away, the rest he threw away, literally toss-
ing and hurling it violently from him— as
boys do burrs, or as if it had been infectious,
—into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes,—
inscrutable cavities of the earth;— or he
would bury it (where he would never seek
it again) bv a river's side under some bank,
which (he would facetiously observe) paid
no interest— but out away from him it must
go peremptorily, BP Hagar's offspring into
the wilderness2 while it was sweet He
never missed it The streams were peren-
nial which fed his fisc 3 When new sup-
plies became necessary, the first person that
had the felicity to fall in with him, friend
or stranger, was sure to contribute to the
deficiency. For Bipod had an undeniable
way with him. He had a cheerful, open
exterior,'a quick jovial eye, a bald forehead,
just touched with gray (cana fides4) He
anticipated no excuse, and found none
And, waiving for a while my theory as to
the great race, I would put it to the most
untheonzmg reader, who may at times have
disposable coin in his pocket, whether it i*»
not more repugnant to the kindliness of his
nature to refuse such a one as I am describ-
ing, than to say no to a poor petitionary
rogue (your bastard borrower) who, by his
mumping visnomy,5 tells you, that he ex-
pects nothing better, and, therefore, whose
preconceived notions and expectations you
do in reality so much less shock in the
refusal.
When I think of this man ; his fiery glow
of heart; his swell of feeling; how mag-
nificent, how ideal he was; how great at the
midnight hour; rind when I compare with
him the companions with whom T have
associated since, T grudge the saving of a
few idle ducats, and think that I am
fallen into the society of lenders, and little
men.
Orwri*, 16
To one like Eha, whose treasures are
rather cased in leather covers than closed
in iron coffers, there is a class of alienators
more formidable than that which I have
5 touched upon; I mean your borrowers of
books—those mutilators of collections,
spoilers of the symmetiy of shelves, and
creatois of odd volumes. There is Comber-
batch, matchless in his depredations!
w That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing
you, like a great eye-tooth knocked out
(you are now with me in my little back
study in Bloomsbury, reader!), with the
huge Switzer-hko1 tomes on each side (like
16 the Guildhall giants,2 m their reformed pos-
ture, guardant of nothing), once held the
tallest of my folios, Opera Bonaventura*
choice and massy divinity, to which its two
supporters (school divinity also, but of a
20 lesser calibre, — Bellannine, and Holy
Thomas), showed but as dwarfs,— itself an
Ascapart !— thai Comberbatch abstracted
upon the faith of a theory he holds, which
is more easy, I confess, for me to Buffet
& by than to refute, namely, that "the title
to property in a book (ray Bonaventure,
for instance) is in exact ratio to the claim-
ant 9s powers of understanding and appre-
ciating the same " Should he go on aetin&r
30 upon this theory, which of oni shelves is
safef
The alight vacuum in the left-hand case-
two shelves from the ceiling— scarcely dis-
tinguishable but by the quick eye of a loser
35 —was whilom the commodious resting-place
of Browne on Urn BunaL C TV ill hardly
allege that he knows more about that tiea-
tise than I do, who introduced it to him.
and was indeed the first (of the moderns)
40 to discover its beauties— but BO have 1
known a foolish lo\er to praise his mistress
in the presence of a rival more qualified to
carry her off than himself —Just below,
Dodsley'R dramas want their fourth vol-
4* ume, where Vittoria Corombona is! The
remainder nine are as distasteful as
Priam's refuse sons, when the Fates bor-
rowed He(tor4 Here stood Hie Anatomii
of Melancholy, in sober state.— There loi-
60 tered The Complete Angler, quiet as in life,
by some stream side — Tn yonder nook.
* That In, enormou*. like the giant Bwlm gnardft
formerly In the French nervier
•Two eoloBMtl wooden figure* of Gog and Magog
— in the council hall of London
*» 'Work* of Bona venture ( 1221-74) . an Italian
• iBbmael
! torc fldelltr ( ttfteM, 1. 292)
•mumming pnynlognomy
• In
Priam, wan
Artm
/Hod. 24. 48A ff
n War, Hector, the favorite *on of
i Hlaln bv Achnien With nine of
Bonn still living. Priam begged
940
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
John Buncle, a widower- volume, with "eyes
closed/'1 mourns his ravished mate.
One justice 1 must do my friend, that if
he sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away a
treasure, at another time, sea-like, he throws
up as rich an equivalent to match it. 1
have a small under-colleotion of this nature
(my friend's gatherings in his various
calls), picked up, he has forgotten at what
odd places, and deposited with as little
memory at mine. 1 take in these orphans,
the twice-deserted These proselytes of the
gate are welcome as the true Hebrews.2
There they stand in conjunction; natives,
and naturalized. The latter seem as little
disposed to inquire out their true lineage as
I am.— I charge no warehouse-room for
these deodands,1' nor shall ever put myself
to the ungentlemanly trouble of advertising
a sale of them to pay expenses
To lose a volume to (' cariieh some sense
and meaning in it. You aie sure that he
will make one hearty meal on your \iands,
if he can give no account of the plattei af tei
it. But what moved thee, wayward, spiteful
K ,4 to he HO importunate to carry off with
thee, in spite of tears and adjurations to
thee to f 01 hem, the Let lets of that princely
woman, the thrice noble Margaret New-
cast let— knowing at the time, and knowing
that I knew also, thon most assuredly
wouldst never turn mer one leaf of the
illustrious folio:— what hut the mere spirit
of contradiction, and childish love of getting
the better of thy fnendt— Then, worst cut
of all!5 to transport it with thee to the
Galhcan land—
Unworthy land to harbor such a sweetness,
A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt,
Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts,
her sex 'H wonder t
hadst thou not thy play-hooks, and
books of jests and fancies, about thee, to
keep thee merry, even as thon keepest all
companies with thy quips and mirthful
tales?— Child of the Green-room,0 it was
unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, too. that
part-French, better-part Englishwoman!—
that she could fix upon no other treatise to
1 \ reference to the statement of John Bnncle.
the hero of the book, that when one of hi*
wive* died he remained four day* with bin
erea ghnt
3 That In. the hooka which Lamb had pvrchafled
Proaelytea were convert! to Judaism, who were
not governed hv mirh strict religion* laws as
were the true Hebrews Bee LrvitteuH, 19
TO4I4.
I things riven or forfeited
' Tarni* Kenney (1780-1849). a dramatlnt.
II Are Juliu* C«Mf, III, 2, 18*.
"The stage; literally, the drafting-room behind
the scenes
bear away, in kindly token of remembering
us, than the works of Fulke Grevillc, Lord
Brooke — of which no Frenchman, nor
woman of France, Italy, or England, was
5 ever by nature constituted to comprehend
a tittle! Was there not Zimmerman on
Sohtude?
Reader, if haply thou art blessed with
a moderate collection, be shy of showing it;
10 or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them,
lend thy books; but let it be to such a one
as S. T. I1.1 — he will return them (generally
anticipating the time appointed) ^ with
usury; enriched with annotations, tripling
i'i their value. I have had experience. Many
are these precious MSS. of his— (in matter
oftentimes, and almost in quantity not un-
frequently vying with the originals) —in
no veiy clerkly hand— legible in my Daniel;
a> in old Burton ; in Sir Thomas Browne; and
those abstruser cogitations of the Greville,
now, alas! wandenng in Pagan lands.— I
counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy
hbraiy, against 8. T. C.
MRS BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST
1821
"A clear fire, a clean hearth,3 and the
rigor of the game. f ' This was the celebrated
*> with of old Sarah Battle (now with God)
who, next to her devotions loved a good
game at whist She was none of your luke-
warm gamesteis, >our half-and-half play-
ers, who have no objection to take a hand,
* if you uant one to make up n rubber, who
affirm that they have no pleasure in win-
ning; that thev like to win one game, and
lose another; that they can while away an
hour very agreeably at a card-table, but are
40 indifferent whether they play or no; and
will desire an adversary, who has dipt a
wrong card, to take it up and play an-
other* The^e insufferable tnflers aie the
curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil
46 a whole pot Of such it may be said, that
they do not play at cards, but only play at
playing at them.
Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She
detested them, as I do, from her heart and
60 soul; and would not, save upon a striking
emergency, willingly seat herself at the
name table with them. She loved a thor-
ough-paced partner, a determined enemy.
i Bamnel Taylor Coleridge.
•<Thls was before the Introduction of ram.
reader Ton mu*t remember the Intolerable
crash of the un*wept cinder* betwixt your
foot and the marhleSf— Lamb.
• "A* If a nportnmfln should tell you he liked to
kill a fox one duT and lone him the next"—
GHABLEB T.AITR
941
She took, and gave, no concessions. She
hated favors. She never made a revoke,1
nor ever passed it over in her adversary
without exacting the utmost forfeiture. She
fought a good fight :* cut and thrust. She
held not her good sword (her cards) "like
a dancer.198 She sat bolt upright, and
neither showed you her cards, nor desired
to see yours. All people have their Wind
side— their superstitions; and I have heard
her declare, under the rose,4 that Hearts
was her favorite suit
I never in my life— and I knew Sarah
Battle many of the best years of it— saw
her take out her snuff-box when it was her
turn to play ; or snuff a candle in the middle
of a game ; or ring for a servant, till it was
fairly over. She never introduced, or con-
nived at, miscellaneous conversation during
its process. As she emphatically observed,
cards were cards: and if I ever saw un-
mingled distaste in her fine last-century
countenance, it was at the airs of a young
gentleman of a literary turn, who had
been with difficulty persuaded to take a
hand; and who, in his excess of candor,
declared that he thought there was no harm
in unbending the mind now and then, after
serious studies, in recreations of that kind '
She could not bear to have her noble occu-
pation, to which she wound up her faculties,
considered in that light. It was her busi-
ness, her duty, the thing she came into the
world to do.— and she did it She unbent
her mind afterwards— over a book.
Pope was her favorite author: his Rape
of Ilie Lock her favorite work. She once
did me the favor to play over with me
(with the cards) his celebrated game of
ombre in that poem ; and to explain to me
how far it agreed with, and in what points
it would be found to differ from, tradrille
Her illustrations were apposite and poig-
nant ; and I had the pleasure of sending the
substance of them to Mr Bowles, but I
suppose they came too late to be inserted
among his ingenious notes upon that author
Quadrille,8 she has often told me, was her
first love; but whist had engaged her
maturer esteem. The former, she said, was
showy and specious, and likely to allure
young persons. The uncertainty and quick
shifting of partners— a thing which the
constancy of whist abhors; —the dazzling
supremacy and regfcl investiture of Spa-
1 never failed to follow unit when able
"Bee* Timothy, 4 1
MNtofiy and Cleojntt*. III. 11. 30
• ombre played hy four porwnm
dille1— absurd, as she justly observed, in the
pure aristocracy of whist, where his crown
and garter gave him no proper power above
his brother-nobility of the Aces,— the giddy
5 vanity, so taking to the inexperienced, of
playing alone*— above all, the overpower-
ing attractions of a Sans Prendre Vole?—
to the triumph of which there is certainly
nothing parallel or approaching, in the
10 contingencies of whist ;— all these, she would
say, make quadrille a game of captivatipn
to the young and enthusiastic. But whist
was the soltder game: that was her word.
It was a long meal; not, like quadrille, a
is feast of snatches. One or two rubbers
plight co-extend in duration with an even-
ing. They gave time to form rooted friend-
ships, to culthate steady enmities. She
despised the chance-started, capricious, and
20 ever fluctuating alliances of the other. The
skirmishes of quadrille, she would say, re-
minded her of the petty ephemeral embroil-
ments of the little Italian states, depicted
by Machiavel;8 perpetually changing pos-
K tares and connections; bitter foes today,
sugared darling tomorrow; kissing and
scratching in a breath;— but the wars of
whist were comparable to the long, steady,
deep-rooted, rational antipathies of the
10 great French and English nations.
A grave simplicity was what she chiefly
admired in her favorite game. There was
nothing silly in it, like the nob4 in cribbage
—nothing superfluous. No flushes— that
85 most irrational of all pleas that a reasonable
being can set up*— that any one should
claim four by virtue of holding cards of
the same mark and color, without reference
to the playing of the game, or the individual
40 worth or pretensions of the cards them-
selves! She held this to be a solecism; a*
pitiful an ambition at cards as alliteration
is in authorship. She despised superficial-
ity, and looked deeper than the colors of
i> things,— Suits were soldiers, she would say,
and must have a uniformity of array to
distinguish them : but what should we say to
a foolish squire, who should claim a merit
from dressing up his tenantry in red jack-
80 ets. that never were to be marshalled—
never to take the field 1— She even wished
that whist were more simple than it is; and,
in my mind, would have stript it of some
appendages, which, in the state of human
B frailty, may be venially, and even com-
1 The ace of apadee
- winning all the trick* Hingle-handcd
' In hlfiFIorenttfie Htotory.
4 The knave of the aame suit a* the rani tinned
up, counting one for the holder
942
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
inendably allowed of. She saw no reason
for the deciding of the trump by the turn
of the card. Why not one suit always
trumpet— Why two colors, when the mark
of the suits would have sufficiently dis-
tinguished them without itf—
i 'But the eye, my dear Madam, is agree-
ably refreshed with the variety. Man is not
a creature of pure reason— he must have
his senses delightfully appealed to. We
see it in Roman Catholic countries, where
Ihe music and the paintings draw in many
to worship, whom your quaker spirit of
nnsensuahzing would have kept out.—
You, yourself, have a pretty collection of
paintings— but confess to me, whether,
walking in your gallery at Sandham, among
those clear Vandykes, or among the Paul
Potters in the ante-room, you ever felt your
bosom glow with an elegant delight, at all
comparable to that y6u have it in your
power to experience most evenings over a
well-arranged assortment of the court cards T
—the pretty antic habits, like heralds in a
procession— the gay triumph-assuring scar-
lets—the contrasting deadly-killing sables
—the Mioary majesty of spades/1 Pam2 in
all his glory 1—
"All these might be dispensed with; and,
uith then naked names upon the drab paste-
board, the game might go on very well,
picture-less. But the beauty of cards would
ta extinguished forever. Stripped of all
that is imaginative in them, they must de-
generate into mere gambling.— Imagine a
dull deal board,8 01 diura head, to spread
them on, instead of that nice verdant carpet
(next to nature's), fittest arena for those
courtly combatants to play their gallant
jousts and turneys in!— Exchange those
delicately-turned ivory markers— (work of
Chinese artist, unconscious of their symbol,
—or as profanely slighting their true ap-
plication as the arrantest Ephesian jour-
neyman4 that turned out those little shrines
for the goddess5)— exchange them for little
bits of leather (our ancestors9 money) or
ebalk and a slate '"-
The old lady, with a smile, confessed the
soundness of my logic; and to her appro-
bation of my arguments on her favorite
topic that evening, I have always fancied
myself indebted for the legacy of a curious
mbbage board, made of the finest Sienna
marble, which her maternal uncle (old Wai-
i A board of pine or fir.
•nemetrlun. See Acts, 19 24-41.
*THana
ter Plumer, whom I have elsewhere cele-
brated2) brought with him from Florence:
—this, and a trifle of five hundred pounds,
came to me at her death.
6 The former bequest (which I do not least
value) I have kept with religious care;
though she herself, to confess a truth, was
never greatly taken with cnbbage. It was
an essentially vulgar game, I have heaul
10 her say,— disputing with her uncle, who was
very partial to it. She could never heartily
bnng her mouth to pronounce "go"— or
"that's a go."* She called it an ungrani-
matical game. The pegging* teased her. I
IB once knew her to forfeit a rubber (a five
dollar stake), because she would not take
advantage of the turn-up knave, which
would have given it her, but which she must
ha\e claimed by the disgraceful tenure of
20 declaring "two for his heels " There is
something extremely genteel in this sort of
self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentle-
woman born.
Piquet she held the best game at the caids
23 for two persons, though she would ridicule
the pedantry of the terms— such as pique4
— repique5— the capot0— they savored (she
thought) of affectation. But games for two,
or even three, she never greatly cared for.
M She loved the quadrate, or square. She
would argue thus —Cards are warfaie- the
ends are gain, with glory. But cards are
war, in disguise of a sport: when single
adversaries encounter, the ends proposed are
J5 too palpable. By themselves, it is too close
a fight; with spectators, it is not much
bettered. No looker-on can be interested,
except for a bet, and then it is a mere affair
of money; he cares not for your luck sym-
40 pathetically, or for your play.— Three are
still worse; a mere naked war of every man
against every man, as in cnbbage, without
league or alliance ; or a rotation of petty and
contradictory interests, a succession of
4» heartless leagues, and not much more hearty
infractions of them, as in tradrille — But
in square games (she meant whist) all that
is possible to be attained in card-playing is
accomplished. There are the incentives of
so profit with honor, common to every species
— though the latter can be but very imper-
fectly enjoyed in those other games, where
the spectator is only feebly a participator.
But the parties in whist are spectators and
56 i IB The South Sea FOW* (p 980ft, 86 ff.).
J Terms naed when the player is unable to play.
* scoring & points before the other player scores
-scoring 80 or more point! before play begin*.
thereby counting 60 points additional
• winning all the tricks, counting 40
CHABLES
943
principals too. They we a theatre to them-
selves, and a looker-on is not wanted. He
is rather worse than nothing, and an imper-
tinence. Whist abhors neutrality, or inter-
ests beyond itb sphere. You glory in some
surprising stroke of skill or fortune, not
because a cold— or even an interested— by-
stander witnesses it, but because your part-
ner sympathizes in the contingency. Ton
win for two You triumph for two. Two
are exalted Two again are mortified,
which divides their disgrace, as the conjunc-
tion doubles (by taking off the invidious-
ness) your glories Two losing to two are
better reconciled, than one to one in that
close butchery. The hostile feeling is weak-
ened by multiplying the channels. War be-
comes a civil game —By such reasonings as
these the old lady was accustomed to defend
her fa\orite pastime
No inducement could ever prevail upon
her to play at any game, where chance en-
tered into the composition, for nothing
Chance, she would argue— and here again,
admire the subtlety of her conclusion'—
chance is nothing, but where something else
depends upon it It is obvious, that cannot
be alonj. What rational cause of exultation
could it give to a man to turn up size ace1 a
hundred times together by himself t or be-
fore spectators, where no stake was depend-
ing?—Make a lottery of a hundred thou-
sand tickets with but one fortunate numbei
—and what possible principle of our na-
ture, except stupid wonderment, could it
gratify to gain that number as many times
successively, without a prizel— Therefore
she disliked the mixture of chance in back-
gammon, where it was not played for money
She called it foolish, and those people idiots,
who were taken with a lucky hit under such
circumstances Games of pure skill were
as little to her fancy. Played for a stake,
they were a mere system of over-reaching.
Played for glory, they were a mere setting
of one man's wit,— his memorv, or combi-
nation-faculty rather— against another's ;
like a mock-engagement at a review, blood-
less and profitless.— She could not conceive
a game wanting the spntely infusion of
chance,— the handsome excuses of good
fortune. Two people playing at chess in a
corner of a room, whilst whist was stirring
in the centre, would inspire her with insuf-
ferable horror and ennui. Those well-cut
similitudes of Castles, and Knights, the
imagery of the board, she would argue
1 six and one (a lucky throw of dice in tbp game
of Dacksjammon)
(and I think in this case justly), were en-
tirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard
head-contests can in no instance ally with
the fancy. They reject form and color.
6 A pencil and dry slate (she used to say)
were the proper arena for such combatants.
To those puny objectors against cards,
as nurturing the bad passions, she would
retort that man is a gaming animal. He
K> must be always trying to get the better in
something or other —that this passion can
scarcely be more safely expended than upon
a game at cards, that cards are a temporary
illusion; in truth, a mere drama, for we
16 do but play at being mightily concerned,
where a few idle shillings are at stake, yet,
during the illusion, we are as mightily con-
cerned as those whose stake is crowns and
kingdoms. They are a sort of dream-fight-
a> ing; much ado; great battling, and little
bloodshed; mighty means for dibpropor-
tioned ends, quite as diverting, and a great
deal more innoxious, than many of those
more serious games of life, which men play,
26 without esteeming them to be such
With great defeience to the old lady's
judgment on these matteis, I think I have
expenenced some moments in my life, when
playing at cards for nothing has even been
» agreeable When I am in sickness, or not
in the best spirits, I sometimes call for the
caids, and play a game at piquet for love
with my cousin Bridget— Bridget Eha1
I grant there is something sneaking in it ,
86 but with a tooth-ache, or a sprained ancle,
—when yon are subdued and humble,— you
are glad to put up with an inferior spring
of action.
There is such a thing in nature, I am
40 convinced, as sick whist
I grant it is not the highest style of man
—I deprecate the manes3 of Sarah Battle-
she lives not, alas' to whom I should
apologize.
46 At such times, those terms which my old
friend objected to, come in as something
admissible —I love to get a tierce8 or a
quatorze,4 though they mean nothing T
am subdued to an inferior interest Those
50 shadows of winning amuse me
That last game T had with my sweet
cousin (T capotted8 hei) — (dare I tell thee,
how foolish I amf )— T wished it might have
lasted forever, though we gained nothing,
56 and lost nothing, though it was a mere
1 Lamb'B sister Mary.
38hade: uplift
• sequence of three card* of the same salt
4 the fnnr am king*, queen*, knaves, or ten*
1 won all the tricks from
944
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
shade of play: I would be content to go on
in that idle folly forever. The pipkin1
tthould be ever boiling, that was to prepare
the gentle lenitive to my foot, which Bridget
was doomed to apply after the game was
over: and, as I do not much relish appli-
arices, there it should ever bubble. Bridget
and 1 should be ever playing.
MACKEBY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE
1821
Bridget Elia* has been my housekeepei
for many a long year. I have obligations
to Bridget, extending beyond the penod of
memory. We house together, old bachelor
and maid, in a sort of double singleness;
with such tolerable comfort, upon the whole,
that I, for one, find in myself no sort of
disposition to go out upon the mountains,
with the rash king's ofl
to bewail
my celibacy. We agree pretty well in our
tastes and habits— yet so, as "with a differ-
ence."* We are generally in harmony, with
occasional bickerings— as it should be among
near relations. Our sympathies are rather
understood, then expressed ; and once, upon
my dissembling a tone in my voice more
kind than ordinary, my cousin burst into
tears, and complained that I was altered.
We are both great readers in different direc-
tions While I am hanging over (for the
thousandth time) some passage in old Bur-
ton, or one of his strange contemporaries,
she is abstracted in some modern tale, or
adventure, whereof our common reading-
table is daily fed with assiduously fresh
supplies Narrative teases me. I have little
concern in the progress of events. She must
have a story— well, ill, or indifferently told
—so there be life stirring in it, and plenty of
good or evil accidents. The fluctuations of
fortune in fiction— and almost in real life-
have ceased to interest, or operate but dully
upon me. Out-of-the-way humors and opin-
ions—heads with some diverting twist in
them— the oddities of authorship please me
most. My cousin has a native disrelish of
anything that sounds odd or bizarre. Noth-
ing goes down with her, that is quaint, irreg-
nlnr, or out of the road of common sym-
pathy She "holds Nature more clever."0
T ran pardon her blindness to the beautiful
obliquities6 of the Religio Medici; but she
« V small earthrn pot
197-248
must apologue to me for certain disrespect-
ful insinuations, which she has been pleased
to throw out latterly, touching the intellec-
tuals of a dear favorite of mine, of the lat»t
B century but one— the thrice noble, chaste,
cud virtuous,— but again somewhat fantas-
tical, and original-brain fdj generous Mar-
garet Newcastle.
It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener
10 perhaps than I could have wished, to have
had for her associates and mine, free-
thinkers—leaders, and disciples, of novel
philosophies and systems; but she neither
wrangles with, nor accepts, their opinions.
16 That which was good and venerable to her,
when a child, retains its authority over her
mind still She never juggles or plays tricks
with her understanding.
We are both of us inclined to be a little
*> too positive; and I have observed the result
of our disputes to be almost uniformly this,
—that in matters of fact, dates, and riioum-
stances, it turns out that I was in the right,
and my cousin in the wrong. But where we
*5 have differed upon moral points; upon
something proper to be done, or let alone,
whatever heat of opposition, or steadiness
of conviction, I set out with, I am sure
always, in the long run, to be brought over
10 to her way of thinking.
I must touch upon the foibles of my kins-
woman with a gentle hand, for Bridget does
not like to be told of her faults She hath
an awkward trick (to say no WOIM of it) of
36 reading in company: at which times the
will answer yes or MO to a question, without
fully understanding its purport— which is
provoking, and derogatory in the highest
degree to the dignity of the putter of the
40 said question. Her presence of mind is
equal to the most pressing trials of life, but
will sometimes desert her upon trifling occa-
sions. When the purpose requires it, and is
a thing of moment, she can speak to it
46 greatly; but in matters which are not stuff
of the conscience,1 she hath been known
sometimes to let slip a woid less seasonably.
Her education in youth was not much
attended to; and she happily missed all that
60 train of female garniture, which passeth by
the name of accomplishments. She was
tumbled early, by accident or design, into a
spacious closet of good old Enpliflh reading.'
without much selection or prohibition, and
66 browsed at will upon that fair and whole-
some pasturage. Had I twenty girls, they
HMlrt, IV, fi, 188 (An heraldic
Gay, Epitap* of Byword*, 4.
Irregularities
c- * ^"
1 OthfUo. T, 2. 2.
Tn the library of I
pie. See motwa
1 ID the library of Samuel Rait of tho Innnr Tern-
CHABE
945
r in ft"fl fashion*
I know not whether" their chance in wedlock
might not be diminished by it; but 1 can
answer for it, that it makes (if the worbt
oome to the worst) most incomparable old
maids.
In a season of distress, she is the truest
comforter; but in the teasing accidents, and
minor perplexities, which do not call out the
w2Z to meet them, she sometimes maketh
matters worse by an excess of participation.
If die does not always divide your trouble,
npon the pleasanter occasions of life, she is
sore always to treble your satisfaction. She
is excellent to be at play with, or upon a
visit; but best, when she goes a journey with
yon.
We made an excursion together a few
summers since, into Hertfordshire, to beat
up the quaiters of some of our less-known
relations m that tine coin1 country.
The oldest thing I remember is Mackery
End ; or Mackerel End, as it is spelt, per-
haps more properly, in some old maps of
Hertfordshire; a f arm-house,— delightfully
situated within a gentle walk from Wheat-
hampstead. I can just remember having
been there, on a visit to a great-aunt, when
I was a child, under the care of Bridget,
who, as I have said, is older than myself by
some ten years. I wish that I could throw
into a heap the remainder of our joint exist-
ences, that we might shaie them in equal
division. But that in impossible. The house
was at that time in the occupation of a sub-
stantial yeoman, who had married my grand-
mother's sistei. His name was Gladman
My grandmother was a Bruton, married to
a Field. The Qladmans and the Brutons are
still flourishing in that part of the county,
but the Fields are almost extinct More
than forty years had elapsed since the visit
I speak of; and, for the greater portion of
that period, we had lost sight of the other
two branches also. Who or what sort of
persons inherited Mackery End— kindred or
strange folk—we were afraid almost to con-
jecture, but determined some day to explore.
By somewhat a circuitous mute, taking
the noble park at Lnton in our way from
Saint Alban 's, we arrived at the spot^of our
anxious mricmitY about noon. The sight of
the old farm-house, though every trace of
it was effaced from mv recollection, affected
me with a pleasure which I had not expe-
rienced for many a year. For though 7 had
forgotten it, we had never forgotten being
there together, and we had been talking
about Mackery End all our lives, till memory
on my part became mocked with a phantom
of itself, and I thought I knew the aspect of
a place, which, when present, 0 how unlike
6 it was to that, which I had conjured up so
many times instead of it!
Still the air breathed balmily about it;
the season was in the "heart of June,"1
and I could say with the poet,
10 But thou, that didst appear bo fair
To fond imagination,
DoKt rival in the light of da>
Her delicate creation 1-
u Bridget's was more a waking blisb8 than
mine, for she easily remembered her old ac-
quaintance again— some altered features, of
course, a little grudged at At first, indeed,
she was ready to disbelieve for joy , but the
80 scene soon reconfirmed itself in her affec-
tions—and blie traversed e\ery out-post of
the old mansion, to the \v owl-house, the or-
chaid, the place where the pigeon-house had
stood (hoube and birds were alike flown) —
25 with a breathless impatience of recognition,
which was mote pardonable perhaps than
decorous at the age of fifty odd But
Budget in boiue things is behind her years.
The only thing left was to get into the
80 house—and that was a difficulty which to me
singly would ha\e been insurmountable; for
I am terribly shy in making- myself known
to strangers and out-of-date kinsfolk. Love,
stronger than scruple, winged mv cousin in
86 without me; but she soon returned with a
creature that might have sat to a sculptor
for the image of Welcome. It was the
youngest of the Gladrnans, who, bv mar-
nape with a Bruton, had become mistre** of
40 the old mansion. A comely brood are the
Brutons Six of them, females, were noted
as the handsomest young women in the
county. But this adopted Bruton, in my
mind, waft belter than they all— more
« comely. She was born too late to have re-
membered me She jiwt recollected in early
life to have had her cousin Bridget once
pointed out to her, climbing a stile But
the name of kindred, and of cousinship,
50 was enough. Those slender ties, that prove
blight as gossamer in the rending atmos-
phere of a metropolis, bind faster, as we
found it, in hearty, homely, loving Hert-
fordshire. In five minutes we were as thor-
K onghly acquainted as if we had been born
.Tonaon Epltlialamtum ; or a Song
the Nuptial* of That TToWe Gentltma*, Mr.
Hterome Wetton, 16.
9 WorriRwortb, Yam* Vi
*Rw Com** JWVl
41 IT (p T09).
946
NINETEENTH GENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
and bred up together; were familiar, even
to the calling each other by oar Christian
names. So Christians should call one an-
other. To have seen Bridget, and her— it
was like the meeting of the two scriptural
cousins!1 There was a grace and dignity, an
amplitude of f orm.and stature, answering to
her mind, in this fanner's wife, which would
have shmed in a palace— or so we thought it.
We were made welcome by husband and
wife equally— we, and our friend that was
with us— I had almost forgotten him— but
B F 2 will not so soon forget that meeting,
if perad venture he shall lead this on the far
distant shores where the kangaroo haunts
The fatted calf was made ready, or rather
was already so, as if in anticipation of our
coming;8 and, after an appropriate glass
of native wine, never let me forget with what
honest pride this hospitable cousin made us
proceed to Wheathampwtead, to introduce
us (as some new-found rarity) to her mother
and sister Gladmans, who did indeed know
something more of us, at a tune when she
almost knew nothing— With what corre-
sponding kindness we were received by them
also— how Bridget's memory, exalted by the
occasion, warmed into a thousand half-
obbterated recollections of things and pei-
sons, to my utter astonishment, and her
own— and to the astonishment of B F., who
sat by, almost the only thing that was not a
cousin there,— old effaced images of more
than half-forgotten names and circum-
stances still crowding back upon her, as
words wntten in lemon come out upon expo-
sure to a friendly warmth,— when I forget
all this, then may my country cousins for-
s*et me; and Bridget no more remember,
that in the days of weakling infancy I was
her tender charge— as I have been her care
in foolish manhood since— in those pretty
pastoral walks, long ago, about Mackery
End, in Hertfordshire.
DBEAM-CHILDBKN
A REVERIE
1822
Children love to listen to stories about
their elders when they were children, to
stretch their imagination to the conception
of a traditionary crreat-uncle, or pjandame
whom they never saw Tt was in this spirit
that my little ones crept about me the other
evening to hear about theii great-grand-
mother Field who lived in a great house in
»Mary and Elisabeth. Bee L*ket 1-89-40
•Barren Field, an English barrister.
*Re* Luke, 15 23
Norfolk1 (a hundred times bigger than that
in which they and papa lived) which had
been the scene— so at least it was generally
believed in that part of the country— of the
5 tragic incidents which they had lately be-
come familiar with from the ballad of The
Children m the Wood. Certain it is that the
whole story of the children and their cruel
uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in
to wood upon the chimney-piece of the great
hall, the whole story down to the Robin Red-
breasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it
down to set up a marble one of modern in-
vention in its stead, with no story upon it.
15 Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's
looks, too tender to be called upbraiding.
Then I went on to say how religious and
how good their great-grandmother Field
was, how beloved and respected by every
>0 body, though bhe was not indeed the mis-
tress of this great house, but had only the
charge of it (and yet in some respects she
might be said to be the mist i ess of it too)
committed to her by the owner, who pre-
25 ferred living m a newer and more fashion-
able mansion which he had purchased some-
where in the adjoining county , but still she
lived in it in a manner as if it had been her
own, and kept up the dignity of the great
90 house in a boit while she lived, which after-
wards came to decay, and was nearly pulled
down, and all its old ornaments stripped
and earned away to the ownei 's other house,
where they were set up, and looked as awk-
86 ward as if some one were to carry away the
old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey,
and stick them up in Lady C 's tawdry gilt
drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much
as to say, "that would be foolish indeed."
40 And then I told how, when she came to die,
her funeral was attended by a concourse of
all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of
the neighborhood for many miles round, to
show their respect f 01 her memory, because
45 she had been such a good and religious
woman; so good indeed that she knew all
the Psaltery ,a by heart, ay, and a great part
of the Testament besides. Here little Alice
spread her hands.8 Then I told what a tall.
so upright, graceful person their great-grand-
mother Field once was; and how in her
youth she was esteemed the best dancer—
here Alice's little right foot played an in-
voluntary movement, till, upon my looking
65
i Lamb's grandmother lived in Hertfordshire.
Norfolk wan the scene of the legend of the
children in the wood
•The version of the psalms in the Book of Com-
HfOfl /^fn8f/0f*
i A sign of astonishment
CHAELE8 LAMB
947
grave, it desisted-the best dancer, I was
flaying, in the county, till a cruel disease,
called a cancer, came, and bowed her down
with pain ; but it could never bend her good
spirits, or make them btoop, but they were
still upright, because she was so good and
religious. Then I told how she was used to
sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the
great lone house; and how she believed that
an apparition of two infante1 was to be seen
at midnight gliding up and down the great
staircase neai where bhe slept, but she said
"those innocents would do her no harm",
and how frightened I used to be, though in
those days I had ray maid to sleep with me,
because I was never half so good or religious
as she— and yet I never saw the infants
Here John eipanded all his eye-brown and
tried to look courageous Then T told how
good die wab to all her grand-children, hav-
ing us to the great-hoube in the holyday*
where I in particular used to spend many
hours by myself, in gazing upon the old
busts of the Twelve Cipsars, that had been
Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads
would seem to live again, or I to be turned
into marble with them ; how T never could
be tired with roaming about that huge man-
sion, with its vast empty rooms, with their
worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and
carved oaken panels, with the gilding: al-
most nibbed out —sometimes in the spacious
old-fashioned gardens, which T had almost
to myself, unless when now and then a soli-
tary gardening man would cross me— and
how ihe nectarines and peaebefe hung upon
the walls, without my ever offering to pluck
them, because they were forbidden fruit,
unless now and then,— and because I had
more pleasure in strolling about among the
old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the
firs, and picking up the red berries, and the
fir apples, which were good for nothing but
to look at— or in lying about upon the fresh
grass, with all the fine garden smells around
me— or basking in the orangery, till I could
almost fancy myself ripening too along with
the oranges and the limes in that grateful
warmth— or in watching the dace that darted
to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of
the garden, with here and there a great sulky
pike hanging midway down the water in
silent state, as if it mocked at their imperti-
nent frisking— I had more pleasure in
these bnsy-idle diversions than in all the
sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges,
and such like common baits of children.
i An old legend of the family
•The pfko feeds upon dace.
Here John slyly deposited back upon the
plate a bunch of grapes, which, not un-
observed by Alice, he had meditated dividing
with her, and both seemed willing to rehn-
6 quish them for the present as irrelevant.
Then in somewhat a more heightened tone,
I told how, though their great-grandmother
Field loved all her grand-children, yet in an
'especial manner she might be said to love
10 their uncle, John L - ,* because he was so
handsome and spirited a youth, and a king
io the rest of us; and, instead of moping
about in solitary corners, like some of us, he
would mount the most mettlesome horse he
is could get, when but an imp no bigger than
themselves, and make it carry him half over
the county in a morning, and join the hunt-
ers when there were any out— and yet he
loved the old great house and gardens too,
a> but had too much spirit to be always pent
up within their boundaries— and how their
uucle grew up to man's estate as brave as
he was handsome, to the admiration of every
bndv, but of their great-grandmother Field
25 especially; and how he used to carrv roe
upon his back when I was a lame-tooted
boy— for he was a good bit older than me—
many a mile when I could not walk for
pain;— and how in after life he became
» lame-footed too, and I did not always (T
fear) make allowances enough for him when
he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember
sufficiently how considerate he had been to
me when I was lame-footed; and how when
36 he died, though he had not been dead an
hour, it seemed as if he had died a great
while ago, such a distance there is betwixt
life and death; and how I bore his death
as I thought pretty well at first, but after-
fl wards it haunted and haunted me; and
though I did not cry or take it to heart as
some do, and as I think he would have done
if I had died, yet I missed him all day long.
and knew not till then how much I had loved
46 him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his
crossness, and wished him to be alive again,
to be quarrelling with him (for we quar-
relled sometimes) rather than not have him
again, and was as uneasy without him, as
BO he their poor uncle must have been when
the doctor took off his limb.2 Here the chil-
dren fell a-crying, and asked if their little
mourning which they had on wab not foi
uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed
66 me not to go on about their uncle, but to
tell them some stories about their pretty
dead mother. Then I told how for seven
i jgbn Lamb,
* A detail of Lamb's Imagination
948
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in
despair, yet persisting ever, I aourted the
fair Alice W— n ;' and, as much as children
could understand, I explained to them what
coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in
maidens— when suddenly, turning to Alice,
the soul of the first Alice looked out at her
eyes with such a reality of re-presentment,
that I became in doubt which of them stood
there before me, or whose that bright hair
was; and while I stood gazing, both the
children gradually grew fainter to my view,
receding, and still receding till nothing at
last but two mournful features were seen
in the uttermost distance, which, without
speech, strangely iiupiessed upon me the
effects of speech: "We are not of Alice,
nor of thee, nor are we children at all The
children of Alice called Bartrura* father.
We are nothing; less than nothing, and
dreams. We are only what might have been,
and must wait upon the tedious shores of
Lethe8 millions of ages before we have exist-
ence, and a name" and immediate! v
awaking, I found myself quietly seated in
my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen
asleep, with the faithful Bndget unchanged
by my side— but John L. (or James Eha)
was gone forever.
A DISSERTATION UPON BOAST PIG
1822
Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript,
which my friend M.4 was obliging enough
to read and explain to me, for the first
seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw,
clawing or biting it from the living animal,
just as they do in Abyssinia to this day
This period is not obscurely hinted at by
their great Confucius in the second chap-
ter of his Mundane Mutations, where he
designates a kind of golden age by the term
Cho-fang, literally the Cooks1 Holiday. The
manuscript goes on to say, that the art of
roasting, or rather broiling (which I take
to be the elder brother) was accidentally
discovered in the manner following. The
swineherd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the
woods one morning, as his manner was, to
collect mast5 for his hogs, left his cottage
in the care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great
lubberly boy, who being fond of playing
1 Wtntorton, a Mgaed name. She was probably
ADD Simmon* See Lamb'a Was ft Some
Sweet Derise of Faby (p. 916), and The OH
*N^J^U-ffi^6)/'
•Ann Rimmona married a Mr. Bartrtun, a Lon-
don pawnbroker.
• Bee the Muriel. 6,748-51.
*Thomav Manning.
•food consisting of acoraa, beechnut* cnertnutB,
etc.
with fire, as younkers of his age commonly
are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of
straw, which kindling quickly, spread the
conflagration over eveiy part of their poor
i mansion till it was reduced to ashes. To-
gether with the cottage (a sorry antedilu-
vian make-shift of a building, yon may
think it), what was of much more impor-
tance, a fine litter of new- farrowed pigs, no
10 less than nine in number, perished. China
pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over
the East from the remotest periods that we
read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost conster-
nation, as you may think, not so much for
16 the sake of the tenement, which his father
and he could easily build up again with a
few dry branches, and the labor of an hour
or two, at auy time, as for the loss of the
pigs. While he was thinking what he should
80 say to his father, and wringing his hands
over the smoking remnants of one of those
untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his nos-
trils, unlike any scent which he bad before
experienced. What could it proceed fromf
2"> —not from the burnt cottage— he had smelt
that smell before— indeed this was by no
means* the first accident of the kind which
had occurred through the negligence of tins
unlucky young fire-brand. Much less did it
30 resemble that of any known herb, weed, or
flower. A premonitory moistening at the
iame time overflowed his nether lip. He
knew not what to think. He next stooped
down to feel the pig, if there were any signs
36 of life in it. He burnt his fingers, land to
cool them he applied them in his booby
fashion to his month. Some of the crumbs
of the scorched skin had come awav with his
fingers, and for the first time in his life (in
40 the world's life indeed, for before him no
man had known it) he tasted— crackling!1
Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It
did not bum him so much now, still he licked
his fingers from a sort of habit. The truth
*5 at length broke into his slow understanding,
that it was the pig that smelt so, and the
pig that tasted so delicious; and, surrender-
ing himself up to the new-born pleasure, he
fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the
GO scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was
cramming it down his throat in his beastly
fashion, when his sire entered amid the
smoking rafters, armed with retributory
cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, began
56 to rain blows upon the young rogue 9s shoul-
ders, as thick as hail-fltones, which Bo-bo
heeded not any more than if they had been
flies. The tickling pleasure, which he ezpe-
*Tbe crisp ikfn of naated pork.
CflAHLES tAJlB
949
rienoed in his lower regions, had rendered
him quite callow to any inconveniences he
might feel m those remote quarters. His
father might lay on, but he could not beat
him from his pig, till he had fairly made an
end of it, when, becoming a little more sensi-
ble of his situation, something like the fol-
low ing dialogue ensued.
' ' You graceless whelp, what have you got
there devouring T Is it not enough that you
have burnt me down three houses with your
dog's tricks, and be hanged to yon, but you
must be eating fire, and I know not what—
what have yon got there, I sayt"
"0 father, the pig, the pig, do come and
taste how nice the burnt pig eats "
The ears of Ho-ti tingled with terror. He
cursed his son, and he cursed himself that
ever he should beget a son that should eat
burnt pig.
Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully
sharpened since morning, soon raked out
another pig, and fairly rending it asunder,
thrust the lesser half by main force into the
fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out "Eat, eat,
eat the burning pig, father, only taste— O
Lord,"— with such-hke barbarous ejacula-
tions, cramming all the while as if he would
choke
Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he
grasped the abominable thing, wavering
whether he should not put hia son to death
for an unnatural young monster, when the
crackling scorching his fingers, as it had
done his son's, and applying the same rem-
edy to them, he in his turn tasted some of
its flavor, which, make what sour mouths he
would for a pretence, proved not altogether
displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the
manuscript here is a little tedious) both
father and son fairly sat down to the me**,
and never left off till they had despatched
all that remained of the litter.
Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the
secret escape, for the neighbors would cer-
tainly have stoned them for a couple of
abominable wretches, who could think of
improving upon the good meat which Cod
bad sent them. Nevertheless, strange gtorje*
got about. It was observed that Ho-ti ^
eottage was burnt down now more fre-
quently than ever. Nothing but fires from
ttiis time forward. Some would break out
in broad day, others in the night-time. As
often as the sow farrowed, so sure wan the
house of Ho-ti to be in * blaxe; and Ho-ti
himself, which was the more remarkable,
instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow
more indulgent to him than ever. At length
they were watched, the terrible mystery dis-
covered, and father and son summoned to
take their trial at Pekin, then an ineonsidei-
able assize town l Evidence was guen, the
• obnoxious food itself produced in court, and
verdict about to be pronounced, when the
foreman of the jury begged that some of
the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood
accused, might be handed into the box He
10 handled it, and they all handled it, and burn-
ing their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father
had done before them, and nature prompt-
ing to each of them the same remedy, against
the faee of all the facts, and the clearest
is charge which judge had ever given— to the
nurpnse of the whole court, townsfolk,
strangers, reporters, and all present— with-
out leaving the box, or any manner of con-
sultation whatever, they brought in a simul-
20 taneous verdict of Not Guilty
The judge, who was a shrewd fellow,
winked at the manifest iniquity of the deci-
sion- and, when the court was dismissed,
went privily, and bought up all the pigs
2& that could be had for lo\e or money In a
few days his Loidslnp's town hoiw was
observed to be on fire. The thing took \\ ing.
and now there was nothing to be seen but
fires in every direction Fuel and pigs grew
s> enormously dear all over the district The
insurance offices one and all shut up shop
People built slighter and slighter every day,
until it was feared that the very science of
architecture would in no long time be lost
85 to the world Thus this custom of firing
houses continued, till in process of time,
says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our
Locke, who made a disco\eryt that the flesh
of swine, or indeed of any other animal,
40 might be cooked (burnt, as they called it)
without the necessity of consuming a whole
house to dress it. Then first began the rude
form of a gridiron Roasting by the string,
or spit, came in a century or two later; I
« forget in whose dynasty. Bv «nch slow de-
grees, concludes the manuscript, do the most
useful and seemingly the most ODMOUB arts,
make their way among mankind
Without placing too implicit faith in the
BO account above given, it must be agreed,
that if a worthy pretext for RO dangerous
an experiment as setting bonnes on file
(especially in there davs) could be as-
signed in favor of any culinary object, that
» pretext and excuse might be found in ROAST
PIG.
Of all the delicacies in the whole mttmhra
» A county town In which Judges held court
950
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
ecftbtto,1 1 will maintain it to be the most
delicate — pnncepa obsontorwn.2
I speak not of your grown porkers-
things between pig and pork— those hob-
bydehoys— but a young and tender Buckling1
—under a moon old— guiltless as yet of the
sty— with no oiiginal speck of the amor
trnmttncfftftf,8 the hereditary failing of the
flist paient, yet manifest— his \oice as yet
not broken, but something between a child-
ish treble, and a grumble— the mild fore-
runner, or pi<eludiuM* of a giunt.
He must be roasted. I am not ignorant
that our ancestors ate them seethed, or
boiled— but what a sacrifice of the exterior
tegument!
There is no fla\ or comparable, I will con-
tend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-
watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is
well called— the very teeth are invited to
their share of the pleasuie at this banquet
in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance—
with the adhesive oleaginous— 0 call it not
fat— but an indefinable sweetness growing
up to it— the tender blossoming of fat— fat
cropped in the bud— taken in the shoot— in
the first innocence— the cream and quintes-
sence of the child-pig's yet pure food
the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal
manna— or, rather, fat and lean (if it must
be so) blended and running into each other,
that both together make but one ambrosian
result, or common substance.
Behold him, while he is doing— it seemeth
rather a lei refilling1 warmth, than a scorch-
ing heat, that he is so passive to. How
equably he twirleth round the string!— Now
he is just done To see the extreme sensi-
bility of that tender age, he hath wept out
his pretty eyes— radiant jellies— shooting
stars5—
See him in the dish, his second cradle,
how meek he heth f— wouldst them have had
this innocent grow up to the groflsness and
indocihty which too often accompany ma-
turer swinehood f Ten to one he would have
proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, dis-
agreeable animal— wallowing in all manner
of filthy conversation6— from these sins he
is happily snatched away—
Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,
Death came with timely care 7
* edible world * chief of dellrarlPH
•love of dirt («n*gw»tPd a* tbe original Bin of
pigdom)
4 prelude
• A reference to the old muwntltlon that shoot
ing stars leave Jellies where they fall,
•conduct (Bee * Peter, 2 7 )
'Coleridge, Epitaph on * Young Infant, 1-2
his memory is odoriferous— no clown curs
eth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the
rank bacon— no coalheavcr bolteth him in
reeking sausages— he hath a fair sepulchre
6 in the grateful stomach of the judicious epi-
cure—and for such a tomb might be content
to die.
lie is the best of sapors.1 Pine-apple is
great. She is indeed almost too transcend-
10 cnt— a delight, if not sinful, yet BO like to
sinning, that really a tender-conscienced
person would do well to pause— too ravish-
ing for mortal taste, she woundeth and
exconateth the lips that approach her— like
13 lovers1 kisses, she biteth— she is a pleasure
bordering on* pain from the fierceness and
insanity of her relish— but she stoppeth at
the palate— she meddleth not with the appe-
tite—and the coarsest hunger might barter
20 her consistently for a mutton chop.
Pig— let me speak his praise— is no less
provocative of the appetite, than he is satin-
J'actory to the cnticalness of the censorious
palate. The strong man may batten on him,
23 and the weakling refuseth not his mild
juices.
Unlike to mankind'* mixed characters, a
bundle of \irtiies and Mces, inexplicably
inteitwisted, and not to lx» unravelled with-
TO out hazard, he is— good thiou^hout. No
part of him is better 01 woise than anothei.
lie helpeth, as fai as his little means extend,
all around He is the least envious of ban-
quets. He is all neighbors' fare.
85 I am one of those who fieely and un-
gnidginglv impart a share of the good things
of this life which fall to their lot (few as
mine are in this kind), to a fnend. I pro-
test I take as great an mtei eat in my fnend 's
40 pleasures, his relishes, and propei2 satisfac-
tions, as in mine own. "Presents," I often
sav, "endear Absents."8 Hares, pheas-
ants, partridges, snipes, barn-door chicken
(those "tame villatic4 fowl"), capons,
46 plovers, brawn,8 barrels of ovsters, I dis-
pense as freely as T receive them I love to
taste them, as it were, upon the tongue of
my fnend But a stop must be put some-
where. One would not, like I*ar, "give
50 everything "e I make mv stand upon pig.
Methinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver
of all good flavors, to extra-domiciliate, or
send out of the honse, slightingly, (under
pretext of friendship, or I know not what)
1 peculiar to hlmaelf
•those mbflent
« term yard (Milton, fi*m*on
•pickled boar's floah
•frf*? Lear, II, 4. 2ff.t.
, 1005)
CHARLES LAMB
951
a blessing so particularly adapted, predes-
tined, I may say, to my individual taste.— It
argues an insensibility.
I remember a touch of conscience in this
kind at school. My good old aunt,1 who
never parted from me at the end of a holi-
day without stuffing a sweet-meat, or some
nice thing, into my pocket, had dismissed
me one evening with a smoking plum-cake,
fresh from the oven. In my way to school
(it was over London bridge) a gray-headed
old beggar saluted me (1 have no doubt at
this time of day that he was a counterfeit)
I had no pence to console him with, and in
the vanity of self-denial, and the very cox-
combry of chanty, school-boy-hke, I made
him a present of —the whole cake ' I walked
on a little, buoyed up, as one is on such
occasions, with a sweet soothing of self-
satisfaction ; but befoie 1 had got to the end
of the bridge, my better feelings returned,
and I burst into tears, thinking how un-
grateful I had been to my good aunt, to go
and give her good gift away to a stranger,
that I had never seen before, and who might
be a bad man for aught I knew, land then
T thought of the pleasure my aunt would be
taking in thinking that I— I nw«*elf, and not
another— would eat her nice pake— and what
should I snv to hoi the next tune I saw her—
how naughty I was to part with her pietty
present— and the odor of that spicy cake
came back upon my recollect ion, and the
pleasure and the cunosity I had taken in
seeing her make it, and her joy when she
sent it to the oven, and how disappointed
she would feel that I had never had a bit of
it in my month at last— and I blamed mv
impei tinent spnit of alms-giving, and out-
of-place hypocrisy of goodness, and above
all 1 wished never to see the face again of
that insidious, good-for-nothing, old gray
impostor.
Our ancestors were nice in their methods
of sacrificing these tender victims We read
of pigs whipt to death with something of a
shock, as we hear of any other obsolete
custom. The age of discipline2 is gone by.
or it would be curious to inquire (in a philo-
sophical light merely) what effect this proc-
ess might have towards inteneratincr and
dulcifying1 a substance, naturally so mild
and dulcet as the flesh of young pigs. It
looks like refining a violet. Yet we should
be cautious, while we condemn the inhuman-
* Lamb's Aunt Hetty, mentioned In The Drray
"The JSSSSs practice of training the mind by
engaging In hair-iplitting distinctions,
•making tender and sweet
ity, how we censure the wisdom of the prac-
tice. It might impart a gusto—
I remember an hypothesis, argued upon
by the young students, when I was at St.
5 Omer's,1 and maintained with much learn-
ing and pleasantry on both sides, "Whether,
supposing that the flavor of a pig who ob-
tained his death by whipping (per flagella-
ttonem extremam2) supei added a pleasure
10 upon the palate of a man more intense than
any possible suffering we can conceive in the
animal, is man justified in using that method
of putting the animal to death?" I forget
the decision.
16 His sauce should be considered. Decid-
edly, a few bread crumbs, done up with his
liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage
But, banish, dear Mrs Cook, I beseech you,
the whole onion tribe. Barbecue8 your
20 whole hogs to your palate, steep them in
shalots,4 stuff them out with plantations of
the rank and guilty garlic; you cannot
poison them, or make them stronger than
they are— but consider, he is a weakling— a
23 flower.
OLD CHINA
1823
I have an almost feminine partiality for
30 old china. When I go to see any great
house, I inquire for the china-closet, and next
for the picture gallery. I eannot defend the
order of preference, but by saying that we
have all some taste or other, of too ancient
35 a date to admit of our remembering dis-
tinctly that it was an acquired one I can
call to mind the first plav, and the first exhi-
bition, that I was taken to, but I am not
conscious of a time when china jars and
40 saucers were introduced into my imagina-
tion.
I had no repugnance then— why should I
now have?— to those little, lawless, azure-
tinctured grotesques, that under the notion
46 of men and women, float about, uncircum-
scnbed by any element, in that world before
perspective— a china tea-cup.
I like to see my old fnends«-whom dis-
tance cannot diminish— figuring up in the
50 air (so they appear to our optics), yet on
terra firma still— for so we must in courtesy
interpret that speck of deeper blue, which
the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity,
has made to spring up beneath theii sandals
56 I love the men with women's faces, and
1A Jesuit college in France
a Btndent there
•by whipping to death
•roast whole after stuffing
• strong onioni
Lamb wa« new
952
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
the women, if possible, with still more
womanish expressions.
Here is a young1 and courtly Mandarin,
handing tea to a lady from a salver— two
miles off See how distance seems to set off
respect! And here the same lady, or an-
other—for likeness is identity on tea-cups—
is stepping: uito a little fairy boat, moored
on the hither side of this calm garden river,
with a dainty mincing foot, which in a right
angle of incidence (as angles gn in our
world) must infallibly land her in the midst
of a floweiy mead—a furlong off on the
other side of the same strange stream !
Farther on— if far or near can be predi-
cated of their world— see horses, trees,
pagodas, dancing the hayh *
Here — a cow and rabbit couchant, and
co-extensive— so objects show, seen through
the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay
I was pointing out to my cousin last
evening, over our Hyson2 (which we are
old fashioned enough to drink unmixed still
of an afternoon), some of these specioaa
nuracula* upon a set of extraordinary old
blue china (a recent purchase) whicb we
were now for the first time using; and could
not help remarking, how favorable circum-
stances had been to ua of late years, that we
could afford to please the eye sometimes
with tnfles of this sort— when a passing
sentiment teemed to o\er-shade the brows
of my companion.4 I ain quick at detecting
these summer clouds in Bridget.
"I wish the good old times would come
again, " she said, "when we were not quite
so nch I do not mean that I want to be
poor; but there was a middle state;99— so
she was pleased to ramble on,— "in which
I am sure we were a great deal happier. A
purchase is but a purchase, now that you
have money enough and to spare. Formerly
it used to be a triumph. When we coveted
a cheap luxury (and, O ! how much ado I
had to get you to consent in those times!)
we were used to have a debate two or three
days before, and to weigh the for and
against, ami think what we might spare it
out of, and what saving we could hit upon,
that should be an equivalent. A thing was
worth buying then, when we felt the money
that we paid for it
"Do you remember the brown^snit, which
you made to hang upon yon, till all your
i A country dnnrp
• green tra
• glorloiifi wonder* (Horace WWH thin phray In
Ant Poetfea, 144, to dcBoribt the utoriwi of the
/Had)
Hint? r MRIT, whom he rail* Bridget Rlla
friends cried shame upon you, it grew so
thread-bare— and all because of that folio
Beaumont and Fletcher, which you dragged
home late at night from Barker's in Coven t-
5 garden f Do you remember how we eyed it
for weeks before we could make up our
minds to the purchase, and had not come to
a determination till it was near ten o'clock
of the Saturday night, when yon set off
10 from Islington, feanng yon should be too
late— and when the old bookseller with some
grumbling opened his shop, and by the
twinkling taper (for he was setting bed-
wards) lighted out the relic from his dusty
16 treasures— and when you lugged it home,
wishing it were twice as cumbersome— and
when you presented it to me— and when we
were exploring the perfectneas of it (collai-
w*<7 yon called it) — and while I was repairing
20 some of the loose leaves with paste, which
your impatience would not suffer to be left
till day-break—was theie no pleasure in
being a poor manf or can those neat black
clothes which you wear now, and are so care-
25 ful to keep brushed, since we ha\e become
rich and finical, give you half the honest
vanity with which you flaunted it about in
that over-worn suit— your old coibeau1—
for four or five weeks longer than you
90 should have done, to pacify your conscience
for the mighty sum of fifteen— or sixteen
shillings was itt— a great affair we thought
it then— which you had lavished on the old
folio. Now you can afford to buy any book
To that pleases you, but I do not see thai yon
ever bring me home any nice old purchase*
now.
"When you came home with twenty aj
ogies for laying out a less number of
40 lings upon that print after Lionardo, which
we christened the Lady BlancJi;* when yon
looked at the purchase, and thought of the
money— and thought of the money, and
looked again at the picture— was there no
45 pleasure in being a poor manf Now, you
have nothing to do but to walk into Col-
naghi9R, and buy a wilderness of Lionardo*
Yet do you 1
"Then, do you remember our pleasant
50 walks to Enfield, and Potter's Bar, and
Waltham, when we had a holyday— holy-
days, and all other fun, are gone, now we
are rich— and the little hand-basket in which
I used to deposit our day's fare of savory
56 cold lamb and salad— and how yon would
pry about at noon-tide for some decent
•flee* Mary Lamb'* poem entitled Linn B*gg**tc4
by a Pirtvrr of Tiro Femalet by Lfonanfo da
T.AlffTl
953
house, where we might go in, and produce
our store— only paying for the ale that you
must call for— and speculate upon the looks
of the landlady, and whether she was likely
to allow us a table-cloth— and wish for such
another honest hostess, as Izaak Walton has
described1 many a one on the pleasant
banks of the Lea, when he went a-f
and sometimes they would prove ol
enough, and sometimes they would look
grudgingly upon us— but we had cheerful
looks still for one another, and would eat
our plain food savoniy, scarcely grudging
Piscator his Trout Hailf Now, when we
go out a day's pleasuring, which is seldom
moreover, we ride part of the way— and go
into a fine inn, and order the best of dinners,
never debating the expense— which, after
all, never has half the relish of those chance
country snaps, when we were at the mercy
of uncertain usage, and a precarious wel-
come.
"You are too proud to see a play any-
where now but in the pit.2 Do you remember
where it was we used to sit, when we saw
The Battle of Hexham, and The Surrender
of Calais, and Bannister and Mrs. Bland
in The Children m the TTood— when we
squeezed put our shillings a-piece to sit three
or four times in a season in the one-shilling
gallery— where you felt all the time that you
ought not to have brought me— and more
strongly I felt obligation to you for having
brought me— and the pleasure was the bet-
ter for a little shame— and when the curtain
drew up, what eared we for our place in
the house, or what mattered it where we were
sitting, when our thoughts were with Rosa-
lind in Arden, or with Viola at the Court of
Illy rial You used to say that the gallery
was the best place of all for enjoying a play
socially— that the relish of such exhibitions
must be in proportion to the infrequency of
going— that the company we met there, not
being in general readers of plays, were
obliged to attend the more, and did attend,
to what was going on, on the stage— because
a word lost would have been a chasm, which
it was impossible for them to fill up. With
such reflections we consoled our pride then—
and I appeal to yon, whether, as a woman. I
met generally with less attention and accom-
modation than I have done since in more
expensive situations in the house f The get-
ting in indeed, and the crowding up those
inconvenient staircases, was bad enough,—
but there was still a law of civility to women
i theatre.
recognized to quite as great an extent as we
ever found in the other passages— and how
a little difficulty overcome heightened the
snug seat, and the play, afterwards! Now
5 we can only pay our money, and walk in.
You cannot see, you say, in the galleries
now. I am sure we saw, and heard too, well
enough then— but sight, and all, I think, is
gone with our poverty
10 " There was pleasure m eating straw-
berries, before they became quite common—
in the first dish of peas, while they were yet
dear— to have them for a nice supper, a
treat. What treat can we have nowf If we
15 were to treat ourselves now— that is, to have
dainties a little above our means, it would
be selfish and wicked. It is the very little
more that we allow ourselves beyond what
the actual poor can get at, that makes what
20 I call a treat— when two people living to-
gether, as we have done, now and then in-
dulge themselves in a cheap luxury, which
both like; while each apologizes, and is will-
ing to take both halves of the blame to his
25 single share I see no harm in people mak-
ing much of themselves in that sense of the
word. It may give them a hint how to make
much of others. But now— what I mean by
the word— we never do make much of our-
» selves. None but the poor can do it. I do
not mean the veriest poor of all, but persons
as we were, just above poverty.
"I know what you were going to say,
that it is mighty pleasant at the end of the
85 year to make all meet— and much ado we
used to have every Thirty-first Night of De-
cember to account for our exceedings— many
a long face did you make over your puzzled
accounts, and in contriving to make it out
40 how we had spent so much— or that we had
not spent so much— or that it was impos-
sible we should spend so much next year—
and still we found our slender capital de-
creasing—but then, betwixt ways, and proj-
45 ects, and compromises of one sort or an-
other, and talk of curtailing this charge,
and doing without that for the future— and
the hope that youth brincp, and laughing
spirits (in which you were never poor till
50 now), we pocketed up our loss, and in con-
clusion, with 'lusty brimmers91 (as you
used to quote it out of hearty cheerful Mr.
Cotton, as yon called him),9 we used to wel-
come in the * coming guest.98 Now we have
» no reckoning ftt all at the end of the old
The Ve\r Tear 50
Year>§ I&ir In which Cotton's
5, 84
954
NINETEENTH OBNTUBY BOMANTIdSTS
year— no flattering promises about the new
year doing better for us. ' '
Bridget is so sparing of her speech, on
most occasions, that when she gets into a
ihetorical vein, I am careful how I interrupt
it. I could not help, however, smiling at the
phantom of wealth which her dear imagina-
tion bad conjured up out of a clear income
of poor hundred pounds a year. "It is
true we were happier when we were poorei,
but we were alho younger, my cousin. I am
afraid we must put up with the excesb, for
if we were to shake the superfliuc into the
sea, we should not much mend ourselves
That we had much to struggle with, as we
grew up together, we have reason to be most
thankful It strengthened, and knit our
compact closer. We could never have been
what we have been to each other, if we had
always had the sufficiency which you now
complain of The resisting power— those
natural dilations of the youthful spiri*.
which circumstances cannot straiten— with
us are long since passed away. Competence
to age is supplementary youth; a sorry
supplement indeed, but I fear the best that
is to be had We must ride, ^vherc we for-
merly walked live better, and he sof tei —
and shall be \\ise to do so— than we bad
means to do in those pood old days you
speak of. Yet could those days return—
could you and I once more walk our thirtv
miles a day— could Bannister and Mrs
Bland again be young, and you and I be
young to see them— conld the good old one-
shilling gallery days return— they are
dreams, my cousin, now— but could you and
I at this moment, instead of this quiet
argument, by our well-carpeted fire-side,
catting on this luxurious «ofa— be once more
struggling up those inconvenient stair-cases,
pushed about, and squeezed, and elbowed
by the poorest rabble of poor gallery scram-
blers—could I once more hear those anxiou*
shrieks of yours— and the delicious Thank
God, we are safe, which always followed
when the topmost stair, conquered, let in the
first light of the whole cheerful theatre down
beneath us— I know not the fathom line that
ever touched a descent so deep as I would be
willing to bury more wealth in than Cropsna
had, or the great Jew R » is supposed
to have, to purchase it. And now do just
look at that merry little Chinese waiter
holding an umbrella, bi? enough for a bed-
tester,8 over the head of that pretty insipid
i Nathan Meyer Bothjichlld (1777-1886), _the
folSder of* the English branch of the>reat
Euronean banking firm of the Rothschilds,
•bed canopy
half-Madonna-ish chit of a lady in that very
blue summer-house "
POOB BELATIONS
5 1823
A poor relation is the most irrelevant
thing in nature,— a piece of impertinent
correspondency,— an odious approximation,
—a haunting conscience,— a preposterous
10 shadow, lengthening in the noontide of your
prosperity,— an unwelcome remembrancer,
—a perpetually recurring mortification,— a
drain on your purse,— a more intolerable
dun upon your pnde,— a drawback upon
16 success,— a rebuke to you rising,— a stain in
your blood,— a blot on your scutcheon, — a
lent in your garment,— a death's head at
your banquet,1— Agathocles' pot,1— a Mor-
decai in your pate,1— a Lazarus at your
» door,4— a lion in your path,5— a frog in
your chambei,8— a fly in your ointment,7 — a
mote 111 your eye,8— a triumph to your enemj ,
—an apology to your friends,— the one thing
not needful,9— flie hail in harvest,10— the
25 ounce of sour in a pound of sweet.11
He is known bv his knock Your heart
telleth vou "That is Mr. ." A rap,
lietween familiarity and respect, that de-
mands, and at the same time, seenrw to
30 despair of entertainment He entereth smil-
ing, and— embarrassed He lioldeth put his
hand to yon to shake, and— draweth it back
again He casually looketh in about dinnei
time— when the table is full He offereth to
85 go away, seeing you have company— but is
induced to stay He fllleth a chair, and your
visitor's two children are accommodated at
a side table. He never cometh upon open
days, when your wife says with some eom-
40 placency, "My dear, perhaps Mi will
drop in today " He remembereth birth-
days—and profesKeth he is fortunate to have
^tumbled upon one. He declareth against
fob, the turbot being small— yet suffereth
45 himself to be importuned into a slice against
his first resolution He stieketh by the port
—yet will be prevailed upon to empty the
remainder glass of claret, if a stranger press
*A reference to the cnfftom of the Egyptians of
gO having a coffin containing a representation of
a dead body carried through the banquet ball
at the clone of the feart to remind the guests
of their necessary end, and to suggest that
they should drink and be merry. Bee Herod-
orus's HtotoHa, 2. 78
•jtKBthocles, tvmnt of 8lr|ly (817289 B C )
B bated the sight of a pot because it reminded
him that he was the son of a potter
• Pee father. 8 1-2 ; 6 '11-18 * Pee Lake, 16 20.
• Ree I Xing*, 18 -24 • PM Kmodna, 8 " '
• flee Eoclefaiitr*, 10 1 • Pee Matthew,
• Pee L«lte, 10 49 w P»P Frot er**. . . _
u Pee Spenser's The Faerie Queene, T. 3,80, 4.
This phrase was the motto of Hunt's tae /*>•
Heater.
CHABLES
955
it upon him. He is a puzzle to the servants,
who are tearful of being too obsequious, or
not civil enough, to him. The guests think
"they have seen him before." Every one
speculate^ upon his condition,1 and the
most pait take him to be— a tide-waiter.2
He ftillelh you by your Christian name, to
imply that his other is the same with your
own. He u» loo familiar by half, yet you
wish he had less diffidence. With half the
familiarity he might pass for a casual de-
pendent, with more boldness he would be
in no danger of being taken for what be is.
He is too humble for a friend, yet taketh on
him more state than befits a client.* He is
a worse guest than a country tenant, inas-
much as he bringeth up no rent— yet 'tis
odds, from his garb and demeanor that your
guests take him for one He is asked to
make one at the whist table; refuseth on
the score of poverty, and— rehents being
left out. When the company breaks up, he
proffereth to go for a coach— and lets the
servant go. He recollects your grandfather;
and will thrust in some mean, and quite
unimportant anecdote of— the family He
knew it when it was not quite so flourishing
as "he is blest m seeing it now." He re-
viveth past situations, to institute what he
calleth— favorable comparisons. With a re-
flecting sort of congratulation, he will in-
quire the price of vour furniture; and
insults vou with a special commendation of
your window-curtains. He is of opinion
that the urn is the more elegant shape, but,
after all, there was something more com-
fortable about the old tea-kettle— which you
must remember He dare say yon must find
a great convenience in having a carnage of
your own, and appealeth to your lady if it
is not so Inquireth if you have had your
arms done on vellum yet ; and did not know
till lately that such-and-such had been the
crest of the family. His memory is un-
seasonable; his compliments perverse; his
talk a trouble; his stay pertinacious; and
when he goeth away, you dismiss his chair
into a corner, as precipitately as possible,
and feel fairly rid of two nuisances.
There is a worse evil under the sun, and
that is— a female Poor Relation. Tou may
do something with the other; you may pass
him off tolerably well; but your indigent
she-relative is hopeless. "He is an old
humorist/14 you may say, "and affects to
go threadbare. His circumstances aw better
rival of
' dependant
official wbo waits for the ar-
pb and enforces tbe revenue Uwa.
4 eccentric person
than folks would take them to be. Tou are
fond of having a Character at your table,
and truly he is one.19 But in the indications
of female poverty there can be no disguise.
B No woman dresses below herself from ca-
price. The truth must out without shuffling.
' ' She is plainly related to the L— s ; or what
does she at their house!" She is, in all
probability, your wife's cousin. Nine times
10 out of ten, at least, this is the case. Her
garb is something between a gentlewoman
and a beggar, yet the former evidently pre-
dominates. She is most provokingly humble
and ostentatiously sensible to her inferiority.
16 He may require to be repressed sometimes—
aliquando sufflaminandus erat1— but there
is no raising her You send her soup at
dinner, and she begs to be helped— after
the gentlemen. Mr. requests the honor
20 of taking wine with her; she hesitates be-
tween port and Madeira, and chooses the
former— because he does. She calls the
servant 811; and insists on not troubling
him to hold her plate. The housekeeper
26 patronizes her. The children's governess
takes upon her to correct her, when she has
mistaken the piano for a harpsichord
Richard Ainlet, Esq , in the play,2 is a
notable instance of the disadvantages, to
K> which this chimerical notion of affinity con-
stituting a claim to acquaintance, may sub-
ject the spirit of a gentleman A little
foolish blood is all that is betwixt him and
a lady of great estate. His stars are per-
85 petually crossed by the malignant mater-
nity of an old woman, who persists in call-
ing him "her son Dick " But she has
wherewithal in the end to recompense his
indignities, and float him again upon the
40 brilliant surface, under which it had been
her seeming business and pleasure all along
to sink him. All men, besides, are not of
Dick's temperament. I knew an Am let
in real life, who, wanting Dick's buoyancy,
46 sank indeed. Poor W * was of my own
standing at Christ's, a fine classic, and a
youth of promise If he had a blemish, it
was too much pride; but its quality was
inoffensive; it was not of that sort which
60 hardens the heart, and serves to keep in-
feriors at a distance; it only sought to ward
off derogation from itself It was the prin-
ciple of self-respect carried as far as it
could go, without infringing upon that re-
65
•ometluiM he had to be checked
Tftr Confederacy, by John Vanbrogh (1004-
1726).
(p 087b,
«
'* ffotpitol
16).
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8T8
spect, which he would have every one else
equally maintain for himself. He would
have you to think alike with him on this
topic. Many a quarrel have I had with him,
when we were rather older boys, and our tall-
ness1 made us more obnoxious to observa-
tion in the blue clothes, because I would not
thread the alleyb and blind ways of the town
with him to elude notice, when we have been
out together on a holiday in the streets of
this sneering and prying metropolis. W
went, sore with these notions, to Oxford,
\\Leie the dignity and sweetness of a schol-
ar's life, meeting: with the alloy of a humble
introduction, wrought in him a passionate
devotion to the place, with a profound aver-
Miin from the bociety. The servitor's gown2
(worse than his school array) clung to him
A\ith Xessian venom.8 lie thought himself
iidiculous in a gaib, under which Latimer4
would have walked erect; and in which
Hooker,0 in his young days, possibly
flaunted in a vein of no discommendable
vanity. In the depth of college shades, or
m his lonely chamber, the poor student
shrunk from observation. He found shelter
among books, which insult not ; and studies,
that ask no quest ions of a youth's finance*.
He was lord of his library, and seldom cared
for looking out beyond his domains. The
healing influence of studious pursuits was
upon him, to soothe and to abstract. He
was almost a healthy man ; when the way-
wardness of his fate broke out against him
with a second and worse malignity. The
father of W had hitherto exercised the
humble profession of house-painter at
N , near Oxford. A supposed interest
with some of the heads of the colleges had
now induced him to take up his abode in
that city, with the hope of being employed
upon Rome public works which were talked
of. From that moment I read in the coun-
tenance of the young man, the determina-
tion which at length tore him from academ-
ical pursuits forever. To a person unac-
quainted with our universities, the distance
between the gownsmen and the townsmen,
as they are called— the trading part of the
latter especially— is carried to an excess
that would appear harsh and incredible.
The temperament of W fs father was
1 Lamb really wan short of stature.
9 The difttingniBhlng drew of an undergraduate
who wan partly supported by college funds.
and who waited on table at the Commons.
•Hertuleft slew Ncssus with a poisoned arrow.
and lost his own life. by wearing a shirt
dipped In the poisonous blood of Nessus.
* Latimer had been a altar (same as servitor) nt
* Hooker hid
heen a servitor at Oxford
diametrically the reverse of his own. Old
W was a little! busy, cringing trades-
man, who, with his sou upon his aim, would
stand bowing and scraping, cap m hand,
& to anything that wore the semblance of a
gown— insensible to the winks and opener
remonstrances of the young man, to whobe
chamber-fellow, or equal in standing, per-
haps, he was thus obsequiously and gratui-
10 tously ducking. Such a state of things could
not last W must change the air of
Oxford or be suffocated. He chose the
former; and let the sturdy moralist, who
strains the point of the filial duties as high
IB as they can bear, censure the dereliction;
he cannot estimate the struggle. I stood
with W , the last afternoon I ever saw
him, under the eaves of his paternal dwell-
ing. It was in the fine lane leading from
20 the High-street to the back of College,
where \V kept his rooms. He seemed
thoughtful, and more reconciled. I ven-
tured to rally him— finding him in a better
mood— upon a representation of the Artist
2"» Evangelist,1 which the old man, who&e
affairs were beginning to flourish, had
caused to be set up in a splendid sort of
frame over his really handsome shop, either
as a token of prosperity, or badge of grati-
30 tude to his saint. W looked up at the
Luke, and, like Satan, "knew his mounted
*ign— -and fled."8 A letter on his father's
table the next morning, announced that he
had accepted a commission in a regiment
35 about to embark for Portugal. He was
among the first who perished before the
walls of St. Sebastian.
I do not know how, upon a subject which
I began with treating half-seriously, I should
40 have fallen upon a recital so eminently pain-
ful ; but this theme of poor relationship is
replete with so much matter for tragic as
well as comic associations, that it is difficult
to keep the account distinct without blend-
45 ing. The earliest impressions which I re-
ceived on this matter are certainly not at-
tended with anything painful, or very hu-
miliating, in the recalling. At my father's
table (no very splendid one) was to be
co found, every Saturday, the mysterious fig-
ure of an aged gentleman, clothed in neat
black, of a sad yet comely appearance. His
deportment was of the essence of gravity;
his words few or none; and I was not to
66 make a noise in his presence. I had little
inclination to have done so— for my cue was
by tradition n painter •* well an a
Loaf, 4, 1013,
CHARLES LAMB
957
to admire in silence. A particular elbow
chair was appropriated to him, which wan
in no case to be violated. A peculiar sort
of sweet pudding, which appeared on no
other occasion, distinguished the days of his
coming. I used to think him a prodigiously
rich man. All I could make out of him was,
that he and my father had been school-
fellows a world ago at Lincoln, and that he
came from the Mint1 The Mint I knew to
be a place where all the money was coined—
and I thought he was the owner of all that
money. Awful ideas of the Tower twined
themselves about his presence. He seemed
above human infirmities and passions A
sort of melancholy grandeur invested him.
From some inexplicable doom I fancied him
obliged to go about in an eternal suit of
mourning; a captive— a stately being, let
out of the Tower on Saturdays Often have
I wondered at the temerity of my father,
who, in spite of an habitual general respect
which we all in common manifested towards
him, would venture now and then to stand
up against him in some argument, touching
their youthful days. The houses of the
ancient city of Lincoln are divided (as most
of my readers know) between the dweller*
on the hill, and in the valley. Thw marked
distinction formed an obvious division be-
tween the bovs who lived above (however
brought together in a common school) and
the bovs whose paternal residence wan on
the plain ; a sufficient cause of hostility in
the code of these young Grotiuses.2 My
father had been a leading Mountaineer; and
would still maintain the general superiority,
hi skill and hardihood, of the Above Bot/a
(his own faction) over the Below Boys (so
were they called), of which party his con-
temporary had been a chieftain. Many and
hot were' the skirmishes on this topic— the
only one upon which the old gentleman was
ever brought out— and bad blood bred; even
sometimes almost to the recommencement
(no I expected) of actual hostilities. But
my father, who scorned to insist upon ad-
vantage*, generally contrived to turn the
conversation upon some adroit by-rommen-
dation of the old Minster, in the general
preference of which, before all other cathe-
drals in the island, the dweller on the hill,
and the plain-horn, could meet on a conciliat-
ing level, and lay down their less important
differences. Once only I saw the old gentle-
iTh* Mint wan near the Tower of T/mAon, the
$S£i Hugo Grotlui (1C88-1645) WM
tSSt Dutch authority on intmathma!
man really ruffled, and I remember with
anguish the thought that came over me-
"Perhaps he will never come here again."
He had been pressed to take another plate
' of the viand, which I have already men-
tioned as the indispensable concomitant of
his visits. He had refused, with a resistance
amounting to rigor— when my aunt, an old
Lincolnian, but who had something of this,
10 in common with my cousin Bridget, that
she would sometimes press civility out of
Reason— uttered the following memorable
application— "Do take another slice, Mr
Billet, for you do not get pudding e\ery
iff day " The old gentleman said nothing at
the time— but lie took occasion in the course
of the evening, when some argument had
intervened between them, to utter with an
emphasis which chilled the company, and
20 which chills me now as I write it—' ' Woman,
yon are superannuated." John Billet did
not snrvhe long, after the digesting of this
affront; but he survived long enough to
assure me that peace was actually restored f
25 and, if I remember aright, another pudding
was discreetly substituted in the place of
that which had occasioned the offence. He
died at the Mint (Anno 1781) where he had
long held, what he accounted, a comfortable
80 independence; and with five pounds, four-
teen shillings, and a penny, which were
found in his escrntojre after his decease,
left the world, blessing God that he had
enough to bury him, and that he had never
85 been obliged to any man for a sixpence
This was— a Poor Relation.
SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS
1826
So far from the position holding true,
that great wit (or gemuR, in our modern
way of speaking) has a necessary alliance
with insanity, the greatest wits, on the con-
45 trary, will ever be found to be the sanest
writers. It is impossible for the mind to
conceive of a mad Shakspeare. The great-
ness of wit, by which the poetic talent is
here chiefly to be understood, manifests
60 itself in the admirable balance of all the fac-
ulties. Madness is the disproportionate
straining or excess of any one of them
"So strong a wit," savs Cowley, speaking
of a poetical friend,
55 " did Nature to him frame,
As all things bat his judgment overcame,
His judgment like the heavenly moon did show,
Tempering that mighty sea below. "»
* On flto Dwtft of Jfr tfWtam Hemy, 97-100.
958
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOI8T8
The ground of the mistake is that meii,
finding in the raptures of the higher poetry
a condition of exaltation, to which they have
no parallel in their own experience, besides
the spurious resemblance of it in dreams
and fevers, impute a state of dreaminess
and fever to the poet. But the true poet
dreams being awake. He is not possessed
by his subject, but has dominion over it
In the groves of Eden he walks familiar as
in his native paths. He ascends the empy-
rean heaven, and is not intoxicated. He
treads the burning marl1 without dismay;
he wins his flight without self -loss through
leahns of chaos "and old night."2 Or if,
abandoning himself to that severer chaos
of a "human mind untuned/'8 he is content
awhile to be mad with Leai, or to hate man-
kind (a sort of madness) with Timon,
neither is that madness, nor the misan-
thropy, so unchecked, but that,— never let-
ting the reins of icason wholly go, while
most he seems to do so,— he has his better
genius still whispering at hib eai, with the
good servant Kent suggesting saner coun-
sels,4 or with the honest steward Flavius
recommending kindlier resolutions.6 Where
he seems inobt to recede from humanity, he
will be found the truest to it From beyond
the scope of Nature if he summon possible
existences, he subjugates Ihem to the latt
of her consistency He is beautifully loyal
to that sovereign directress, even when he
appears most to betray and desert her His
ideal tribes submit to policy, his very mon-
sters are tamed to his hand, even as that
wild sea-brood, shepherded by Proteus
He tames, and he clothes them with attri-
butes of flesh and blood, till they wonder
at themselves, like Indian Islanders forced
to submit to European vesture. Caliban,
the Witches, are as true to the laws of
their own nature (ours with a difference)
as Othello, Hamlet, and Macbeth Herein
the great and little wits are differenced,
that if the latter wander ever no little from
nature or actual existence, they lose them-
selves and their readers. Their phantoms
are lawless; their visions nightmares. They
do not create, which implies shaping and
consistency. Their imaginations are not
active— for to be active is to call something1
into act and form— but passive, as men in
sick dreams For the super-natural, or
something super-added to what we know of
earth (fee PawNm* Lett, 1 29R >
141 ft.
nature, they give yon the plainly non-
natural And if this were all, and that these
mental hallucinations were discoverable
only in the treatment of subjects out of
5 nature, or transcending it, the judgment
might with some plea be pardoned if it ran
not, and a little wantonized.1 but even in
the describing of real and everyday life,
that which is before their eyes, one of these
10 lesser wits shall more deviate from nature-
show more of that inconsequence, which has
a natural alliance with frenzy,— than a great
genius in his "maddest fits," as Withers
somewhere calls them a We appeal to any
is one that is acquainted with the common run
of Lane's novels,— as they existed some
twenty or thirty years back,— those scanty
intellectual viands of the whole female read-
ing public, till a happier genius8 arose, and
20 expelled forever the innutritions phantoms,
—whether he has not found his brain more
"betossed,"4 his memoiy more puzzled,
his sense of when and where more con-
founded, among the improbable events, the
2~> incoherent incidents, the inconsistent char-
acters, or no-characters, of some third-rate
love intrigue— where the persons shall be a
Lord Glendamour and a Miss Rivers, and
the scene only alternate between Bath and
*> Bond-btrect— a more bewildering- dreaminess
induced upon him than he has felt wander-
ing over all the fairy grounds of Spenser
In the productions we lefer to, nothing but
names and places is familiar, the persons
35 are neither of this world nor of any other
conceivable one; an endless string of activ-
ities without purpose, of purposes destitute
of motive :— we meet phantoms in our known
walks, fantasqucfP only christened. In the
•w poet we have names which announce fiction ,
and we have absolutely no place at all, for the
things and persons of The Fatrtf Queen
prate not of their "whereabout "° But in
their inner nature, and the law of their
<~ speech and actions, we are at home and
upon acquainted ground The one turns
life into a dream ; the other to the wildest
dreams gives the sobrieties of everyday
occurrences. By what subtile art of tracintr
so the mental processes it is effected, we are not
philosophers enough to explain, but in that
wonderful episode of the cave of Mammon,7
in which the Money God appears first in
the lowest form of a miser, is then a worker
65 iunrertrainrt
9 Bee The Rhepheard'n TTunti*
•Probably Rcott
iR9meo a*" MM, V, 3, 7fl
Foerfp Q«Wfie, II, 7
4. 410
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
969
of metals, and becomes the god of all the
treasures of the world; and has a daughter,
Ambition, before whom all the world kneels
for favors— with the Hespenan fruit,1 the
waters of Tantalus, with Pilate washing his
hands vainly,8 but not impertinently, in
the same stream— that we should be at one
moment in the cave of an old hoarder of
treasures, at the next at the forge of the
Cyclops, in a palace and yet in hell, all at
once, with the shifting mutations of the
most rambling dream, and our judgment
yet all the time awake, and neither able nor
willing to detect the fallacy,— is a proof
of that hidden sanity which still guides the
poet in his widest seeming-aberrations.
It is not enough to say that the whole
episode is a copy of the mind 's conceptions
in sleep; it is, in some sort— but what a
copy ! Let the most romantic of us, that has
been entertained all night with the spectacle
of Rome wild and magnificent vision, recom-
bine it in the morning, and try it by his
waking judgment That which appeared so
shifting, and yet so coherent, while thai
faculty was passive, when it comes under
cool examination, shall appear so reasonless
and so unlinked, that we are ashamed to
have been so deluded; and to have taken,
though but in sleep, a monster for a god
But the transitions in this episode are every
whit as violent as in the most extravagant
dream, and vet the wakinpr judgment ratifies
them.
THIS DEATH OF COLBBIDGE
IV THE ALBUM OF MB KEYMER
1834 1830
When I heard of the death of Coleridge,
it was without gnef It seemed to me that
lie long had been on the confines of the next
world,— that he had a hunger for eternity
T grieved then that I could not grieve But
since, I feel how great a part he wasTO me.
His great and dear spirit haunts me I
cannot think a thought, I cannot make a
criticism on men or books, without an inef-
fectual turning and reference to him. He
was the proof and touchstone of all mv
cogitations He was a Grecian8 (or in the
first form) at Christ's Hospital, where T
was deputy Grecian; anJ the same subordi-
nation and deference to him I have pre-
» Golden apple* from the mythological Karden of
HfBDerlde*.
'•A^naSe'rf^n to student* of the hlghert claw
w™ "wire preparing to Center a i»}yertity:
rtndontB of the second claw were called dep-
uty Grecians
served through a life-long acquaintance.
Great in his writings, he was greatest in his
conversation. In him was disproved that
old maxim that we should allow every one
6 his share of talk. He would talk from
morn to dewy eve,1 nor cease till far mid-
night, yet who ever would interrupt him,—
who would obstruct that continuous flow of
converse, fetched from Helicon or Zion f He
10 had the tact of making the unintelligible
seem plain Many who read the abstruser
parts of his Friend would complain that
his words did not answer to his spoken wis-
dom. They were identical But he had a
is tone m oral delivery, which seemed to con-
vey sense to those who were otherwise im-
perfect recipients He was my fifty-year--
old friend without a dissension Never saw
I his likeness, nor probably the world can
20 see again I seemed to love the house he
died at more passionately than when lie
lived I love the faithful Gilmans2 more
than while they exercised their virtues
towards him living. What was his mansion
25 is consecrated to me a chapel
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
(1775-1864)
90
Piom GKBfR
1798
BOOK I
I sing the fates of Gebir He had dwelt
Among those mountain-caverns which re-
tain
His labors yet, vast halls and flowing wells,
Nor have forgotten then old master's
name
R Though sever 'd from his people here,
inccnst
By meditating; on pnme\al wrongs,
He blew his battle-hot n, at which uprose
Whole nations, heie, ten thousand of most
might
He call 'd aloud , and soon Cbaroba saw
1° His dark helm ho\cr o'er the land of Nile
What should the Mrpm do? should royal
Bend suppliant f 01 defenceless hands en-
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms?
For 'twas reported that nor sword suf-
ficed,
15 Nor shield immense nor coat of massive
mail,
> Bee Paradise Lost. 1. 742-48
'Coleridge wan a frequent visitor at tbe home
of the nilmann, in Htghgate They cared for
him at the time of hlo tart lllnew and death.
960
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIGIBT8
But that upon their towering heads they
bore
Each a huge stone, refulgent arthe stars.
This told she Dabca, then cned aloud,
"If on your bosom laying down my head
80 I sobb'd away the sorrows of a child,
If I have always, and Heav'n knows I
have,
Next to a mother's held a nurse's name,
Succor this one distress, recall those days,
Love me, tho' 'twere because yon lovM
me then."
95 But whether confident in magic rites
Or touch 'd with sexual pride to stand im-
plor'd,
Dahca smiled, then spake— "Away those
fears.
Though stronger than the strongest of his
kind,
He falls; on me devolve that charge; he
falls.
80 Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure.
Nay, journey to his tents. A city stood
Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad built.
Whose father Gad built Oadir; on this
ground
Perhaps he sees an ample room for war
86 Persuade him to restore the walls himself
In honor of his ancestors, persuade-
But wherefore this advice f yonng, un-
espoused,
Charoba want persuasions ! and a queen ? ' '
"0 Dalicaf" the shuddering maid ex-
claim 'd,
*0 Could I encounter that fierce frightful
manf
Could I speakl no, nor sigh "—"And
canst thou reign f"
Cried Dabca; "yield empire or comply "
Unfix 'd, though seeming fix'd, her eves
downcast,
The wonted buzz and bustle of the court
46 From far through sculptured galleries met
her ear,
Then lifting up her head, the evening sun
Pour'd a fresh splendor on her burnish 'd
throne •
The fair Charoba, the young queen, com-
plied.
But Gebir, when he heard of her ap-
proach,
» Laid by his orbed shield; his vizor-helm,
Hi* buckler and his comet he laid by,
And bade that none attend him: at his
side
Two faithful dogs that nrge the silent
course,
Knaggy, deep-cheated, crouch 9& ; the croco-
dile,
« Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid
ears
And push their heads within their master's
hand.
There was a brightening paleness in his
face,
Such as Diana rising o'er the rocks
Shower 'd on the lonely Latmian; on his
brow
60 Sorrow there was, yet nought was there
severe.
But when the royal dam*el first he saw,
Faint, hanging on her handmaid, and her
knees
Tottering, as from the motion of the ear,
His eyes look'd earnest on her, and those
eyes
65 Show'd, if they had not, that they might
ha\e, lov'd,
For there was pity in them at that hour.
With gentle speech, and more with gentle
looks,
He sooth M her; but lent Pity go beyond
And cross 'd Ambition lose her lofty aim,
70 Rending, he kiss'd her garment, and re-
tired.
He went, nor slumber M in the sultry noon,
When viands, couches, generous wines,
persuade,
And slumber most refreshes; nor at night,
When heavy dews are laden with disease;
76 And blindness waits not there for lingering:
age.
Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he ar-
rived
At those rich meadows where young
Tamar fed
The royal flocks entrusted to his care.
"Now," said he to himself, "will I re-
pose
80 At least this burthen on a brother's
, bieast."
Hut brother stood before him : he, amazed,
Reafr'd suddenly his head, and thus began.
"Is it thou, brother ! Tamar, i* it thou !
Why, standing on the valley's utmost
verge,
85 Lookest thou on that dull and dreary shore
Where beyond sight Nile blackens all the
oandf
And why that sadness f When I pass'd
our sheep
The dew-drops were not shaken off the
bar,
Therefore if one be wanting, 'tis untold."
*° "Yes, one is wanting, nor is that un-
told,"
Raid Tamar; "and this dull and dreary
shore
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB 961
Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours." Before I was aware, for with surprise
Whereon the tear stole silent down his Moments fly rapid as with love itself.
cheek, Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen M
Silent, but not by Gebir unobserv'd: reed,
95 Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying m I heard a rustling, and where that arose
spake. My glance first lighted on her nimble feet.
"Let me approach thee; does the morning Her feet resembled those long shells1 ex-
light plored
Scatter this wan suffusion o'er thy brow, By him who to befriend his steed's dim
This faint blue lustre uhder both thine sight
eyes!" Would blow the pungent powder in the
"0 brother, is this pity or reproach!" eye
i°° Cried Tamar, "cruel if it be reproach, uo Her eyes tool 0 immortal Gods! her eyes
If pity, Ohow vain!"-"Whate'erat be Resembled-what could they resemble!
That grieves thee, I will pity, thon but what
speak, Ever resemble those! Even her attire
And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art :
pang " Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-
" Gebir! then more than brothers are pod,
we now! 145 Her girdle the dove-colorM wave serene.
106 Everything (take mv hand) will I confess. ' Shepherd,9 said she, 'and will you wrestle
I neither feed the flock nor watch the fold ; now,
How can I, lost in love! But, Gebir, why And with the sailor's hardier race en-
That anger winch has risen to your cheek! gage!'
Can other men! could you! what, no re- T was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived
ply i How to keep up contention : could I fail
110 And still more anger, and still worse con- 15° By pressing not too strongly, yet to press!
ceal'd! 'Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem,
Are these your promises! your pity this!" Or whether of the hardier race you boast,
"Tamar, I well may pitv what I feel— 1 am not daunted; no; I will engage.9
Maik mo aright— T feol for thee— pro- 'But first,9 said she, 'what wager will yon
coed- lay!'
Relate me all "-"Then will I all relate, "5 'A sheep,' I answered: 'add what e'er you
115 Raid HIP young shepherd, gladden M from will '
his heart 'I cannot,' she replied, 'make that return :
" Twas evening, though not sunset, and Our hided vessels in their pitchy round
the tide Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep
Lex el with those green meadows, seera'd Rut I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
vet higher: 16° Within, and they that lustre have Imbibed
'Twas pleasant; and I loosen M from my In the sun's palace-porch, where when
neck unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the
The pipe you gave me, and began to play wave :
120 0 that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art I Shake one and it awakens, then apply
It always brings us enemies or love. Its polish M lips to your attentive ear,
Well, I was playing, when above the 18B And it remembers its august abodes,
waves And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
Some swimmer's head methought I saw And I have others given me by the nymphs,
ascend; Of sweeter sound than any pipe you
I, sitting still, survey M it, with my pipe have;2
«B Awkwardly held before my lips half- But we, by Neptune ' for no pipe contend,
closed, 17° This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next '
Gebir ! it was a Nymph I a Nymph divine f Now came she forward eager to engage,
I cannot wait describing how she came, But first her dress, her bosom then snr-
How I was sitting, how she first assum 'd \ ey M.
The sailor; of what happen 'd there re-
mains x Wblto Miolli of mttlrflnh
Hfl T7M^MMl« **% an™ onVI +/\A miuili *n fni*<mt 'For a similar iwiHwiffp. woe WorrtwR orth'ii Tkr
"» Knougti to say. and too mucb to rorpet. j^r*™/™. 4 nils-Ho. nnd Byron'-* Tfcr
The sweet decener stepp'd upon this bank j*ian<i 2 4flfl in
962 NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And heay'd it, doubting; if fthe could do- fiat when I heard its bleating, as I did,
eeive. • 21° Aud saw, she hastening on, itb hinder
Her bosom scein'd, mclos'd in hare like feet
heav'u, Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder
175 To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined, slip,
Abote her knee *he drew the robe sue- One shoulder its poor efforts had un-
cinct,1 veil'd,
Above her biea**t, and just below hei Then all my passions mingling fell in
arms tears;
'This will preset \e mv breath when tightly Restless then ran I to the highest ground
bound, 21* To watch hei , tJie T*nh pone, gone down
If struggle and equal strength should so the tide;
constrain.9 , And the long moon-beam on the hard wet
180 Thus, pulling haid to fasten it, she spake. sand
And, rushing at me, closed* 1 thrill'd Lay like a jasper colnmii half up-i ear 'd.M
throughout "But, Tamar! tell me, will she not
And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with return T"
cold. "She will return, yet not before the
Again with violent impulse gnsh'd my moon
blood, 22° Again is at the full • die promis'd this,
And hearing nought external, thus ah- Thn' when she promis'd I could not
sorb'd, reply "
1 " T heard it, rushing through each turbid "By all the Gods I pity thee1 go on,
vein, Fear not my anger, look not on my
Shake mv unsteady swimming sight in an shame,
Yet with unyielding though uncertain For when a lover only hears of love
arms 2r He finds his folly out. and is ashamed
T clung around her neck: the \est beneath Away with watchful nights and lonely
Rustled against our slippery limbs en- days,
twined- Contempt of earth and as|>ect up to
|f|° Often mine sprmgmg with eluded force heaven,
Started aside and tiemblcd till replaced' With contemplation, with humility,
And when I most succeeded, a* I thought, A tatterM cloak that pride wears when
My bosom and my throat felt so com- deform 'd.
press M 21° Away with all that hides me from myself.
That life was almost quivering on my lips. Parts me from others, uhispfis T am
l<r> Yet nothing was there painful- these aie wise
signs From our own wisdom less is to be reapM
Of secret arts and not of human might , Than from the baiest folly of our
What arts I cannot tell f T only know friend.
My eyes crew di77y and my strength Tamar! thy pastures, large and rich, afford
decay M. MB Flowers to thy bees and herbage to thy
I was indeed o'eieome— with what regret, sheep,
200 And more, with what confusion, wlien I But, battened on too much, the poorest
reach M croft
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she Of thy poor neighbor yields what thine
cried, denies "
'This pays a shepherd to a conquering They hasten 'd to the camp, and Gebir
maid ' there
She smiled, and more of pleasure than Resolved his native country to forego,
disdain 24° And orderM from those ruins to the
Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, right
205 And eyes that languish M, lengthening, just They forthwith r»5«w» a city Tnmar heard
like love ^ With wonder, thof hi pa««ing 'twas half-
She went away; I on the wicker gate told.
Leant, and could follow with my eyes His brother's love, nnd sidiM upon his
alone. own.
The sheep she carried easy as a cloak;
* tnokwl op ••••••
WALTEB SAVAGE LANPOB
90S
BOSE AYLMEB
1806
Ah, what avails the sceptred race,1
Ah, what the form divine 1
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
6 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
T consecrate to thee.
CHILT> OF A DAY, THOU KNOWKST
NOT
1881
Child of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflbw thine urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return f
6 And why the wish ! the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep
0 peaceful night 1 0 envied rest'
Thou wilt not ever see her weep
FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIE8OLE
1881
Lo' where the four mimosas blend their
shade
In calm repose at last is Landor laid,
For ere he slept he saw them planted here
By her his soul had ever held most dear,
6 And he had lived enough when he had
dried her tear
LYRICS, TO IANTHK
1806-63
Hoitunc
1831
Away, my verse ; and never fear,
As men before such beauty do;
On you she will not look severe,
She will not turn her eyes from you
5 Rome happier graces could I lend
That in her memory you should live,
Rome little blemishes might blend.
For it would plea«e her to forgive.
OK THE SMOOTH BROW \ND CLUSTERING
HAIR
1846
On the smooth brow and clustering hair,
Myrtle and rose!1 your wreath combine,
The duller olive I would wear,
Its constancy, its peace, be mine.
1 A reference to the titled Avlmer fmnll?
•The myrtle and the row are emblem* of kwe
HEART 'S-EASE
1868
There is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worn by you—
Heart 's-ease— of all earth's flowers most
rare;
Bring it ; and bring: enough for two
TT OFTEV COMER INTO MY HEAD
1846
It often comes into my head
That we may dream when we are dead,
But I am far from sure we do
O that it were so ! then my rest
6 Would be indeed among the blest;
I should forever dream of yon.
ALL TENDER THOUGHTS THAT E'ER
POSSESS 'D
1881
All tender thoughts that e'er possess M
The human brain or human breast,
Centre in mine for thee—
^ Excepting one— and that must thou
"' Contnbnte: come, confer it now
Grateful I fain would be
THOU HAST Nor RAISED, IANTHE, SUCH
DESIRE
1846
Thou hast not rais'd, lanthe, such desire
In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine
No wandering meteor now, no marshy fire.
Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine •
5 And, if thou chillest me, as chill thou do*t
When I approach too near, too boldly
So chills the blushing morn, so chills the
host
Of vernal stars, with light more chaste
than day's
Pr K \RURE' WHY THUS DESFRT THE HEART
1831
Pleasure! why thus desert the heart
In its spring-tide!
I could have seen her, I could part,
And but have sigh M !
O'er every youthful charm to stray,
To gaze, to touch-
Pleasure ! why take so much away,
Or give so much !
964
N1NETKKNTH CENTURA UOMANT1CI8TS
RENUNCIATION
1846
Lie, my fond heart at rest,
She never can be oars.
Why strike upon my breast
The felowly passing hours f
6 Ah I bieathe not out the name,
That fatal folly stay! .
Conceal the eternal flame,
And tortured ne'er betray
You SMILED, You SPOKE. AND I BELIEVED
18401
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more ; .
Nor hope I what I hoped before .
5 But let not this last wish be vain ;
Deceive, deceive me once again.
So LATE REMOVED, FROM HIM SHE SWORE
1881
So late removed from him she swore,
With clasping- arms and vows and tears,
In life land death she would adore,
While memory, fondness, bliss, endears.
B Can she forswear f can she forget 1
Strike, mighty Love 1 strike, Vengeance '
Soft!
Conscience must come and bring regret—
These let her feel !— nor these too oft t
I HELD HER HAND, THE PLEDGE OF Buss
1881
I held her hand, the pledge of bliss,
Her hand that trembled and withdrew ;
She bent her head before my kiss—
My heart was sure that hers was true.
* Now I have told her I must part,
She shakes my hand, she bids adieu,
Nor shuns the kiss— Alas, my heart !
Hen never was the heart for you.
ABSENCE
1831
lanthet yon are call'd to cross the sea ;l
A path forbidden me!
Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds
Upon the mountain-heads,
6 How often we have watch 'd him laying
down
His brow, and dropp'd our own
Against each other's, and how faint and
short
.
Jnnthp of thtat pooron, went to live In Pnrm
And sliding the support I
What will succeed it nowt Mine is un-
lanthe! nor will rest
Kut on the very thought that swells with
0 bid me hope again !
0 give me back what Earth, what (with-
out you)
Not Heaven itself can do,
15 One of the golden days that we have past ,
And let it be my last!
Or else the gift would be, however sweet,
Fragile and incomplete.
FLOW, PREQIOUB TEARS! THUS SHALL M\
BIVAL KNOW
1800
Flow, precious tears 1 thus shall my rival
know
For me, not him, ye flow.
Stay, precious tears! ah, stay! this jeal-
ous heart
Would hid you flow apart,
5 Lest he should see you nsmg o'er the brim,
And hope you rise for him.
Your secret cells, while he IB absent, kv»<*p.
Nor, tho' I'm absent, weep.
MILD 18 THE PASTING YEAR, AND SWEET
1881
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odor of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
6 T wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that ne\er must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have sooth M it all
PAST RTTIN'P ILTON HM,F\ Livr^
* 1831
Past rnin'd Uion Helen lives,
Alcestis rises from the shades;
Verse calls them forth ; 'tis verse that srive*
Immortal youth to mortal maids
* Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil
Hide all the peopled hills you see,
The gay, the proud, while lovers hail
These many summers you and me.
HERE EVER SINGE Ton WENT ABROAD
1846
Here, ever since you went abroad,
If there be change, no change T see,
T only walk pur wonted road,
The road if only walk'd by me.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
965
6 Yes; I forgot; a change there is,
Was it of that you bade me tell9
I catch at times, at times 1 miss
The sight, the tone, I know so well
Only two months feince you stood here f
10 Two bhortest months' then tell me wh>
Voices are harsher than they were,
And teais are longer ere they dry
YEAKS AFTER
1840
"Do you reniembei met or are you
proud!"
Lightly advancing tluo' hei stnr-tnumi M
ciowd,
Tanthe said, and look'd into my
"A y?8, a »/rs, to both for Memoiv
r> Where you but once have been must
be,
And at join VHW Piide fiom his tluniu*
must use."
SHE I LOVE (AL\b IN VAI\»)
1840
She I love (alas in vain')
Floats bef'oie my slunibeim^ evct
When she comes site lulls inv pain.
When she iroes what pangs aiise1
"' Thou whom lo\e, whom memory flies,
Gentle Sleep r prolong thy reign f
l£ even tlniB she bootbe my sigh*.
Nevei let me wake again f
No, MY OWN LOVF OP OTHEU YJ-.VKS
1846
No, my own Io\e of other years*
No, it must never be
Much rests with jou that yet endears.
Alas! but what with met
5 Could those bright years o'er me i evolve
So gay, o'er you so fair,
The pearl of life we would dibsph e
And each the cup might share
You show that truth can ne'er decav.
10 Whatever fate befalls;
T, that the myrtle and the bay1
Shoot fresh on ruin'd walK
T WONDEB Nor THAT YOUTII REMAINS
1853
I wonder not that Youth remains
With you, wherever else she flies
Where could she find such fair domains,
Where bask beneath such sunny eyesf
»The imrtlo In on emblem of love; the bar, «
Inurel, nil emblem of honor or victory
YOUR PLEASURES SPRING LIKE DAISIES IN
THE GRASS
1840
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever,
Fiom you, lanthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a gunny nvei.
YEVRS, MANY PARTI-COLOUED YEARS
1863
Years, many parti-coloied years,
Some have crept on, and some have flown
Since first before me fell those tears
^ I never could see fall alone
r' Years, not so many, are to come,
Years not so varied, when from you
One more will fall • when, earned home,
T see it not, nor hear a<heu
WELL I REMEMBER How You SMILED
1863
Well I renieinbei how you Rmilod
To see me unte your name upon
The hof t heu-hand ' < 0 f u },at a t Jiild f
You Hi ink t/on'ie untnig upon stone'"
•"' I ha\e sniro written what no tide
Shall CNCI \\ush a\va>, what men
Unborn shall lead o'er ocean wide
And find lanthe 's name again
A FIE8OLAN IDYLl
1831
Here, wheie piecipitatc Spring with one
light bound
Into hot Sumuiei 's lusty anus expires,
And wheie ipi foirh at mom, at e\e, at
Solt ans that *ant the lute to play with
'em,
5 And softer sif»hb that know not \\hat they
want,
Aside a *all, beneath an orange-tree,
Whose tallest floweis could tell the lowlier
ones
Of bights in Fiewile rfeht up abo>e>
While T was fraymp a few paces off
10 At what they wm'd to sliow me with their
nods,
Then frequent whispers and their pointing
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd
forth
15 To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 1
966
NINETEENTH CENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
Such I believed it must be. How could I
Let beabt overpower themf When hath
wind or nun
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted
me, t
And I (howexer they might bluster round)
20 Walk'd off f 'Twere moat ungrateful : for
sweet scents
Are the swift \ehicles of still sweeter
thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best
stores
They bring me tales of youth and tones
of love,
25 And 'tis and e>er was uiy wish and way
To let all flowers live fieely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls
depart)
Among their kindred in their native place
I ne\er pluck the rose, the violet's head
30 Hath shaken Tilth my breath npon its bank
And not reproach 'd me, the ever-sacred
cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one gram of
gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
n5 Moie glossy; the fair arm, the fairer
cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ,
T saw the foot that, although half-erect
From its giay dippci, conld not lift her
up
To what she wanted : I held down a branch
40 And gather M her some blossoms; since
tlieir hour
Was eomo, and been had wounded them,
and flies
Of harder wing were working their way
thro'
And scattering them in fragments under
foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled nnevolved.
45 Other*, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For swh appear the petals when detach 'd,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow.
And like mow not seen through, by eye
or sun •
Yet e^ery one her gown received from me
w Was fairer than the first. I thought not so.
But so she praised them to reward my
care.
T raid, "You find the largest"
''This indeed,"
(Vied she. "is large and sweet" She held
one forth.
Whether for me to look at or to take
w She knew not, nor did T; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt)
her doubt
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most
mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch
60 To fall, and yet uufallen. She diew back
The boon she tender 'd, and then, finding
not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
From THE CITATION AND EXAMINA-
TION OF WILLIAM SHAK8PEARE
1834
THE MAID'S LAMENT
I loved him not , and yet now he is gone
I feel I am alone
I check 'd1 him while he spoke, yet could
he speak,
Alas » I would not check.
6 For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him • I now would gi\ e
My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and mlicn lie
found
10 'Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns
16 With frtifhnp heat, heaving it up in bleep,
And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart for
years
Wept he as bitter tear*.
Merciful God* such was his latest piajer,
20 These mm/ she never share.
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the church-
yard gate,
His name, and life's brief date
20 Pray for him, gentle soul*, whoc 'er yon be,
And, 0 ! pray too for me
UPON A SWEET BRIAN
My briar that smelledst sweet
When gentle spring's first heat
Ran through thy quiet veins,—
Thou that wonldst injure none,
6 But wouldst be left alone,
Alone them leavest me, and nought of thine
remains
What ! hath no poet's lyre
O'er thee, sweet-breathing hrmr,
'rebuked
WALTEB SAVAGE LANDOB
967
10
15
Hung fondly, ill or well!
And yet methinks with thee
A poet's sympathy,
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death,
might dwell
Hard usage both must bear,
Few hands your youth will rear,
Few bosoms cherish you,
Your tender prime must bleed
Ere you are sweet, but freed
From life, you then are prized ; thus prized
are poets too.
And art thou yet alive f
20 And shall the happy hive
Send out her youth to cull
Thy sweets of leaf and flower,
And spend the sunny hour
With thee, and thy faint heart with mur-
muring music lullf
28 Tell me what tender care,
Tell me what pious prayer,
Bade thee arise and live.
The fondest-favored bee
Shall whisper nought to thee
30 More loving than the song my grateful
muse shall give.
From PERICLES AND A8PA8IA
1830
CORINNA TO TANAGRA
FROM ATHENS
Tanagra ! think not I forget
Thy beautifully-stoned street*,
Be biire my memory bathes yet
In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
B The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,
Whose sunny bosom swells with joy
When we accept his matted rushes
Upheav'd with sylvan fruit; away he
bounds and blushes.
A gift I promise: one I see
M Which thou with tiansport wilt re-
cehe,
The only proper gift for thee.
Of which no mortal dial! berea\e
In later times thy mouldering walls.
Until the last old turret falls;
15 A crown, a crown from Athens won,
A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's
oon.
There may be cities who refuse
To their own child the honors due.
And look urgently on the Muse;
20 But ever rtiall those cities rue
2>
80
The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,
Offering no nourishment, no rest,
To that young head which soon shall
rise
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the
skies.
Sweetly where cavern M Dirce flows
Do white-arm 'd maidens chant my lay,
Flapping the while with laurel-rose
The honey-gathering tribes away;
And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues
Lisp your Corinna's early songs;
To her with feet more graceful come
The verses that have dwelt in kindred
breasts at home.
0 let thy children lean aslant
Against the tender mother's knee,
86 And gaze into her face, and want
To know what magic there can be
In words that urge some eyes to dance,
While others as in holy trance
Look up to heaven: be such my praise1
40 Why lingerf I must baste, or lose the
Delphic bays.1
I WILL Nor Love
1 witt not love!
These sounds have often
Burst from a troubled breast ;
Rarely from one no sighs could soften,
6 Rarely from one at rest.
THE DEATH or ARTBMIDORA
Artemidora I Gods invisible,
While thou art lying faint along the couch,
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet
And stand beside thee, ready to convey
5 Thy weary steps where other rivers flow
Refreshing shades will waft thy wearine**
Away, and voices like thy own come nigh
Soliciting nor vainly thy embrace "
Artemidora sigh'd, and would have
10 The hand now pressing here, but was too
weak.
Fate's shears were over her dark hair
unseen
While thus Elpenor spake He look 'd into
Eyes that had given light and life ere-
while
To those above them, those now dim with
tears
• A crown mad* of taw* or twig* of the ba?
or laurel, and liven an a reward to conquer-
or* and poets. Delphi wan the neat of the
oracle of Apollo, the god of poetrr, to whom
the laurel wai aacred.
QfiSt
VDo
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
** And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy
Eternal. At that word, that sad word,
fry,
Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once
more:
Her head fell back; one sob, one loud deep
sob
Swell fd through the darken M chamber;
'twas not hers.
20 With her that old boat incorruptible,
Unwearied, undiverted in its course,
Had plash 'd the water up the farther
strand.
Lira PASSES Nor AS SOME MEN SAT
Life passes not as some men say,
If vou will only urge his stay,
And treat him kindly all the while.
He flios the dizzy strife of towns,
6 Cowers before thunder-bearing frown*,
But fieblienb up again at song and smile.
Ardalia ! we will place him here,
And promise that nor sigh nor teai
Shall ever trouble his repose
10 What precious seal will you impress
To ratify his happiness f
That rose1 thro' which you breathe 1
Come, bring: that rose.
LITTLE AOLAE
TO HER FATHER, ON HER STATUE BEING CALLED
LIKE HER
Father! the little girl we see
Is not, I fancy, so like me;
Tou never hold her on your knee
When she came home, the other day,
5 Tou kiss'd her; but I cannot say
She kiss'd yon first and ran away.
WE MIND Nor How THE SUN IN THE
MID-SKY
We mind not how the sun in the mid-sky
Is hastening on; but when the golden orb
Strikes the extreme of earth, and when the
gulfs
Of air and ocean open to receive him,
5 Dampness and gloom invade us; then we
think
Ah! thus is it with Youth. Too fast his
feet
Run on for right; hour follows hour; fair
nmid
Succeeds fair maid; bright eyes hestar his
couch;
The cheerful horn awakens him ; the feast,
1 Thi» rose Is an pmbVm of
10 The revel, the entangling dance, allure,
And voices mellower than the Muse's own
Heave up his buoyant bosom on their
wave.
A little while, and then- Ah Youth!
dear Youth!
Listen not to my words— but stay with me !
15 When thou art gone, Life may go too:
the sigh
That follows is for thee, and not for Life.
SAPPHO TO HESPERUS
T have beheld thee in the morning hour
A solitary star, with thankless eyes,
Ungrateful as I am I who bade thee m»e
When sleep all night had wandered from
my bower.
5 Can it be true that thou art he
Who shinest now above the sea
Amid a thousand, but moie bright f
Ah yes ' the very same art thou
That beard me then, and nearest now—
Thou seerast, star of love! to throb with
light.
DIBCK
Stand close around, ye Stygian set,
With DHCP in one boat conveyed,
Or Charon, seeing, may forget
That he is old, and she a shade
ON SEEING A HAIR OF LUCBKTIA
BORGIA
1837
Borgia, thou once wert almost too august
And high for adoration , now thou'rt dust .
All that lemainB of thee these plaits un-
fold,
t'ahn hait, meandering in pellucid gold.
TO WORDSWORTH
1855 1837
Those who have laid the harp aside
And turn'd to idler thing*,
From very restlessness have tried
The loose and dusty strings,
6 And, catching back some favorite strain,
Run with it o'er the chords again.
But Memory is not a Muse.
0 Wordsworth! though 'tis said
They all descend from her, and use
10 To haunt her fountain-head:
That other men should work for me
In the rich mines of Poerie,
WALTKU 8AVAGE LAHDOii
969
Pleases me better than the toil
Of smoothing under hardened handy
18 With attic1 emery and oil,
The shining point for Wisdom's wand,
Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills
Descending from thy native hills.
Without his governance, in vain,
20 Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold.
If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain,
Clogs in the furnace and grows cold
Beneath his pinions deep and frore,1
And swells fend melts and flows no more.
25 That is because the heat beneath
Pants in its cavern poorly fed.
Life springs not from the couch of Death,
Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the dead;
Unturn'd then let the mass remain,
80 Intractable to bun or rain.
A marsh, where only flat leaves lie,
And showing but the broken sky,
Too surely in the sweetest lay
That wins the ear and wastes the day,
85 Where youthful Fancy pouts alone
And lets not Wisdom touch her zone "*
He who would build his fame up high,
The rule and plummet must apply.
Nor nay, "I'll do what 1 have plann'd,"
40 Before he try if loam or sand
Be still remaining in the place
Dohed for each polish fd pillar's base.
With skilful eye and fit device
Thou raisest every edifice,
4* Whether in sheltered vale it stand,
Or overlook the Dardan4 strand,
Amid the cvpressesB that monm
Laodatneia's love forlorn
We both have run o'er half the space
6° Listed for mortal's earthly race;
We both have cross 'd life's fervid line,
And other stars before us shine:
May they be bright and prosperous
As those" that have been stars for us!
W Our course by Milton's light was sped.
And Shakespeare shining overhead*
Chatting on deck wan Dryden too,
The Bacon of the rhyming crew ;
None ever cross 'xl our mystic sea
80 More richly stored with thought tban he;
Tho' never tender nor sublime,
He wrestles with and conquers Time
; of superior qnalltv
nblem of mourning It Is A
tree In graveyard*
To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee,
I left much prouder company,
65 Thee gentle Spenser fondly led,
But me he mostly sent to bed.
I wish them every joy above
That highly blessed spirits prove,
Save one: and that too shall be theirs,
70 But after many rolling years,
When 'mid their light thy light appears.
TO JOSEPH ABLETT
1834 1834-37
Lord of the Celtic dells,
Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel tells
Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance
The plumes of flashy France,
5 Or, in dark region far across the main,
Far as Grenada in the world of Spam,
Warriors untold to Saxon ear,
Until their steel-clad spin is reappear;
How happy were the hours that held
10 Thy friend (long absent from his native
home)
Amid thy scenes with thee1 how wide afield
From all past cares and all to come !
What hath Ambition's feverish grasp,
what hath
Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope ;
ln What Genius, that should cope
With the heart-whispers in that path
Winding so idly, where the idler stream
Flings at the white-hair 'd poplars gleam
for gleam f
Ablett! of all the days
20 My sixty summers ever knew,
Pleasant as there have been no few,
Memory not one surveys
Like those we spent together. Wisely
spent
Are they alone that leave the soul content
26 Together we have visited the men
Whom Pictish pirates1 vainly would
have drown 'd ;
Ah, shall we ever clasp the hand again
That gave the British liarp its truest
sound f
Live, Derwent's guest fa and thou bv Gra*
mere's springs'
80 Serene creators of immortal things.
'Jeffrey anil other*, who wero tioftttle to the
Lake School of poets — Wordmtorth, Cole-
ridge, anil Routhev
•floutney, who lived near the river Derwont —
WnrdRworth lived near hv In Hraranere
970
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
And Ine ion them for happier days
Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays
Have heart and boul possess 'd:1
Growl in grim London he who will,
•JB Revisit thou Maiano's hill,'
And swell with pnde his sunburnt
breast
Old Redi in his easy-chair
With varied chant awaits tliee there,
And heie are voices in the grove
40 Aside my house, that make me think
Bacchus is coming down to drink
To Ariadne's love.
But whither am I borne away
From thee, to whom began my layf
45 Courage1 1 am not yet quite lost;
T stepp'd aside to gieet my fnends;
Belie\c me, soon the greeting ends
I know but three or four at most.
Deem not that Time hath borne too hard
50 Upon the fortunes of thy bard,
Leaving me only three or four:
'Tis my old number, dost thou start
At «mrii a tale? in what man's heart
Is there fireside for moret
66 I never courted friends or Fame;
She pouted at me long, at last she came,
And thiew hei aims nround my neck and
said,
"Take what hath been for years delay M,
And fear not that the leaves will fall
80 One hour the earlier from thy coronal."
Ahlett' thou knoweat with what even hand
T wa\ed auay the offer M seat
Among the clambering, clattering, stilted
The ruler* of our land;
*6 Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up.
Nor sweeten Pleasure '* purer cup
Thou knowest h«w, and why, are dear to
me
My citron prove* of Fienole,'
My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook,
70 My Naiads,4 with feet only in the brook,
Which runs away and giggles in their
faces.
Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other
places.
'Leigh Hunt
•Florence, the home
'Tis not Pelasgian wall,
By him made sacred whom alone
76 'Twere not profane to call
The bard divine,1 nor (thrown
Far under me) Valdamo, nor the crest
Of Vallombrosa m the crimson east.
80
86
Here can I sit or roam at will •
Few trouble me, few wish me ill,
Few come across me, few too near;
Here all my wishes make their stand;
Heie ask I no one's voice or hand;
Scornful of favor, ignorant of fear.
Ton vine upon the maple bough
Flouts at the hearty wheat below;
Away her venal wines the wise man sends,
While those of lower stem he brings
From inmost treasure vault, and sings
90 Their worth and age among his chosen
fnends.
Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun
Her zone2 least opens to the genial heat,
But farther off her veins more freclv
run:
'Tis thus with those who whnl about the
** The nearest shrink and shiver, we remote
May open-breasted blow the pastoial oat *
TO THE SISTER OF KLIA4
J8SJ, 1817
Comfort thee, 0 thou mourner, yet awhile'
Again shall Eha's smile
Refresh thy heait, where heart can ache
no more
What is it we deplore f
5 He leaves behind him, freed from griefs
and years,
Far worthier things than tears
The love of friends without a single foe :
Unequalled lot below!
His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine;
10 For these dost thou repine f
He may have left the lowly walks of men ,
Left them he has; what thenf
Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes
Of all the good and wiset
16 Tho' the warm day fe over, yet they seek
Upon the lofty peak
" Homer. • jrlrdle,—< e . equator
• A moiicjl pipe made of oaMitraw; the •ymhol
Leigh Hunt x Homer. • girdle, — < e . equator
Florence, the home of Malano (1448-07), an • A mmlcal pipe made of oat-fltraw; the a
eminent Italian aoulptor and architect. of pastoral poetrr.
Landor lived for aome Tears In Fleoole, near « tfary Lamb. Man? of Lamh** emir*
Florence. Bee hla A Flr«otoff 7d>I (p 9W). written orer the iwendonvm of "Ella*'
»Landor
«That la/raV itatnw of tea nymph"*'.
died In 1*14
Lamb
WALTER BAY AGE LANDOB
971
Of his pure mind the roseate light that
O'er death's perennial snows.
Behold him ! from the region of the blest
20 He speaks: he bids thee rest
ON HIS OWN AGAMEMNON AND
IPHIGENEIA
1837
Prom eve to morn, from morn to parting
night,
Father mid daughter btood before iny sight
1 felt the looks they ga^e, the words thej
said,
And recouducted each serener shade
5 Ever shall these to me be well-spent days.
Sweet fell the tears upon them, sweet the
praise
Far from the footstool of the tragic throne,
I am tragedian in thin scene alone.
I (CANNOT TELL, NOT 1, WHY SHE
1846
T cannot tell, not T, why she
Awhile so gracious, now should be
So grave- I cannot tell vou why
The violet hangs its head awry.
* It shall be cullM, it shall be worn,
In spite of every sign of scorn,
Daik look, and o\ei hanging thorn
YOU TELL ME I MUST COME AGAIN
1840
Yon tell me I must come again
Now buds and blooms appeal ,
Ah f never fell one word in vain
Of yours on mortal ear.
6 You say the buds are busy now
In hedgerow, brake,1 and grove,
And slant their eyes to find the bough
That best conceals their love
How many warble from the spray '
10 How many on the wing!
"Yet, yet," say you, "one voice away
I miss the sound of spring."
How little could that *oiee express,
Belov&d, when we met f
16 But other sounds hath tenderness
Which neither shall forget
REMAIN, AH NOT IN YOUTH ALONE
1846
Remain, ah not in youtb alone,
The1 youth, where you are, long will
stay.
But when mv summer days are gone.
And mv nutnmnnl linate nwav
B "Cat T br nlwni/s &»/ your sidet"
No; but the hours you can. you must,
Nor rise at Death's approaching stride,
Nor go when dust is gone to dust
"YOU MUST GIVE BACK," HEB
MOTHER SAID
1846
"You must give back," her mother said
To a poor sobbing little maid,
"All the young man has given you,
Hard as it now may seem to do."
•"' " 'Tis done already, mother dear!"
Said the sweet girl, "So, never fear "
Mother. Are you quite certain f Come,
recount
(There was not much) the whole amount
Ctrl The locket- the kid gloves.
Mother. Go on.
1 ° Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one.
Mother. Never mind that What else!
Proceed.
You gave back all his trash f
Girl Indeed.
Mothei. And was there nothing you
would ftavef
Girl Eveiytlnng I could give I ga\e.
r' Mothet To Die last tittle t
GM. Even to that
Mother. Freely!
Girl. My heart went int-a-pat
At unin&r up— ah me' ah me1
T crv «> T can hardly see-
All the fond looks and words that pass'd,
20 And all the kisses, to the last
THE MAID I LOVE NE'ER THOUGHT
OF ME
1846
The maid I love ne'er thought of me
Amid the scenes of gaietv,
But when her heart 01 mine sank low.
Ah then it was no longer so
B From the slant palm she rais'd her head.
And kiss'd the cheek whence youth had
fled.
Angels! some future day foi this,
Give her as sweet and pure a kiss.
VERY TRUE, THE LINNETS SING
1846
Very true, the linnets sing
Sweetest in the leaves of spring
You have found in all these leaves
That which changes and deceives,
5 And, to pine by sun or star,
Left them, false one* as thev are.
But there be who walk beside
Autumn's, till thev all have died.
And who lend n patient ear
10 To low notes from branches sere.
972
N1NKTKKNT11 CKNTUKV ROMA.NTJCIfiTB
TO A PAINTEB
1846
Conceal not Time's misdeeds, but on my
brow
Retrace his mark
Let the retiring hair be sihoiy now
That once was dark
6 Eyes that reflected images too bright
Let clouds o'ercast,
And from the table! be abolish 'd quite
The cheeiful pnst
Yet Care's deep hues sliould one from
waken 'd Mirth
10 Steal softly o'er,
Perhaps on me the fairest of the Earth*
May glance once more
DULL IS MY VER8K- NOT EVEN THOV
1846
Dull is mv verse not oven thou
Who imnest iiuim <aies n\\ny
From this lone hi east and weary bnn\.
Canst make, ns unco, ils fountain p^ .
p* No, nor those gentle uoids that now
Support m> heait to hear thee say
"The bird upon its lonely bough
Sings sweetest at the clow of day ''
SWEET WAS THE SONG THAT YOUTH
SANG ONCE
1846
Sweet was the song that Youth saner once.
And passing sweet was the response ,
But there are accents sweeter far
When Love leaps down our evening star,
6 Holds back the blighting wings of Time.
Melts with his breath the crust v ume.
And looks into our eves, and says,
"Come, let us talk of former^dav^ 9'
TO SLEEP
1846
Come, Sleep T but mind ye! if you eomo
without
The little girl that struck me at the rout,
By Jove! I would not give you half-n-
CTOWll
For all your poppy-heads and all yoin
down
WHY, WHY UJ3P1NE
1846
Why, why repine, ray pensive friend.
At pleasures slipp'd away?
Some the stern Fates will never lend.
And all refuse to stay
5 I see the rainbow in the sky,
The dew upon the grass.
I bee them, and I ask not why
They glimmer or they pass.
With folded arms I linger not*
10 To call them back; 'twere vain,
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again
MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL
1846
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel,
My tingeis ache, my lips are dry
Oh ' if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as If
8 No longer could I doubt him true-
All other men may use deceit ;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet
TO A BHIDEJ FKB 17, 1846
1846 1846
A still, serene, soft da\ , enough of HUH
To wreathe the cottage smoke like pine-
tree snow,
Whiter than those white Hnweis the biide-
maids wore ,
Upon the silent boughs the lissom2 an
5 Rested; and, only when it went, tlu»y
moved,
Nor more than under linnet Bringing off
Such was the wedding mom the ]oyous
Year
Leapt over Maich and April up to Ma\
Regent of rising and of ebbing hearts
10 Thyself borne on in cool seienity,
All heaven around and bending over thee.
All earth below and watchful of thv
course'
Well hast thou chosen, after long demiii
To aspirations from more realms than one
15 Peace be with those thou lea\estf peace
with thee!
Is that enough to wish theef not enough.
But very much for Love himself feels
While brighter jflumage shoots, to shod
last year's.
And one at home (how dear that one!)
recalls
20 Thy name, and thou recalled one at home.
Yet turn not back thine eyes; the hour of
tears
Is over; nor believe thou that Romance
Closes against pure Faith her rich domain
Shall only blossoms flourish there f Arise,
"The daughter of ROM Aylmer'p balf-rirter.
Bee Lander's ROM Af/feur (p 963), and Tk*
Three Ro*r* (p. OW>.
•nimbi*
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
973
15 Far righted bnde! look forwaid1 cleat er
views
And highei hopes he under calinei bkieb
Fortune in vaiii call'd out to thee, in \am
Rays from high regions darted, Wit
pour'd out
His spaikhng treasures, Wisdom laid his
crown
10 Of richer jewels at thy reckless feet
Well hast them chohen. 1 1 epeat the woids.
Adding as tme ones, not untold before,
That incense must have fire for its a went.
Else 'tis inert and can not reach the idol
35 Youth is the sole equivalent ot vonth
Enjoy it while it lasts; and last it will
Love can prolong it in despite of Yeai s
ONE YKAT? AGO MY PATH W\8
GREEN
1846
One year aj»o my path <v\as Rreen
My footstep light, my blow serene,
Alas ! and could it have been so
One year ago?
5 There is a love that is to last
When the hot days of youth are past
Such love did a sweet maid bestow
One year ago.
I took a leaflet from hei braid
10 And ga\e it to another maid
Line ' broken should have been tliy bow
One year ago
%
YK8, I WRITE VERSES NOW AND
• THEN
1846
Yes; I write verses nou and then.
Rut blunt and flaccid IB my pen,
\o loitgei talk'd of by vounp men
As lather clevei
6 Tn the last quarter are my eyes,
You sec it by their form and size ,
Is it not time then to be wiset
Or now or never.
Ifairmt that ever sprang from Eve !
*° While Time allots the abort reprieve,
lust look at me! \vould yon believe
'Twas once a lover t
1 cannot clear the five-bar gate.
But. trying first its timbers9 state.
15 Chmb stiffly up, take breath, and wait
To trundle over.
Thro* gallopade1 1 cannot swing
The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring:
I cannot say the tender thing,
* A kind of Hrrty dance
20 Be't true or false,
And am beginning to opine
Those girls are only half-divine
Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine
In giddy waltz.
25 T fear that arm above that shoulder,
1 wish them wiser, graver, older,
Sedater, and no haim if colder
And panting less
Ah » people were not half so wild
J0 In former days, when, starch ly mild,
Upon her high-heel 9d Esbex smiled
The biave Queen Bet*
TUN LEAVES ABE FALLING, SO AM I
1846
The leaves are falling, so am I,
The few late flowers have moisture in the
So have I too.
Scarcely on any bough is beanl
5 Jo\ous, or even unjoyous, bud
The whole wood through
Wintei mav come he bungs but nighei
His rnc'le (vcarly nariowmp) to the fire
Wheie old fnends meet-
10 Let him, now heaven is o\ercast,
\nd spring and Piimmei both aic past,
And all things sweet
TUB PLACE WHERE SOON T THINK
TO LIE
1846
The place where soon T think to lie.
In its old cieMced nook haid-by
Rears many a weed
If parties bung you theie, will >ou
5 Piop slily in a snaiii or t^o
Of wall-flower seed?
T shall not see it. and (too sure9)
1 shall not eve i heat that your
Light step was there,
10 But the uch odor some fine d»n
Will, what I cannot do, repn>
That little care
WfVB MK THE EYES THAT UK)K ON
MINK
1846
Oive me the eyes that look on mine.
And, when they see them dimly shine,
Are moister than they were
Gi\e me the eyes that fain would find
6 Some relics of a youthful mind
Amid the wrecks of care.
Give me the eyeg*hat catch at last
A few faint glimpses of the past,
974
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
And, like.the arkite dove, -
10 Bring back a long-lost olive-bough,1
And can discover even now
A heart that once could love.
TWENTY YEARS HENCE MY EYES
MAY GBOW
1846
Twenty years hence my eyes may grow
If not quite dun, yet rather bo,
Still yourb from others they shall know
Twenty years hence.
6 Twenty years hence tho' it may hap
That 1 -be call'd to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunder-clap
Was never heard,
* There breathe but o'er my aich of grabs
10 A not too sadly bigh'd Alas,
And I bhall catch, ere you ran pa«s,
That wuigfed word
PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE
1846
Proud word you ne\ei spoke, but >ou \\ill
speak
Four not exempt from pnde some fn-
tuieday
Resting on one white hand a warm wet
cheek
O^er my open volume you will say,
* "Tim man loved twr'" then n*e und
trip away
ALAS, HOW SOON THE HOURS ARE
OVER
1846
Alas, how soon the hours are over
Counted us out to play the lovei !
And how much narrower is the stage
Allotted us to play the sagef
15 But when we play the fool, how wide,
The theatre expands! beside,
How long the audience sit* before us1
How many prompters1 what a chorus1
MY HOPES RETIRE, MY WISHES AS
BEFORE
1846
My hopes retire; my wishes as before
Struggle to find their resting-place in
vain;
The ebbing flea thus benth nsjnniRt the
shore ;
The shore repels it, it retains again
t fto 0<fif«<f , 8 -8-11.
VARIOUS THE ROADS OF LIFE ; IN ONE
Various the roads of life; in one
All terminate, one Jonel> way
We go; and<(Ishegonef"
Is all oui bebt fuendb ba>.
JS IT NOT BETTER AT AN EARLY
HOUR
1846
Is it not better at an eai ly hour
In its calm cell to lest the weary head,
While birds are singing and while blooms
the bower,
Than sit the hie out and go btuiv'd tn
bed?
PURSUITS' ALAS, I NOW HAVE NONE
1846
Pursuits' alas, I now ha\o none,
But idling wheie ^eie once put suits,
Often, all morning quite alone,
I sit upon those twisted roots
8 Which ribe above the grass, and shield
Our haiebell, when the chiulwh >eui
Catches her coming first afield,
And bhe looks pale tho' spiing ib near;
I chase the violets, that would hide
10 Their little prudish heads awav,
And argue with the nils, that chide
When we discover them at play.
WITH AN ALBUM
1846
T know not whether I am proud,
But this I know, I hate the crowd
Therefore pray let me disengage
My verses from the motley page,
6 Wheie others far more sure to please
Pour out their choral song with ease.
And yet perhaps, if some should tire
With too much froth or too much fiie,
There is an ear that may incline
10 Even to words so dull as mine
THE DAY RETURNS. MY NATAL DAY
1844
The day returns, my natal day,
Borne on the storm and pale with snow,
And seems to ask me why I stay,
Stricken by Tune and bowed by Woe
B Many were once the friends who came
To wish me joy; and there are some
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
975
Who wish it now; but not the same;
They are whence friend can never come.
Nor are they you my love watch 'd o'er
10 Cradled 111 innocence and sleep ;
You smile into my eyes no more,
Nor see the hitter tears they weep
HOW MANY VOICES GAILY BING
1846
How many voices gaily sing,
"0 happy mom, 0 happy spring
Of life ' ' ' Meanwhile there comes o 'er me
A softer voice from Memory,
* And Kays, "If loves and hopes have flown
With years, think too what griefs are
gone!"
TO ROBERT BROWNING
1846
There is delight in singing, thp9 none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In piaising, tho' the praiser sit alone
And 4*e the prais'd far off him, far above
6 Shakespeare is not our poet, but the
world's,
Theiefore on him no speech ! and brief for
thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and
hale,
No man hath walked along our roads with
step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
10 So varied in discourse. But warmer climes1
Give brighter plumage, strong wing: the
breeze
Of Alpine heights thon playest with, borne
on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for
song
From THE HELLENICS?
1846-59
ON THE HELLENICS
1847
Come back, ye wandering Muses, come
back home,
Te seem to have forgotten where it lies
Come, let us walk upon the silent sands
Of Simois, where deep footmarks show
long strides;
* Thence we may mount, perhaps, to higher
ground.
Where Aphrodite from Attend won
The golden apple, and from Herd too,
'Browning bad Jurt married Elisabeth Barrett.
and mored to Italy.
* A group of poemt by Landor on Greek topics.
happy Are
Or would ye rather choose the grassy
vale
10 Where flows Anapos thro1 anemones,
Hyacinths, and narcissuses, that bend
To show their rival beauty in the stream f
Brinpr with you each her lyre, and each
in turn
Temper a graver with a lighter song.
THHASYMIDIS
1846
Krafts
Who will away to Athens with mef who
Loves choral bongs and maidens crown M
with floweis,
Unenvioust mount the pinnace; hoist the
sail.
I promise ye, as many as are here,
6 Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste
From nnrinsed barrel the diluted wine
Of a low vineyard or a plant ill-pruned,
But such as anciently the ^Egean isles
Pour'd in libation at their solemn feasts:
10 And the same goblets shall ye grasp, ern-
With no vile figures of loose languid boors,
But such as gods have lived with and have
led.
The sea smiles bright before us. What
white sail
Plays yonderf What pursues itf Like
two hawks
15 Away they fly. Let us away in time
To overtake them. Arc they menaces
We heart And shall the strong repulse
the weak,
Enraged at her defender T Hippias!
Art thou the manT Twas Hippias. He
had found
20 His sister borne from the Cecropian port1
By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly f
Ask, ask the maiden ; I have no reply.
"Brother! O brother Hippias I 0, if love,
If pity, ever touch M thy breast, forbear!
26 Strike not the brave, the gentle, the be-
loved,
My Thrasymedes, with his cloak alone
Protecting his own head and mine from
hum."
"Didst thou not onee before," cried Hip-
Regardless'of his sister, hoarse with wrath
»° At Thrasymedes, "didst not thon, dog-
eyed,
Dare, as she walk'd up to the Parthenon,
On the moot holy of all holy days,
Tn sight of all the city, dare to fast
Her maiden cheek t"
i itbeni.
976
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8TB
"Ay, before all the gods,
86 Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis,
Ay, before Aphrodite, before Herfe,
I dared; and dare again. Arise, my
spouse !
A use ! and let my lips quaff purity
From thy fair open brow.'1
The sword was up,
40 And yet he kisb'd her twice. Some god
withheld
The arm of Hippies; his proud blood
beeth'd blower
And smote his breast less angrily; he laid
His hand on the white shoulder, and spake
thus:
"Ye must return with me. A second time
45 Offended, will our sue Pibistratos
Pardon the affront t Thou shouldst ha\e
afckM thyself
This question ere the sail first flappM the
mabt "
"Already tlum hast taken life from me.
Put up thy s word, " said the sad youth,
his eyes
60 Spaiklmg, but whether love or lacre 01
grief
They sparkled with, the gods alone could
see
Piraeus they re-entered, and their ship
Drove up the little wa\es against the quay.
Whence was thrown out a rope from one
above,
55 And Hippies caught it. From the virgin fs
waist
Her lover dropp'd his arm, and blush 'd to
think
He had retain 'd it there in sight of rude
Irreverent men: he led her forth, nor
spake.
Hippias walked silent too. until they
reach 'd
60 The mansion of Pisistratos her sue.
Serenely in his stern ness did the prince
Ix)ok on them both awhile: they saw not
him.
For both had cast their eyes upon the
ground
"Are these the pirates thou hast taken,
sonl"
* Said he "Worse, father' worse than
pirates they,
Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse
Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites
Twice over. n
"Well hast thou performed thy duty,9'
Firmly and gravely said Pisistratoa
w "Nothing then, rash young roan! could
turn thy heart
From Ennoe, my daughter V
"Nothing9 sir,
Shall ever turn it I ean die bat onee
And love but once. 0 Eunoe! farewell!"
"Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear
for her."
76 "0 father! shut me in my chamber, shut
me
In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive,
But never let me see what he can bear,
I know how much that is, when borne for
me."
"Not yet: come on. And lag not thou
behind,
80 Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts*
Before the people and before the goddess
Thou hadst evinced the madness of ,thy
passion,
And now wouldst beai flora home and
plenteousness
To poveity and exile this my child "
86 Then shuddered Thrasymede*, and c-\-
clahu'd,
"I see my crime; I saw it not before
The daughter of Pisistiatos ^as bom
Neither for exile nor for poverty,
Ah' nor for me'" He would ha\e wept,
but one
90 Might see him, and ueep woise The
pnnce unmoved
Strode on, and said, "Tomonou shall the
people,
All who beheld thy trespasser, behold
The justice of Pisistiatos the love
He bears his daughter, and the ie\eience
*S In which he hold* the highest law of Ood "
He flpake; and on the morrow they were
one.
TPHIOENEIA \ND AGVMEMNOV
1846
Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the King
Had gone away, took his right hand, and
said,
"O father! T am young and very happy
6 I do not think the pious Calchas heard
Distinctly what the goddess spake Old-
age
Obscures the senses If my nurse, who
knew
My voice so Well, sometimes misunderstood
While I was resting on her knee both arm*
10 And hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might he not also hear one word amiss,
Spoken from so far off, even from Olym-
pus!"
The father placed his cheek upon hei head,
WALTEB SAVAGE LANDOB
977
H And tears dropp'd down it, but the king
of men
Replied not Then the maiden spake once
more.
"O father! sayst thon nothingt HearU
thou not
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hout,
Listen 'd to fondly, aiid awaken 'd me
*0 To hear my voice amid the voice of budb,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,
And the down deadened it within the
nestt"
He moved her gently from him, silent
still,
And this, and this alone, brought tears
from her,
• Altho' she saw fate nearer: then with
x sighs,
"I thought to have laid down my hair
before
Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed
Her polish 'd altar with m\ virgin blood;
I thought to have selected the *lnte floweis
30 To please the Nymphs, and to have ask'd
of each
By name, and with no sonowful regret.
Whether, since both my parents will'd the
change,
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipp'd
brow;
And (after those who mind us girls the
most)
** Adore our own Athena,1 that she would
Repaid me mildly with her azme eves.
But father! to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone"—
Gently he moved her off, and drew her
back,
40 Bending his lofty head far over hen*,
And the dark depths of nature hea\od
and burst.
He turn'd away; not far, but silent still
She now first shudder 'd; for in him, so
nigh,
So long a silence seem'd the approach of
death,
46 And likea it. Once again she rais'd her
voice.
"0 father' if the ships are now detain M,
And all your \ows move not the cods
above,
When the knife strikes me there will be
one prayer
The less to them: and purer can there
be
*° Any, or more fervent than the daughter'*
prayer
For her dear father's safety and success*"
» Athena wmi the pntronewi of
A groan that shook him shook not his re-
solve.
An aged man now cuter 'd, and without
One woid, stepp'd slowly on, and took the
65 Of the pale maiden. She look'd up and
saw
The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes.
Then turn'd she where her parent stood,
and cried,
' ' O father ' grieve no more : the ships can
sail."
'i HE HAMADRYAD*
1846
Khaicos was born amid the hills wheref rom
Gnidob the light of Cana is discern 'd,
And small are the white-crested that play
near,
And smaller onward are the purple waves.
6 Thence festal choirs were visible, all
crown 'd
\Vith rose and myrtle if they weie inborn ;
T F from Pundion spi anjr they, on the coast
Where stem Athene raised her citadel,
Then olive was in twined with violets
10 fluster M in houses,2 regular and large.
For \arious men wnie various coronals;
But one uas their de\otion; 'twas to her
Whose laws all follow, her whose smile
wiihdiaws
The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from
8
16 And whom in his chill ca\e the mutable
Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, reveres,
And whom his brothei, stubboin Dig, hath
pray'd
To turn in pity the aveited cheek
Of her he bore awav,8 with promises.
20 \Tay, with loud oath before dread Styx
itself,
To give her daily more and sweeter flowers
Than he made drop from her on Enna's
dell
Rhaicos was looking from his father's
door
At the long trains that hastened to the
town
26 From all the valleys, like bright rivulets
Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning
wave,
And thought it hard he might not also go
And offer up one prayer, and press one
hand,
18*e Lowell's ftftora*.
-rafiied ornament*
ProHorplnn.
978 NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTICIBTS
*
He knew not whose. The father call'd Backward, for fear came likewise over
him in, him,
80 And said, "Son Rhaico*>! those are idle But not such fear: he panted, gasp'd,
games; m drew in
Long enough I have lived to find them so. " His breath, and would have turn 'd it into
And ere he ended sighed, as old men do ^ words,
Always, to think how idle such games are. 70 But could not into one.
"I have not yet,91 thought Rhaicos in his "0 send away
heart, That sad old man ! ' ' said she. The old man
85 And wanted proof. went
"Suppose thou go and help Without a warning from his mabtei's
Echeion at the hill, to bark yon oak son,
And lop its branches off, before we delve Olad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd.
About the trunk and ply the root with And the axe bhone behind him in tin-n-
aze: w eyes.
This we may do in winter " 7r> Hamad. And wouldst thou too shed the
Rhaicos went , most innocent
40 For thence he could see farther, and see Of blood? No vow demands it; no god
more wills
Of those *ho hurried to the city-gate. The oak to bleed.
Echeion he found there with naked arm Rhatcos. Who art thou 1 whence!
Swart-hair M, strong-sinew 'd, and his eyes why heief
intent And whither wouldst thou go f Among (he
Upon the place where first the axe should robed
fall- In white or saffion, or the hue that most
45 TTe held it upright. "There are bees about, 80 Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none
Or wasp*, or hornets," said the cautions Array'd as thou art. What so beautiful
eld, As that gray robe which clings about thee
"Look sharp, 0 son of Tliallinos'" The close,
youth Like moss to stones adhering, lea\es to
Inclined Ins ear, afar, and warilv, trees.
And casern 'd in his hand. He heard a Vet lets thy bohom use and fall in turn,
buw! w As, touch M by zeplms, fall and rise the
W At first, and then the sound grew soft and boughs
clean Of graceful platan1 bv the i iver-sidc 1
And then divided into what seem'd tune, Hamad. Lovest them well thy fathei 's
And there were words upon it, plainthe house f
words. Rliaicos. Indeed
He turn'd, and said, "Echeion' do not I love it, well I love it, yet would leave
strike For thine, where'er it be, my father's
That tree- it mint be hollow ; for some god house,
* Speaks from within. Come thyself near " 90 With all the marks upon the door, that
Again show
Both turn 'd toward it: and behold! there My growth at every birthday since the
sat third,
Upon the moss below, with her two palms And all the charms, o'erpowciins c\il
Pre«win«r it, on each side, a maid in form. eyes,
Downcast * eie her long eyelashes, and pale My mother nail 'd for me against my bed.
W Her cheek, but never mountain-ash dis- And the Cydonian* bow (which thou shalt
play'd see)
Berries of color like her lip so pure, 9B Won in my race last spring from Euty-
Nor were the anemones about her hair chos.
Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face Hamad. Bethink thee what it is to leave
beneath a home
"What dost thou heret " Echeion, half- Thou never yet hast left, one night, one
afraid, day.
* Half-anerry cried She lifted up her eyes.
But nothing spake she Rhaicos drew one '.flPRja ,an nnclfnt dtT OB the ^ of
step frAe, ftunoui for it* arrhm)
WALTEB SAVAGE LANDOB 979
Rhaicos. No, 'tis not hard to lea\e it, Hamad. Reverence the higher Poweis;
'tis not hard nor deem amiss
To leave, 0 maiden, that paternal home, Of her who pleads to thee, and would
100 If there be one on earth whom we may love repay-
First, last, forever; one who say* that Ask not how much— but very much. Rise
she not;
Will love f 01 ever too. To say which word, No, Rhaicos, no! Without the nuptial vow
Only to say it, surely is enough— 14° Love is unholy Swear to me that none
It shows such kindness— if 'twere pos- Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss,
sible Then take thou mine; then take it, not
105 We at the moment think she would indeed before.
Hamad. Who taught thee all this folly Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above! 0
at thy age T Aphrodite !
Rhaicos. I Iwe seen lovers and have OHere' Let my \owbe ratified!
learn 'd to love 14C But wilt thou come in to my father *s house ?
Hamad. But wilt thou spare the tree? Hamad. Nay; and of mine I cannot
Rhaicos My father wants give thee part.
The bark; the tree may hold its place Rhaicos. Where is it f
awhile. Hamad. In this oak.
110 Hamad Awhile1 thy father mimbeis Rhaicos Ay; now begins
then my dayst The tale of Hamadryad ; tell it through
Rhaicos Aie there no others wheie the Hamad Pray of thy father never to
moss beneath cut down
Is quite as tufty T Who would send thee 15° My tree; and promise him, as well thou
forth mayst,
Or ask thee why thou tamest* Is thv flock That eveiy ^eai he shall receive fiom me
Anywhere near? More honej than will buy him nine fat
Hamad I have no flock • I kill sheep,
115 Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels More wax than he will bin n to all the gods
the air, Why fallest thou upon thy facet Rome
The sun, the dew Why should the benuli- thorn
ful * 15B Mav scratch it, rash young man f Rise up ;
( And thou art beautiful ) distm b the source for shame f
Whence spiings all beauty ? Hast thou Rhatcos For shame I can not rise 0
never heard " • pity me!
Of Hamadryads? T daie not sue for lo\e— but do not hate'
Rhaicos Heard of them I have Let me once more behold thee— not once
120 Tell me some tale about them. May I sit more,
Beside thy feet T Art thou not tired? The But ninny days let me 1m e on— unloved f
herbs 16° I aimed too high : on mv head the bolt
Are very soft; I will not come too nigh, Falls back, and pierces to the very brain
Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt. Hamad Go— rather po, than make me
Stay, stay an instant : let me first explore say I love.
126 If any acorn of last year be left Rhaicos If happiness is immortality.
Within it ; thv thin robe too ill protects (And whence enjoy it else the cods above?)
Thy dainty limbs against the barm one t65 I nm immortal too • mv vow is heard
small TInrk1 on the left— Nav. turn not from
Acorn may do Heie'snone Another da v ^ me now*
Trust me, till then let me sit opposite T claim my kiss
180 Hamad. I seat me ; be thou seated, and Hamad Do men take first, then claim ?
content. Do thus the seasons run their course with
Rhaicos. 0 sight for gods1 ye men be- them?
low! adore
The Aphrodite. Is she there below? Her lips were seal'd, her head sank on
Or sits she here before me, as she sate his breast
Before the shepherd on those heights that 17° 'Tis said that laughs weie heard within
shade the wo<rt •
1M The Hellespont, and brought his kindred But who should heat them?— mid whose
woe? laughs? and why?
980 NINETEENTH CENTUBiT ROMANTICISTS
Savory was the smelly aud long past She play 'd on his: she fed upon his sighs;
noon, 21° They pleased her when they gently waved
Thallmos! in thy house, for marjoram, her hair,
Basil and mint, and thyme and rosemary, Cooling the pulses of her purple veins,
175 Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted And when her absence brought them out,
length, they pleased.
Awaiting Rhaicos Home he came at last, Even among the fondest of them all,
Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen, What mortal or immortal maid is mote
With head and eyes just o'er the maple 21S Content with giving happiness than pamf
plate One day he was returning from the wood
"Thou seest but badly, coming from the Despondently. She pitied him, and said
sun, "Come back!" and twined hei fillers in
"0 Boy Rhaieo*'" baid the father. "That the hem
oak's bark Above his shoulder. Then she led his steps
Must have been tough, with little sap be- 22° To a cool nil that ran o'er level sand
tween, Through lentisk1 and through oleander,2
Tt ought to run , but it and I are old '' there
Rhaicos, although each morsel of the bread Bathed she hih feet, lifting them on hei lap
lucrcas'd by chewing, and the meat grew When bathed, and drying: them in botli her
cold hands.
185 And tabteless to his palate, took a draught He dared complain, foi those who most
Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he are loved
was, 22B Mori dare it ; but not harsh was Ins corn-
He thought not of until his father fill 'd plaint
The cup, a\ erring water was amiss, * ' 0 thou inconstant ! ' ' said he, " 1 1 stei n
But wine had been at all times pour'd on law
kid,— Bind thee, or will, stronger than stei nest
190 It was religion law,
He thus fortified 0, let me know hencefoi waul when to hope
Said, not quite boldly, nnd not quite The fruit of love that glows foi me but
abash'd, here."
"Father, that oak is Zeub's own , that oak 28° He spake; and pluck M it from its pliant
Year after year will bring thee uenlth stem.
from wax "Impatient Rhaicob' Why thn> inteiccpt
And honey. There is one who feais the The answer I \umld jrfve* Their i" a bee
god's Whom I have fed, a bee who knows mv
19C And the gods love— that one" thoughts
(He blush M, noi said And executes my wishes I will send
What one) M5 That messeiwr. If ever thou aH false.
' ' Has promib 'd this, and may do more. Drawn by another, own it not. hut dm e
Thou hast not many moons to wait until My bee away; then shall I know mv fate.
The bees have done their best: if then And— for thou must be wretched— weep at
there come thine.
Nor wax nor honey, let the tiee be hewn " But often as my heart persuades to lav
200 "Zeus hath bestow'd on Ihec n prudent 24° Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest,
mind," Expect her with thee, whether it be mom
Said the glad sire; "but look thou often Or eve, at any time when woods arc safe "
there,
And gather all the honey thou canst find Day after day the Hours beheld them
In every crevice, over and above blest,
What has been promisM: wonld they And season after season : years had past,
reckon that?" 245 Blest were they still. He who asserts
that Love
206 Rhaicos went daily; but the nymph as Ever is sated of sweet things, the same
oft, Sweet things he fretted for in earlier days,
Invisible. To play at love, she knew, Never, by Zeus f loved he a Hamadryad
Stopping its breathings when it breathes
r J?08^! , . tt •JtSHT'&SSL Arab with lr.gr.nt
Is sweeter than to play on any pipe flowers
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
981
The night had now grown longer, and
perhaps
250 The Hamadryads find them lone and dull
Among their woods; one did, alas I She 28°
.called
Her faithful bee: 'twas when all bees
should sleep,
And all did sleep but heis. She was pent
forth
To bung that light which never wintry
• blast
-ft1* Blows out, nor tain nor snow extinguishes
The light that shines from loving eyes upon c
Eyes that lo\e back, till they can see no
more.
Rhaicos was sitting at his father's
hearth •
Between them stood the table, not O'PI-
spread
2fiO \flfjth fruits which mitumn now profuselx
bore,
Nor anise cake*,1 noi odorous wine; bnt
there
The draft-bnaid was expanded, at which
game
Triumphant sat old Thnllmos; the son ^
Was puzzled, \c\M, discomfited, dis-
traught r»
265 A bU7jZ was at his ear up went his hand,
And it was heard no longer. The pool bee
Return 'd, (but not until the mom shone
bright)
And found the Hamadryad with liei head
Upon her aching wrist, and showed one »»
wing
->7ft Half -broken off, the other's meshe*
marr'd,
And there were bruises which no eye could
see
Saving a Hamadryad 's. l "'
At this sight
Down fell the languid brow, Imth hands
fell down,
A shriek was carried to the ancient hall
-7r» Of Thallinos: he heard it not. his son
Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood "{
No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green
The trunk was riven throuirh From that
day forth
Nor word nor whisper sooth'd Ins ear, nor
sound
2RO Even of insect wing, but loud laments
The woodmen and the shepherds one long
year
Heard day and night; for fthaieos would R
not quit
flavored with the frnlt or RWH! of the
plant
The solitary place, but moau'd and diwl
Hence milk and honey wonder not, o
guest,
To find set duly on the hollow stone.
8HAKESPEABK AND MILTON
1853
The tongue of England, that which invunoS
Have spoken and will speak, \ieic pai.i-
lyzed
Hereafter, but two mighty men stand foi ih
Above the flight of ages, two alone;
One crying out,
All nations spoke thro* me
The other-
True; and thro9 tlu* trumpet bvrst
God9 s word; the fall of Angels, and tlir
doom
Fust of immortal, then of mortal, Man
Glory! 1>e glory! not to me, to God.
TO YOUTH
1853
Where art thou gone, hght-ankled Youth ?
With wing at either shoulder.
And smile that never left thy month
Until the Hours grew colder
Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near
That thou and I must part ;
1 doubted it ; I felt no f oar,
No weight upon the heart.
If aught befell it, Ixne was by
And roll'd it off again ,
So, if there e\er was a sisrh,
'Twa-5 not a sigh of pain
T may not call thee back ; but thou
Returnest when the hand
Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my hiw\
His poppy-crested wand ;
Then smiling eyes bend over mine,
Then lips once press 'd invite.
But sleep hath given a silent si&rnf
And both, alas* take flight
TO AGE
1853
Welcome, old friend! These many years
Have we lived door by door*
The Fates have laid aside their shears
Perhaps for some few more
I was indocile at an age
When better boys were taught,
But thou at length hast made me sac*,
Tf T am sage in anefht.
982
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Little I know from other men,
10 Too little they from me,
But thou bast pointed well the pen
That writes these lines to thee.
Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope,
One vile, the other vain ,
15 One's scourge, the other's telescope,
I shall not see again :
Rather what lies before my feet
My notice shall engage-
He who hath braved Youth's dixzy heat
*° Dreads not the frost of Age.
THK CHRYSOLITES* AND RUBIES
BACCHUS BRINGS
1803
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings
To crown the feast where swells the
broad-vein 'd brow,
Where maidens blush at what the minstiol
sings,
Thej who have coveted may covet now
* Bring me, in cool alcoic, the grape tin-
crush 'd,
The peach of pulpy cheek and down
mature,
Where e\ery voice (but bird's or child's)
is hush'd,
And every thought, like the brook nigh,
runs pure.
SO THEN, I FEEL NOT DEEPLY!
1858
So then, I feel not deeply! if I did,
I should ha\e seized the pen and pierced
therewith
The passive world !
And thus thou reasonest f
Well hast thou known the lover's, not so
well
6 The poet's heart- while that heart bleeds,
the hand
Pi esses it close. Gnef must run on and
pass
Tnto near Memory's more quiet shade
Before it can compose itself hi song
He who is agonized and turns to show
10 His agonv to those who sit around
Seizes the pen in vain* thought, fancv.
power,
Rush back into his bosom ; all the strength
Of genius can not draw them into light
From under mastering Grief; but Memory,
16 The Muse's mother, nurses, rears them up,
Informs, and keeps them with her all her
days.
1 vellow or greenish ftmi
ON MUSIC
1858
Many love music but for music's sake,
Many because her touches can awake
Thoughts that repose within tlje breast
half-dead,
And rise to follow where she loves to lead.
6 What various feelings come from dayb
gone by!
What tears from far-off sources dim the
eye! »
Few, when light fingers with sweet voices
play
And melodies swell, pause, and melt away,
Mind how at every touch, at every tone,
™ A spark of life hath glisten M and hath
gone
DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME
1858
Death stands above me, whispering low
1 know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear
ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIBTHDAY
1858
I strove with none, for none was worth
my strife,
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the lire of life,
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
I ENTREAT YOU, ALFRED TENNYSON
1858
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Tome and share my haunch of venison.
I have too a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
B Tho' 'tis only a small bin,
There's a stock of it within
And as sure as I 'm a rhymer.
Half a butt of Rndesheimer.
Come, among the sons of men is one
10 Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson t
TO E ARUNDELL
1858
Nature! thou mayest fume and fret,
There's but one white violet;
Scatter o'er the vernal ground
Faint resemblances around,
6 Nature! I will tell thee yet
There's but one white violet.
AGE
1858
Death, tho9 1 see him not, is near
And grudges me my eightieth year.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
983
Now, I would give him aU these last
For one that fifty ha\e iiin past
6 Ah! he strikes all things, all alike,
Bat bargains: those he will not strike.
TO HTS YOUNG ROSE AN OLD MAN
SAID
1833
To his young Rose an old man said,
" You will be sweet when I am dead :
Where skim are brightest we bhall meet,
And there will yon be yet more sweet,
5 Leaving your winged company
To waste an idle thought on me."
NAY. THANK ME NOT AGAIN FOR
THOSE
1868
Nay, thank me not again for those
Oamehas, that untimely rose;
But if, whence you might please the more
And win the few nnwon before,
* I sought the flowers you loved to wear,
O'er joy M to see them in your hair,
Upon my grave, I pi ay you, set
One primrose or one violet.
Stay 1 can wait a little yet
ONK LOVELY NAME ADORNS MY
SONG
1858
One lovely name adorns my song,
And, duelling in the heart,
Foie\er falters at the tongue,
And trembles to depari
SEPARATION
1853
There is a mountain and a wood between
us,
Where the lone shepherd and late bird
have seen us
Mornin" and noon and even-tide repass
Between 11* now the mountain and the wood
* Seem standing darker than last year they
stood,
And say we must not ems, alas! ala*f
ALL T8 NOT OVER WHILE THE SHADE
1858
All is not over while the shade
Of parting life, if now aslant,
Rests on the scene whereon it play'd
And taught a docile heart to pant.
* Autumn h passing by ; his day
Rhine* mildly yet on gather'd sheaves,
And, tho9 the grape be plucked away,
Its eolor glows amid tbe leaves.
GOD SCATTERS BEAUTY AS HE
SCATTERS FLOWERS
1058
Ood scatters beauty as he scatters flowers
O'er the wide earth, and tells us all are
ours.
A hundred lights in every temple burn,
And at each shrine I bend my knee in turn.
THOU NEEDST NOT PITCH UPON MY
HAT
1858
Thou needst not pitch upon my hat,
Thou wither yd leaf! to show hqw near
Is now the winter of my year;
Alas! I want no hint of that.
5 Prythee, ah piythee, get along!
Whisper as gently in the ear,
I once could whisper in, to fear
No change, but live for dance and song.
TO A CYCLAMEN
1853
I come to visit thee again,
My little flowerlero cyclamen;
To touch the hand, almost to press,
That cheer 'd thee in thy loneliness
8 What could thy careful guardian find
Of thee in form, of me in mind,
What is there in us rich or rare,
To make us claim a moment's care!
Unworthy to be so caress M,
10 We are but withering leaves at best
ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH
1858
Friends! hear the words my wandering
thoughts would say,
And cast them into shape some other dav.
Ronthey, my friend of forty years, is gone.
And, shattered by the fall, I stand alone.
THK THREE ROSES*
1858
When tbe buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First,
T was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
5 Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as tbou art,
Happiness and tltou mvst part."
Many summers have gone by
10 Since a Second Rose and I
(Rose from that same stem) have told
This and other tales of old
*Ro«e Ulmfr Cspe Jfoaf 4 rimer, n 901) , the
dAnjrhttr of her half-nlrtrr, and her grand-
984
NINETEENTH OKNTUBY ROMANTICISTS
She upon her wedding-day
Canned home my tenderest lay:1
W From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third,
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine,
Cold and torpid it must lie,
20 Mute the tongue and closed the eye
LATELY OUR SONGSTERS LOITER T)
IN GREEN LANES
1808
Lately our songsters loiter 'd in green
lanes,
Content to catch the ballads of the plains,
I fancied I had strength enough to climb
A loftier station at no distant time,
6 And might securely from intrusion doxe,
Upon the flowers thro' which Ilissns flows
In those pale olive grounds all voices cease,
And from afar dust fills the paths of
Greece.
My slumber broken, and my doublet torn,
1° I find the laurel2 also bears a thorn
From HEROIC IDYLS
1863
THESEUS AND HlFPOLYTA
Hippolyta Eternal hatred I have sworn
against
The persecutor of my sisterhood ,
In vain, proud son of JEgeus, hast thou
snapped
Their arrows and derided them ; in vnin
"' Leadest thou me a captive; I can die,
And die I will.
Theseus. Nay; many are tbc years
Of youth and beauty for Hippolvta.
Hippolyta. I scorn my youth, I hate
my beauty Qo !
Monster! of all the monsters in these wilds
10 Most frightful and most udinim to Tin
sight.
Theseus. I boast not that I sa\ecl thee
from the bow
Of Scythian.
Hippolyta And for whatf To die dis-
graced
Strong as thou art, yet thou art not so
strong
As Death is, when we call him for support
16 Theseus Him too will I ward off; he
strikes me first,
Hippolyta, long after, when these eyes
Are closed, and when the knee that suppli-
cates
Can bend no more.
Hippolyta. Is the man madt
Theseus. Heifi.
Hippolyta. So, thou canst tell one
truth, however false
In other things,
30 Theseus. What other? Thou dost
pause,
And thine eyes wander o\er the smooth
turf
As if some gem (but gem thou weamt
not)
Had fallen from the remnant of thy hair.
Hippolyta! speak plainly, answer me,
25 What have I done to raise thy fear or hate t
Hippolyta. Fear I despise, perfidy I
abhor.
Unworthy man! did Heracles delude
The maids who trusted him!
Theseus Did ever It
Whether he did or not, they never told me :
30 I would have chided him.
Hippolyta. Thou chide him! thou!
The Spartan mothers well remember thee
Tkcseus. Scorn adds no beauty to the
beautiful.
Heracles was beloved by Omphale,
lie never parted from her, but obey fd
35 Her slightest wish, as Theseus will Hip-
polyta'a.
Hippolyta Then leave me, leave me
instantly, I know
The way to my own country.
Theseus This command.
And only this, my heait must disobey.
My country shall be thine, and there thy
state
<° Regal.
Hippolyta. Am I a child f Give me my
own,
And keep for weaker heads thy diadems
Thermodon I shall never see again,
Brightest of rivers, into whose clear depth
My mother plunged me from her warmer
breast,
46 And taught me early to divide the waves
With arms each day more strong, and soon
to chase
And overtake the father swan, nor heed
His hoarser voice or his uplifted wing.
Where are my sisters! are there any leftf
Theseus. I hope it.
50 Iliwolyta. And I fear it: theirs may
.
•The laurel is an emblem of honor or victory.
A fate like mine; which, 0 ye Gods, for-
bid!
Theseus. I pity thee, and would assuage
thy grief.
hippolvta. Pity me not: thy ans*r I
could bear.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
Thweua. There is no place for anger
where thou art
65 i^ommiseration even men may feel
Foi those i&ho want it: even the* tieicei
beasts
Lick the sore-wounded oi a kindred race.
Ileaxing their cry, albeit they may not
help.
Hippolyia This is no falsehood and
can he be false
M Who speaks itt
I remembei not the time
When I have wept, it was so long ago.
Thou forcest tears from me, because—
because—
I cannot hate thee as I ought to do.
THEY ARE SWEET FLOWERS THAT
ONLY BLOW BY NIGHT
1868
They are sweet flowers that only blow b>
night,
And sweet tears aie there that avoid the
light;
No mortal sees them after da> ib born.
They, like the dew, drop trembling from
their them
MEMORY
1863
The Mother of the Muses, we ate taught,
Is Memory: she has left me, they remain.
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
6 Alas! alas! is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name1 alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards2 may
sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or
uncalPd
10 Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday ,
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad counte-
nance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye,
15 To these, when I have written and be&ouglit
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in
vain.
A blessing wert thou, 0 oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
80 Bnt vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand
963).
AN AGED MAN WHO LOVED TO DOZE
AWAY
1863
An aged man who loved to doze away
An hour by daylight, for his eyes were
dun.
And he had seen too many suns go down
And rise again, dreamed that he saw two
forms
6 Of radiant beauty, he would clasp them
both,
But both flew stealthily away. He cried
In his wild dream,
"I never thought, O youth,
That thou, altho' so cherished,* would 'st
return.
But I did think that he who came with
thee,
10 Love, who could swear more sweetly than
DirClB SUUTf
Would never leave me com toilless and
lone."
A sigh broke through his slumber, not the
last
TO MY NINTH DECADE
1863
To my ninth decade I ha\e tottei M mi,
And no soft arm bends no\\ nn steps to
steady;
She, who once led me where »*lj? would, i-
gone,1
So when be calls me, Death shall find me
ready.
From IMAGINARY CONVKR8ATIONS
1824-52
TlBERITS AND VlPSANIA
1828
Tibet tut Vipsania, my Yiphaniu, u luthei
art thou walking?
Vipsanm. Whom do I seeT— iiij Tibe-
rius t
5 Tibenus. Ah! no, no, no' but thou seest
the father of thy little Drusiis. Pi ess him
to thy heart the more closely for this meet-
ing, and gnc him— —
Vtpsama. Tiberius! the altars, the gods.
10 the destinies, are all between us— I will take
it from this hand; thus, thus shall lie re-
ceive it.
Tiberius. Raise up thy face, my beloved v
I must not shed tears. Augustus, Livia, ye
u shall not extort them from me. Vipsania !
I may kiss thy head— for I have saved it
(1812).
'Probably a
died
wltb
lv a reference to Lander's mother.
In 1829. Landor nlwayn regarded
tho tendered affection
jidor*8 mother, who
her
986
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Thou sayest nothing. I have wronged thee,
ayt
Vipsania. Ambition does not see the
earth she treads on ; the rock and the herb-
age are of one substance to her. Let me
excuse you to my heart, 0 Tiberius. It has
many wants; this is the first and greatest.
Tibenus. 'My ambition, I swear by the
immortal gods, places not the bar of sevei-
ance between us. A stronger hand, the hand
that composes Home and sways the
world
Vipaania. Overawed Tiberius. I know
it; Augustus willed and commanded it.
Ttbertus. And overawed Tiberius!
Power bent, Death terrified, a Nero! What
is our race, that any should look down on
us and spurn usf Augustus, my benefac-
tor, I have wronged thee ! Livia, my mother,
this one cruel deed was thine! To reign,
forsooth, is a lovely thing O womanly
appetite ! Who would have been before me,
though the palace of Caesar cracked and
split with emperors, while I, sitting in idle-
ness on a cliff of Rhodes, eyed the sun as
he swung his golden censer athwart the
heavens, or his image as it overstrode the
seat I have it before me; and, though it
seems falling on me, I can smile on it— just
as I did from my little favorite skiff, painted
round with the marriage of Thetis, when
the Bailors drew their long shaggy hair
across their eves, many a stadium1 away
from it, to mitigate its effulgence.
These, too, weie happy days- days of
happiness like these I could recall and look
back upon with unachmg brow.
O land of Greece! Tibeims blesses thee,
bidding thee rejoice and flourish
Why cannot one hour, Vipsania, beau-
teous and light as we have led, return f
Vipsama. Tiberius ! is it to me that you
were speaking? T would not interrupt you,
but I thought I heard my name as you
walked away and looked up toward the East.
So silent!
Tiberius Who dared to call thect Thou
wert mine before the gods— do they deny
il 1 Was it mv fault
Vipaania Since we are separated, and
forever, O Tiberius, let us think no more on
the cause of it. Let neither of us believe
that the other was to blame: BO shall sep-
aration be less painful
Tiberius O mother* and did I not tell
thee what she was T— patient in injury,
proud in innocence, serene in grief
1 A mravurr of Irnffth oqnnl to 007 ft.
Vipsania. Did you say that toot But I
think it was so. I bad felt little. One vast
wave has washed away the impression oJC
smaller from my memory. Could Livia,
* could your mother, could she who was so
kind to me
T\benus. The wife of (tosar did it. But
hear me now; hear me: be calm as I am.
No weaknesses are such as thofee of a
10 mother who loves her only son immoder-
ately; and none are so easily worked upon
from without. Who knows what impulses
she received f She is very, very kind: but
she regards me only, and that which at her
16 bidding is to encompass and adorn me. All
the weak look after Power, protectress of
weakness. Thou art a woman, 0 Vipsania !
is there nothing in thee to excuse my
mother f So good she ever was to me f so
20 hiving.
Vipsania. I quite forgive her: be tran-
quil, O Tiberius!
T%benus. Never can I know peace—
never can I pardon— anyone Threaten me
25 with thy exile, thy separation, thy seclusion f
Remind me that another climate might en-
danger thy health !— There death met me
and turned me round. Threaten me to take
our son from us— our one boy, our helpless
20 little one— him whom we made cry because
we kissed him both together! Rememberest
thout Or dost thou not heart turning thus
away from me!
Vipsania. I hear; I hear! Oh cease, my
86 sweet Tiberius f Stamp not upon that stone":
my heart lies under it.
Tiberws. Ay, there again death, and
moie than death, stood before me Oh, she
maddened me, my mother did, she maddened
40 me— she threw me to where I am at one
breath. The gods cannot replace me where
I was, nor atone to me, nor console me, nor
restore my senses. To whom can I fly; to
whom can T open my heart; to whom speak
« plainly Y There was upon the earth a man
I could converse with, and fear nothing;
there was a woman, too, I could love, and
fear nothing. What a soldier, what a
Roman, was my father, O my young bride!
60 How could those who never ^saw him have
discoursed so rightly upon virtue!
Vipsania. These words cool my breast
like pressing his urn against it. He was
brave: shall Tiberius want oourage?
66 Tiberiu* My enemies acorn me. I am
a garland dropped from a triumphal car.
and taken up and looked on for tbe place I
occupied ; and tossed away and laughed at.
Senators! laugh, laugh! Tour merits may
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
937
be yet rewarded— be of good cheer! Coun-
sel me, in your wiBdomt what services I can
tender you, conscript fathers!1
Vipsanta This seems mockery : Tiberius
did not smile so, once.
Tibenus. They had not then congratu-
lated me
Vipsawa. On what!
Tibenus. And it was not because she
was beautiful, as they thought her, and vir-
tuous, as I know she is; but because the
flowers on the altar were to be tied together
by my heart -string. On this they congrat-
ulated me Their day will come Their
sons and daughters are what I would wish
them to be: worthy to succeed them.
Vtpsanta. Where is that quietude, that
resignation, that sanctity, that heart of true
tenderness f
Ttbenus. Where is my love f— my lovet
Vipaania Cry not thus aloud, Tiberius!
theie is an e<-bo in the place Soldiers and
sUne** may burst in upon us.
Tibeiitt* And see my tears T There is
no echo, Vipsama ; why alarm and shake me
sot We are too high here for the echoes
the city is below us Methmka it trembles
and totters would it did! from the marble
quays of the Tiber to this rock. There is a
srt ange buzz and murmur in my bram ; but
T should listen so intensely, I should hear
the rattle of its roofs, and shout with joy
Vipsama Calm, O my life! calm this
horrible transport.
Tibenu*. Spake T RO loudt Did I indeed
then send my voice after a lost sound, to
bim&r it back, and thou fancicdest it an
eclmf Wilt not thou laugh nith me, as
I h« m were wont to do, at such an error f
What was T saying to thee, my tender love,
when T commanded— I know not whom—
to stand back, on pain of death t Why
starcst thou on me in snch agony T Ha\e I
hurt thv Anger*, child t I loose them; now
let me lfx>kf Thou turnest thine eyes away
from HIP Ob ' oh f I hear my crime f Tm-
moitnl £»otlsf I cursed them audibly, and
befoie the *»un, my mother'
MABCEI*LUS AND HANNIBAL
1828
Hannibal Could a Numidian horseman
nde no faster t Maroellus! oh! Marcellus!
He moves not— he in dead. Did he not stir
his fingers T Stand wide, soldiers— wide,
forty paces— give him air— bring water-
halt l Gather those broad leaves, and all
the rest, growing under the brushwood—
'Romau wnatoin
unbrace hib armor. Loose the helmet first
— hib bieaht uses. I fancied his eyes were
fixed on me— they have rolled back again.
Who piebuiueth to touch my bhouldei f This
6 horse 1 It wab surely the horse of Maicel-
lusl Let no man mount bun lla! ha! the
Romanb, too, sink into luxury, here is gold
about the chaiger.
Gaulish Chief tain Execrable thief ! The
10 golden chain of our king under a beast's
grinders ! The vengeance of the gods hath
overtaken the impure
Hannibal. We will talk about vengeance
when we ha\e enteied Rome, and about
16 punty among the priests, if they will hear
us. Sound for the smgeon That arrow
may be extracted from the side, deep as it is.
—The conqueror of Syracuse lies before
me. — Send a vessel off to Carthage. Say
20 Hannibal is at the gates of Rome.— Mar-
cellus, who stood alone between us, fallen.
Bia^e man! I would rejoice and cannot
—How awfully serene a countenan.ee ! Sucli
as we hear are in the Islands of the
23 Blessed.1 And how glorious a form and
stature* Such too was theirs! They also
once lay thus upon the earth wet with their
blood— few other enter there. And what
plain armor!
&> Gaulish Chieftain. My party slew him—
indeed I think T slew him myself I claim
the chain it belongs to my king; the glory
of Gaul lequires it Never will she euduie
to see another take it.
35 Hannibal. My friend, the glory of Mar-
cellus did not require him to wear it. When
he suspended the aims of your brave king
in the temple, he thought such a trinket
unworthy of himself and of Jupiter. The
40 hhield he battered down, the breadt-plate he
pierced with his sword— these he showed
to the people and to the gods: hardly his
wife and little children saw this, ere his
hone wore it
45 Gaulish Chieftain. Hear me, O Hanni-
bal I
Hannibal What! \\hcn Marcellus lies
tafoie me? when his life may peihapb be
iccalledT \shcn 1 may lead linn in triumph
GO to Carthage? when Italy, Sicily, Greece,
Asia, wait to obey met Content theer I
will give thee mine own bridle, worth ten
such.
Gaulish Chieftain For myself f
65 Hannibal For thyself
'Mythical Inlands mild to lie In the Weatera
Ocean, where the favorite* of the gods dm ell
utter death. In eternul JOT Bee Tf<ml«d*8
Worls and Day*, 100
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOUANTICISTd
Chief taw. And these rubies and
emeralds, and that bcarlet
Hannibal Yen, yes.
Gaulish Chmftain. O glorious Hannibal !
nneonquerable hero I O my happy country I
to have such an ally and defender. 1 swear
eternal gratitude—yes, gratitude, love, de-
votion, beyond eternity.
Hannibal. In all treaties we fix the time
I could hardly ask a longer. Go back to thy
station — I would see what the surgeon is
about, and hear what he thinks. The lite
of Marcellus! the tnumph of Hannibal*
what else has the world in it? Only Borne
and Carthage these follow.
Maitellus. I must die then! The gods
be praised! The commander of a Roman
army is no captive.
Hannibal (to the Surgeon). Could not
he beai a sea-voyage. Extract the anow.
Surgeon. He expires that moment.
Marcellus. It pains me : extract it
Hannibal. Marcellus, I see no expression
of pain on your countenance, and nevei
will I consent to hasten the death of an
enemy in my power. Since your recovery
is hopeless, you say truly you are no captive.
( To the Surgeon ) Is there nothing:, man,
that can assuage the mortal paint for, sup-
press the signs of it as he may, he must
feel it Is there nothing to alleviate and
allay itT
Marcellus. Hannibal, give me thy hand
— thou hast found it and brought it me,
compassion.
(To the Surgeon) Go, friend, others
want thy aid, se\eial fell around me
Hannibal Recommend to your country,
O MarcelhiH, while time permits it, recon-
ciliation and peace with me, informing the
Senate of my superiority in force, and the
impossibility of resistance The tablet IK
ready: let me take off this ring— try 1o
write, to sign it, at least. Oh, what satis-
faction I feel at seeing yon able to rest
upon the elbow, and even to smile '
Marcellus Within an hour or less, with
how severe a hinw would Minos sav to me,
"Marcel Ins, is this thy writing?"
Rome IOH»S one man • she hath lost inanv
such, and she still hath many left.
HanmbaL Afraid as you Are of false-
hood, say yon thisT I confess in shame
the ferocity of my countrymen. Unfor-
tunately, too, the nearer posts are occupied
by Gauls, infinitely more cruel. The Nn-
midians are so in revenge: the Gauls both
in revenge and in sport My presence is
required nt n distance, and I apprehend
the baibaiity of one or othei, learning, as
they must do, your refusal to execute my
wishes for the common good, and feeling
that by this lefusal you depuve them of
5 their country, after so long an absence
Marccllus Hannibal, tliou art not dying
Hanntbal. What then? What mean
you?
Matcellutt That Ihou mayest, and very
w justly, have many things yet to appiehend .
I can have none The baibaiity of thy
soldiers is nothing to me. mine would not
dare be cruel. Hannibal is 1'oiced to be
absent, and his authonty goes away with
15 his horse. On the tuii lies defaced the
semblance of a geneial, but Maicellus is
yet the legulator of his army Dost thou
abdicate a powei conferied on thee by thy
nation f Or wouldst thou acknowledge it
a> to have become, by thy own solo fault, less
plenary than thy ad\ersary'sf
I have spoken too much let uie lest, this
mantle oppresses me
Hannibal 1 placed my mantle on yoin
23 head when the helmet was first removed,
and while you wete lying in the sun Let
me fold it under, and then lepluee the ring
Marcellus Take it, Hannibal It was
given me by a poor woman who flew to me
30 at Syracuse, and who covered it uith hei
hair, torn off in desperation that she had no
othei gift to offei Little thought I that
her gift and hei woi ds should be mine How
suddenly may the most poweiful be in the
<& situation of the most helpless ' Let thai
ring and the mantle under my head be the
exchange of guests at parting The time
may come, Hannibal, when thou (and the
gods alone know whether as conqueror or
40 conquered) mayest sit under the roof of my
children, and in either case it* shall ser\e
thee In thy adverse foitune, they will re-
member on whose pillow their father
breathed his last; in thy prosperous
46 (Heaven grant it may shine upon thee in
some other count ry !). it will rejoice thee to
protect them We feel ourselves the most
exempt from affliction when we relieve it,
although we are then the most conscious that
~4 it may befall us
There is \one thing here which is not at
the disposal of either.
Hanntbal What!
Marcellus. This body
x Hannibal Whither would you be lifted t
Men are ready.
Marcellus. I meant not so. My strength
is failing. T seem to hear rather what i*
within than what is without My sight find
WALT UK HAVAGE LANDOB
my other senses are in confusion. I would
have said— This body, when a few bubbles
of air shall have left it, is no more worthy
of thy notice than of mine; but thy glory
will not let thee refuse it to the piety of my
family.
Hannibal Ton would ask something
pise. I perceive an in quietude not visible
till now.
Marcellus. Duty and Death make us
think of home sometimes
Hannibal. Thitheruaid the thoughts of
the conqueror and of the cnnqueied fly to-
gether.
Marcellus Hast thou any prisoners
from my escort?
Hannibal. A few dying lie about — and
let them he— they aie Tuscans The re-
mainder [ saw at a distance, flying, and
but one brave man among them— he ap-
peared a Roman— n youth who turned back,
though wounded Thev sui rounded and
dragged him away, spun ing his horse with
their »\\ 01 ds These Etrm lans measui e then
courage caiefully, and tack it well tocrethei
befoie they put it on, but thiow it off atrain
with loidly ease.
Mnicelhis, why think about them* 01 does
aught else disquiet your thoughts?
Marcellus. I have suppressed it lonir
enough My son— my beloved son
Hannibal Where is he? Can it be'
Was he with you?
Marcellus He would ha\e shared nn
fate— and has not Gods of mv Country f
beneficent throughout life to me, in death
surpassingly beneficent: I render you, for
the last time, thanks.
METELLITS AND MARIUS
1820
Metellus Well met, Cams Menus' My
orders are to find instantly a centurion who
shall mount the walls; one capable of obser-
\ation, acute in remark, prompt, calm, ac-
tive, intrepid The Nnmantiaus are saen-
flcmg to the gods in secrecy; thev ha\e
sounded the horn once only,— and hoarselv
and low and mournfully.
Marius. Was that ladder I see yonder
among the caper-bushes and purple lilies,
under where the fig-tree grows out of the
rampart, left for met
Metellus. Even so, wert thou willing
Wouldst thou mount it f
Manns. Rejoicingly. If none are below
or near, may 1 explore the state of things
by entering the cityl
Use thy discretion in that
What seest thouf Wouldst thou leap
downf Lift the ladder.
Marius. Are there spikes in it where it
sticks in the turf f I should slip else.
5 Metellus How! bravest of the centu-
rions, art even thou afraidf Seest thou
any one by!
Manus Ay; some hnndieds close be-
neath me
10 Metellus Retire, then Hasten back, I
will protect tliy descent
Manus May I speak, O Metellus, with-
out an offence to discipline f
Metellus. Say.
16 Martus. Listen f Dost thou not heart
Mrtellus. Shame on thee * alight, alight '
my shield shall cover thee
Manus There is a murmur like the hum
of bees in the bean-field of Oereate; for the
20 Sim is hot, and the ground is thirsty When
n ill it have drunk up for me the blood that
lias run, and is yet oozing on it, f i om those
fiesh bodies*
Mctellus How! We have not f ought
2* for many days; what bodies then, are freMi
onest
Maiius Close beneath the wall arc those
of infants and of girls, in the middle of the
road are youths, emaciated; some either un-
w wounded or wounded months aao, some on
their spears, others on their Rwoufc* no feu
have received in mutual death tlie last intei-
changr of friendship; their dncgeis uniii»
them, hilt to hilt, boponi to bosom.
*«> Mctellus Mark lather the hvm a, —\\liat
are they about t
Marius Atnmt the sacrifice, wlm-h poi-
tends them, I conjecture, but little good,—
it bums sullenly and slowly. The victim will
10 he upon the pyre till morning, and still
l>e unconsumed, unless they bring more
fuel.
T will leap down and walk on cautiously,
and return with tidings, if death should
« spare me
Never was any race of mortals so unmili-
tarv as these Numantians, no watch, no sta-
tions, no palisades across the streets
Metellus Did they want, then, all the
M wood for the altart
Manus. It appears so— T will return
anon.
Metellus. The gods speed thee, my brave,
honest Manual
56 Marius (returned). The ladder should
have been better spiked for that slippery
ground. I am down again safe, however.
Here a man may walk securely, and without
picking his steps
990
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Metellus. Tell me, Cams, what then
sawest.
Marius. The streets of Numautia.
Metellus. Doubtless; but what elscf
Marius. The temples and markets aud
places of exercise and fountains.
Metellus Art thou crazed, centurion t
what more! Speak plainly, at once, and
biiefly.
Marius I beheld, then, all Numantia
Metellus. Has tenor maddened theet
has thou descned nothing of the inhabitant h
but those carcasses under the ramparts f
Manm Those, 0 Metellus, he scattered,
although not indeed far aminder. The
pi eater part of the soldiers and citizens— of
the fathers, husbands, widows, wives,
espoused— weie assembled together
Metellus. About the altar!
Marius. Upon it
Metellus So busy and earnest in devo-
tion ! but how all upon it f
Manus. It blazed under them, and over
them, and round about them.
Metellus Immortal gods ! Ait thou sane,
Cams Mariusf Thy \isape is scorched : thy
speech ma4\ wander after such an enterprise ,
tliv shield bums mv liaud
Mantis I thought it had cooled again
Why, truly, it seems hot I now feel it.
Metellus. Wipe off those embers
Marius. 'Twcie better: there will be
none opposite to shake them upon for some
time
The funereal horn, that sounded with such
feebleness, sounded not so from the faint
heart of him who blew it Hun I Paw, him
only of the In ing. Should I say it! there
was another there was one child whom its
paient could not kill, could not part from.
She had hidden it m her robe, I suspect,
and, when the fire had reached it, either it
shrieked or she did For suddenly a cry
pierced through the crackling pinewood,
and something of round in figure fell from
biand to brand, until it reached the pave-
ment, at the feet of him who had blown the
hmn. I rushed toward him, for I wanted
to hear the whole story, and felt the pressure
of time. Condemn not my weakness, 0
Cfficihus! I wwhed an enemy to live an
hour longer; for my orders were to explore
and bring intelligence When I gazed on
him, in height almost gigantic, I wondered
not that the blast of his trumpet was so
weak; rather did I wonder that Famine,
whose hand had indented every limb and
feature, had left him any voice articulate.
I rushed toward him, however, ere my eyes
had meabuied either his form or strength
He held the ehild against me, and staggered
under it.
"Behold," he exclaimed, "the glorious
6 ornament of a Roman triumph!"
I stood horror-stricken; when suddenly
drops, as of ram, pattered dowh from the
pyre. I looked ; and many were the precious
stones, many were the amulets and rings
10 and bracelets, and othei barbaric ornaments,
unknown to me 111 form or purpose, that
tinkled on the hardened and black branches,
from mothers and wives and betrothed
maids; and some, too, 1 can imagine, from
15 robuster arms— things of joyance, won in
battle. The crowd of incumbent bodies was
so dense and heavy, that neither the fire nor
the smoke could penetrate upward from
among them, and they sank, whole and at
*> once, into the smouldering cavern eating out
below. He at whose neck hung the trumpet
felt this, and started
"There is yet room," he cried, "and
there is strength enough yet. both in the
K element and in me "
He extended his withered arms, he thrtibt
forward the gaunt links of his throat, and
upon gnarled knees, that smote each othei
audibly, tottered into the civic fire It—
*> like some hungry and strangest beast on
the mneimost wild of Afuca, pieiced,
broken, prostrate, motionless, gazed at b>
its hunter in the impatience of glory, in the
delight of awe— pan led once more, and
85 seized An
I have seen within this hour, O Metellus,
what Home in the cycle of her triumphb will
never see, what the Sun in his eternal eouine
can never show her, what the Earth has
*0 borne but now, and must never real again
for her, what Victory heisolf has enMed
her,— a Numantian
Metettus. We shall feast tomorrow
Hope, Caius Maims, to become a tiibune.
45 trust in fortune.
Manus Auguries are miier- surest of
all is perseverance.
Metellus I hope the wine has not grown
vapid in my tent* I have kept it waiting,
BO and must now report to Scipio the intelli-
gence of our discovery Come after me,
Caius.
Marius (alone). The tribune is the dis-
coverer! the centurion is the scout! Caius
65 Marius must enter more Numantias. Light-
hearted Cocihus, thou mayest perhaps
hereafter, and not with humbled but with
exulting pride, take orders from this hand
If Scipio fs words are fate, and to me they
WALTER 8AVAOK LANDOR
1MJ]
sound so, the portals of the Capitol may
shake before my chariot, as my hones
plunge back at the applauses of the people,
and Jove in Ins high domicile1 may welcome
the citizen of Arpinnm 2
LXOFRIC AND GODIVt'
1820
Godiva. There is a dearth in the land,
my sweet LeofncI Remember how many
weekb of drought we have had, even in the
deep pastures of Leicestershire; and how
many Sundays we have heard the same
prayers for rain, and supplications that it
would please the Lord in bis mercy to turn
aside his anger from the poor, pining cattle
Yon, my dear husband, have imprisoned
mote than one malefactor for leaving his
dead ox in the public way, and nthei hinds4
have fled before yon out of the traces, in
which they, and their sons and their daugh-
ters, and haply their old fathers and
mothers, were dragging the abandoned wain
homeward Although we were accompanied
by many brave spearmen and skilful arch-
ers, it was perilous to pass the creatures
which the farm-yard dogs, driven from the
hearth by the po\erty of their masters, were
tearing and devounng; while others, bitten
and lamed, filled the air either with lone:
and deep howls or sharp and quick barkings.
as they struggled with hunger and feeble-
ness, or were exasperated by heat and pain.
Nor could the thyme from the heath, nor
the bruised branches of the fir-tree, ex-
tinguish or abate the foul odor.
Leofric. And now, Qodiva, my darling,
thou art afraid we should be eaten up be-
fore we enter the gates of Coventry; or
perchance that in the gardens there are no
roses to greet thee, no sweet herbs for thy
mat and pillow.
Godira. Leofric, I have no such fears.
This is the month of roses- I find them
every wheie dince my blessed marriage.
They, and all other sweet herbs, I know not
why, seem to greet me wherever I look at
them, as though they knew and expected
me. Surely they cannot feel that I am
fond of them.
Leofric. 0 light, laughing simpleton!
But what wonldst thou! I came not hither
to pray; and yet if praying would satisfy
thee, or remove the drought, I would ride
*The Temple of Jupiter, where victorious lead-
cm offered Mcrtfle*
•Marian, uhone childhood wan upont near \rpl-
nm «on'»
'pea Rant*
up straightway to Saint Michael's and pray
until morning.
Godtva. I would do the same, 0 Leofric !
but God hath turned away his ear from
5 holier lips than mine. Would my own dear
husband hear me, if I implored him for
what is easier to accomplish,— what he can
do like God?
Leofnc. Howl what is it!
10 Godwa. 1 would not, in the first hurry
of your wrath, appeal to you, my loving
lord, in behalf of these unhappy men who
ha\e offended you.
Leofnc. Unhappy! is that allt
15 Godiva. Unhappy they must surely be,
to have offended you so grievously. What
a soft air breathes over us* how quiet and
serene and still an evening! how calm are
the heavens and the earth '—Shall none en-
20 joy them; not even we, my Leofnct The
sun is ready to set- let it never set, 0
Leofrie, on your anger These are not my
words' they are better than mine 1 Should
they lose then virtue from mv unworthmess
2C in uttering them!
Leofnc Oodha, uonldst thou plead to
me for rebel* f
Godira. They have, then, drawn the
sword against youf Indeed, T knew it not.
J» Leofnc. They haw omitted to send me
my dues, established by mv ancestors, well
knowing of our nuptials, and of the charges
and festivities they lequire, and that in a
season of such scarcity my own lands are
35 insufficient.
Godtva. Tf they were starving, as they
said they were
Leofric. Must I starve toot Ts it not
enough to lose my va<«aM
40 Godiva Enough! 0 God! too much!
too much f May you never lose them ! Give
them life, peace, comfort, contentment.
There are those among them who kissed me
in mv infancy, and who blessed me at the
45 baptismal font. Leofric, Leofrie! the first
old man I meet I shall think is one of those;
and I shall think on the hlewing he gave me,
and (ah me') on the blessing T bring back
to him. My heart will bleed, will burst;
30 and he will weep at it! he will weep, poor
soul, for the wife of n cruel lord who de-
nounces vengeance on him. who carries death
into his family!
Leofnc. We must hold solemn festivals.
B Godiva. We must, indeed
Leofnc. Well, then f
Godira. Is the clamoronsnesR that suc-
ceeds the death of God's dumb creatures,
*Ree Jfyiftmto**. 4 2A
NINETEENTH CENT UK Y ROMANTICISTS
are crowded halls, are slaughtered cattle,
festivals!— are maddening songs, and giddy
dances, and hireling praises from parti-
colored coats? Can the voice of a minstrel
tell us better things of ourselves than our own
internal one might tell us; or can his breath
make our bi-eath softer in sleep? 0 my be-
loved* let everything be a joyanoe to UH§
it will, if we will Sad i»» the day, and won**
must follow, when we heai the blackbird in
the gaiden, and do not throb with joy
But, Leofric, the high festival is strown
by the seivant of God upon the heart of
man. It is gladness, it is thanksgiving; it is
the orphan, the starveling, pressed to the
bosom, and bidden as ite first commandment
to remember its benefactor We will hold
this festival , the guests are ready , we may
keep it up for weeks, and months, and years
togethei, and always be the happier and the
ncher for it The be\eiagc of this feast, 0
Leofric, is «.weetet than bee or flower 01
\ine can give us.1 it flows from heaven;
and in hea\en will it abundantly be poured
out again to him who pours it out here un-
sparingly
Leofnc. Thou art wild
Godiva. I lunc, indeed, lost myself.
Some Power, some good kind Power, melts
me (body and soul and voice) into tender-
ness and love. 0 my husband, we must obey
it. Look upon me f look upon me ' lift your
sweet eyes from the ground1 I will not
cease to supplicate, I dare not
Leofric. We may think upon it
Godiva. Never say that* What! think
upon goodness when yon can be good f Let
not the infants cry for sustenance' The
mother of our blessed Loid will heai them,
us never, never afterward
Leofnc. Here comes the Bishop we are
but one mile fiom the walls Why dis-
mountest thon? no bishop can expect it.
Godiva f my honor and rank among men are
humbled by this. Earl Godwin will hear
of it Up' up! the Bishop hath seen it-
he urgeth his horse onward. Dost thou not
hear him now upon the solid turf behind
thee?
Godiva. Never, no, never will I rise, O
Leofnc, until you remit this most impious
tax— this tax on hard labor, on hard life
Leofric Turn round- look how the fat
nag canters, as to the tune of a sinner's
psalm, slow and hard-breathing What rea-
son or right can the people have to com-
plain, while their bishop's steed is so sleek
*That IB, weetpr than mead, which In imAp of
honey, nectar, and wine
and well caparisoned t Inclination to
change, desire to abolish old usages.— Up!
up I for shame! They shall smart for it,
idlers! Sir Bishop, I must blush for my
5 young bnde.
Godiva. My husband, my husband ! will
you pardon the city t
Leofnc. Sir Bishop ! I could not think
you would have seen her in this plight
10 Will I pardon? Yea, Godiva, by the holy
rood,1 will I pardon the city, when thou
ridest naked at noontide through the streets!
Godiva. O my dear, cruel Leofnc, where
is the heart you gave met It was not so:
16 can mine have hardened it?
Bishop. Earl, thou abashest thy spouse;
she turneth pale, and weepeth. Lady Go-
diva, peace be with thee.
Godiva Thanks, holy man! peace will
20 be with me when peace is with your city.
Did you hear my lord's cruel word?
Bishop. I did, lady.
Godiva. Will you. remember it, and pray
against itf
85 Bishop. Wilt thou forget it, daughter?
Godiva I am not offended.
Bishop. Angel of peace and puiity!
Godtva. But treasure it up in your
heart deem it an incense, good only when it
80 is consumed and spent, ascending with
prayer and sacrifice. And, now, what was
itf
Bishop. Christ save us ! that he will par-
don the city when thou ndest naked through
36 the streets at noon.
Godiva. Did he not swear an oath?
Bishop. He sware by the holy rood.
Godtva My Redeemer, thou hast heard
it! save the city!
40 Leofnc. We are now upon the begin-
ning of the pavement : these are the suburbs
Let us think of feasting: we may pray
afterward ; tomorrow we shall rest.
Godiva. No judgments, then, tomorrow,
4* Leofric t
Leofnc. None* we will carouse.
Godiva. The saints of heaven have given
me strength and confidence ; my prayers are
heard; the heart of my beloved is now
60 softened.
Leofnc (aside). Ay, ay— they shall
smart, though.
Godiva. Say, dearest Leofric, is there
indeed no other hope, no nth*? mediation?
6S Leofnc I have sworn Beside, thou
hast made me redden and turn my face
away from thee, and all the knaves have
. seen it: this adds to the city's crime.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB
993
Godtva. 1 have blushed too, Leof nc, and
was not rash nor obdurate.
Leofnc. Bat thou, my sweetest, art given
to blushing: there is no conquering it in
ihee. I wish thou hadst not alighted so
hastily and roughly: it hath shaken down
a sheaf of thy hair. Take heed thou sit
not upon it, lest it anguish thee. Well done !
it mingleth now sweetly with the cloth of
gold upon the saddle, running here and
theie, as if it had life and faculties and busi-
ness, and were working thereupon some
newer and cunmnger device. 0 my beau-
teous Eve I there is a Paradise about thee!
the world is refreshed as than movest and
breathest on it. I cannot see or think of
evil where thou art. I could throw my arms
even here about thee. No signs for me ! no
shaking of sunbeams! no reproof or frown
or wonderment— I will say it— now, then,
for worse— I eould close with my kisses thy
half-open lips, ay, and those lovely and
lo\ing eyes, before the people
Godiva. Tomorrow you shall kiss me,
and they shall bless you for it. I shall be
very pale, for tonight I must fart and
pi ay.
Leofnc. I do not hear thee; the voices
of the folk are so loud under this arch-
way.
Godiva (to herself). God help them9
good kind souls! I hope they will not
crowd about me so tomonow. 0 Leofric!
could my name be forgotten, and yours
alone remembered! But perhaps my inno-
cence may save me from reproach ; and how
many as innocent are in fear and famine!
No eye will open on me but fresh from tears.
What a young mother for so large a family!
Shall my youth harm met Under God's
hand it gives me courage. Ah! when will
the morning comet Ah ! when will the noon
be overt
From PERIGLER AND A8PA8IA
1836
66. PERICLES TO ASPASIA
There are things, Aspasia, beyond the
art of Phidias. He may represent Love
leaning upon his bow and listening to Philos-
ophy; but not for hours together- he may
represent Love, while he is giving her a
kiss for her lesson, tvinp her arms behind
her; loosing them again must be upon
another marble
69. PERICLES TO ASPASU
Do you love met do you love met Stay,
reason upon it, sweet Aspasia! doubt, hesi-
5 tate, question, drop it, take it up again, pro-
vide, raise obstacles, reply indirectly. Or-
acles are sacred, and there is a pnde in
being a diviner.
10
70 ASPASIA TO PERICLES
I will do none of those things you tell me
to do; but 1 will say something you forgot
to say, about the insufficiency of Phidias.
16 He may represent a hero with unbent
brows, a sage with the lyre of Poetry in
his hand, Ambition with her face half-
averted from the city, but he cannot rep-
resent, in the same sculpture, at the same
a> distance, Aphrodite higher than Pallas.
He would be derided if he did; and a great
man can never do that for which a little
man may deride him.
I shall love yon even more than I do, if
tf you will love yourself more than me. Did
ever lover talk sot Pray tell me, for I have
forgotten all they ever talked about. But,
Pencles » Pericles ! be careful to lose nothing
of your glory, or you lose all that can be
» lost of me; my pride, my happiness, my
content; everything but my poor weak love.
Keep glory, then, for my sake!
86
104 PERICLES TO ASPASIA
Rend me a note whenever you are idle
and thinking of me, dear Aspasia! Send
it always bv some old slave, ill-dressed. The
people will think it a petition, or something
40 as good, and they will be sure to observe
the pleasure it throws into my countenance.
Two winds at once will blow into my sails,
each helping me onward.
If I am tired, your letter will refresh me;
« if occupied, it will give me activity. Be-
side, what a deal of time we lose in business !
105. ASPASIA TO PERICLES
Would to heaven, 0 Pericles! you had
no business at all, but the conversation of
your friends. You must always be the
60 greatest man in the city, whoever may be
the most popular. I wish we could spend
the whole day together; must it never bet
Are you not already in possession of all you
ever contended fort
w It is time, methinks, that you should leave
off speaking in public, for yon begin to be
994
NINETEENTH GtiNTUBY BOMANTICIST8
negligent and incorrect. I am to write you
a note whenever I am idle and thinking of
you!
Pennies 1 Pericles! how far is it from
idleness to think of yon! We come to rest
before we come to idleness
173 ASPASIA TO PERICLES
When the war is over, as surely it must
be in another year, let us sail among the
islands of the JEgean, and be young as ever.
0 that it wore permitted us to pass to-
gether the remainder of our lives in privacy
and retirement ' This is never to be hoped
for in Athens.
I inherit from my mother a small yet
beautiful house in Tenos: 1 remember it
well. Water, clear and cold, ran before the
vestibule; a sycamore shaded the whole
building. I think Tenos must be nearer to
Athens than to Miletus fould we not go
now for a few days! How temperate was
the air, how serene the sky, how beautiful
the country! the people how quiet, honi
gentle, how kind-hearted f
Is there any station so happy as an un-
eontested place in a small community, where
manners are simple, where wants are few,
where respect is the tnbnte of probity, and
love is the guerdon of beneficence! O
Pericles! let us go, we can return at any
time
192. ASPASIA TO PERICLES
Now the fever is raging, and we are sep-
arated, my comfort and delight is in our
little Pericles. The letters you send me
come less frequently, but I know you wnte
whenever your duties will allow you, and
whenever men are found courageous enough
to take charge of them. Although you pre-
served with little care the speeches you de-
livered formerly, yet you promised me a
copy of the latter, and as many of the
earlier as you could collect among your
friends. Let me have them as soon as pos-
sible. Whatever bears the traces of your
hand is precious to me* how greatly more
precious what is imprest with your genius,
what you have meditated and spoken! I
shall see your calm thoughtful face while
I am reading, and will be cautious not to
read aloud lest I lose the illusion of your
voice.
191 ASPABIA TO PKRIOUCS
Gratitude to the immortal gods over-
powers every other impulse of my breast.
* Yon are safe.
Pericles! 0 my Pericles I come into this
purer air! live life over again in the smiles
of your child, in the devotion of your As-
pasia ! Why did you fear for me the plague
10 within the city, the Spartans round itl why
did you exact the vow at parting, that noth-
ing but your command should lecall me
again to Athens T Why did I e^er make itt
Cruel' to refuse me the full enjoyment of
15 your recovered health ! crueller to' keep me
in ignorance of its decline ' The happiest of
pillows is not that which Love first presses ,
it is that which Death has frowned on and
passed o\er
20
231. ASPASM TO CLEONE
Where on earth is theie so much society
25 as in a belo\ed child f He accompanies me
in my walks, gazes into my eyes for what
I am gathering fiom books, tells me more
and better things than they do, and asks
me often what neither 1 nor they can
3D answer When he is absent I am filled with
reflections; when he is piesent 1 hate room
for none beside what 1 recene from him
The charms of his childhood bring rne back
to the delights of mine, and 1 fancy I hear
36 my own words in a sweeter voice Will he
(0 how I tremble at the mute oracle of
futurity!), will he ever be as happy as I
have been! Alas' and must he ever be as
subject to fears and apprehensions f No;
40 thanks to the gods ' never, never He carries
his father's heart within his bieast* I see
him already an orator and a leader. I try
to teach him daily some of his father's looks
and gestures, and I never smile but at his
46 docility and gravity. How his father will
love him ! the little thunderer ! the winner of
cities' the vanquisher of Cleones'
60
233. AfipARiA TO PERICLES
Never tell me, 0 my Pericles ! that you are
suddenly changed in appearance. May every
change of your figure and countenance be
66 gradual, so that I shall not perceive it;
but if you really are altered to such a degree
as you describe, I must transfer my affection
—from the first Pericles to the second. Are
you jealous f Jf you are, it is I who am
WALTEK SAVAGE LANDOB
995
to be pitied, whose heart IB destined to fly
from the one to the other incessantly. In
the end it will rest, it shall, it must, on the
nearest. I would write a longer letter; but
it is a sad and wearisome thing to aim at
playfulness where the hand is palsied by
affliction. Be well, and all is well ; be happy,
and Athens rises up again, alert, and
blooming, and vigorous, from between war
and pestilence Love me: for love cures all
but love. How cun we fear to die, how can
we die, while we cling or are clung (o tbe
beloved?
234. PERICLES TO ARPABIA
The pestilence has taken from me both
my sons. You, who weie ever so kind and
affectionate to them, will receive a tardy
recompense, in hearing that the least gentle
and the least grateful did acknowledge it
I mourn for Paroles, because he loved me ,
for Xanthippos, because he loved me not.
Preseive with all your maternal care our
little Pericles. I cannot be fonder of him
than I have always been; I ean only fear
more for him.
Is he not with my Aspaoat What fears
then are so irrational as minef But oh! I
am living in a widowed house, a house of
desolation; I am living in a city of tombs
and torches; and the last I saw before me
were for my children
235. PEBICLES TO ASPAHIA
It 18 right and orderly, that he who lias
partaken so largely in the prosperity of the
Athenians, should close the procession of
their calamities The fe\er that hat> depop-
ulated our city, returned upon me last night,
and Hippocrates and Acron tell me that my
end is near.
When we agreed. 0 Aspasia! in the be-
ginning of our loves, to communicate our
thoughts by writing, even while we were
both in Athens and when we had many rea-
sons for it, we little foresaw the more pow-
erful one that has rendered it necessary of
late. We never can meet again : the laws
forbid it,1 and love itself enforces them.
Let wisdom be heard by yon as impertnrb-
ably, and affection as authoritatively, a*
ever; and lemember that the sorrow of
Pericles can arise but from the bosom of
Aspasia. There is only one word of tender-
ness we could say, which we have not said
oftentimes before; and there is no consols-
i Because tho 1V\ OP * UK c nnttiftloun
tion in it The happy never say, and never
hear said, farewell
Reviewing the course of my life, it ap-
pears to me at one moment as if we met but
ft yesterday; at Another as if centuries had
passed within it; for within it have existed
the greater part of those who, since the
origin of the world, have been the lumi-
naries of the human race Damon called
10 me from my music to look at Anstides on
his way to exile; and my father piessed
the wrist by which he was leading me along,
and whispered in my ear:
"Walk quickly by; glance cautiously; it
16 is there Miltiades is in prison."
In my boyhood Pindar took me up in
his arms, when he brought to our house the
dirge he had composed for the funeral of
my grandfather, in my adolescence I offered
30 the ntes of hospitality to Empedocles; not
long afterward I embraced the neck of
^Eechylus, about to abandon his country.
With Sophocles I have argued on eloquence;
with Euripides on polity and ethics, I have
26 discoursed, as became an inquirer, with
Protagoras and Democritns, with Anax-
agoras and Meton. From Herodotus I have
listened to the most instructive history, con-
veyed in a language the most copious and
30 the most harmonious ; a man worthy to cany
away the collected suffrages of universal
Greece, a man worthy to throw open the
temples of Egypt, and to celebrate the ex-
ploits of Cyrus. And from Thucydidcs,
& who alone can succeed to him, how recently
did my Aspasia hear with me the energetic
piaises of his just supremacy*
As if the festival of life were incomplete,
and wanted one great ornament to crown
<o it, Phidias placed before us, in ivory and
Cold, the tutelary Deity of this land, and
the Zeus of Homer and Olympus.
To have lived with such" men, to ha\e en-
joyed their familiarity and esteem, over-
« pays all labors and anxieties. I were un-
worthy of the friendships I have commem-
orated, were I forgetful of the latest.
Sacred it ought to be, formed as it was
under the portico of Death, my friendship
GO with the most sagacious, the most scientific,
the most beneficent of philosophers, Acron
and Hippocrates. If mortal could war
against Pestilence and Destiny, they had
been victorious. I leave them "in the field •
66 unfortunate he who finds them among the
fallen!
And now, at the close of my day, when
every light is dim and every guest departed,
let me own that these wane before me, re-
996
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
membering, as I do in the pnde and fulness
of my heart, that Athens confided her glory,
and Aspasia her happiness, to me.
Have I been a faithful guardian T do I
resign them to the custody of the gods
undiminished and unimpaired f Welcome
then, welcome my last hour1 After enjoy-
ing for so great a number of years, in my
public and my private life, what I believe
has never been the lot of any other, I now
extend my hand to the urn,1 and take with-
out reluctance or hesitation what is the lot
of all.
THE PENTAMERON
1837
From FHTH DAY'S INTERVIEW
THE DREAM OF BOCCACCIO
Boccaccio. In vain had T determined not
only to mend in futme, but to coirect the
past , in vain had I prayed most fervently
for grace to accomplish it, with a final aspi-
ration to Fiammetta that she would unite
with your beloved Laura, and that, gentle
and beatified spirits as they are, they would
breathe together their purer prayers on
mine. See what follows.
Petraica. Sigh not at it Before we can
see all that follows from their intercession,
we must join them again. But let me hear
anything in which they are concerned.
Boccaccio. I prayed; and my breast,
after Rome few tears, grew calmer. Yet
sleep did not ensue until the break of morn-
ing, when the dropping of soft rain on the
leaves of the fig-tree at the window, and
the chirping of a little bird, to tell another
there was shelter under them, brought me
repose and slumber. Scarcely had I closed
my eyes, if indeed time can be reckoned any
mote in sleep than in heaven, when my
Fiammetta seemed to have led me into the
meadow. You will see it below you: turn
away that branch: gently! gently! do not
break it; for the little bird sat there.
Petrarca. I think, Giovanni, I can divine
the place. Although this fig-tree, growing
out of the wall between the cellar and us, is
fantastic enough in its branches, yet that
other which I see yonder, bent down and
forced to crawl along the grass by the pre-
potency of the young shapely walnut-tree,
is much fcinre so. It forms a seat, about a
eubit above the ground, level and long
enough for several.
1 A veiwel URpd for prewervlnc the ashen of the
dead, hero used figuratively for grate
Boccaccio. Ha! you fancy it must be a
favonte spot with me, because of the two
strong forked stakes wherewith it is propped
and supported! >
5 Petrarca. Poets know the haunts of
poets at first sight; and he who loved Laura
—0 Laura! did I say he who loved theef—
hath whisperings where those feet would
wander which have been restless after Fiam-
10 metta.
Boccaccio. It is true, my imagination has
often conducted her thither, but here in this
chamber she appeared to me more visibly
in a dream.
15 "Thy prayers have been heard, 0 Gio-
vanni," said she.
I sprang to embrace her.
"Do not spill the water! Ah! you have
spilt a part of it"
20 I then observed in her hand a crystal vase
A few drops were spaikhng on the Rides
and running down the rim , a few were trick-
ling from the base and from the hand that
held it.
K "I must go down to the brook,19 said she,
"and fill it again as it was filled before."
What a moment of agony was this to mef
Could I be certain how long might be hei
absence f She went* I was following- she
90 made a sign for me to turn back. I dis-
obeyed her only an instant yet my sense of
disobedience, increasing my feebleness and
confusion, made me lose sight of her. Tn
the next moment she was again at my side,
86 with the cup quite full. I stood motionless
1 feared my breath might shake the water
over. I looked her in the face for her com-
mands—and to see it— to see it so calm, so
beneficent, so beautiful. I was foigetting
40 what I had prayed for, when she lowered
her head, tasted of the cup, and gave it
me. I drank; and suddenly sprang forth
before me, many groves and palaces and
gardens, and their' statues and their avenues,
« and their labyrinths of alaternus and bay,
and alcoves of citron, and watchful loop-
holes in the retirements of impenetrable
pomegranate. Farther off, just below where
the fountain slipt away from its marble hall
50 and guardian gods, arose, from their beds
of moss and drosera and darkest grass, the
sisterhood of oleanders, fond of tantalizing
with their bosomed flowers and their moist
and pouting blossoms the little shy rivulet,
K and of covering its face with all the colors
of the dawn. My dream expanded and
moved forward I trod again the dust of
Posilippo, soft as the feathers in the wings
of Sleep. I emerged on Baia; I crossed
WALTEB SAVAGE LANDOB
997
her innumerable arches; I loitered in the
breezy sunshine of her mole,1 I trusted the
faithful seclusion of her caverns, the keepers
of so many seciets, and I reposed on the
buoyancy of her tepid sea. Then Naples,
and her theatres and her churches, and grot-
toes and dells and forts and promontories,
rushed forward in confusion, now among
soft whispers, now among sweetest sounds,
and subsided, and sank, and disappeared.
Yet a memory seemed to come fresh from
every one each had time enough foi its
tale, for its pleasure, for its leflection, foi
its pang. As I mounted with silent steps
the narrow staircase of the old palace, how
distinctly did I feel against the palm of my
hand the coldness of that smooth stonework,
and the preatei of the cramps of iron in it f
"Ah me' is this forgetting!" cried I
anxiously to Fiammetta.
" We must lecall these scenes before us,"
she replied, "such is the punishment of
them Let us hope and believe that the
appaiition, and the compunction which must
follow it, will be accepted as the full pen-
alty, and that both will pass away almost
together."
I feared to lose anything attendant on
her presence- 1 fpaied to approach her fore-
head with my lips- I feared to touch the
lily on its long wavy leaf in her ban , which
filled niv whole heart with fiagiance Ven-
erating, adoring, I bowed my head at last
to kiss liei sno\\ -white lobe, and tienibled at
my presumption And yet the effulgence
of her countenance vivified while it chastened
me I loved her— I must not say more than
p\er— better than ever; it was Fiammettn
who had inhabited the skies. As my hand
opened toward her,
"Beware"' said she, faintly smiling;
"beware, Giovanni! Take only the crystal;
take it, and drink again."
"Must all be then forgotten!" said I
sorrowfully.
"Remember your piayer and mine, Qio-
\anni. Shall both ha\e been granted— O
how much \\orsc than in vain!"
I drank instantlv , T drank largely How
cool my bosom mew, how could it grow so
cool befoie liei » But it was not to remain
in its quiescency; its trials were not yet
over. I will not, Francesco ! no, I may not
commemorate the incidents she related to
me, nor which of us said, "I blush for
having loved first;99 nor which of us replied,
"Say least, sny least, and blunh again "
The charm of the words (for I felt not
i A structure am Ing us a pier or breakwater
the encumbrance of the body nor the acute-
ness of the spin!) seemed to possess me
wholly Although the water gave me
strength and comfort, and somewhat of
6 celestial pleasure, many tears fell around
the border of the vase as she held it up be-
fore me, exhorting me to take courage, and
muting me with more than exhortation to
accomplish my delnerance She came
10 nearer, more tendeily, more earnestly, she
held the dewy globe with both hands, leaning
forward, and sighed and shook her head,
drooping at my pusillanimity. It was only
when a ringlet had touched the rim, and
16 perhaps the water (for a sunbeam on the
surface could never have given it such a
golden hue), that I took courage, clasped it,
and exhausted it Sweet as was the water,
sweet as was the seienity it gave me— alas'
20 that also which it moved away from me was
sweet'
"This time you can trust me alone," said
she, and parted my hair, and kissed my
brow Again she went towaid the brook
23 again my agitation, my weakness, my doubt,
came o\er me nor could I see her while she
inised the water, nor knew T whence she
diew it. When she returned, she was close
to me at once • she smiled • her smile pierced
30 me to the bones it seemed an angel's. She
sprinkled the pure water on me ; she looked
most fondly , she took my hand ; she suffered
me to pi ess hers to my bosom , but, whether
by design I cannot tell, she let fall a few
35 diops of the chilly element between
"And now, 0 my belo\ ed f " said she, ' ' we
lia\e consigned to the bosom of God our
eaithlv joys and sonows The joys cannot
i etui n, let not the sorrows These alone
40 would trouble my repose among the
blessed"
"Trouble thy repose' Fiammetta! Give
me the chalice!" cried T— "not a drop will
I leave in it, not a drop."
43 "Take it!" said that soft voice "0
now most dear Gunnum ! T know thou hast
stieugth enough, and there i«* but little— at
the bottom lies our first kiss "
"Mine! didst thou sayt beloved oncT and
so is that left thee still t"
"Mine," said she, pensively, and as she
abased her head, the broad leaf of the lily
hid her brow and her eyes, the light of
heaven shone through the 'flower
K "O Fininmettflf Fiammetta!" cried I in
agony, "God is the God of mercy, God is
the God of love— can I, can I evert" I
struck the chalice against my head, unmind-
ful that I held it; the water covered my
998
NINETEENTH GENTUBYi BOMANTIOI8T8
face and my feet. I started up, not yet
awake, and I heard the name of Fiammetta
in the curtains.
Petrarca. Love, 0 Giovanni, and hie
6 itself, are but dreams at best.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK (1785-1866)
BENEATH THE CYPRESSi SHADE
1800
I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
What well might seem an elfin 'b giave,
And every pledge in eaith I laid,
That erst thy false affection ga\e
6 I pressed them down the sod beneath,
I placed one mossy stone above,
And twined the lobe'b fading wieath
Around the sepulchre of love
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead,
10 Ere yet the evening sun \t as set ,
But years shall see the cypiens spiead,
Immutable as my regret.
Prom HEADLONG HALL
1815 1816
HAIL TO THE HEADING
Chorus
Hail to the Headlong! the Headlong
Ap*-Headlong!
All hail to the Headlong, the Headlong
Ap-Headlong!
The Headlong Ap-Headlong
Ap-Bieakneck Ap-Headlong
5 Ap-Cataract Ap-Pistyll Ap-Rhaiadei
Ap-Headlong!
The blight bowl we steep in the name ot
the Headlong-
Let the youths pledge it deep to the Head-
long Ap-Headlong,
And the rosy-lipped lasses
Touch the brim as it passe*,
N And kiss the red tide for the Headlong
Ap-Headlong!
The loud harp resounds in the hall of the
Headlong:
The light step rebounds in the hall of the
Headlong:
Where shall the music invite us,
» If not fa the Vail oT 'the Headlong Ap-
Headlongf i
» The cypress IB an emblem of mourning ; It is a
common tree In graveyards.
9 Aft Is a common WrMi prefix In mummies; It
tnonns M>* «/
Huzza ! to the health of the Headlong Ap-
Headlong!
Fill the bowl, fill in floods, to the health
of the Headlong !
Till the stream ruby-glowing,
On all sides o'erflowing,
20 Shall fall in cascades to the health of the
Headlong !
The Headlong Ap-Headlong
Ap-Bieakneck Ap-Headlong
Ap-Cataract Ap-Pistyll Ap-Rhaiader Ap-
Headlong f
Fiom NIGHTMARE ABBEY
1818 1818
SEAMEN THREE* WHAT MEN BE YE!
Seamen three1 what men be ye?
Gotham 'b thiee Wise Men we be
Whither in your bowl so fun1?
To rake the moon fiom out the sea
6 The bowl goes trim, the moon doth shine,
And our ballast is old \\ino
And your ballast is old wine
Who art thou, so fast adult?
I am he they call Old Caie
10 Here on board we will thee lilt
No I may not enter there
Wheiel'oie so* 'Tis Jove'b decree—
In a bowl Care may not be
In a bowl Caie may not be
16 Pear ye not the waves that roll?
No in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowlt
Water may not pass the brim
The bowl goes trim ; the moon doth shine ,
20 And our ballast is old wine
And your ballast is old wine
From MAID MARIAN
1818-t* 1822
FOB THE BLENDER BEECH AND THE SAPLING
OAK
For the slender beech and the sapling
oak
That grow by the shadowy rill,
You may cut down both at a single
stroke,
You may cut down which you will
5 But this yon must know, that as long as
they grow,
Whatever change may be,
Yon never can teach either oak or beech
To IKS aught but a greenwood tree.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
THOUGH I BE Now A QUAY, GRAY PBIAE
We hail her m duty the Queen of all
We "1 die> by our
The cry of my dogs was the only choir
In which my spirit did take delight.
* Little I recked of matin bell,
But drowned its toll with my clanging
horn
And the only beads I loved to tell1
Were the beads of dew on the spangled
thorn.
Little I reck of matin bell,
10 But drown its toll with my clanging
horn*
And the only beads I love to tell
Are the beads of dew on the spangled
thorn.
An archer keen 1 was withal,
As ever did lean on greenwood tree ,
16 And could make the fleetest roebuck fall,
A good thiee hundred yards from me.
Though changeful time, with hand severe,
Has niflde me now these joys forego,
Yet my heart bounds whene'er I hear
*> Yoieks» hark nwayf and tally ho'2
Though chaifcefiil tune, with hand severe,
Has made me now these joys forego,
Yet my heart bounds whene'er I hear
Yoicks ! hark away f and tally ho !
OH! BOLD ROBIN HOOD Is A FORESTER GOOD
Oh ' bold Robin Hood is a forester good,
As ever diew bow in the merry greenwood •
At his bugle's shrill singing the echoes are
nnpinj?,
The wild deer are springing for many a
rood-
Its summons we follow, through brake.'
over hollow,
The thrice-blown shrill summons of bold
Robin Hood.
And what eye hath e'er seen such a sweet
As Marian, the pride of the forester's
A sweet garden-flower, she blooms in the
to to hour the wUd
*»» been :
>That I*, count while ptayen are being ut-
And here's a gray friar, good as heart can
desire,
To absolve all our sins as the case may
require •
15 Who with courage so stout, lays his oak-
plant about,
And puts to the rout all the foes of his
choir;
For we are his chonsteis, we meiry for-
esters,
Chorusing thus with our militant friar.
And Scarlet doth bring his good yew-
bough and string,
20 Prime minister is he of Robin our King;
No mark is too nanow for Little John's
arrow,
That hits a cock spanou a mile on the
wing
Robin and Marion, Scarlet and Little John,
Long with their glory old Sherwood shall
ring.
26 Each a good liver, for well-featheied
quiver
Doth furnish brawn,1 \enison, and fowl
of the nver
But the best game ue dish up, it is a fat
bishop
When his angels2 ne fish up, he pio\e^ a
free giver-
For a prelate so lowly Las angels more
•« . , . y; 4.. ,,, f .
80 And should this world's false angels to
sinners deliver
Robin and Marton,Soailet and Little John,
Dnnk to them onp by m}e^ dnnk as ^
Robin and Marion, Scarlet and Little John,
Echo to echo thron?h Sherwood shall fling:
^ Robin and Mari6n, Scarlet and Little John,
Ij0nff wifh fheir plory old Sherwood shall
ring.
YE WOODS, THAT Orr AT SULTRY NOON
8 The pelid water's upward flow,
tSy second flask was laid to eool :
« ench.
1000
NINETEENTH CENTUfiY BOMANTICI8TB
Ye plenum! sights ot leat and flower:
Ye pleasant sounds of bird and bee :
Ye sports of deer in sylvan bower .
10 Ye f east* beneath the greenwood tree .
Ye backings in the vernal bun •
Ye slumbers in the summer dell •
Te trophies that his arm has won •
And must you hear your friar's f ale-
well T
MABGABET LOVE PEACOCKi
18Z6
Long night succeeds thy little day:
0, blighted blobbom I can it be
That this gray stone and grassy clay
Ha\e clob'd our anxious care of theef
6 The half-form 'd speech of artless thought,
That spoke a mind beyond thy years,
The song, the dance by Nature taught,
The sunny smiles, the transient tears.
The symmetry of face and form,
10 The eye with light and life replete,
The little heait so fondly warm,
The %oice so musically sweet,—
These, lost to hope, in memory yet
Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling,
15 Shadowing with long and vain regret
The too fair promise of thy Spring
From THE MISFORTUNES OF ELPHJN
1829 1820
THE CIRCLING or THE MEAI£ HORNS
Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn :
Natural is mead in the buffalo horn :
As the cuckoo in spring, as the lark in the
morn,
So natural is mead in the buffalo horn.
6 As the cup of the flower to the bee when he
Is the full cup of mead to the true Briton 's
lips-
From the flower-cups of summer, on field
and on tiee,
Our inead cups are filled bv the vintager
bee.
Stithenyn ap8 Seithyn, the generous, the
bold,
10 Drinks the wine of the stranger from ves-
sels of gold ;
1 Peacock's daughter, who died when she was
three year* old
9 A fermented drink made of honey, nectar, and
wine
f son of
But we from the horn, the blue silver-
rimmed horn,
Drmk the ale and the mead in our fields
that were born.
The ale froth is white, and the mead
sparkles bright;
They both smile apart, and with smiles they
unite .'
16 The mead from the flower, and the ale from
the corn,8
Smile, sparkle, and sing in the buffalo
horn.
The horn, the blue horn, cannot stand on
its tip;
Its path is right on from the hand to the
hp.
Though the bowl and the wine cup our
tables adorn,
20 More natural the draught from the buf-
falo horn.
But Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous,
the bold,
Drinks the bright-flowing wme from the
far-gleaming gold:
The wine, in the bowl by his lip that is
worn,
Shall be glonou** as mead in the buffalo
horn.
25 The horns circle fast, but their fountains
will last,
As the stream passes e\er, and never in
past
Exhausted so quickly, replenished so soon.
They wax and they wane like the horns of
the moon
Fill high the blue horn, the blue buffalo
horn;
30 Fill high the long silver-rimmed buffalo
horn*
While the roof of the hall by our chorus
is torn,
Fill, fill to the brim the deep silver-rimmed
horn
THI WAR BONO or DINAS VAWK
The mountain sheep are sweeter.
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deemed it meeter
To carry off the latter.
6 We made an expedition;
1 "The mlitnre of ale and mead made brmfawd,
a favorite drink of thr Ancient Brltond.9*--
Peacock
•grain
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
1001
We met an host nod quelled it ,
We forced a strong position
And killed the men who held it
On Dy fed's richest valley,
10 Where herds of kme were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rushed to meet us,
We met them, and o'erthrew them
15 They struggled hard to beat us,
But we conquered them, and slew them.
As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king marched forth to catch us.
His rage surpassed all measure,
20 But his people could not match us
He fled to his hall-pillars,
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sacked his house and cellars,
While otheis cut his head off
r' We there, in stnfe bewildering,
Spilt blood enough to swim in •
We orphaned many children
And widowed many women
The eagles and the ravens
1° We glutted with our foemen:
The heroes and the cravens
The spearmen and the bowmen
We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoaned them,
**"' Two thousand head of cattle
And the head of him T&ho owned thenv
Ednyfed, King of Ityfed,
His head was borne before us ,
His wine and beasts supplied oni fensts,
4C And his overthrow, our chorus
Prom CROTCHET CASTLE
28*1 18*11
IN THE DAYS OF OLD
Tn the days of old
Lovers felt true passion,
Deeming years of soi row
By a smile repaid •
5 Now the charms of gold.
Spells of pride and fashion,
Bid them sav Good-morrow
To the best-loved maid
Through the forests wild,
^ O'er the mountains lonely,
They were never weary
Honor to pursue-
If the damsel smiled
Once in seven years only,
15 All their waudenngb dieary
Ample guerdon knew.
Now one day's caprice
Weighs down years of smiling,
Youthful hearts are rovers,
20 Love is bought and sold.
Fortune's gifts may cease,
Love is less beguiling.
Wiser were the lovers
Tn the days of old.
From QRYLL GRANGE
1859 1860
LOVE AND AOE
I played with you mid cowslips blowing,
When 1 was six and you were f oui ,
When garlands weaving, flower-balls tin ou -
Were pleasures soon to please no moio
c Through groves and meads, o'er grass and
heathei,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandeied hand in hand togethei ,
But that was sixty 3 ears ago
You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
10 And still our early love was strong ;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along,
And T did love you very dearly,
How deailv words want power to show ,
15 I thought your heart was touched as
nearly ,
But that was fifty yeais ago
Then oUiei loveifi came around you,
Your beauty giew fiom year to year.
And many a splendid ciicle found you
20 The centre of iK glitteimg sphere
I saw vou then, fhst vows forsaking,
On rank nnd wealth your hand bestow ,
Oh, then T thought mv heart was bieak-
mg,—
But that was forty years ago.
25 And T Ined on, to wed another;
No cause she gave me to repine,
And when T heard you were a mother,
T did not tvirii the children mine t
My own youncr flock, in fair progression
80 Made up a pleasant Christmas row :
My joy in them was past expression,—
But that was thirty years ago
You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze:
85 Mv enrthlv lot was far more homely ,
1002
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was chris-
40 But that was twenty years ago.
Time passed My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire gray,
One pet of four years old I've earned
Among the wild-dowered meads to play.
46 Tn our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,-
But that is not ten years ago
But though first love's impassioned blind-
ness
"|0 Has passed away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last pood-night
The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
65 When our young days of gathering floweis
Will be an hundred" vears neo
WILLIAM COBBETT (1763-1835)
From EURAL RIDER
1830-33
KENSINGTON,
Friday, 4 Jan , 18M
Got home from Baltic I had no time to
see the town, having entered the Inn on
Wednesday in the dusk of the evening, hav-
ing been engaged all day yesterday in the
Inn, and having come out of it only to get
into the coach this morning. I had not time
to go even to see Battle Abbey, the seat of the
Webster family, now occupied by a man
of the name of Alexander I Thus they
replace them?1 It will take a much shorter
time than most people imagine to put out
all the ancient families I <»hould think that
six yeai s will turn out all those who receive
nothing out of taxes The greatness of the
estate is no protection to the owner, for,
great or little, it will soon vield him no
rents ; and, when the produce is nothing in
either case, the «mall estate is as good as the
large one. Mr. Curteis said that the land
was immovable-, yes; but the rents are not
And, if f reeholdR cannot be seized for com-
mon contract debts, the carcass of the
owner may But, in fact, there will be no
i A reference to the change taking place In thi»
social hUtory of England Oobbett'i toryta?,
suggested here. Is In odd contract with hta
morr nmial radicalism
rents, and, without these, the ownership is
an empty sound. Thus, at last, the burthen
will, as I always said it would, fall upon
the landowner] and, as the fault of sup-
6 porting the system has been wholly his, the
burthen will fall upon the riyht back
Whether he will now call in the people to
help him to shake it off is more than I can
say; but, if he do not, I am sure that he must
10 sink under it. And then, will revolution
No. I have been accomplished , but far, and
very far indeed, will that be from being the
close of the drama!—! cannot quit Battle
without observing, that the country is ver>
15 pretty all about it. All hill, or valley. A
great deal of wood-land, in which the under-
wood is generally very fine, though the oaks
are not very fine, and a good deal covered
with moss This shows that the cla> ends
an before the tap-root of the oak gets as deep
ah it would go; for, when the clay goes the
full depth, the oaks ate always fine —The
woods are too large and too near each othei
for hare-hunting, and as to coursing,1 it
& is out of the question here But it is a fine
country for shooting and for harboring game
of all sorts.— It was rainy as I came home,
but the woodmen were at work A great
many hop-poles aie cut here, which makes
30 the coppices more valuable than m manj
other parts The women woik in the cop-
pices, shaving- the bark off the hop-poles,
and, indeed, at vanous other parts of the
business These poles are sha\ed to prevent
35 maggots from breeding in the bark and ac-
celerating the destruction of the pole It is
curious that the baik of trees should gen-
erate maggots; but it has, as well as the
wood, a sugary matter in it The hickory
40 wood in America sends out from the ends
of the logs when these are burning, great
quantities of the finest syrup that can be
imagined. Accordingly, that wood breed*
maggots, or worms us they are usually
K called, surprisingly Our ash breeds worms
very much When the tree or pole is cut,
the moist mutter between the outer bark
and the wood, putrifies. Thence come the
maggots, which soon begin to eat their way
BO into the wood. For this reason the bark
is shaved off the hop-poles, as it ought to be
off all our timber trees, as soon as cut,
especially the ash -Little boys and girls
shave hop-poles and assist in other coppice
58 work very nicely. And, it is pleasant work
when the weather is dry over head. The
woods, bedded with leaves as they are, are
game with dogK that follow bv right
of by acent
WILLIAM COBBETT
1003
clean and dry underfoot They are warm
too, even in the coldest weather. When the
ground is frozen several inches deep in the
open fields, it is scarcely frozen at all in a
coppice where the underwood is a good
plant, and where it is nearly high enough
to cut So that the woodman's is really a
pleasant life. We are apt to think that the
birds have a hard time of it in winter But,
we forget the warmth of the woods, which
far exceeds any thing to be found in farm
yards. When Sidmouth started me from
my farm, in 1817,1 I had just planted my
farm round with a pretty coppice. But,
never mind, Sidmouth and I shall, I dare
say, have plenty of tune and occasion to talk
about that coppice, and many other things,
before we die. And, can I, when I think of
these things now, p%ty those to whom Sid-
mouth owed hts power of starting me!—
But let me forget the subject lor this time at
any rate.— Woodland countries are interest-
ing on many accounts. Not so much on ac-
count of their masses of green leaves, as on
account of the variety of sights and sounds
and incidents that they afford. Even in
winter the coppices are beautiful to the eye,
while they comfort the mind with the idea of
shelter and warmth. In spring they change
their hue from day to day during two
whole months, which is about the time from
the first appearance of the delicate leaves
of the birch to the full expansion of those
of the ash ; and, even before the leaves come
at all to intercept the view, what in the
vegetable creation w so delightful to behold
as the bed of a coppice bespangled with
primroses and bluebells f The opening of
the birch leaves is the signal for the pheas-
ant to begin to crow, for the blackbird to
whistle, and the thrush to sing, and, just
when the oak-buds begin to look reddish,
and not a day before, the whole tribe of
finches burst forth in songh from every
bough, while the lark, imitating them all,
carries the joyous sounds to the sky. These
are amongst the means which Providence
has benignantly appointed to sweeten the
toils by which food and raiment are pro-
duced; these the English ploughman could
once hear without the sorrowful reflection
that lie himself was a pauper, and that the
» In 1817, Henry Aldington, first Viscount Bid-
month, restricted tbe liberty of tbe press be-
cause Cqbbett's attacks on the wivernment.
published in his W«*1V Political Renter,
mused a growing discontent among the
working classes "In order ^continue Mi
bounties of nature had, for him, been scat-
tered in vain 1 And shall he never see an
end to this state of things! Shall he never
have the due reward of his labor! Shall
6 unsparing taxation never cease to make him
a miserable dejected being, a creature fam-
ishing in the midst of abundance, fainting,
expiring with hunger's feeble moans, sur-
rounded by a carolling creation! 0! <ac-
10 cursed paper-money'1 Has hell a torment
surpassing the wickedness of thy inventor!
THUKSLT?,
Wednesday, SB Oct., 1825.
15 The weather has been beautiful ever since
last Thursday morning; but there has been
a white frost every morning, and the days
have been coldish. Here, however, I am quite
at home in a room, where there is one of my
20 American Fireplaces, bought, by my host",8
of Mr. Judson of Kensington, who has made
many a score of families comfortable, in-
stead of sitting shivering in the cold. At
the house of the gentleman whose house I
* am now in, there is a good deal of fuel-
wood; and here I see in the parlors, those
fine and cheerful fiies that make a great
part of the happiness of the Americans
But these fires are to be had only in this
90 sort of fireplace. Ten times the fuel; nay,
no quantity, would effect the same object,
in any other fireplace. It is equally good for
coal as for wood , but for pleasure, a wood-
fire is the thing. There is, round about almost
35 every gentleman's or great farmer's house,
more wood suffered to rot every yerff, in one
shape or another, than would make (with
this fireplace) a couple of rooms constantly
warm, from October to June, Here, peat,
40 turf, saw-dust, and wood are burnt in these
fireplaces. My present host has three of the
fireplaces.
Being out a-ttmrsing- today, I saw a
queer-looking building ujxm one of the thou-
46 sands of hills that nature has tossed up in
endless variety of form round the skirts of
the lofty Hindhead This building is, it
seems, called a Semaphore, or Semtphare, or
lln 1797. the Bank of Kngiand was forbidden
to make IN payments in gold The paper-
m money which was then Imned In large quan-
80 titles gradually depreciated in value until
feara of a national bankruptcy became gen-
nwrtca.
me Ui
left his ••Farm-
to
eral. It was doubted whether the Bank e\or
could and would resume cash payments, and
Cobbett announced that when that time came
ive himself up t
ash payments
ay 1, 1821. S
ffnpland, 1, 29
time
he wonld give himself up to be broiled u
gridiron Cash payments were r
ever, on May 1, 1821. See Ma
1004
WINETKKNTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
something of that sort. What this word may
have been hatched out of I cannot say; bat
it means a job/ I am sure. To call it an
alarm-post would not have been so conve-
nient, for people not endued with Scotch
intellect might have wondered why we should
have to pay for alarm-posts ; and might have
thought that, with all our "glorious victo-
ries,"2 we had "brought our hogs to a fine
market/" if our dread of the enemy were
such as to induce us to have alarm-posts all
over the country ! Such unmtellectuul peo-
ple might ha^e thought that we had "con-
quered France by the immortal Wellington/'
to kttle purpose, if we were still in such fear
as to build alarm-posts; and they might, in
addition, have observed that, for many hun-
dred of years, England stood in need of
neither signal-posts nor standing army of
mercenaries; but relied safely on the cour-
age and public spirit of the people them-
selves. By calling the thing by an outlandish
name, these reflections amongst the unintel-
lectual are obviated Alarm-post would be a
nasty name; and it would puzzle people ex-
ceedingly, when they saw one of these at a
place like Ashe, a little village on the north
side of the chalk-ridge (called the Hog's
Back) going from Guildford to Faraham!
What can this be forf Why are these ex-
pensive things put up all over the country f
Respecting the movements of whom is want-
ed this alarm-system? Will no member ask
this in parliament T Not one: not a man:
and yet it is a thing to ask about. Ah I it is
in vain, THING,* that you thus are making
your preparations; in vain that you are set-
ting your tiammels' The debt, the blessed
debt, that best ally of the people, will break
them all ; will snap them, as the hornet does
the cobweb; and even these very "Sema-
phores" contribute towards the force of that
ever-blessed debt. Curious to see how things
work! The "glorious revolution,"8 which
was made for the avowed purpose of main-
taining the Protestant ascendancy, and which
was followed by such terrible persecution of
the Catholics; that "glorious" affair, which
set aside a race of fangs, because they were
Catholics, served as the precedent for the
iCohhett denounced the erection of nemapborra
on the bill* of Rnrrey, ana want* of public
monev for private gain The aemaphore con-
alrted of tower* equipped with apparatus for
400)
•A proverb upoken in derifllon when an under
•The devolution of 1688,
and Mary on the throne
for the Government
which placed William
Ameiican i evolution, also called "glorious,'9
and this second revolution compelled the suc-
cessors of the makers of the1 nrst to begin to
cease their persecutions of the Catholic*.!
5 Then again, the debt wab made to raise and
keep armies on foot to pre\ent reform of
parliament, because, as it was feared by the
aristocracy, reform would have humbled
them, and this debt, created for this pur-
10 pose, is fast sweeping the austocracy out of
their estates, as a clown, with his foot, kicks
field-mice out of then nests Theie was a
hope that the debt could have been reduced
by stealth, as it were; that the anstociacy
16 could have been saved in this way That
hope now no longer exists. In all likelihood
the funds will keep going down. What IB to
prevent this, if the interest of Exehequei
Bills1 be raised, as the broadsheet2 tells us
20 it is to bet What * the funds fall in time of
peace; and the French funds not fall in time
of peace! Howevei, it will all happen just
as it ought to happen Even the next sermon
of parliament will bung out niatteis of some
* interest The thing is now working in the
surest possible way
The great business of life, in the country,
appertains, in some way or other, to the
gam*, and especially at this time of the year
80 If it were not for the game, a country life
would be like an eve t lasting honey-moon,
which would, in about halt a century, put an
end to the human race. In towns, or large vil-
lages, people make a shift to find the means
» of rubbing the rust off from each other by a
\ast variety of sources of contest. A couple
of wives meeting in the street, and giving
each other a wry look, 01 a look not quite
civil enough, will, if the parties be hard
40 pushed for a ground oi contention, do pi etty
well But in the country, there is, alas ! no
such resource Here are no walls for people
to take of each other8 Here they are so
placed as to prevent the possibility of such
45 lucky local contact. Here is moie than room
of every sort, elbow, leg, horse, or carnage,
for them all Even at church (most of the
people being in the meeting-houses) the pews
are surprisingly too large Here, therefore,
BO where all circumstances seem calculated to
cause never-ceasing concoi d with its accom-
panying dullness, there would be no relief at
all, were it not for the game This, happily,
supplies the place of all other sources of
6( alternate dispute and reconciliation ; it keeps
» Short-time bllla of credit Ifmucd by the Govern
meet, and hearing Interest.
1 \ny large-paged newnpaper
« To ta*r the irafj IB to walk next to the wall or
on the Inner aide of n nldewalk when walking
with or meeting another perion
WILLIAM COBBETT
1005
all in life and motion, from the lord down to
the hedger. When I see two men, whether
in a market-ioom, by the waj-bide, in a par-
lor, in a churchyard, or even in the church
itself, engaged in manifebtly deep and most
momentous discourse, I will, if it be any time
between September and February, bet ten to
erne, that it is, in home way or other, about
the game. The wi\es and daughters hear so
much of it, that they inevitably get engaged
in the disputes, and thus all aie kept in a
state of vivid animation. I should like very
much to be able to take a spot, a circle of VI
miles in diameter, and take an exact amount
of all the ttme spent bv each individual,
abo\e the age of ten (that u» the age they
begin at), in talking, dm ing the game season
of one year, about the game and about sport-
ing exploits I verily believe that it would
amount, upon an average, to six times as
much as all the othei talk put together, and,
ab to the anger, the satisfaction, the scolding,
the commendation, the chagrin, the exulta-
tion, the envy, the emulation, where are theie
any of the^e in the country, unconnected
with the garnet
There is, howevei, an important distinc-
tion to be made between hunters (including
coursers ) and shooters The latter are, to*
far as relates to their exploits, a disagreeable
class, compared with the former; and the
reason of tins is, their doings are almost
wholly then own , while, in the case of the
others, the a ch cements aie the property of
the dogs. Nobody likes to hear another talk
much in praise of his own acts, unless those
acts have a manifest tendency to pioduce
M>me good to the heater, and shooters do
talk mmh of their own exploits, and those
exploits lather tend to humiliate the hearer
Then, a off at shooter will,, nine times out of
ten, go so far as almost to lie a little; and,
though people do not tell him of it, they do
not like him the better for it ; and he but too
frequently discovers that they do not believe
him u liei eas, hunters are mere followers of
the dogs, as mere spectators; their praises,
if any Hie called for, are bestowed on the
greyhounds, the hounds, the fox, the hare, or
the horses There is a little rivalship in the
lidinur. or in the behavior of the horses; but
this has so little to do with the personal merit
of the sportsmen, that it never produces a
want of good fellowship in the evening of
the day. A shooter who has been missing all
day, must have an uncommon share of good
•>ense, not to feel mortified while the slaugh-
terers are relating the adventures of that
day ; and this is what cannot exist in the case
of the hunteis. Bring me into a room, with
a dozen men in it, who have been sporting ail
day , 01, rather let me be in an adjoining
room, wheie I can hear the sound of their
6 voices, without being able to distinguish the
words, and I will bet ten to one that I tell
whether they be hunters or shooters.
I was once acquainted with a famous
shooter whose name was William Ewing. He
10 was a banister of Philadelphia, who became
far raoie renowned by his gun than by his
law cases. We s]>ent scores of days togethei
a-shooting, and were extremely well matched
I having excellent dogs and caiing little
13 about my reputation as a shot, his dogs beins?
good for nothing, and be caring moie alxmt
his reputation as a shot than as a lawyet
The fact which I am going to relate respect-
ing this gentleman, ought to be a warning to
20 young men, how they become enamoied of
this species of \anitv We had gone about
ten miles from our home, to shoot \vlieie
partridges were said to be veiy plentiful
We found them so. In the course of a No-
25 vember day, he had, just before dark, shot,
and sent to the f aim-house, or kept in his
bag, ninety-nine partridges. He made some
few double shots f and he might have a miss
or two, for he sometimes shot when out of
30 my sight, on account of the woods. How-
ever, he said that he killed at every shot ,
and, as he had counted the birds, when we
went to dinner at the farm-house and when
he cleaned his gun, he, just before sun-set,
35 knew that he had killed ninety-nine part-
ridges, every one upon the wing, and a great
part of them in woods very thickly set with
largish trees. It was a grand achievement ;
but unfortunately, he wanted to make it a
40 hundred The sun was setting, and, in that
country, daikness conies almost at once, it
is more like the going out of a candle than
that of a fire; and I wanted to be off, as we
had a very bad road to go, and as he, being
« under stuct petticoat government, to which
he most loyally and dutifully submitted, was
compelled to get home that niglit, taking
me with him, the vehicle (horse and gig)
being mine I, therefore, piessed him to
so come away, and moved on myself towards
the house (that of old John Brown, in
Bucks county, grandfather of that General
Brown, who gave some of our whiskered
heroes such a rough handling last war,1
56 which was waged for the purpose of "depos-
<Tbe Anglo American War of 1812, which oc
rurred during the presidency of MadNon The
Idea of "deposing Jameg MadUon * In Attrib-
uted to Sir Joaepb Sjtlney Yorke <17tW 18,11),
A British Admiral.
1006
NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
ing James Madison")* at which house I
would have stayed all night, but from which
1 was compelled to go by that watchful gov-
ernment, under which he had the good for-
tune to live. Therefore I was in haste to be
off. No. he would kill the hundredth bird!
In vain did I talk of the bad road and itb
many dangers for want of moon The pool
partridges, which we had scattered about,
were calling all around us; and, just at this
moment, up got one under his feet, m a field
in which the wheat was thiee or four inches
high. He bhot and missed. "That'* it,'*
said he, running as if to pick up the bird
"What!" said I, "you don't think you
Killed, do you? Why there is the bud now,
not only alive, but calling m that wood",
which was at about a hundred yards distance
He, in that form of words usually employed
in such cases, asserted that he had shot the
bird and saw it fall ; and I, in much about
the same form of words, asserted, that he
had missed, and that I, with my own eyeb,
saw the bird fly into the wood. This was too
much ! To miss once out of a hundred times '
To lose such a chance of immortality ' He
was a good-humored man ; I liked him very
much , and I could not help feeling for him,
when he said, "Well, Sir, I killed the bird,
and if you choose to go away and take your
dog away, so as to prevent me from finding
it, you must do it ; the dog is yours, to be
sure."— "The dog," said I, in a very mild
tone; "why, Ewing, there is the spot; and
could we not see it, upon this smooth green
surface, if it were there lff However, he
began to look about; and I called the dog,
and affected to join him in the search Pity
for his weakness got the better of my dread
of the bad road. After walking backward
and forward many times upon about twenty
yards square with our eyes to the ground,
looking for what both of us knew was not
there, I had passed him (he going one
way and I the other), and I happened to be
turning round just after I had passed him,
when I saw him, putting his band behind
him, fake a partridge out of his bag and let
it fall upon the ground ' I felt no tempta-
tion to detect him, but turned away my head,
and kept looking about Presently he having
returned to the spot where the bird was,
called out to me, in a most triumphant tone;
"Here! here! Come here!" I went up to
him, and he, pointing with his finger down
to the bird, and looking hard in my face at
the same time, said, ' ' There, Cobbett ; I hope
that will be a warning to you never to be
obstinate again"'-" Wei V' said I, "come
along": and away we went as merry as
larks. When we got to Brown's, be told
them the story, triumphed over me mot»t
clamorously, and, though he otten repeated
6 the story to my face, I never had the heait
to let him know, that I knew of the imposi-
tion, which puerile vanity had induced so
sensible and honorable a man to be mean
enough to practice
10 A professed shot is, almost always, a \ery
disagreeable biother sportsman. He must,
in the first place, have a head rather of the
emptiest to pride himself upon so poor a
talent. Then he is always out of temper, if
is the game fail, or if he miss it He never
participates in that pi eat delight which all
sensible men enjoy at beholding the beautiful
action, the docility, the zeal, the wonderful
sagacity of the pointer and the setter He is
20 always thinking about himself, always anx-
ious to surpass his companions I remember
that, once, Ewing and I had lost our dog
We were in a wood, and the dog had gone
out, and found a covey in a wheat stubble
23 joining: the wood. We had been whistling
and calling him for, peihaps, half an honi.
or moic When we came out oi the \\ood \\e
saw him pointing, with one loot up, and.
soon after, he, keeping his ieet and body un-
30 moved, gently turned round his head towards
the spot wheie he heard us, as if to bid us to
come on, and, when he sau that we saw him,
turned his head back again. I was so de-
lighted that I stopped to look with admiia-
& tion. Ewing, astonished at my want of alac-
rity, pushed on, shot one of the pat fudges,
and thought no nioie about the conduct of
the dog than if the sagacious neat we had
had nothing at all to do with the inattei
*o When I left Ameiica, in 1800, I gave this
dog to Lord Henry Stuait, who WBN when
he came home, a year or two afteiwaids.
about to bring him to astonish the sportsmen
even in England , but, those of Pennsylvania
45 were resolved not to part with him, and.
therefore they stole him the night bei'oie his
Lnidship came away Lord Henry had
plenty of pointers after his retuin, and lie
saw hundieds, but always declared that he
M never saw anything approaching in excel-
lence this American dog. For the informa-
tion of sportsmen I ought to say that this
was a small-headed and sharp-nosed pointer,
hair as fine as that of a greyhound, little and
66 short ears, very light in the body, very long
legged, and swift as a good lurcher. I had
him a puppy, and he never had any breaking,
but be pointed staunchly at once; and I am
of opinion that this sort is, in all respects,
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1007
better than the heavy breed. Mr. Thornton
(I beg his pardon, I believe he is now a
Knight of some sort ) . who was, and perhaps
still is, our envoy in Portugal, at the time
here referred to, was a sort of partner with
Lord Henry in this famous dog; and grati-
tude (to the memory of the dog, I mean)
will, I am sure, or, at least, I hope so, make
him bear witness to the truth of my char-
acter of him; and, if one could hear an
Ambassador speak out, I think that Mr.
Thornton would acknowledge that his call-
ing lias brought him in pretty close
contact with many a man who was pos-
sessed of most tieraendous political power,
without possessing half the sagacitv, half
the understanding, of this dog, and with-
out being a thousandth part so faithful to
his trust
I am quite satisfied that there are as many
sorts of men as there are of dogs.1 Swift,
was a man, and &o is Walter the base * But,
is the soit the same? It cannot be education
alone that makes the amazing difference that
we see. Qe*ide<*, we see men of the very same
rank and riches and education, differing as
widely as the pointer does from the pug. The
name, man, is common to all the sorts, and
hence arises very great mischief. What con-
fusion must there be in rural affairs, if
there were no names whereby to distinguish
hounds, greyhounds, pointers, spaniels, ter-
riers, and sheep dogs, from each other ! And,
what pretty woik, if, without repaid to the
sorts of dogs, men were to attempt to employ
them J Yet, this is done in the case of men!
A mnn is always a man; and, without the
least reeard as to the sort, they are promis-
cuously plnced in all kinds of situations.
Now, if Mr. Brougham, Doctors Birkbeck,
Macciilloch and Black, and that profound
personage, Lord John Russell, will, m their
forthcoming "London University,"5 teach
u<* how to divide men into sorts, instead of
teaching us to "augment the capital of the
nation," by making paper-money, thev will
lender us a real service. That will be feelosofif
worth attending to. What would be said
of the 'Squire who should take a fox-hound
out to find partridges for him to shoot at!
Yet, would this be more absurd than to
set a man to law-making who was mani-
festly formed for the express purpose
of sweeping the streets or digging out
sewersf
1 dee Jfoooefft, Til, lt 00-100
-•John Walter (1739-1812), founder of The LOH
ttttn TtflMC
» London University was founded in 1825, bnt
wo* not chartered nntll 1886
EAST EVEBLCY, Monday Morning.
5 o'clock, £8 Aug., 18*6.
A very fine morning; a man, eighty-two
years of age, just beginning to mow the
5 short-grass, in the garden ; I thought it, even
when I was young, the hardest work that
man Lad to do. To look on, this woik seems
nothing; but it tries eveiy sinew in your
i'rame, if you go upright and do your work
10 well This old man never knew how to do it
well, and he stoops, and lie hangs his scythe
wrong; but, with all this, it must be a sur-
prising man to mow short-grass, as well as
he docs, at eighty. 7 uish I may be able to
15 mow short-grass at eighty' That 'sail I have
to say of the matter. I am just setting off
for the source of the Avon, which runs from
near Marlbornngli to Salisbury, and thence
to the sea; and I intend to pursue it as far
20 as Salisbury. In the distance of thirty miles,
here aie, I see by the books, more than thirty
churches I wish to see, with my own eyes,
what evidence there is that those thirty
chinches were built without hands, without
26 money, and without a congregation; and,
thus, to find matter, if I can, to justify the
mad wretches, who, from Committee-Rooms
and elsewhere, are bothering this half-dis-
tracted nation to death about a "surplus
30 popalashon, mon."1
My horse is ready ; and the rooks are jiuft
gone off to the stubble-fields These rooks
rob the pigs; bnt, they have a tight to do it
I wonder (upon my soul I do) that tlieie
35 is no lawyer, Scotchman, or Parson-Justice,
to propose a law to punish the rooks for
trespass.
WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830)
40 Prom CHARACTEBS OF SHAKESPEAR'S
PLAYS
1817
HAMLET
46 This is that Hamlet the Dane, whom we
read of in our youth, and whom we may be
said almost to remembei in our after-years;
he who made that famous soliloquy on life,2
who gave the advice to the players,8 who
GO thought "this goodly frame, the earth, a
sterile promontory, and this brave o'er-
hanging firmament, the air, this majestical
1A reference to ttoe political economist T. R.
Malthus (1766-1834) and his follower* who
held that population tends to multiply faster
does Its means of subsistence, and that
" "
than
unless
returns (
population was i
•tfomlet. TIT, 1,
, can be checked, poverty
be Inevitable. See Hood's
In spite of the census
' in believing that the
•Act III. 2, 140.
1008
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIGIBTB
roof fietted with golden fire, a foul and
pestilent congregation of vapors;"1 whom
"man delighted not, nor woman neither;"2
he who talked with the grave-diggers, and
moralized on Yonck's skull;* the school-
fellow of Rosencrans and Guildenstern at
Wittenberg; the fnend of Horatio; the
lover of Ophelia; he that was mad and sent
to England;* the slow avenger of his
father's death; who lived at the court of
Horwendillus five hundred years before we
were born, but all whose thoughts we seem
to know as well as we do our own, because
we have read them in Shakespear.
Hamlet is a name, his speeches and say-
ings but the idle coinage of the poet's brain
What then, are they not real! They are as
ical as our own thoughts. Their reality is
iu the icadei 's mind tt is we who are Ham-
let. This play has a prophetic truth, which
is abo\c that of history. Whoever has be-
come thoughtful and melancholy through
his own mishaps or those of others; whoever
has borne about with him the clouded brow
of reflection, and thought himself "too much
i' th' sun;"5 whoever has seen the golden
lamp of day dimmed by envious mists ris-
ing in Ins own breast, and could find in the
woild before him only a dull blank with
nothing left remaikable in it; whoever has
known "the pangs of despised love, the
insolence of office, or the spurns which pa-
tient meiit of the unworthy takes;"6 he who
has felt his mind sink within him, and sad-
ness cling to his heart like a malady, who
has had Ins hopes blighted and his youth
staggered by the apparitions of strange
things, who cannot be well at qase, while
he sees evil hovenng near him like a spectre ,
whose powers of action have been eaten up
by thought, he to whom the universe seems
infinite, and himself nothing; whose bitter-
ness of soul makes him careless of conse-
quences, and who goes to a play as his best
resource to shove off, to a second remove,
the evils of life by a mock representation of
them— this is the true Hamlet.
We have been so used to this tragedy
that we hardly know how to criticize it any
more than we should know how to describe
our own faces. But we must make such
observations as we con. It is the one of
Shakespear 's plays that we think of the
of tenest, because it abounds most in striking
reflections on human life, and because the
distresses of Hamlet are transferred, by the
turn of his mind, to the general account of
• Vet TT. 2, JHO-1R «Act V, 1, 161.
• \ct TIV 2. 322 B \ct I. 2, 67
• Act Vf 1, 12T-215 • Act III, 1, 72-T4,
humanity Whatever happens to him we
apply to ourselves, because he applies it so
himself as a means of geneial reasoning.
He IB a great moralizer ; and what makes him
5 worth attending to is that he moralizes on
his own feelings and experience. He is not
a common-place pedant If Lear shows the
greatest depth of passion, Hamlet is the
most remarkable for the ingenuity, orig-
10 inahty, and unstudied development of char-
acter. Shakespear .had more magnanimity
than any other poet, and he has shown more
of it in this play than m any other. There
is no attempt to force an interest: every-
15 thing is left for time and circumstances to
unfold. The attention is excited without
effort, the incidents succeed each other as
matters of course, the characters think and
speak and act just as tliev might do, if left
20 entirely to themselves. There IH no set pur-
pose, no straining at a point The observa-
tions are suggested by the passing scene—
the gusts of passion come and iro like sounds
of music home on the wind. The whole play
25 is an exact transcript of what might be sup-
posed to have taken place at the court ot
Denmark, at the remote period of time fixed
upon,1 before the modern refinements in
moials and manners were heard of It
30 would have been inteienting enough to
have been admitted as a by-stander in such
a scene, at Midi a time, to have heard and
seen something of what was going on. But
here we are more than spectators. We have
86 not only "the outward pageants and the
signs of grief;" but "we have that within
which passes show. f '2 We read the thoughts
of the heart, we catch the passions living as
they rise. Other dramatic writers give us
40 very fine versions and paraphrases of na-
ture: but Shakespear, together with his own
comments, gives us the original text, that
we may judge for ourselves. This is a very
great advantage.
45 The character of Hamlet IH itself a pure
effuHion of genius. It is not a character
marked by strength of will or even of pas-
sion, but by refinement of thought and senti-
ment. Hamlet is as little of the hero as a
50 man can well be- but he is a young and
princely novice, full of high enthusiasm
and quick sensibility— the sport of circum-
stances, questioning with fortune and refin-
ing on his own feelings, and forced from
85 the natural bias of his disposition by the
strangeness of his situation. He seems in-
1 The Hamlet rtory In its earlleet form was told
by Baxo Orammatlnis in his Latin hlitory of
Denmark (c 1200).
1 Act I, 2, 8B.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1009
capable of deliberate action, and is only
hurried into extremities on the spur of the
occasion, when he has no time to reflect, as
in the scene where he kills Polonius,1 and
again, where he alters the letters which
Rpsenorans and Gaildeiistein aie taking
with them to England,2 purporting his
death. At other times, when he is most
bound to act, he remains puzzled, undecided,
and skeptical, dalbes with his purposes, till
the occasion is lost, and always finds some
pretence to relapse into indolence and
thought fulness again. For this reason he
refuses to kill the Kin? when he ib at his
prajeiV and b> a leflnement m malice,
which is in tiuth only an excuse for his own
want of resolution, defers his revenge to
pome more fatal opportunity, when he shall
be engaged in some act "that has no relish
of salvation in it."4
He kneels and prayi,
And now 111 do t, and BO he goes to heateu,
Viid TO am I rcveng'd, that vould be icann 'd
He kffl'd my father, and for that,
I, his sole son, Bend him to heaven.
Why this IB reward, not revenge.
Up sword and know thou a more horrid time,
When he is drunk, asleep, or in a rage.o
He is the prince of philosophical specu-
lators, and because he cannot ba\e his re-
%enge peifect, according to the most refined
idea his wish can form, he misses it alto-
gether. So he scruples to trust the sugges-
tions of the Ghost, contrives the scene of the
play to have surer proof of his uncle's
guilt,6 and then rests satisfied with this
confirmation of his suspicions, and the suc-
cess of his experiment, instead of acting
upon it. Yet he is sensible of his own weak-
ness, taxes himself with it, and tries to rea-
son himself out of it.
How all occasions do inform against me,
And spur my dull revenge! What IB a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to Bleep and feedf A beast; no more
Sure he that made us *ith such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave u° not
That capability and god-like reason
To rust in KB unuB'd: now whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too preciaoly on th ' event, —
A thought which quarter M, hath but one part
wisdom,
And ever three parts coward: — I do not know
Why yet I live to say, this thing's to do;
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and
To do it. Examples gross as earth excite me
* Act HI, 4 24
•Act V, 2, 13-ftS
•Act ifl, », 7-MT.
•Act III, 8, 92.
•Act III, 8, 73-79, 88,89
• Act 11,2, 623-34
WitiJei8 tin* arniyi of such niattfl and charge.
Led bj a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit with divine ambition puff* d,
Makes mouths at the invisible event,
- Exposing vihat is mortal and unsure
To all that fortune, death and danger dare,
Even for an egg-shell 'Tig not to be gieat,
Never to stir without great argument;
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,
When honor fs at the stake How stand I then,
10 That have a father kill M, a mother stain 'd,
Excitements of mv reason and my blood,
And let all sleep, while to my shame I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That for a fantasy and trick of fame,
Go to their graves like l>edR, fight for a plot
15 Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain f — O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.*
Still he does nothing; and this very specu-
20 lation on his own infirmity only affords him
another occasion for indulging it. It is not
for any want of attachment to his father or
abhorrence of Ins murder that Hamlet is
thus dilatory, but it is more to his taste to
25 indulge his imagination m reflecting uj>on
the enormity of the ciinie and ietinnii»: on Jus
M liemes of Aengeance, than to put them into
immediate pi net ice. His ruling passion is
to think, not to act . and am \atnie pietence
90 that flatteih this piopcnsitv instantly dnerts
linn fiom In* pievious puipo&es.
The moial perfection of this character hat>
been called in question, we think, by those
who did not mi deist and it. It is more inter-
85 esting than accoidmgr to inles: amiable,
though not faultless. The ethical del men-
tions of "that noble and liberal casuist"8
(as Shakebpeai has been well called) do not
exhibit the drab-coloi ed quakousm of mor-
40 ahty. Ilh» plays aie not copied eitliei from
The Whole Duty of Man 01 fiom The Acad-
emy of Compltmcnts! We confess, we are
a little shocked at the nant of refinement in
those M!IO aie shocked at the wont of reflne-
46 nient in Hamlet. The want of punctilious
exactness in his behavior either partakes of
the "license of the time," or else belongs to
the very excess of intellectual refinement 111
the chaiacter, which makes the common niles
GO of life, as well as his own purposes, sit loose
upon him.4 He may be said to be amen-
able only to the tribunal of hi* own thoughts,
and is too much taken up with the airy world
*The Norwegian army led by Fortinbras.
•Act IV, 4, 32-60
••Lamb refer** to the Elizabethan dramatic* a*
'•thoae noble and liberal casuists" in his Char
w*er» of Dramatic Writer*; tbe expression
occurs in the remark* on Thomas Middleton
find William Rowley.
1 With this paiMaae compare Tomb's On tkr Trag-
edies of £/>a**f>f<rrc (P. 92r»a, 28 ff )
1010
NINETEENTH CENTUHY BOMANTICI81B
of contemplation, to lay as much stress as lie
ought on the practical consequences ol
things. His habitual principles of action
are unhinged and out of joint with the tune.
His conduct to Ophelia is quite natural in
his circumstances. It is that of assumed
seventy only. It is the effect of disap
pointed hope, of bitter regrets, of affection
suspended, not obhteiated, by the distrac-
tions of the scene around him ! Amidbt the
natural and pietematural honors of his
situation, he might be excused in delicacy
from carrying on a legular courtship
When "his father's spirit was in amis,"1
it was not a tune for the son to make love in
He could neither marry Ophelia, nor wound
her mind by explaining the cause of Ins
alienation, which he durst hardly trust him-
self to think of. It would have taken him
years to have come to a direct explanation
on the point. In the harassed state of his
mind, he could not have done otherwine than
he did. His conduct does not contradict what
he says when he bees her funeral,
I loved Ophelia forty thousand brothers
Could not with all their quantity of love
Make up my Hum.-2
Nothing can be more affecting or beautiful
than the Queen's apostrophe to Ophelia on
throwing the flowers into the grave.
Sweets to the sweet, f arewelL
I hop 'd thou should 'st have been my Ham-
let }0 wife:
I thought thy bride-bod to lune deck'd,
svieet maid,
And not have strew 'd thy grave.*
Shakespear was thoroughly a master of
the mixed motives of human charactei, and
he heie shows us the Queen, who was so
criminal in some i aspects, not without sensi-
bility and affection in other relations of life
—Ophelia is a character almost too exquis-
itely touching to be dwelt upon Oh, rose of
May! oh, flower too soon faded ! Her lo\e,
her madness, her death, are descubed with
the truest touches of tenderness and pathos.
It is a character which nobody but Shake-
spear could have drawn in the way that he
has done, and to the conception of which
there is not even the smallest approach,
except in some of the old romantic ballads.4
' Act I. 2. 255.
8 Act V, i, 292-04. • Act V. 1, 26tf-0tt
"'In the account of her death, a friend ban
pointed out an Instance of the poet's exact
observation of nature —
'There In a willow growing o'er a brook,
That shows Its hoary leaves 1* th* glnss>
The Inside of the leaves of the willow next
the water, \n of a whitish .color, and the. re-
flection would therefore he 'hoary.' "— -Hazlitt
The lines quoted are found In Ai*t TV, 7, 1ft7-4.
Her brother, Laertes, IB a character we do
not like so well : he is too hot and choleric,
and somewhat rhodomontade.1 Polonius is
a perfect character in its kind; nor is there
5 any foundation for the objections which
have been made to the consistency of this
part. It is said that he acts very foolishly
and talks very sensibly. There is no incon-
sistency in that. Again, that he talks wisely
10 at one time and foolishly at another; that
his advice to Laertes3 is very sensible, and
his ad\ice to the King and Queen on the
subject of Hamlet's madness8 verv ridic-
ulous. But he gives the one as a fathei, and
16 is sincere in it ; he gives the other as a mei c
courtier, a busy-body, and is accordingly
officious, garrulous, and impertinent. In
short, Shakeapear has been accused of in-
consistency m tints and other characteis, only
20 because he has kept up the distinction ^hich
there is in nature, between the understand-
ings and moral habits of men, between the
absurdity of their ideas and the absnidity of
their motives. Polomns IB not a fool, but ho
25 makes himself so His folly, whether in his
actions or speeches, conies under the head
of impropiietv of intention.
We do not like to see our author's plays
acted, and least of all, Hamlet. There is no
30 play that suffers so much in being trans-
ferred to the stage. Hamlet himself seems
hardly capable of being acted. Mr. Kemble
unavoidably fails in this chaiactei from a
want of ease and variety. The character of
35 Hamlet is made up of undulating lines ; it
has the yielding flexibility of "a wave o'
th' sea."* Mr. Kemble plays it like a man
in armor, with a detei mined inveteracy of
purpose, in one un deviating sfnnght line,
*o which is as remote fiom the natural grace
nnd refined susceptibility of the charactei,
as the sharp angles and abrupt starts which
Mr. Xean introduces into the part. Mi.
Kean 's Hamlet is as much too splenetic and
45 rash as Mr. Kemble 'a is too deliberate and
formal His manner is too strong and
pointed. He throws a severity, approaching
to virulence, into the common observations
and answers There is nothing of this in
so Hamlet. He is, as it were, wrapped up hi
his reflections, and only thinks aloud. There
should therefore be no attempt to impress
uhat he says upon others by a studied
exaggeration of emphasis or manner; no
B talking at his hearers There should be a>>.
much of the gentleman and scholar as pos-
sible infused into the part, and as little of
the actor. A pensive air of sadness should
1 58**®? *!,**& f/ 8v58'?1i * Act "•
« Tlir TTfufcrV Tote, TV, 4, 141.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1011
sit reluctantly upon hib brow, but no ap-
pearance of fixed and sullen gloom. He is
full of weakness and melancholy, but there
is no harshness in his nature. He is the
most amiable of misanthropes.
ON FAMILIAE STYLE
1821
It is not easy to write a familiar style.
Many people mistake a familiar f 01 a vulgar
style, and suppose that to write without affec-
tation is to wnte at random. On the con-
trary, there w nothing that requires more
precision, and, if I may so say, purity of
expression, than the style I am speaking of
Tt utterly rejects not only all unmeaning
pomp, but all low, cant phrases, and loose,
unconnected, slipshod allusions. It is not to
take the first word that offers, but the best
word in common use; it is not to throw
words together in any combination we please,
but to follow and avail ourselves of the true
idiom of the language. To write a genuine
familiar or truly English style, is to write
as any one would speak in common conversa-
tion, who had a thorough command and
choice of words, or who could discourse with
ease, force, and perspicuity, setting aside all
pedantic and oratorical flourishes. Or to
give another illustration, to write natmally
is the same thing in regaid to common con-
versation, as to read naturally is in regard
to common speech. It does not follow thai
it is an easy thing to give the true accent
and inflection to the words you utter, because
you do not attempt to rise above the level of
ordinary life and colloquial speaking. You
do not assume indeed the solemnity of the
pulpit, or the tone of stage-declamation
neither are you at liberty to gabble on at a
venture, without emphasis or discretion, 01
to resort to vulgar dialect or clownish pro-
nunciation. You must steer a middle course
You are tied down to ft given and appro-
priate articulation, which is determined bv
the habitual associations between sense and
sound, and which you can only hit by enter-
ing into the author's meaning, as you must
find the proper words and style to express
yourself by fixing your thoughts on the sub-
ject you have to write about. Any one may
month out a passage with a theatrical ca-
dence, or get upon stilts to tell his thoughts •
but to write or speak with propriety and
simplicity is a more difficult task. Thus it
is easy to affect a pompous style, to use a
word twice as big as the thing you want to
express: it is not so easy to pitch upon the
very word that exactly fits it. Out of
or ten words equally common, equally intel-
ligible, with nearly equal pretensions, it is a
matter of some nicety and discrimination to
pick out the very one, the preferableness of
3 which is scarcely perceptible, but decisive
The reason why I object to Dr. Johnson 's
style is, that there is no discrimination, no
selection, no variety in it He uses none but
' ' tall, opaque words/ 9l taken from the ' ' first
10 row of the rubric : 9 '•—words with the great-
est number of (syllables, or Latin phrases
with merely English terminations. If a fine
style depended on this sort of Arbitrary pre-
tension, it would be fair to judge of an
15 author's elegance by the measurement of his
words, and the substitution of foreign cir-
cumlocutions (with no precise associations)
for the mother-tongue.8 How simple it is to
be dignified without ease, to be pompous
30 without meaning! Surely, it is but a me-
chanical mle for avoiding what is low to be
always pedantic and affected. It is clear you
cannot use a vulgar English word, if you
never use a common English word at all. A
25 fine tact is shown in adhering to those which
are perfectly common, and yet never falling
into any expiessions winch are debased by
disgusting circumstances, or which owe their
signification and point to technical or pro-
ao fcKsional allusions. A truly natural or famil-
iar style can never be quaint or vulgar, for
this reason, that it is of universal force and
applicability, and that quaintness and vul-
garity arise out of the immediate connection
35 of certain words with coarse and disagree-
ably or with confined ideas. The last form
what we understand by cant or slang phrases.
—To give an example of what is not very
clear in the general statement I should say
40 that the phrase To cut with a knife, or To
cut a piece of wood, is perfectly free from
vulgarity, because it is perfectly common:
lint to cut an acquaintance is not quite un-
exceptionable, because it is not perfectly
45 common or intelligible, and has hardly vet
escaped out of the limits of slang phrase-
ology. I should hardly thetefoie use the
word in this sense without putting it in italics
as a license of expression, to be received cum
60
1 Sterne, The Life and Opinions of TrMrom
Shandy, 8, 20, The Author's Preface, llailitt
had uied this phrase In dlncuiwlng Mloa
O'NeiU's Elwlna in his A View of the E*yli*h
•Bee Samlet, II, 2, 488. The rubric referred to
.. Is probably the preacrllud rule of the liturgy
65 formerly written or printed In rod.
» "I have neard of •uch a thing aR an author
who makes It a rule never to admit a mono-
syllable Into hie vapid \erse. Yet the charm
and aweetneu of Marlow's linen depended
often on their being made up almost entirely
of monosyllable*."— Hazlltt.
1012
NINETEENTH CENTUHV HOMANT1C1HTB
grano sate.1 All provincial or bye-phrases
eome under the saine mark of reprobation—
all such as the writer transfers to the page
from his fireside or a particular colene, 01
that he invents for his own sole use and con-
venience. I conceive that words are like
money, not the worse for being common, but
that it is the stamp of custom alone thai
gives them circulation or value. I am fas-
tidious in this respect, and would almost as
soon coin the currency of the realm as coun-
terfeit the King's English. I nevei invented
or gave a new and unauthorized meaning
to any word but one single one (the term
impersonal applied to feelings) and that was
in an abstruse metaphysical discussion to
express a very difficult distinction. I have
been (I know) loudly accused of revelling in
vulgarisms and broken English. I cannot
speak to that point: but so far I plead
guilty to the determined use of acknowl-
edged idioms and common elliptical expres-
sions. I am not sure that the critics hi ques-
tion know the one from the other, that IF,
can distinguish any medium between formal
pedantry and the most barbarous solecism.
As an author, I endeavor to employ plain
words and popular modes of construction,
as were I a chapman2 and dealer, I should
common weights and measures.
The proper force of words lies not in the
words themselves, but in their application.
A \iord may be a fine-sounding word, of an
unusual length, and very imposing from its
learning and novelty, and yet in the connec-
tion in which it is introduced, may be quite
pointless and irrelevant. It is not pomp or
pretension, but the adaptation of the expres-
sion to the idea that clenches a writer's
meaning: — as it is not the size or glossinesh
ot the materials, but their being fitted each
to its place, that gives strength to the arch ;
or as the pegs and nails are as necessary to
the support of the building as the larger tim-
beis, arid moie so than the mere showy, un-
subsiantiul on lament s. I hate anything that
occupies more space than it is worth. T hate
to nee a load of band-boxes go along the
sti eet, and I hate to see a parcel of big words
without anvthing in them. A person who
does not deliberately dispose of all his
thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and
flimsy disguises, may strike out twenty varie-
ties of familiar everyday language, each
coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he
wants to convey, and at last not hit upon
that particular and only one, which may be
1 *Ith a grain of salt,— *.«., with tome allowance
wild to be identical with the exact impression
in his mind. This would seem to show that
Mr. Cobbett is hardly right in saying that
the first word that occurs is always the best 1
G It may be a very good one; and yet a better
may present itself on reflection or from tune
10 time. It should be suggested naturally,
however, and spontaneously, from a fresh
and lively conception of the subject We
10 seldom succeed by trying at improvement,
or by merely substituting one word for an-
other that we are not satisfied with, as we
cannot recollect the name of a place or pei -
son by merely plaguing ourselves about it.
IB We wander farther from the point by pei-
sisling in a wrong scent; but it starts up
accidentally in the memory when we least
expected it, by touching some link in the
chain of previous association
20 Theie are those who hoaid up and make
a cautious display of nothing but rich and
laie phraseology;— ancient medals, obscuic
coins, and Spanish pieces of eight.- The>
are very curious to inspect; but I myself
<$ woujd neither offer nor take them in the
course of exchange. A sprinkling of archa-
isms is not amiss, but a tissue of obsolete
expiessions is more fit for keep than wear
I do not say I would not use any phrase that
80 had been hi ought into fdslnon before the
middle 01 the end of the last century , but I
should be shy of using any that had not been
employed by any approved author during
the whole of that time. Words, like clothes,
33 get old-fashioned, or mean and ridiculous,
when they have been for some time laid
aside Mr. Lamb is the only imitator of old
English style I can lead with pleasure, and
he is so thoi oughly imbued with the spirit of
40 his authors, that the idea of imitation is
almost done away. There is an inwaid unc-
tion, a inariowy vein both in the thought
and feeling, an intuition, deep and lively, oi
his subject, that carries off any quamtness
45 or awkwardness arising from an antiquated
style and diess. The matter is completely
his own, though the manner is assumed. Pei-
haps his ideas are altogether so marked and
indn iclual as to requii e their point and pun-
50 gency to be neutralized by the affectation of
a singular but traditional form of convey-
ance. Tricked out in the prevailing costume,
they would probably seem more startling
and out of the way. The old English au-
66 thors, Burton, Fuller, Coiyate, Sir Thomas
* Bee fobbotf * A Grammar of the BnglM Lou-
owioCu Letter 23.
*8panlBh dollars, or poto* Each coin wan
marked with the figure 8 *hl<»h Indicated Its
value In i cairn
WILLIAM IIAZLITT
1013
Brown, are a kind of mediators between us
and the more eccentric and whimsical mod-
ern, reconciling us to his peculiarities. 1 do
not, however, know how far this is the case
or not, till he condescends to write like one
of us. 1 must confer that what I like best of
his papeis under the signature of "Eha"
(still I do not presume, amidst such excel-
lence, to decide what is most excellent) is
the account of Mrs. Battle's Opinions
on Whist,1 which is also the most free
from obsolete allusions and turns of ex-
pression—
A weU of native English undefiled.*
To those acquainted with his admired proto-
types, these Essays of the ingenious and
highly gifted author have the same sort of
charm and lelish, that Erasmus's Colloquies
or a fine piece of modem Latin have to the
classical scholar. Certainly, I do not know
tony bounded pencil that has more powei 01
felicity of execution than the one of which 1
have hei e been speaking.
It is as easy to write a gaudy style without
ideas, as it is to spiead a pallet of showy
colois, or to smoai in a flaunting tianspar-
ency "What do you read 1"-" Words,
word*, woids "—"What is the matter? "8-
"Notlnno," it might be answered. The
floiid style is the reverse of the familiar.
The last is employed as an unvarnished me-
dium to comer ideas; the first is resorted
to as a spangled veil to conceal the want of
them. When there is nothing to be set down
but words, it costs little to have them fine.
Look through the dictionary, and cull out a
flonlrqium * rival the tulippomama.6 Rouge
ln^h enough, and never mind the natural
complexion. The vulgar, who aie not in the
secret, will admire the look of preternatural
health and \igoi , and the fashionable, who
tegard only appearances, will be delighted
with the ini]M)sition Keep to your sounding
generalities, your tinkling phrases,6 and all
will be well Swell out an unmeaning truism
to a perfect tympany7 of style. A thought,
a distinction is the lock on which all this
britt le cargo of verbiage splits at once. Such
writers ha\e merely verbal imaginations, that
retain nothing but words Or their puny
thought* have rli agon-wmgR, all green and
gold. They soar far above the vulgar failing
« See p 040 • The Faerie Queritr. TV, 2 12
•JfMlFrf. H, 2,193-9-.
« \ descriptive list of flower*
»A mania for growing tullpe, nneciflcally that
which raged fn Holland about l&'U
•Bee 1 Corinthian*. l» 1
T Inflation, hombaBt (llterallr, kettle-drum)
25
of the Sermo humt obreptns1— their most
ordinary speech is never short of an hypei-
bole, splendid, imposing, vague, incompre-
hensible, magniloquent, a cento- of sounding
5 commonplaces If some of us, whose ' ' ambi-
tion is more lowly,"8 pry a little two nar-
lowly into nooks and corners to pick up a
number of " unconsidei ed trifles,"4 they
never once dnect then eyes or lift their
10 hands to seize on any but the most gorgeous,
tarnished, thread-bare patch-work set of
phrases, the left-off finery of poetic extrava-
gance, transmitted down through successive
generations of barren pretenders. If they
13 criticize actors and actresses, a huddled phan-
tasmagoria of feathers, spangles, floods of
light, and oceans of sound float before their
moibid sense, which they paint in the style
of Ancient Pistol.5 Not a glimpse can you
20 ofet of the merits or defects of the perform-
ers : they are hidden in a profusion of bar-
barous epithets and wilful rhodomontade.
Our hypercriticR are not thinking of these
little fantoccini beings—9
That Rtiut and fret their hour upon the
stage7 —
but of tall phantoms of words, abstractions,
genera and species, sweeping clauses, periods
-TO that unite the poles, forced alliterations,
astounding antitheses-
And on their pens Fustian sits plumed*
Tf they describe kings and queens, it is an
35 Eastern pageant. The Coronation at either
House is nothing to it. We get at four re-
peated images— a curtain, a throne, a sceptre,
and a foot-stool. These are with them the
wardrobe of a lofty imagination ; and they
40 turn their servile stiams to servile uses. Do
we read a description of pictures t It is not
a reflection of tones and hues which "na-
ture's own sweet and cunning hand laid
on,"0 but piles of precious stones, rubies,
<5 pearls, emeralds, Qolconda 's mines, and all
the blazonry of art. Such persons are in
fact besotted with words, and their brains
are turned with the glittering, but empty and
sterile phantoms of things Personifications,
60 capital letters, seas of sunbeams, visions of
glory, shining inscriptions, the figures of a
transparency, Britannia with her shield, or
I Mpeech that creeps on the ground
• patchwork •» See JK/INN C'u «ai, II. 1, 22
•The Winter'* Talc. IV. ft, 25
II 4 character In Shakuperee f7mt# IV, It airy
V, and The Merry Wn en of TFmdior, noted for
his bombantlc upeeches
• puppet* i M«cMh, V, 6t 25.
dapted from Pnrorffir Loaf. 4. 988
Vltftf, I, r», 2*i8
1014
NINBTKJKNTH CKNTURY ROMANTICISTS
Hope leaning 011 an anchor,1 make up then
stock in trade. They may be considered as
hieroglyphical writers. Images stand out in
their minds isolated and important merely
in themselves, without any ground-work of
feeling— there is no context in their imagi-
nations. Words affect them in the same way,
by the mere sound, that is, by then* possible,
not by their actual application to the subject
in hand. They are fascinated by first appeai-
ances, and June no sense of consequences.
Nothing more is meant by them than meets
the ear:2 they understand or feel nothing
more than meets their eye. The web and tex-
ture of the universe, and of the heart of man,
is a mystery to them: they have no faculty
that strikes a chord in unison with it. They
cannot get beyond the daubings of fancy, the
varnish of sentiment. Objects are not linked
to feelings, words to things, but images re-
volve in splendid mockery, words represent
themselves in their strange rhapsodies The
categoi les of such a mind are pride and igno-
rance— pnde in outside show, to which they
sacrifice everything, and ignorance of the
true worth and hidden structure both of
words and things. With a sovereign con-
tempt for what is familiar and natural, they
are the slaves of vulgar affectation— of a
routine of high-flown phrases. Scorning to
imitate realities, they are unable to invent
anything, to strike out one original idea
They are not copyists of nature, it is true
but they are the poorest of all plagiarists,
the plagiarists of words. All is far-fetched,
dear-bought, artificial, oriental in subject
and allusion • all is mechanical, conventional,
vapid, formal, pedantic in style and execu-
tion. They startle and confound the under-
standing of the reader, by the remoteness
and obscurity of their illustrations: they
soothe the ear by the monotony of the same
everlasting round of circuitous metaphors
They are the mock-school in poetry and
prose. They flounder about between fustian
in expression, and bathos in sentiment. They
tantalize the fancy, but never reach the head
nor touch the beak. Their Temple of Fame
w like a shadowy structure raised by Dnl-
ness to Vanity, or like Cowper's descrip-
tion of the Empress of Russia's palace
of ice, as "worthless as in show 'twas glit-
teringM—
It smiled, and it was cold!'
i See //cbrrwa, (I 19. • Bee 71 Pcnsctoso, 120.
•The Tank, 5, 176. The Ice-palace of 8k Peters-
burg was taut by tbe Hmprem Anna In 1740.
See Moore'B The Diwlutio* of the Holy Alii-
once (p. 430).
THJB FIGHTi
1822
«,u T?c
Wherein
catch
_ the thing,
conscience of the king.1
5 Where there's a will, there's a way, —I
said to myself, as I walked down Chancery-
lane, about half-past six o'clock on Monday
the 10th of December, to inquire at Jack
Randall's \\heie the fight the next day A\n^
10 to be, and I found "the proverb " nothing
"uiubty"8 m the present instance. 1 was
determined to see this fight, mme what
would, and see it I did, in great style It
was my first fight, yet it moie than answered
15 my expectations. Ladies! it is to you 1 dedi-
cate this description ; nor let it seem out of
character for the fair to notice the* exploits
of the brave. Courage and modesty are the
old English virtues; and may they nevei
20 look cold and askance on one an'nthei ' Think,
ye fairest of the fair, lo\ehest of the lovelj
kind, ye piaotioers of soft enchantment, ho\\
many more ye kill with pomonod baits than
ever fell in the ring; and list on uith subdued
25 air and without shuddering, to a tale onlv
tragic in appearance, and barred to the
FANCY.*
I was going down Chancei y-lane, thinking
to ask at Jack Randall's wheie the fight was
30 to be, when looking through the glass-dooi
of the Hole in the Wall, I beard a gentleman
asking the same question at Mrs Randall, as
the author of Waivrfci/0 would express it.
Now Mrs. Randall stood answering the gen-
35 t lemon's question, with the authenticity of
the lady of the Champion of the Light
Weights. Thinks I, I'll wait till this person
comes out, and learn from him how it is
For to say a truth, 1 was not fond of gome
40 into this house of call6 for heroes and phi-
losophers, ever since the owner of it (for
Jack is no gentleman) threatened once upon
a time to kick me out of doors for wanting a
mutton-chop at his hospitable board, when
46 the conqueror in thirteen battles \\as more
full of b/w nun7 than of good inanncis I
was the more mortified at this repulse, inas-
much as I had heard Mr James Simpkms,
hosier in the Strand, one day when the char-
50 acter of the Hole in the Wall was brought in
question, observe—0 The house is a very
1 The flght here described took place at Hunger
ford, Wiltshire, Dec 11, 1821. between Tom
Hickman (the Gasman) and Bill Neate, both
professional nrlie-flghtprfi
« Aiapted fra bf»I*. II, 2, 634.
• Hamlet, III, 2. 359
•The prixc-flghtfaff world.
•Sir Walter flcott?
• Meeting place , literal] v. a house where Journev .
men asBrmhlp, rcndr for the cull of employer*.
T Manic for gin
WILLIAM 11AZL1TT
1015
good house, and the company quite genteel:
I have been there myself!9' Remembering
this unkind treatment of mine host, to which
mine hostess was also a party, and not wish-
ing to put her in unquiet thoughts at a tune
jubilant like the present, I waited at the
door, when, who should issue forth but my
friend Jo. Toms, and. turning suddenly up
Chancery-lane with that quick jerk and im-
patient stride which distinguishes a lover of
the FANCY, 1 said, "I'll be hanged if that
fellow is not going to the fight, and is on his
way to get me to go with him. ' ' So it proved
m effect, and we agreed to adjourn to my
lodgings to discuss measures with that coi-
diality which makes old friends like new, and
*new fi lends like old, on great occasions We
are cold to others only when we are dull in
ourselves, and have neither thoughts noi
feelings to impart to them. Give man a topic
in his head, a throb of pleasure in his heail,
and he will be glad to share it with the first
person he meets. Toms and I, though we
seldom meet, were an alter idem* on tin**
memorable occasion, and had not an idea that
we did not candidly impart; and "so care-
lesalv did we fleet the time/'2 that I wish no
better, when there is another fight, than to
have him for a companion on my journev
down, and to letuin with my friend Jack
Pigott, talking of what was to happen or oi
\ihat did happen, with a noble subject always
at hand, and liberty to digress to otheis
whenever they offered. Indeed, on my re-
peating the lines from Spensei in an invol-
untary fit ot enthusiasm,
What more felicity can fall to creature,
Than to enjoy delight with liberty**
my last-named ingenious friend stopped me
by raying that this, translated into the vul-
»ate, meant "Going to sec a fight."
Jo. Toms and I could not settle about the
method of going down. He said there was n
caravan, he understood, to start from Tom
Belcher's at two, which would go there nglit
out and back again the next day. Now I
never travel at night, and said I should get a
cawt* to Newbui-y by one of the mails. Jo
swore the thing was impossible, and I could
only answer that I had made up my mind to
it. In short, he seemed to me to waver, said
he only came to see if I was going, had letteis
to write, a cause coming on the day after,
and faintly said at parting (for I was bent
on setting out that moment)— " Well, we
* a self same other one
•A* You Lge It, I. 1, 124.
• aoenner, JfMopofwot, 209-10.
«ltft; amifitaiice on the way
meet at Philippi ! "l I made the best of my
way to Piccadilly. The mail coach stand was
bare. ' ' They are all gone, " said I—" this is
always the way with me— in the instant I
6 lose the future3— if I had not stayed to pour
that last cup of tea, I should have been jnrt
m time"— and cursing my folly and ill-luck
together, without inquiring at the coach-
office whether the mails were gone or not, I
10 walked on in despite, and to punish my own
dilatormess and want of determination At
any rate I would not turn back I might get
to Hounslow, or perhaps farther, to be on
my road the next morning. I passed Hyde
is Park Corner (my Rubicon), and trusted to
fortune. Suddenly I heaid the clattering of
a Brentford stage, and the fight rushed full
upon my fancy. I argued (not unwisely)
that even a Brentford coachman was better
-* company than iny own thoughts (such as
they were just then), and at his invitation
mounted the box with him I immediately
stated my case to him— namely, my quarrel
with myself for inuring the Bath or Bristol
x mail, and my determination to get on in con-
sequence aR well as I could, without any dis-
paragement or insulting comparison between
longer or shorter stages. It is a maxim with
me that stage-coaches, and consequently
•to stage-coachmen, aie respectable in propoi-
tion to the distance they ha\<* to tia^el so I
said nothing on that subject to my Brent t'oid
friend. Any incipient tendency to an ab-
stract pioposition, or (as he might have con-
<"> strued it) to a personal reflection (if this
kind, was however nipped in the bud; for
I had no sooner declared indignantly that I
had missed the mails, than he flatly denied
that they were gone along, and lo! at the
*> instant three of them drove by in rapid, pro-
\oking, ordeily succession, as if they would
devour the ground before them Here again
F seemed in the contradictory situation of
the man in Diyden who exclaims,
10
I follow Fate, which does too hard punrae*^
If 1 had stopped to inquire at the White
Home Cellar, which would not have taken
me a minute, I should now have been driving
"W down the road in all the dignified unconcern
and ideal perfection of mechanical convey-
ance. The Bath mail I had set my mind
upon, and I had nn%ed it, as I missed every
thing else, by my own absurdity, in putting
ro the will for the deed, and aiming at ends
without employing means "Sir," said he
« Jult** rorror, IV,
1 See Marteth. I. it.
287
Tlie /MfffoM Emperor, IV, 3. 5
101 6
NINETEENTH OENTURV KOMANTfKJISTS
of the Brentford, "the Bath mail will be up
presently, my brother-in-law drives it, and I
will engage to stop him if there IB a place
empty. " I almost doubted my good genius ,
but, sure enough, up it drove like lightning,
and stopped directly at the call of the Brent-
ford Jehi 1 I would not have believed this
possible, but the brother-in-law of a mail-
coach driver is himself no mean man. I was
transfer! ed without loss of time from the
top of one coach to that of the other, de-
sired the guard to pay my faie to (he
Brentford coachman for me as 1 had no
change, was accommodated with a great
coat, put up my umbrella to keep off a
drizzling mist, and we began to cut through
the air like an arrow. The milestones dis-
appeared one after another, the lain kept
off; Tom Turtle, the trainer, sat before
me on the coach-box, with whom I exchanged
civilities as a gentleman going to the fight;
the passion that had transported me an
hour before was subdued to pensive re-
gret and conjectural musing on the next
day's battle; J was promised a place inside
at Reading, and upon the whole, 1 thought
myself a lucky fellow. Such is the force of
imagination ' On the outside of any other
coach on the 10th*>f December, with a Scotch
mist drizzling through the cloudy moonlight
air, T should have been cold, comfortless,
impatient, and, no ckmht, wet through ; but
seated on the Rovar mail, T felt warm and
comfortable, the air did me good, the ride did
me good, I was pleased with the progress we
had made, and confident that all would go
well through the journey When I got inside
at Reading, T found Turtle and a stout vale-
tudinarian, whose costume bespoke him of
one of the FANPY, and who had iisen from a
three months' sick bed to get into the mail to
we the light They were intimate, and we
fell into a livelv discourse My friend the
trainer was confined in his topics to fighting
dogs and men, to bears and badgers ; beyond
this he was "quite chap-fallen."2 had not
a word to throw at a dog, or indeed very
wisely fell asleep, when any other game was
started. The whole art of training (T, how-
ever, learnt from him) consists in two things
—exercise and abstinence, abstinence and
exercise, repeated alternately and without
end. A yolk of an egg with a spoonful of rum
in it is the first thing in the morning, and then
a walk of six miles till breakfast This meal
consists of a plentiful supply of tea and toast
and beefsteaks. Then another six or seven
miles till dinner-time and another supply of
solid boef or mutton with a pint of porter,
and perhaps, at the utmost, a couple of
glasses of sherry, Martin trains qn water, but
5 this increases his infirmity on another veri
dangerous side. The Gas-man takes now and
then a chirping glass (under the rose1) to
console him, dunng a six weeks9 probation,
for the absence of Mrs. Hickman— an agree-
10 able woman, with (I understand) a preth
fortune of two hundred pounds. How mat-
ter presses on me! What stubborn things
are facts' How inexhaustible is nature and
art! "It is well," its I once heart Mr. Rich-
16 mond observe, "to see a variety " He was
speaking of cock-fighting as an edifying
spectacle I cannot deny but that one learns
more of what w (I do not say of what oughl
to be) in this desultory mode of practical
30 study, than from reading the same book
twice 01 er, e^en though it should be a moral
treatise Where was IT I was sitting at
dinner with the candidate for the honors of
the ring, "where good digestion waits on
85 appetite, and health on both "2 Then fol-
lows an hour of social chat and native glee ,
and afterwards, to another breathing over
heathy hill 01 dale Back to supper, and
then to bed, and up by six again— Our hero
30
Follow* so the ever-running sun
With profitable ardor "<
to the day that brings him victory or defeat
in the green fairy ciicle Is not this life
K more sweet than mine! I was going to say,
but I will not libel any life by comparing it
to mine, which is (at the date of these pres-
ents) bittei as coloqumtida and the dregs of
aconitum '
M The invalid in the Bath mail soared a
pitch abo\e the trainer, and did not sleep so
sound, because he had "more figures and
more fantasies "4 We talked the hours awav
merrily He had faith in surgery, for he had
45 had three ribs set right, that had been broken
in a tern-Nj)' at Belcher's, but thought ph>-
sicians old women, for they had no antidote
in their catalogue for brandy. An indiges-
tion is an excellent common-place for two
60 people that never met before Bj wav of
ingratiating myself, I told him the story of
my doctor, who, on my earnestly represent-
ing to him that I thought his regimen had
done me harm, assured me that the whole
35 pharmacopeia contained nothing comparable
1 That is, In secret
1 That In, coachman
*lfamlrt. V, 1 212
fee 9 fffafi.
1 disturbance
, II
1. 211
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1017
to the prescription lie had given me ; and, as
a proof of its* undoubted efficacy, said that
"he had had one gentleman with my com-
plaint under his hands ioi the lae»t fifteen
years." This anecdote made my companion
shake the rough sides of his thiee gi eat coats
with boisterous laughter; and Turtle, start-
ing out of his sleep, swore he knew how the
fight would go, for he had had a dream about
it. Sure enough the rascal told us how the
three first rounds went off, but "his dream,'9
like, others, "denoted a foregone conclu-
sion."1 He knew his men. The moon now
rose in silver state, and I ventured, with some
hesitation, to point out this object of placid
beauty, with the blue serene beyond, to the
man of science, to which his ear he "serious-
ly inclined,"2 the more as it gave promise
d'un beau jour8 for the morrow, and showed
the ring un drenched by emious showers,
ai rayed in sunny smiles. Just then, all going
on well, I thought of my friend Toms, whom
I had left behind, and said innocently,
"There was a blockhead of a fellow I left
in town, who said there was no possibility
of getting down by the mail, and talked of
going by a caw an from Belcher's at two in
the morning, after he had written some let-
tors "-"Why," said he of the lapels, "I
should not wonder if that was the very per-
son we Raw running about like mad from one
coach-door to another, and asking if anyone
had seen a friend of his, a gentleman going
to the fight, whom he had missed stupidly
enouprn by staying to write a note. ' '— ' ' Pray,
Sir," said my fellow-tra\eller, "had he a
plaid-clonk on 1"-" Why, no," said I, "not
at the time I left him, but he very well might
afterwaids, for he offered to lend me one."
The plaid-cloak and the letter decided the
thing. Joe, sure enough, was in the Bristol
mail, which preceded us by about fifty yards.
This was droll enough. We had now but a
few miles to our place of destination, and
the first thing I did on alighting at Nen-
bury, both coaches stopping at the same time,
was to call out, "Pray, is there a gentleman
m that mail of the name of TonM"— "No,"
said Joe, borrowing something of the vein of
flilpin,4 "for T have just got out "-
"Well"' snys he, "this is lucky; but you
don't know how vexed I was to miss yon;
for," added he, lowering his voice, "do yon
know when I left you I went to Belcher's to
ask about the caravan, and Mrs. Belcher said
*0tkfllo. I
421
4tt
*Th»t In, 1oc«M«»l\
of Jo*n
Rre fVmper'w TJtf
Aery obligingly, she couldn't tell about that,
but there were two gentlemen who had taken
places by the mail and were gone on in a
landau, and she could fiank uh1 It's a
6 pity I didn't meet with you; we could then
have got down for nothing. But mtim's the
uord." It's the devil for anyone to tell me
a secret, for it's sure to come out in print
I do not care so much to gratify a friend, but
10 the public ear is too great a temptation for
me.
Our present business was to get beds and
supper at an inn , but this was no easy task.
The public-houses were full, and where you
15 saw a light at a pmate house, and people
poking their heads out of the casement to see
u hat was going on, they instantly put them
in and shut the window, the moment you
seemed advancing with a suspicious overture
20 fur accommodation. Our guard and coach-
man thundered away at the outer gate of the
fiown for some time without effect— such
was the greater noise within ;— and when the
doors were unbarred, and we got admittance,
26 we found a party assembled m the kitchen
round a good hospitable fire, some sleeping,
others drinking, others talking on politics
and on the fight A tall English yeoman
(something like Matthews in the face, and
so quite as great a wag) —
A lusty man to ben an abbot able,* —
was making such a prodigious noise about
rents and taxes, and the price of corn8 now
35 and f 01 merly, that he had prevented us f i om
being heaid at the gate. The first thing I
heard linn say was to a shuffling fellow ^lio
wanted to be off a bet for a shilling glass
of brandy and water— " Confound it, man,
40 don't be m* />i<*/" Thinks I, that is a good
phrase. It was a good omen. He kept it up
so all night, nor fimched with the approach
of morning lie was a fine fellow, with sense,
wit, and spirit, a hearty body and a joyous
« mind, freespoken, frank, convivial— one of
that tine English breed that went with Harry
the Fifth to the sies?e of TTnrfleur4— "stand-
ing like irmhnnndR in the slips"5 etc We
nidcied tea and egg* fbeds were soon found
GO to be out of the question) and this fellow's
conversation was sauce piquante. It did
one's heart good to see him brandish his
oaken towel8 and to hear him talk. He
made mince-nient of a drunken, stupid, red-
86
1 secure free pauRge for m
•Chaucer, Ptulogw to ffte Canterbury Ttelet, in?
•wheat
«In the wnr with Franpe, 1415
• Henry V, TIT, 1 , 31.
•cudgel
1018
NINETEENTH GENTT7BY ROMANTICISTS
faced, quarrelsome, frowsy farmer, whose
nose "he moralized into a thousand simi-
les,"1 making it out a firebrand like Bar-
dolph's2 "111 tell you \\hat my friend,"
says he, "the landlady has only to keep you
here to save fire and candle. If one was to
touch your nose, it would go off like a piece
of charcoal. ' ' At this the other only grinned
like an idiot, the sole variety in his purple
face being his little peering gray eyes and
yellow teeth, called for another t>lass, bwore
he would not stand it, and after many at-
tempts to provoke his humorous antagonist
to single combat, which the other turned off
(after working him up to a ludicrous pitch
of choler) with great adroitness, he fell
quietly asleep with a glass of bquor in his
hand, which he could not lift to his head.
His laughing persecutor made a speech over
him, and turning to the opposite hide of the
room, while they were all sleeping in the
midst of this "loud and fuiious fun,"8
said, "There's a scene, by G-d, for Hogarth
to paint. I think he and Shakspeare were
our two best men at copying life." This con-
firmed me in my good opinion of him. Ho-
garth, Shakspeare, and Nature, were just
enough for him (indeed for any man) to
know I mid, " You read Cobbett. don '( yont
At least," says I, "you talk just as well as
he writes." He seemed to doubt this. But I
said, "We have an hour to spare : if you HI
get pen, ink, and paper, and keep on talking,
I'll write down what you Ray; and if it
doesn't make a capital Political Register,
I '11 forfeit my head Tou have kept me alive
tonight, however. I don't know what I
should have done without yon. " He did not
dislike this view of the thing, nor my asking
if he was n6t about the size of Jem Belcher;
and told me soon afterwards, in the confi-
dence of friendship, that "the circumstance
which had given him nearlv the greatest con-
cern in his life, was Cnbb's beating Jem
af ter he had lost his eye by racket-playing. 9 '4
—The morning dawns; that dim but yet'
clear light appears, which weighs like solid
bars of metal on the sleepless evelids; the
chests drop down flora their chambers one
by one— but it was too late to think of going
to bed now (the clock was on the stroke of
seven), we had nothing for it but to find a
barber's (the pole that glittered in the morn-
ing Htm lighted us to his shop), and then a
*As TO* Like ft. II, 1, 46.
•Reel Henry JV, if I. 8. 4ft
•Burns, Tarn O>fa**ter. 144 (p 200).
« Orlbbs defeated Jem ^richer In 1807 and again
in tftOfl Belcher font MR ovo while playing
racket*, in 180?
nine miles9 march to Hungerford. The day
was fine, the sky was blue, the mists were
retiring from the marshy ground, the path
i*as tolerably dry, the sitting-up all night
5 had not done us much harm— at least the
cause was good ; we talked of this and that
n ilh amicable diiTei once, roving and sipping
of many subjects, but still nnanably we
leturned to the light. At length, a mile to
10 tho left of Hungerford, on a gentle emi-
nence, we saw the ling snriounded by cov-
ered carts, gigs, and carnage*, of which
hundreds had passed us on the road , Toms
gave a youthful shout, and \ie hastened down
is a narrow lane to the scene of action.
Reader, have you e\er seen a fight f If
not, you have a pleasure to come, at least if
it is a fight like that between the Gab-man
and Bill Neate The crowd was very great
20 when we anived on the spot, n]>en cairiuges
were coming up, with streamers flying and
music playing, and the country-people weic
poui jug m over hedge and ditch in all direc-
tions, to see their hero beat or be beaten
25 The odds were still on Gas, but only about
five to four Gully had been down to try
Neate, and had backed him considerably,
^hu*h was a damper to the sanguine confi-
dence of the adverse pni ty. About two huu-
•10 died thousand pounds were pending. The
GHH says he has lo*t 3000Z. which were prom-
ised him by different gentlemen if he had
won. He had presumed too much on him-
self, which had made others presume on him.
36 This spirited nnd formidable young fellow
seems to have taken for his motto the old
maxim, that "there aro tluee tilings neces-
sary to success in Me— Impudence ? Impu-
dent c I Impudent t>'" It is so in matt era of
40 opinion, but not in the FANCY, \vlnch is the
most practical of all things, though even here
confidence is half the battle, but only half
Our friend had \apored and swaggered too
much, as if he wanted to grin and bully his
45 adversary out of the fight. "Alas' the Bris-
tol man was not so tamed!"1— "This is Hie
grave-digger" (would Tom Hickman ex-
rlaim in the moments of intoxication from
inn and success, showing his tremendous
50 right hand), "this will send many of them
to their long homes; I haven't done with
them yet ! " Why should he— though he had
licked four of the best men within the hour,
yet why should he threaten to inflict dishon-
56 orable chastisement on my old master Rich-
mond, a veteran going off the stage, and who
has borne his sable honors meekly f Mag-
nanimity, my dear Tom, and bravery, should
' Cnwpor, T*c T*9*. 2, 822.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1019
be inseparable. Or why should he go up to
his antagonist, the first tune he ever saw him
at the Fives Court, and measuring him from
head to foot with a glance of contempt,
as Achilles surveyed Hector, say to him,
"What, are you Bill Neatct I '11 knock more
blood out of that great carcase of thine, tins
day fortnight, than you ever knock 'd out of
a bullock's!'1 It was not manly, 'twas not
fighter-like. If he was sure of the victory
(as he was not) , the less said about it the bel-
ter. Modesty should accompany the FANCY
as its shadow. The best men weie always
the best behaved. Jem Belcher, the Game
Chicken1 (before uhom the Gas-man could
not have lived) were civil, silent men. So is
Cribb, so is Tom Belcher, the most elegant
of sparrerp, and not a man for everyone to
take by the nose. I enlarged on this topic
in the mail (while Turtle was asleep), and
said very wiselv (as I thought) that imper-
tinence was a part of no profession A boxer
was bound to beat Ins man, but not to thrust
his fist, either actually or by implication, in
everyone's face Even a highwayman, in
the way of trade, may blow out your brains,
but if he uses foul language at the same time,
I should say he was no gentleman. A boxer,
I would infer, need not be a blackguard or
a coxcomb, more than another Perhaps I
prem this point too nmrh on a fallen man-
Mr Thomas Hickman has by this time learnt
that first of all lessons, "That man was made
to mourn ' * He has hist nothing bv the late
fight but his presumption; and that every
man mav do a* well without! By an o\er-
display of this quality, however, the public
had been prejudiced against him, and the
knomng-ones were taken in. Few but those
who had bet on him wished Gas to win. With
my own prepossessions on the subject, the
result of the llth of December appeared to
me as fine a piece of poetical justice a« I
had ever witnessed The difference of weight
between the two combatants (14 stone to 12)
was nothing to the sporting men Great,
heavy, clumsy, long-armed Bill Neate kicked
the beam in the scale of the Gas-man Js
vanity The amateurs were frightened at his
big words, and thought that they would make
up for the difference of six feet and five feet
nine. Truly, the FANCY are not men of
imagination. They judge of what- has been,
and cannot conceive of anything that is to
be. The Gas-man had won hitherto; there-
fore he must beat a man half as big again
1 Henry Puree (1777-1809), a well-known Rng
an Mailr tn Vow*, 24
as himself —and that to a certainty. Besides,
there are as many teuds, factious, preju-
dices, pedantic notions in the FANCY as in
the btate or in the schools. Mr. Gully is
c almost the only cool, sensible man among
them, who exercibes an unbiased discretion,
and is not a slave to his passions in these
matters. But enough of reflections, and to
our tale. The day, as I have said, was fine
10 for a December morning. The grabs was
wet, and the ground miry, and ploughed up
with multitudinous feet, except that, within
the ring itself, theie was a spot of virgin-
green closed in and unprofaned by vulgar
15 tread, that shone with dazzling brightness
in the mid-day sun. For it was now noon,
and we had an hour to wait. This ib the
trying time It is then the heart sickens, as
you think what the two champions are about,
20 and how short a time will determine their
fate. After the first blow is struck, there is
no opportunity for nervous apprenhensions ;
vou are swallowed up m the immediate in-
terest of the scene— but
26
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim IB
Like a phantasms, or a hideous dream *
T found it so as I felt the sun 's rays clinging
30 to my back, and saw the white wintry clouds
sink below the verge of the horizon " So, I
thought, my fa nest hopes ha\e faded fiom
my sight '—so will the Gas-man's glory, or
that of hib adversary, vanish in an hour "
85 The swells were parading in their white box-
coats, the outer ring wab cleared with some
bruises on the heads and shins of the rustic
assembly (for the cochnew had been dis-
tanced by the sixty-six miles) , the time drew
40 near, I had got a good stand ; a bnstle, a
buzz, ran through the croud, and from the
opposite side entered Neate, between his
second and bottle-holder. He rolled along,
swathed in his loose great coat, his knock-
4G knees bending under his huge bulk, and,
with a modest cheerful air, threw his hat
into the nng.2 He then just looked around,
and began quietly to undress; when from
the other side there was a similar rush and
GO an opening made, and the Gas-man came
forward with a conscious air of anticipated
triumph, too much like the cock-of-the-walk.
He strutted about more than became a hero,
sucked oranges with a supercilious air, and
K threw away the skin with a toss of his head,
and went up and looked at Neate, which
Omar, IT, 1, 03-88.
•A fllgnnl that ho win ronrtr for the tight to o*»-
1020
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTICISTb
was an act of supereiogatiou. The only
sensible thing be did was, as be strode away
from the modern Ajax, to fling out bis arms,
us if he wanted to try whether they would
do their work that day. By thib tune they
had stripped, and presented a strong con-
trast in appearance. If Neate was like Ajax,
"withAtlantean Hhouldeib, tit to bear"1 the
pugilistic' reputation of all Bristol, Hickman
might be compared to Diomed, light, vigor-
ous, elastic, and bis back glistened in the
sun, as he mo\ed about, like & panther's
hide There was now a dead pause — atten-
tion was awe-struck. Who at that moment,
big with a great event, did not draw his
breath bhort— did not feel his heart throb f
All wns leady. They tossed up for the sun,
and the Gas-man won. They were led up to
the sciatch — shook hands, and went at it*
In the firbt round everyone thought it wab
all over. After making play a short time,
the Gab-man flew at his adversary like a
tiger, struck five blows m as many seconds,
tlnee fiist, and then following him as he
staggered back, two more, right and left,
and down he fell, a mighty ruin. There was
a shout, and I &aid, "There is no standing
this." Neate seemed like a lifeless lump of
flesh and bone, louud which the Gas-man's
blows played with the rapidity of electricity
or lightning, and you imagined be would
only be lifted up to be knocked down again.
It was as if Hickman held a swoid or a fire
in that right hand of his, and directed it
against an unarmed body. They met again,
and Neate seemed, not cowed, but particu-
larly cautious. I saw his teeth clenched to-
gether and bib brows knit close against the
sun. He held both his arms at full length
straight before him, like two sledge-hammers,
and raised his left an inch or two higher The
Gas-man- could not get over this guard—
they struck mutually and fell, but without
advantage on either side. It was the same
in the nest round ; but the balance of power
was thus restoied— the fate of the battle was
Huspended. No one could tell how it would
end. This was the only moment in which
opinion was divided; for in the next, the
Gab-man aiming a mortal blow at his adver-
sary 'b neck, with his right hand, and failing
from the length he had to reach, the other
returned it with his left at full swing, planted
a tremendous blow on bis cheek-bone and
eyebrow, and made a red ruin of that ride
of bis face. The Gas-man went down, and
there was another shout— a roar of triumph
as the waves of fortune rolled tumultuonsly
i PariuHnc Lost. 2, 100.
from side to side. This \i as a bettler. Hick-
uian got up, and ' ' grinned horrible a ghastly
wmle,"1 yet he was evidently dabbed in his
opinion of himself; it was the first time he
5 had been so punished; all one side of his
face was perfect scarlet, and his right eye
was closed in dingy blackness, as he ad-
vanced to the fight, less confident, but still
determined. After one or two rounds, not
10 receiving another such remembrancer, he
rallied and went at it with his former impet-
uosity. But in vain. His strength had been
weakened,— his blows could not tell at such
a distance,— he was obliged to fling himself
1& at his adversely, and could not strike from
bis feet ; and almost ab regularly as he flew
at him with his right hand, Noate waided the
blow, or drew back out of its leach, and
felled him with the return of hih left. There
20 was little cautious sparring— no half-hits—
no tapping1 and trifling, none of the petit-
mait resin p- of the art— they weie almost all
knock-down blows.— the fight was a good
stand-up fight. The wonder was the half-
& minute time. If there had been a minute
or more allowed between each round, it
would have been intelligible how they should
by degrees recover strength and resolution ;
but to see two men smashed to the ground,
<*> smeared with gore, stunned, senseless, the
breath beaten out of their bodies, and then,
before you recover from the shock, to see
them rise up with new stiength and courage,
stand steady to inflict or receive mortal of-
36 fence, and rush upon each other "like two
clouds over the Caspian"3— this is the most
abtonishintr thing of all.— This is the high
and heroic state of man! From this time
f 01 ward the e\ent became more ceitani etery
40 round; and about the twelfth it seemed as
if it must have been over Hickman gen-
erally stood with his back to me, but m the
scuffle, he had changed positions, and Neate
just then made a tremendous lunge at him,
45 and hit him full in the face. It was doubt-
ful whether he would fall backwards 01
forwards; he hung suspended for a second
or two, and then fell back, tin owing his
hands in the air, and with his face lifted
GO up to the sky. I ne>er haw anything uioio
terrific than bib aspect just before he fell.
All traces of life, of natural expression,
were gone from him. His face was like a
human skull, a death '& head, spouting blood
M The eyes were filled with blood, the nose
streamed with blood, the mouth gaped
' Paradise Lost, 2. 846
t, 2, 714.
WILLIAM HAZIJTT
1021
blood. He was not like an actual mail, but
like a preternatural! spectral appearance, or
like one of the figures in Dante's Inferno.
Yet he fought on after this for several
rounds, still striking the flist dcspciatc blow,
and Neate standing on the defensive, and
using the same cautions guard to the last,
as if he had still all his work to do; and
it was not till the Gas-man was so stunned
in the se\enteenth or eighteenth round, that
bis senses forsook him, and he could not
come to time, that the battle was declared
over.1 Ye who despise the FANCY, do some-
thing to show as much pluck, or as much
self-possession as this, before you assume a
superiority which you ha\e never given a
single proof of by any one action in the
whole course of your lives 1— When the Gas-
man came to himself, the fh&t words he
uttered nere, "Where am I? What is the
mattei?"— "Nothing is the matter, Tom—
you have lost the battle, but yon are the
brnxest man alive " And Jackson wlus-
peied to him, "1 am collecting a purse foi
you, Tom "—Vain sounds, and unheard at
that moment! Neate instantly went up and
shook him cordially by the hand, and seems:
some old acquaintance, began to flourish
with his fists, calling out, "Ah, you always
said I couldn't fight— What do you think
nowT" But all in good humor, and without
any appearance of arrogance; only it was
o\ ident Bill Neate was pleased that he had
uon the fight When it was o\er I asked
fubb if he did not think it was a good one
He said, "Pretty u,ell'" The camer-pi-
geons now mounted into the air, and one of
them flew with the news of her husband's
\ictory to the bosom of Mrs. Neate. Alas,
for Mrs Hickman '
il/aw an revoir* as Sir Fophnp Fluttei
savs3 T went down with Toms; I returned
\\ith Jack Pigott, whom J met on the ground.
Toms is n rattlebiain; Pigott is a senti-
mentalist Now, under fa>or, I am a sen-
timentalist too— theiefoie T say nothing, but
that the interest of the excursion did not
flag as T came back Pigott and T inarched
Hald of the nan-man, that be
thought he wan a man of that courage that If
hi* hands wore rut off, he would *tln flffht on
*lth the RturanH, like that of YVldiinffton,—
•In doleful duni])s,
Who, when hi* lejfg were smitten off
Still fought upon his Rtumpn ' •• — Tlarlltt
Thene line* of verne are quoted from one of
the <\erfllonH of Chrtit rfcw. fit ftO For a
uiriant reading, see p. MR, 11 22124.
• well, good by
Mn Ktherege> The Van of Mode. I IT, 2 (eel
Verltt. p 209)
along the causeway loading fioiii Hunger-
ford to Newbury, now observing the effect
of a brilliant sun on tho tawny meads or
moss-colored cottages, now exulting in the
6 fight, now digi easing to some topic of gen-
eral and elegant literature. My friend was
dressed in character for the occasion, or like
one of the FAXC\ , that is, with a double
portion of gieatcoats, clogs,1 and oxer-
10 alls: and just as \ve had agreed with a
couple of country-lads to cany his super-
fluous wearing-appai el to the next town,
we were overtaken by a return post-chaise,
into nthich I got, Pigott prefening a seat
1C on the bar.2 There \ieie two sti angers al-
ready in the chaise, and on their observing
they supposed I had been to the fight, I said
I had, and concluded they had done the
same. They appeared, howevei, a little shy
20 and sore on the subject , and it was not till
after seveial hints dropped, and questions
put, that it tinned out that they had missed
it. One of these fnends had undei taken to
drive the other there in lus jrm they had set
26 out, to make suie woik, the day before at
three in the afternoon The m\ner of the
one-horse vehicle scoined to ask his way,
and drove light on to Bagshot, instead of
turning off at Hounslow thcte they stopped
30 all night, and set off the next day across
the country to Reading, from whence thev
took coach, and got do\in within a mile
or two of Hungerfoid, just half an hour
after the ficrht was o^er. This might be
K safely set down as one of the miseries of
human life We parted with these two
gentlemen uho had been to see the fight, but
had retuined as thev Tient, at Wolhampton,
where we were pi omised beds (an irresistible
40 temptation, for Pigott had passed the pre-
ceding night at Ilungeifoid as we had done
at Newbury), and we turned into an old
bow-window ed parlor with carpet and a
snug fire; and after devouring a quantity
« of tea, toast, egi?s, sat down to consider,
during an hour of philosophic leisuie,
what we should ha\e for supper. In the
midst of an Epicuiean dehbeiation between
a roasted fowl and mutton chops with
so mashed potatoes, we were interrupted by an
inroad of Goths and Vandals— 0 procul este
prof am*— not real flash-men,4 but intei-
lopers, noisy pretenders, butchers from Tot-
hill-fields, brokers from Whitechapel, who
66 called immediately for pipes and tobacco,
hoping it would not be disagreeable to the
* Hhoen with thick wooden Mien
•That i«, on the neat with the drirer.
•oh aloof, ye profane ( T*fid, ft, 258)
4 sporting men
1022
NINETEENTH C'ENTUBY BOWANT1C1HT8
gentlemen, aiid began to insist that it was
a cross.1 Pigott withdrew from the smoke
and noise into another room, and left me
to dibpute the point with them for a couple
of hours satis intermission by the dial. The
next morning \ie rose refreshed, and on
observing that Jack had a pocket volume m
his hand, in which he lead in the in t err alb
of our discourse, I inquiied what it was,
and leained to my paiticulai satisfaction
that it -was a \ohnne of the New Elomc.
Ladies, after this, will you contend that
a l(ne foi the FANCY is incompatible with
the cultivation of sentiment?— We jogged
on as befoic, my friend setting me up m
a genteel drab greatcoat and green silk
handkerchief (which I must say became me
exceedingly), and after stretching our legs
for a few miles, and seeing Jack Randall,
Ned Turner, and Scioggms pass on the top
of one of the Bath coaches, we engaged
with the dinci of the second to take us to
London for the usual fee. I got inside, and
found thiee othei passengers. One of them
was an old gentleman with an aquiline nose,
powdeied hair,2 and a pigtail, and who
looked as if he had played many a rubber ac
the Rath looms I said to myself, he is very
like Mr. Wmdham; I wish he would enter
into conversation, that I might hear what
fine observations would come from those
finely-tinned features However, nothing
passed, till, stopping to dine at Heading,
some inquiry \vas made by the company
about the fight, and I gave (as the reader
may believe) an eloquent and animated
description of it. When we got into the
coach again, the old gentleman, after a
peaceful exordium, said he had, when a Iwrv,
teen to a fight between the famous Brouph-
ton and George Stevenson, who was called
the Fighting Coachman, in the ycai 1770.
with the late Mr. Windham This beginning
flattered the spirit of prophecy within me
and rivet ted my attention. He went on—
"George Stevenson was coachman to a
friend of my father's. He was an old man
when 1 saw him some years afterwards
He took hold of his own arm and said,
'there wan muscle here once, but now it is
no moie than this young gentleman's.' He
added, 'Well, no matter; I have been here
long, I am willing to go hence, and I hope
I have done no more barm than another
man ' Once," said my unknown compan-
ion, "I asked him if he had ever beat
1 A match, the remilt of which wan prearranged
*Tho 18th century curtain of powdering the fiair
Broughton. He said Yes; that he had
• fought with him three times, and the last
tune he fairly beat him, though the world
did not allow it. 'I'll tell you how it was,
•r» master. When the seconds lifted us up
m the last round, we were so exhausted that
neither of us could stand, and we fell upon
one anothei, and as Master Bioughton fell
uppermost, the mob gave it in his favoi, and
10 he was said to have won the battle. But,1
says he, 'the fact uas, that as his second
(John Cut Jibed) lifted him up, he said to
him, " I '11 light no inoi e, I 've had enough , ' '
which,9 says Stevenson, 'you know gave me
16 the victory. And to prove to you that this
was the case, when John Cuthbert was on
his death-bed, and they nsked him if theie
was anything on his mind which he wished
to coniess, he answered, "Yes, that there
20 was one thing he wished to set light, lot
that ceitamly Mastei Stexenson won Unit
la«4 fight with Master Broughton; foi he
whispered him as he hi ted him up m the
last round of all, that he had hud
* enough,"' This," said the Bath ^entlv-
maii, "was a bit of human nature;" and
I have wutten this account of the fight on
puipose that it might not be lobt to the
\iorld. He also stated as a proof of the
30 candor of mind in this class of men, thai
Ste\enson acknowledged that Biouirhton
could ha\e beat him in his best day, but
thai he (Bioiurhtou) was getting old m then
last lewountei When we stopped in Pic-
33 cadilly, I wanted to ask the gentleman sonic
questions about the late Mr Windham, but
had not coinage. I got out, resigned my
coat and gneen silk handkerchief to Pip>tt
(loth to part with these ornaments of life),
40 and walked home in high spirits
P. 8. Toms called upon me the next da^,
to ask me if J did not think the fight was
a complete thing I said T thought it was
I hope he will lelish my account of it
4".
ON GOING A JOURNEY
1822
One of the pleasantest tinners in the world
is going a journey, but I like to go b>
w myself T can enjoy society m a room;
but out of dooiB, nature is company enough
for me I am then never less alone than
when alone.
The fields his study, nature was his book.'
I cannot see the wit of walking and talk-
ing at the same time. When I am in the
country, I wish to vegetate like the country,
i Bloomfleld, Rpriny, 31
56
WILLIAM 11AZL1TT
1023
I am not for entieuuug hudge-iows and
black cattle. I go out of town in order to
forget the town and all that is in it. There
are those who for this purpose go to
watering-places, and carry the metropolis
with them. I like more elbow-room, and
fewer incumbrances. I like solitude, when
I give myself up to it, for the sake of soli-
tude, nor do 1 ask for
A friend in my retreat,
Whom 1 may tthuper, solitude IB sweet.*
The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect
liberty, to think, feel, do, just as one pleases.
We go a journey chiefly to be free of all
impediments and of all inconveniences, to
leave ouibelves behind, much more to get
nd of others. It is because 1 want a little
breathing-space to muse on indifferent mat-
ters, where Contemplation
May plume her feathers and let grow her wings,
That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair M,»
that I absent myself from the town for
awhile, without feeling at a loss the moment
I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in
a pofet-chaise or in a Tilbury,8 to exchange
good thmgb Math, and vary the same stale
topics over again, for once let me have a
tiuce with impel tmence Give me the clear
blue Hky o\ei my bead, and the green turf
beneath my feet, a winding road before me,
and a tbiee huuib' march to dinner— and
then to thmkinp I It is hard if I cannot start
some game on these lone heaths. I laugh,
I run, I leap, I sing for joy Prom the
point of yonder rolling- cloud, I plunge into
my past being, and revel there, as the sun-
burnt Indian plunges headlong into the
wave that wafts him to his native shore.
Then long-forgotten things, like "sunken
wrack and sumless treasuries,"4 burst upon
my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think,
and be myself again. Instead of an awk-
ward hilence, broken by attempts at wit or
dull common-places, mine is that undis-
turbed silence of the heart which alone IB
perfect eloquence. No one likes puns, allit-
erations, antitheses, argument, and analysis
better than I do ; but I sometimes had rather
be without them ''Leave, oh, leave me to
my repose f"5 I have just now other busi-
ness in hand, which would seem idle to yon,
but is with me "very stuff of the con-
trowpCT. ffrffrmmf. 741-42. Tomiu. 878-80
• \ kind of two-wheeled carriage without a top.
It wan named after the Inventor, a ooacn-
mnkor of the early 19th ceaturr.
if 7)r*crtif of Oil f ft, DO (p. AT)
science."1 Is not this wild rose sweet with-
out a comment t Does not this daisy leap to
my heart set in its coat of emerald I Yet
if I were to explain to you the circumstance
that has so endeared it to me, you would
only smile. Had I not better then keep it
to myself, and let it serve me to brood over,
from here to yonder craggy point, and from
thence onwaid to the far-dibtant horizon!
10 I should be but bad company all that way,
and therefoie prefer being alone. I ha\e
heard it said that you may, when the moody
fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself.
and indulge your reveries. But this looks
like a breach of manners, a neglect of others,
and you are thinking all the time that you
ought to rejoin your party "Out upon
such half-faced fellowship,"-1 say I. I like
to be either entirely to myself, or entirely
at the disposal of others ; to talk or be silent,
to walk or sit still, to be sociable or solitary.
I was pleased with an observation of Mr
Cobbett's, that "he thought it a bad
French custom to dnnk our wine with our
mealb, and that an Englishman ought to do
only one thing at a time " So I cannot talk
and think, or indulge in melancholy musing
and lively conversation by fits and starts
"Let me have a companion of my way,9'
says Sterne, "were it but to remark how
the^hadows lengthen as the sun declines "»
It is beautifully said' but in my opinion,
this continual comparing of notes interferes
with the involuntary impression of things
upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment If
you only hint what you feel in a kind of
dumb show, it is insipid : if yon have to ex-
?lam it, it is making a toil of a pleasure
ou cannot read the book of nature, with-
out being perpetually put to the tumble of
translating it for the benefit of others. I am
for the synthetical method on a journey, in
preference to the analytical. I am content
to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to exam-
ine and anatomize them afterwards I want
to see my vague notions float like the down
of the thistle before the breeze, and not to
have them entangled in the briars and
thorns of controversy For once, I like to
have it all mv own way; and this is impos-
sible unless you are alone, or in such com-
pany as I do' not covet. I have no objection
to argue a point with anyone for twenty
miles of measured road, but not for pleasure
If you remark the scent of a bean-field
crossing the road, perhaps your fellow-
traveller has no smell If you point to a
' 0/ftfHo, 1,2, 2
8. 208. ' Bterne, ffrrmo**, 18.
1024
NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANT1018TS
distant object, perhaps he is short-sighted,
and has to take out his glass to look at it.
There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the
color of a cloud which hits your fancy, but
the effect of which yon are unable to account
for. There is then no sympathy, but an
uneasy craving after it, and a dissatisfaction
which pursues you on the way, and in the
end probably pioduees ill humor. Now 1
never quarrel with myself, and take all my
own conclusions for granted till I find it
necessary to defend them against objections
It is nol merely that you may not be of
accord on the objects and circumstances that
present themselves before yon— these may
recall a number of objects, and lead to asso-
ciations too delicate and refined to be pos-
sibly communicated to others. Yet these I
love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly
clutch them, when I can escape from the
throng to do so. To give way to our feelings
before company, seems extravagance or
affectation , and, on the other hand, to have
to unravel tins mystery of our being at
every turn, and to make others take an equal
interest in it (otherwise the end is not
answered) is a task to which few are com-
petent. We must ' ' give it an understanding,
but no tongue f>1 My old fnend (' ,a
however, could do both He could go on in
the most delightful explanatory way over
hill and dale, a summer's day, and convert
a landscape into a didactic poem or B Pin-
daric ode. "He talked far above singing "8
If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding
and flowing woids, I might perhaps wish to
have florae one with me to admire the swell-
ing theme ; or I could be more content, were
it possible for me still to hear his echoing
voice in the woods of AH-Foxden They
had "that fine madness in them which our
first poets had;"4 and if they could have
been caught by Rome rare instrument, would
have breathed such strains as the following:
Here be woods as green
AH any, air likewise an fresh and tweet
Ai when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the curled streams, with fiow'rs as
many
As the young spring gives, and as choice as
any;
Here be all new delights, cool streams and
wells,
Arbors o'ergrown with woodbines, eaves and
dells;
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes, to make many a ring
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love;
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in g grove,
First saw the boy Endynuon, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she convey M him softly in a sleep,
i His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmoa, where she stoops each
..
• Beaumont
«Drayton,
1,1,2,250 'Coleridge,
mt and Fletcher, PfttoMfter. V, 5. 166.
i, To My Dearly Lore* friend, ffenr
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
Toskiss her sweetest,!
10 Had I words and images at command like
these, I would attempt to wake the thoughts
that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the
evening clouds: but at the sight of nature
my fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes
16 up its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can
make nothing out on the spot :— I must have
time to collect myself.-
In general, a good thing spoils out-of-
door prospects: it should be reserved for
» Table-talk. L 8 is for thih reason, I
take it, the wont company in the world out
of doors, because he is the best within. I
grant, there is one subject on which it is
pleasant to talk on a journey, and that is,
26 what one shall have for suppei when we get
to our inn at night The open air improves
this sort of conversation or friendly alter-
cation, by setting a keener edge on appetite
Every mile of the road heightens the flavor
» of the viands we expect at the end of it.
How fine it is to enter some old town, walled
and turreted just at approach of night-fall,
or to come to some straggling village, with
the lights streaming through the surround-
35 mg gloom; and then after inquiring for
the best entertainment that the place affords,
to "take one's ease at one's inn'"1 These
eventful moments in our lives' history are
too precious, too full of solid, heart-felt hap-
« pinefis to be frittered and dribbled awav in
imperfect sympathy. I would ha\e them all
to myself, and drain them to the lant drop:
they will do to talk of 01 to write about
Afterwards What a delicate speculation it
ti is, after drinking whole goblets of tea,
The cups that cheer, but not inebriate,'
and letting the fumes ascend into the brain,
to sit considering what we shall have for
supper— eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smoth-
w ered in onions, or an excellent veal-cutlet !
Sancho in mich a situation once fixed on
cow-heel;5 and his choice, though he could
not help it, is not to be disparaged. Then,
in the intervals of pictured scenery and
a Shandean' contemplation, to catch the
« Fletcher, The Fottft/M Mrpfcmfff**, I, 8, 27-4.1.
•Thai-leu Lamb » 1 Henry IV, III, 8, 9ft.
___
,109
itm'H Don Quirote, Part 2, ch. 59.
like that of TriHtram Bhaitdjr
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1025
preparation and the stir in the kitchen—
Procul, 0 prowl eate pro/torn/1 These
hours are sacred to silence and to musing,
to he treasured up in the memory, and to
feed the source of smiling- thoughts here-
after. I would not waste them in idle talk;
or if I must have the integrity of fancy
broken in upon, I would rather it were hy
a stranger than a fnend. A stranger takes
his hue and character from the time and
place; he is a part of the furniture and cos-
tume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from
the West Riding of Yorkshire, so much
the better. I do not even try to sympathize
with bun, and he breaks no squares. I asso-
ciate nothing with my travelling companion
but present objects and passing events In
his ignorance of me and my affairs, I in a
manner forget myself But a fnend re-
minds one of other things, rips up old
grievances, and destroys the abstraction of
the scene He comes in ungraciously between
us and our imaginary character. Something
is dropped in the course of conversation that
gives a hint of your profession and pur-
suits, or from having someone with you
that knows the less sublime portions of your
historv, it seems that other people do. You
are no longer a citizen of the world but
your "unhoused free condition is put into
circumspection and confine "2 The incog-
nito of an inn is one of its striking privi-
leges—" lord of one's self, uncumber'd with
a name "* Oh! it is great to shake off the
trammels of the world and of public opin-
ion—to lose our importunate, tormenting,
everlasting personal identity in the elements
of nature, and become the creature of the
moment, clear of all ties— to hold to the
universe only by a dish of sweet-breads, and
to owe nothing but the score of the evening
—and no longer seeking for applause and
meeting with contempt, to be known by
no other title than the Gentleman in tfie
parlor! One mijy take one's choice of all
characters in this romantic state of uncer-
tainty as to one's real pretensions, and be-
come indefinitely respectable and negatively
right-worshipful. We baffle prejudice and
disappoint conjecture; and from being so
to others, begin to be objects of curiosity
and wonder even to ourselves. We are no
more those hackneyed common-places that
we appear in the world • an inn restores us
to the level of nature, and quits scores with
society! I have certainly spent some envi-
i aloof, oh aloof, ye profane (Xnetd, 6, 2HR>
•Offtfl/to,!. 2,26.
•Dryden. To my Honor** jnuMKrn* 1R
able hours at inns— sometimes when I have
been left entirely to myself, and have tried
to solve some metaphysical problem, as once
at Witham-common, where I found out tke
fi proof that likeness is not a case of the asso-
ciation of ideas— at other times, when there
have been pictures in the room, as at St
Neot's (I think it was), where I first met
with Gnbehn 'B engravings of the Cartoons,1
10 into which I entered at once, and at a little
inn on the borders of Wales, where there
happened to be hanging some of Westall's
drawings, which I compared triumphantly
(for a theory that I had, not for the ad-
15 mired artist) with the figure of a girl who
had feined me over the Severn, standing
up in a boat between me and the twilight—
at other times I might mention luxuriating
in books, with a peculiar interest in this way,
20 as I remember sitting up half the night to
read Paul and Virginia, which I picked up
at an inn at Bndgewater, after being
drenched in the rain all day; and at the same
place I got through two volumes of Mad-
26 ameD'Arblay'sftimfZra. It was on the 10th
of April, 1798, that I sat down to a volume
of The New Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen,
over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken.
The letter I chose was that in which St.
30 Preux describes his feelings as he first
caught a glimpse from the heights of the
Jura of the Pays de Vaud,2 which I had
brought with me as a bon bourlie* to crown
the evening with. It was my birth-day, and
35 I had for the first time come from a place in
the neighborhood to visit this delightful
spot. The road to Llangollen turns off be-
tween Chirk and Wrexham ; and on passing
a certain point, you come all at once upon
40 the valley, which opens like an amphi-
theatre, broad, barren hills rising in majes-
tic state on either side, with "green upland
swells that echo to the bleat of flocks "«
below, and the river Dee babbling over its
« stonv bed in the midst of them. The valley
at this time " glittered green with sunny
showers,"5 and a budding ash-tree dipped
its tender branches in the chiding stream.
How proud, how glad I was to walk along
» the high road that overlooks the delicious
prospect, repeating the lines which I have
just quoted from Mr. Coleridge's poems!
But besides the. prospect which opened be-
_ i Drawing* of religion* subjects by Raphael
B (1483-1620). the neat Italian painter
• Bee Rousseau's La Aewrelte JftZobe. 4. 17 The
Jura Is a chain of mountains on the border
of Pajs de Vaud, a canton of Switzerland.
« Coleridg^ Orf* on to* Df^mrflntf V«or. 125-20
(p. <*W. •/»{*., 124 (p. 3M).
1026
NINETEENTH OENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
neath my feet, another also opened to my
inward sight, a heavenly vision, on which
were written, in letters large as Hope eould
make them, these four words, LIBERTY,
GENIUS, LOVE, VIRTUE j1 which have since
faded into the light of common day,2 or
mock my idle gaze.
The beautiful is vanished and returns not*
Still I wonid return some time or other to
this enchanted spot , but I would return to
it alone. What other self could I find to
share that influx of thoughts, of regret, and
delight, the fragments of which I could
hardly conjure up to myself, so much have
they been broken and defaced ! 1 could stand
on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice
of years that separates me from what I
then was. I was at that tune going shortly
to visit the poet whom I have above named
Where is he now t* Not only I myself have
changed, the world, which was then new to
me, has become old and incorrigible. Yet
will I turn to thee in thought, 0 sylvan
Dee, in joy, in youth land gladness as thou
then wert, and thou shalt always be to me
the river of Paradise, where 1 will drink
of the waters of life freely!5
There is hardly anything that shows the
short-sightedness or capriciousness of the
imagination more than travelling does. With
change of place we change our ideas; nay,
our opinions and feelings. We can by an
effort indeed transport ourselves to old
and long-forgotten scenes, and then the pic-
ture of the mind revives again ; but we for-
get those that we have just left. It seems
that we can think but of one place at a time.
The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain
extent, and if we paint one set of objects
upon it, they immediately efface every
other. We cannot enlarge our conceptions
we only shift our point of view. The land-
scape bares its bosom to the enraptured eye,
we take our fill of it, and seem as if we
could form no other image of beauty or
grandeur. We pass on, and think no more
of it: the horizon that shuts it from our
sight, also blots it from our memory like a
dream. In travelling through a wild barren
»At the
___j time referred to, 1798, Hadltt
with Coleridge and othen a belief In t
t shared
UDph "of "the"prindple§ of toe" French Revoln
tton.
• See Wordmrorth'ii Od0 Intimation* of Jmmor-
taHtv, 76 <p 300).
•Colerl&K. The Death of WaHefMtefn. Vt 1, 68.
4 When thin «wa? wan flnt pobllRhed, In 1822,
Ooltrldge'ii creative power bad waned, and
Us Tifor had ben Impaired bj ill healA and
tf^ use of laudanum.
•Bee Jta'ftoJtoft. 22, 17.
country, I can form no idea of a woody and
cultivated one. It appears to me that all
the world must be barren, like what I see
of it In the country we forget the town,
5 and in town we despise the country. "Be-
yond Hyde Park,1' says Sir Foplmg Flut-
ter, "all is a desert"1 All that part of the
map that we do not see before us is a blank.
The world in our conceit of it is not much
10 bigger than a nutshell It is not one pros-
pect expanded into another, county joined
to county, kingdom to kingdom, land to seas,
making an image voluminous and vast;—
the mind can form no larger idea of space
15 than the eye can take in at a single glance.
The rest is a name written in a map, a cal-
culation of arithmetic. For instance, what
is the true signification of that immense mass
of territory and population, known by the
20 name of China to us! An inch of paste-
board on a wooden globe, of no more account
than & China orange! Things near us are
seen of the size of life: things at a distance
are diminished to the size of the under-
25 standing. We measure the universe by our-
sehes, and e\en comprehend the texture
of our own being only piecemeal. In this
way, however, we remember an infinity of
things and places. The mind is like a me-
so chanical instrument that plays a great vari-
ety of tunes, but it must play them in suc-
cession. One idea recalls another, but it
at the same tune excludes all others. In
trying to renew old recollections, we cannot
35 as it were unfold the whole web of our
existence; we must pick out the single
threads. So in coming to a place where we
have formerly lived and with which we have
intimate associations, everyone must ha\e
40 found that the feeling grows more vivid the
nearer we approach the spot, from the mere
anticipation of the actual impression: we
remember circumstances, feelings, persons,
faces, names that we had not thought of for
46 years; but for the time all the rest of the
world is forgotten I— To return to the ques-
tion I have quitted above.
I have no objection to go to see ruins,
aqueducts, pictures, in company with a
60 friend or a party, but rather the contrary,
for the former reason reversed. They are
intelligible matters, and will bear talking
about. The sentiment here is not tacit, but
communicable and overt. Salisbury Plain
66 u barren of criticism, but Stonehenge will
bear a discussion antiquarian, picturesque,
.
not by Rlr
WILLIAM UAZLITT
1027
and philosophical In setting oat on a party
of pleasure, the first consideration always
is where we shall go to: in taking a solitary
ramble, the question is what we shall meet
with bv the way. "The mind is its own
place;''1 nor are we anxious to arrive at the
end of our journey. I can myself do the
honors indifferently well to works of art and
curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford
with no mean Mat9— allowed them that seat
of the Muses at a distance,
With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn 'da—
descanted on the learned air that breathes
from the grassy quadrangles and stone walls
of halls and colleges— was at home in the
Bodleian ; and at Blenheim quite superseded
the powdered Ciceroni4 that attended us, and
that pointed in vain with his wand to com-
monplace beauties in matchless pictures.—
As another exception to the above reasoning,
I should not feel confident in venturing on a
journey in a foreign country without a com-
panion. I should want at intervals to hear
the sound of my own language. There is
an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an
Englishman to foreign manners and notions
that requires the assistance of social sym-
pathy to carry it off. As the distance from
home increases, this relief, which was at first
a luxury, becomes a passion and an appe-
tite. A person would almost feel stifled to
find himself in the deserts of Arabia with-
out friends and countrymen: there must be
allowed to be something in the view of
Athens or old Rome that claims the utter-
ance of speech ; and I own that the Pyra-
mids are too mighty for any single contem-
plation. In such situations, so opposite to
all one's ordinary train of ideas, one seems
a species by oneVaelf, a limb torn off from
society, unless one can meet with instant
fellowship and support.— Yet I did not feel
this want or craving very pressing once,
when I first set my foot on the laughing
shores of France.5 Calais was peopled with
novelty and delight. The confused, busy
murmur of the place was like oil and wine
poured into my ears; nor did the mariners9
• dlaplay ( If ailitt* accompanied Charles and Marv
Lamb through Oxford and Blenheim on their
wav to London, In 1810 See Hailitt'* On f he
Conrertotio* of Author* and The Character of
Countrv Proplr; alao Lamb's letter to Haalltt.
Aug 9. 1810)
itc Lott,
8, 660.
* hecanae of their talkative-
(A
. when he went to Part* to atndy the
maaterpieceH of art collected there 07 Na-
poleon^
hymn, which was sung from the top of an
old crazy vessel in the harbor, as the arm
went down, send an alien sound into my
soul. I only breathed the air of general
§ humanity. I walked over "the vine-covered
hills and gay regions of France,9'1 erect
and satisfied ; for the image of man was not
cast down and chained to the foot of arbi-
trary thrones : I was at no loss for language,
10 lor that of all the great schools of painting
was open to me. The whole is vanished like
a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom,
all are fled; nothing remains but the Bour-
bons and the French people !2— There is un-
16 dpubtedly a sensation in travelling into for-
eign parts that is to be had nowhere else:
but it is more pleasing at the time than last-
ing. It is too remote from our habitual
associations to be a common topic of dia-
20 course or reference, and, like a dream or
another state of existence, does not piece
into our daily modes of life. It is an ani-
mated but a momentary hallucination. It
demands an effort to exchange our actual
26 for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse
of our old transports revive very keenly, we
must "jump"8 all our present comfort*
and connections. Our romantic and itinerant
character is not to be domesticated. Dr.
30 Johnson remarked how little foreign travel
added to the facilities of conversation in
those who had been abroad.4 In fact, the
time we have spent there is both delightful
and in one sense instructive; but it appear*
83 to be cut out of our substantial, downright
existence, and never to join kindly on to it
We are not the same, but another, and per-
haps more enviable individual, all the time
we are out of our own country. We are lo*t
40 to ourselves, as well as our friends. So the
poet somewhat quaintly sings,
Out of my country and myself I go.
45 Those who wish to forget painful thoughts,
do well to absent themselves for a while
from the ties and objects that recall them:
but we can be said only to fulfill our destiny
in the place that gave us birth. I should
60 on this account like well enough to spend
the whole of my life in travelling abroad.
if I could anywhere borrow another life
to spend afterwards at home!
(written In 1791), 1.
France from 1589 to the
nd from the fall of Nn
were noted for their
1 William Roflcoe,
8 The Bonrbona
French Revo
poleon to 1830.
co"
1028
NINETEENTH CENTTJBY EOMANTICISTS
MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH
POETS
1823
My father was a Dissenting Minister at
W m1 in Shropshire, and in the year
1798 (the figures that compose that date
are to me like the "dreaded name of Derao-
gorgon"2) Mr. Coleridge came to Shrews-
bury, to succeed Mr. Rowe in the spiritual
charge oi a Unitarian congregation there
He did not come till late on the Satin day
afternoon before he was to preach ; and Mr
Rowe, who himself went down to the coach
m a state of anxiety and expectation, to look
for the arrival of his successor, could find
no one at all answering the description but
a round-faced man in a short black coat
(like a shoo ting* jacket) which hardly seemed
to have been made for him, but who seemed
to be talking at a great rate to his fellow-
passengers. Mr. Rowe had scarce returned
to give an account of his disappointment,
when the round-faced man in black entered,
and dissipated all doubts on the subject by
beginning to talk. He did not cease while
he btaid ; nor has he since, that I know of
He held the good town of Shrewsbury in
dehghtiul suspense for three weeks that he
remained there, "fluttering the provd Nalo-
pians like an eagle m a dove-rote;"8 and
the Welsh mountains that skirt the horizon
with their tempestuous confusion, agree to
have heard no such mystic sounds since the
days of
ITigli-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's
lay 1<
As we passed along between W m and
Shrewsbuiy, and I eyed their blue tops seen
through the wintry branches, or the red
rustling leaves of the sturdy oak-trees by
the roadside, a sound was in my ears as of
a Siren's song, I was stunned, startled with
it, as from deep sleep , but I had no notion
then that I should ever be able to express
my admiration to others in motley imae^ry
or quaint allusion, till the light of his genius
shone into my soul, like the sun fs rays glit-
tering in the puddles of the road T was
at that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless, like
a worm by the way-side, crushed, bleeding,
lifeless, but now, bursting from the deadly
bands that "bound them,
With -Styx nine times round them,*
Lost, 2, 064.
V, 0, 115 Shropshire IB Bometlmefl
----- _op, from the Lathi name
Pop$.' Ode cii^ff/. CcrA'a'* /)ay,49Q,
*
my ideas float on winged words, and as they
expand their plumes, catch the golden light
of other years. My soul has indeed remained
in its onginal bondage, dark, obscure, with
5 longings infinite and unsatisfied, my heart,
shut up m the prison-house of this rude clay,
has never found, nor will it ever find, a
heart to speak to, but that my understand-
ing also did not lemain dumb and brutish,
10 or at length found a language to express
itself, I owe to Coleridge. But this is not
to my puipose
My father lived ten miles from Shrews-
bury, and was m the habit oi exchanging
15 visits with Mr Rowe, and with Mr Jenkins
of Whitchurch (nine miles farther on) ac-
cording to the custom of Dissenting Minis-
ters in each other's neighborhood. A line
of communication is thus established, by
ao which the flame of civil and religious liberty
is kept alive, and nourishes its smouldering
fire unquenchable, like the fires in the
Agamemnon of JEschylus, placed at differ-
ent stations, that waited for ten long years
25 to announce with their blazing pyramids
the destruction of Troy Coleridge had
agreed to come over and see my father,
according to the courtesy of the country,
as Mr. Howe's probable successor, but in
30 the meantime I had gone to hear him preach
the Sunday after his arrival A poet and
a philosopher getting up into a Unitarian
pulpit to preach the Gospel, was a romance
in these degenerate days, a sort of revival
35 of the primitive spirit of Christianity,
which was not to be resisted
It was in January, 3798, that I rose one
morning before daylight, to walk ten miles
in the mud, and went to heai this celebiated
40 person preach Never, the longest day I
have to live, shall I have such another walk
as this cold, raw, comfortless one, in the
winter of the year 1708 11 y a des impres-
sions qve m le terns m les circonstances
45 pevvent efface* Dusse-je wvre des siMes
entten, le dour tema de ma jeunesse ne prut
renaitre pour moi, nt s'effarer jamats dans
ma memoire J When I got there, the on>nn
was playing the 100th Psalm, and, when
so it was done, Mr Coleridge rose and gave
out his text, "And he went up into the
mountain to pray, HIMSELF, ALONR n> As
he gave out this text, his voice "rose like a
1 There are ImpremlonR which neither time* nor
circumstance* can efface. Were I enabled to
live entire age*, the tweet days of my youth
could not return for me, nor ever be obliter-
ated from my memory — Jtonmeau,
ftfOMf.
•John, 0 15.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1029
Steam of rich distilled perfumed/91 and
when he came to the two last words, which
he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it
seemed to me, who was then young, as if the
sounds had echoed from the bottom of the
human heart, and as if that prayer might
have floated in solemn silence through the
universe The idea of St John came into
mind, "of one crying in the wilderness, who
had his loins girt about, and whose food
was locusts and wild honey. ' '* The preacher
then launched into his subject, like an eagle
dallying with the wind. The sermon was
upon peace and war; upon church and state
—not their alliance, but their separation—
on the spirit of the world and the spint of
Christianity, not as the same, but as op-
posed to one another. He talked of those
who had "inwnbed the cross of Christ
on banners dripping1 with human gore "
He made ft poetical and pastoral excursion,
—and to show the fatal effects of war, drew
a striking contrast between the simple shep-
herd boy, dining his team afield, or sitting
under the hawthorn, piping to his flock,
"as though he should ne>er be old,"8 and
the same poor country-lad, crimped, kid-
napped, hi ought into town, made drunk at
an ale-house, turned into a wi etched dinm-
iner-hoy, with his hair sticking on end with
powder and pomatum, a long cue at his
back, and 1 T ickcd out in the loathsome finery
ot the piotesbion of blood.
Such were the notes our once-lovM poet sung.4
And for myself, I could not have been more
delighted if I hnd heard the music of the
spheres5 Poetry and Philosophy had met
together, Truth and Genius hajfl embraced 8
under the eye and with the sanction of Re-
ligion. This was even beyond my hopes I
returned home well satisfied The sun that
was still labeling pale and wan through the
sky, obscmed by thick mists, seemed an
emblem of the qoorf rcruw, and the cold dank
drops of dew that hung half melted on the
beard of the thistle, had something genial
and lefreshin? in them; for there was a
spirit of hope and youth in all nature, that
tnrnod everything into good The face of
nature had not then the brand of Jus Divi-
num7 on it*
*, K5fl
fiL. » .1-4
'RtrtneY, Arcadia, 1, 2 i
« Pope, Erfatlr to Robert, Barf of Oxford. 1
• The ancients believed thnt the movement of the
celestial upheld produced music
• See PMlflu, 85 10.
• divine law
Liko to that sanguine flower inscribed with
woei
On the Tuesday following, the half-
inspired speaker came. I was called down
5 into the room where he was, and went half-
hoping, half -afraid He received me \ery
graciously, and I listened for a long time
without uttering a word. I did not suffei in
his opinion by my silence. "For those two
10 hours," he afterwaids was pleased to say,
"he was conversing with W II '& fore-
head1'9 His appearance was different from
what I had anticipated f i orn seeing him be-
foie. At a distance, and in the dim light
15 of the chapel, theie was to me a strange
wildness in his aspect, a dusky obscurity,
and I thought him pitted with the small-pox.
His complexion was at that time clear, and
even bright—
As are the children of you azure sheen.3
Tlis forehead was broad and high, light as
if built of i\oi\, \uth lnij»e piojectmg eye-
biows, and his ejes i oiling beneath them
•£ like a sea with darkened Instie "A ceitam
tender bloom his taw* o Vi spread, m a purple
tinge as TVG see it in the pale thoughtful
complexions of the Spanish portrait-
painters, Mm illo and Velasque/ His mouth
30 ^as cno^s* Aohiptuoiib, open, eloquent, his
chin good-luunou'd mid lound, but his nose,
the rudder ol the face, the index of the
will, was small, feeble, nothing— like what
he has done It might seem that the genius
35 oi his face as from a height surveyed and
piojectcd him (with sufficient capacity and
huge aspiration) into HIP woild unknown
ol thought and imagination, with nothing
to suppoit or guide his A coring purpose, as
40 if Columbus had launched his ad\cnturous
course for the New Woild in a scallop, with-
out oars or compass So at least I comment
on it after the e\ent Coleridge in his per-
son was rather above the common size,
45 inclining to (ho coi puleiit, or like Lord
Hamlrl, "somewhat fat and pmsj "4 His
hair (now, alas' gray) was then black and
glossv as the raven's, and fell in smooth
masses over his forehead This long pen-
so diilous hair is pecuhai to enthusiasts, to
those whose minds tend heavenward, and
is traditionally inseparable (though of a
different color) from the pictures of Christ
» LwXda*. 106. The petals of the hyacinth were
Hupmmed to bo marked with the exclamation
41 (woo) in lamentation for HjacinthuB,
from wboiw blood the flower was said to hare
sprung
•Thomson T1»c Cavtlr o/ fndolencf, 2 2fH
§/6W. 1, 507
* Hamlet, V, 2» 298 Parity means front of breath.
1030
NINETEENTH OENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
It ought to belong, as a character, to all
who preach Christ crucified, am} Coleridge
was at that time one of those I
It was curious to observe the contrast
between him and my father, who was a vet-
eran in the cause, aud then declining into
the vale of years. Ho had been a poor Irish
lad, carefully brought up by his patents,
and sent to the University of Glasgow
(where he studied under Adam Smith) to
prepare him for his future destination. It
wasihis mother's proudest wish to see her
son a Dissenting Minister. So if we look
back to past generations (as far as eye can
reach) we sec the same hopes, fears wishes,
followed by the same disappointments,
throbbing in the human heart; and HO we
may see them (if we look forwaul) rismu:
up forever, and disappearing, like >aporish
bubbles, in the human breast f After being
tossed about from congregation to congre-
gation in the heats of the Unitarian contro-
versy, and squabbles about the American
war, he had been relegated to an obscure
village, where he was to spend the last thirty
years of his life, far from the only converse
that he loved, the talk about disputed texts
of Scripture and the cause of mil and re-
ligious liberty Here he passed his days,
repining but resigned, in the study of the
Bible, and the perusal of the Commentators,
—huge folios, not easily got through, one
of which would outlast a winter! Why did
he pore on these from morn to night (with
the exception of a walk in the fields or a
turn in the garden to gather brocoli-plants1
or kidney-beans of his own rearing, with
no small degree of pnde and pleasure) t
Here was "no figures nor no fantasies,"2
—neither poetry nor philosophy— nothing to
dazzle, nothing to excite modern curiosity:
but to his lacklustre eyes there appeared,
within the pages of the ponderous, unwieldy*
neglected tomes, the sacred name of JE-
HOVAH in Hebrew capitals : pressed down
by the weight of the style, worn to the last
fading thinness of the understanding, there
were glimpses, glimmering notions of the
patriarchal wanderings, with palm-trees
hovering on the horizon, and processions of
camels at the distance of three thousand
years; there was Moses with the Burning
Bush9 the number of the Twelve Tribes,
types, shadows, glosses on the law and the
prophets; there were discussions (dull
enough) on the age of Methuselah, a mighty
speculation ' there were outlines, rude guesses
i A variety of ca
cauliflower.
t IT, 1, 231
at the shape of Noah's Ark and of the
riches of Solomon's Temple; questions as to
the date of the creation, predictions of the
end of all things; the great lapses of time,
~> the strange mutations of the globe were un-
folded with the voluminous leaf, as it turned
over; and though the soul might slumber
Mi'th an hieroglyphic veil of inscrutable mys-
teries drawn over it, yet it was in a slumber
10 ill-exchanged for all the sharpened realities
of sense, wit, fancy, or reason. My father's
life was compaiatively a dream; but it was
a dream of infinity land eternity, of death,
the resurrection, aud a judgment to cornel
is No two indn idnals were ever more unlike
than were the host and his guest. A poet
was to my father a sort of nondescript: yet
\\hate\er added grace to the Unitarian cause
was to him welcome. He could hardly ba\e
JO been mmc MII prised and pleased, if our MK-
itor had woni \unys. Indeed, his thoughts
had wings; and as the silken sounds rustled
round our little wainscoted pailor, my father
threw back his spectacles over his forehead,
•5 his white hairs mixing with its sanguine
hue; and a smile of delight beamed acros*
his rugged cordial face, to think that Truth
had found a new ally in Fancy'1 Besides
Coleridge seemed to take considerable notice
30 of me, and that of itself was enough. He
talked \ery familiarly, but agreeably, and
glanced over a variety of subjects At
dinner-tune he grew more animated, and
dilated in a very edifying manner on Mary
35 Wolfltpnecraft and Mackintosh The last,
he said, he considered (on my father's
speaking of his Vtndicur Gallwcr as a cap-
ital performance) as a clever scholastic man
—a master of the topics,— or as the ready
40 warehouseman of letters, who knc* exactly
where to lay his hand on what he wanted,
though the goods were not his own. He
thought him no match foi Burke, either in
style or matter. Burke was a metaphysician,
« Mackintosh a mere logician. Burke was
an orator (almost a poet) who reasoned in
figures, because he had an eye for nature-
Mackintosh, on the other hand, nas a ihet-
orieian, who had only an eye to eommon-
&ft places. On this I ventured to say that I bad
always entertained a great opinion of Burke,
and that (as far as T could find) the speak-
ing of him with contempt might be made
» * "My tether wms one of those who mistook hi*
05 talent after all He uaed to be very much dlx-
Nattifled that I preferred his Letters to hi*
Hermons. The. lart were forced and dry ; the
first came naturally from him. For ease,
half-plays on words, and a rapine, monkish,
Indolent pleasantry, T have never seen them
<*qnalled *r— Hanlltt.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1031
the test of a vulgar democratical miii d. This
was the first observation I ever made to
Coleridge, and he said it was a very jubt
and striking one. I remember the leg of
Welsh mutton and the turnips on the table
that day had the finest flavor imaginable.
Coleridge added that Mackintosh and Tom
Wedgwood (of whom, however, he spoke
highly) had expressed a very indifferent
opinion of his f nend Mr. Wordsworth, on
which he remarked to them— "He stndes
on so far before you, that he dwindles in
the distance!" Godwin had once boasted
to him of having earned on an argument
with Mackintosh for three hours with du-
bious success ; Coleridge told him— ' ' If there
had been a man of genius in the room, he
would have settled the question in five min-
utes." He asked me if I had e\er seen
Mary Wolstonecraf t, and I said, I had once
for a few moments, and that she seemed to
me to turn off Godwin's objections to some-
thing she advanced with quite a playful,
easy air. He replied, that "this was only
one instance of the ascendancy which people
of imagination exercised over those of men
intellect " He did not rate Godwin very
high1 (this wah caprice or prejudice, real
or affected) but he had a great idea of Mrs.
Wolstonerraf t *s powers of conversation,
none at all of her talent for book-making.
We talked a little about Holcroft. He had
been asked if he was not much struck with
him, and he Raid, he thought himself in more
danger of being struck by him. I complained
that he would not let me get on at all, for
he required a definition of even the com-
monest word, exclaiming, "What do you
mean by a sensation, Sirf What do you
mean by an idcaf" This, Coleridge said,
was barricadoing the road to truth :— it was
setting up a turnpike-gate at every step we
took. I forget a great number of things,
many more than I remember; but the day
passed off pleasantly, and the next morning
Mr. Coleridge was to return to Shrewsbury
When T came down to breakfast, I found
that he had just received a letter from his
friend, T. Wedgwood, making him an offer
of £150 a year if he chose to waive his
present pursuit, and devote himself entirely
to the study of poetry and philosophy
Coleridge seemed to make up his mind to
ned in particular of the .
. attempting to ertabllnh the future
ltv of nan, 'without' (as he Mid)
what Death wan, or what Life was1
tone In which he pronounced the»e
• c°mi>lete
clobe with this propobal iu the act of tying
on one of his shoes. It thiew an additional
damp 011 his depaiture. It took the way-
wait! enthusiast <jmte from us to cast him
6 into Deva's winding vales, or by the shores
of old romance.1 Instead of living at ten
miles distance, and being the pabtor of a
Dissenting congregation at Shrewsbury, he
was henceforth to inhabit the Hill of Par-
10 nassus, to be a Shepherd on the Delectable
Mountains.2 Alasl I knew not the nay
thither, and felt very little gratitude for Mr
Wedgwood's bounty. I was pleasantly re-
lieved from this dilemma ; for Mr. Coleridge
16 asking for a pen and ink, and going to a
table to write something on a bit of card,
advanced towards me with undulating step,
and giving me the precious document, said
that that was his address, Mr. Colendgc,
20 Nether-Stowey, Somersetshire; and that he
should be glad to see me there in a few
weeks' time, and, if I chose, would come
half-way to meet me. I was not less sur
prised than the shepherd-boy (this simile
26 is to be found in Cassandra) when he sees
a thunder-bolt fall close at his feet. I stam-
mered out my acknowledgments and accept-
ance of this offer (I thought Mr. Wedg-
wood's annuity a trifle to it) as well as I
30 could ; and this mighty business being settled,
the poet-preacher took leave, and I accom-
panied him sit miles on the road It was
a fine morning in the middle of winter,
and he talked the whole way The scholar
86 in Chaucer ib described as going
Sounding on his tray.*
So Coleridge went on his Tn digressing, in
dilating, in passing from subject to subject,
«0 he appealed to me to float in air, to slide
on ice lie told me in confidence (going
along) that he should have preached two
sermons before he accepted the situation
at Shrewsbury, one on Infant Baptism, the
tt other on the Lord's Supper, showing that
he could not administer either, which would
have effectually disqualified him for the
object in view I observed that he contin-
ually crossed me on the way by shifting
GO from one ride of the foot-path to the other.
This struck me as nn odd movement; but I
did not at that time connect it with any
instability of purpose or involuntary change
of principle, as I have done since. He
i See Wordsworth's 4 V«ffmr Ofrrf fr of Rough
ftfoftr* end Crap*. .18
• In PilfiHm'a Proffr*** Christian and Hopeful
meane from Giant Deapalr and come to the
Shepherd! of the Delectahle Mountain
•Chaucer. Prologue to t*c r**ttrb*ry Tula, 807.
1032
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8T8
seemed unable to keep on in a straight line.
He spoke slightingly of Hume (whose
Essay on Miracles he said was stolen from
an objection started in one of South 's Ser-
uioub—Credat Jwfaus ApellaP ) I was not
very much pleased at this account of Hume,
for I had just been reading, with infinite
relish, that completest of all metaphysical
choke-pears, his Treatise on Human Nature,
to which the Essays, in point qf scholastic
subtlety and close reasoning, are mere ele-
gant trifling, light summer-reading. Cole-
ndge even denied the excellence ot Hume's
general style, which I think betrayed a want
of taste or candor. He however made me
amends by the manner in which he spoke of
Beikeley. He dwelt particularly on his
Essay on Vision as a masterpiece of analyt-
ical reasoning. So it undoubtedly is. He
was exceedingly angry with Dr. Johnson
fur stiikmg the stone with his foot, in allu-
sion to this author's Theory of Matter and
tipint, and saying, "Thus I confute him,
Sir."2 Coleridge drew a parallel (I don't
know how he brought about the connection)
between Bishop Berkeley and Tom Paine.
He said the one was an instance of a subtle,
the other of an acute, mind, than which no
two things could be more distinct. The one
was a shop-boy's quality, the other the
characteristic of a philosopher. He consid-
ered Bishop Butler as a true philosopher,
a profound and conscientious thinker, a
genuine reader of nature and his own mind.
He did not speak of his Analogy, but of his
Sermons at the Rolls9 Chapel, of which I
had never heard. Colendge somehow always
contrived to prefer the unknown to the
known. In this instance he was nght. The
Analogy is a tissue of sophistry, of wiie-
drawn, theological special-pleading; the
Sermons (with the Preface to them) are in
a fine vein of deep, matured reflection, a
candid appeal to our observation of human
nature, without pedantry and without bias
I told Coleridge I had written a few re-
marks, and was sometimes foolish enough
to believe that I had made a discovery on
the same subject (the Natural Disinterested-
ness of the Human Mtmi)8— and I tried to
explain my view of it to Coleridge, who
listened with great willingness, but I did
not succeed in making myself understood.
I sat down to the task shortly afterwards
*Let tbe Jew \pella,— 4 t. a credulous penon,
believe It, I flhall not (Horace, flattrra. 1. B,
The MJr of Bamurl Jofciwoii (Oz-
316
by Hailltt until 1805.
for the twentieth time, got new pens and
paper, determined to make clear work of
it, wrote a few meagre sentences ui the skele-
ton-style of a mathematical demonstration,
5 stopped halt- way down the second page;
and, after trying in vain to pump up any
woids, images, notions, appiehensions, facts,
or observations, from that gulf of abstrac-
tion in which I had plunged myself for
10 four or five years preceding, gave up the
attempt as labor in vain, and shed tears
of helpless despondency on the blank un-
finished paper. I can write fast enough
now. Am I better than I was thenf Oh
15 no! One truth discovered, one pang of re-
gret at not being able to express it, is better
than all the fluency and flippancy in the
world. Would that I could gu back to what
I then was! Why can we not revive past
» times as we can revisit old places t If I
had the quaint Huse of Sir Philip Sidney
to assist me, I would write a Sonnet to the
Eoad between W m and Shrewsbury,
and immortalize every step oi it by some
« fond enigmatical conceit. I would swear
that the very milestones had ears, and that
Harmer-hill stooped with all its pines, to
listen to a poet, as he passed1 I remem-
ber but one other topic of discourse in this
30 walk. He mentioned Paley, praised the nat-
uralness and clearness of his style, but con-
demned his sentiments, thought him a men1
time-serving casuist, and said that "the
fact of his work on Moral and Political
35 Philosophy being made a text-book in oiu
Universities was a disgrace to the national
character." We parted at the six-mile
stone; and I returned homeward, pensive
but much pleased. I had met with unex-
40 pected notice from a person, whom I believed
to have been prejudiced against me ' ' Kind
and affable to me had been his condescen-
sion, and should be honored ever with suit-
able regard.9'1 He was the first poet I had
45 known, and he certainly answered to that
inspired name. I had heard a great deal of
Ins powers of conversation, and was not dis-
appointed. In fact, I never met with any-
thing at all like them, either before or since
BO I could easily credit the accounts which were
circulated of his holding forth to a large
party of ladies and gentlemen, an evening
or two before, on the Berkeleian Theory,
when he made the whole material universe
66 look like a transparency of fine words; and
another story (which I believe he has some-
where told himself2— of his being asked to
* Pttrvtftoe Lort. 8, 648-60
• Bee Coleridge a Biojfrapkia Literaria, 10.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1033
a party at Birmingham, of his smoking to-
bacco and going to sleep after dinner on a
sofa, where the company found him, to their
no small surprise, which was increased to
wonder when he started up of a sudden,
and rubbing his eyes, looked about him, and1
launched into a three-hours' description of
the third heaven, of which he had had a
dream, very different from Mr. Southey's
Vision of Judgment1 and also from that
other Vision of Judgment* which Mr.
Murray, the Secretary of the Bndge-
street Junto, has taken into his especial
keeping '
On my way back, I hdd a sound in my
ears, it was the voice of Fancy. I had a
light before me, it was the face of Poetry
The one still lingers there, the other has not
quitted my side' Coleridge in truth met
me half-way on the ground of philosophy,
or I should not have been won over to his
imaginative creed I had an uneasy, pleas-
urable sensation all the time, till I was to
visit him Dm ing those months the chill
breath of winter gave me a welcoming; the
venial air was balm and inspiration to me
The golden sunsets, the siher star of even-
ing, lighted me on my way to new hopes and
prospects I was to visit Coleridge in the
8 pi ing This circumstance was never absent
from my thoughts, and mingled with all my
feelings. I wrote to him at the time pro-
posed, and received an answer postponing
my intended visit for a week or two, but very
cordially urging me to complete my promise
then. This delay did not damp, but rather
increased, my ardor In the meantime I
went to Llangollen Vale, by way of initi-
ating myself in the mysteries of natural
scenery; and I must say I was enchanted
with it I had been reading Coleridge's
description of England, in his fine Ode on
the Departing Year* and I applied it, con
amore,4 to the objects before me That
valley was to me (in a manner) the cradle
of a new existence • in the river that winds
through it, my spirit was baptized in the
waters of Helicon!
T returned home, and soon after set out
on my journey with unworn heart and un-
tried feet. My way lay through Worcester
and Gloucester, and by Upton, where I
•By* ford Byron (p «t8). John ICnrray wu
pBHhter.flfjn« .pMrttrtgjiMiMj fi? of,gj
** bv
prevent
works of Byron and other writers. '
Bridge-Street Association (called "Gang"
Its enemies) was organised In 1821 to prei
seditious publication! and acts.
• flee 11 121-714 (p. 833).
•with love
thought of Tom Jones and the adventure of
the muff.1 1 leiuembei getting completely
wet through one day, and stopping at an inn
(I think it was at Tewkefebury*) where J
6 sat up all night to read Paul and Virginia.
Sweet were the showers in early youth that
drenched ray body, and sweet the drops of
pity that fell upon the books I read! I
recollect a remark of Coleridge's upon this
10 very book, that nothing could show the gross
indelicacy of French manners and the entire
corruption of their imagination more
strongly than the behavior of the heroine in
the last fatal scene, who turns away from a
15 person on board the sinking vessel, that
offers to save her life, because he has thrown
off his clothes to assist him in swimming.
Was this a time to think of such a circum-
stance t I once hinted to Wordsworth, as
20 we were sailing in his boat on Grasrnere lake,
that I thought he had borrowed the idea of
his Poems on the Naming of Places* from
the local inscriptions of the same kind in
Paul and Virginia He did not own the
25 obligation, and stated some distinction with-
out a difference, in defence of his claim to
originality. Any the slightest vanation
would be sufficient for this purpose in his
mind; for whatever he added or omitted
so would inevitably be worth all that any one
else had done, and contain the marrow of the
sentiment I was still two days before the
tune fixed for my arrival, for I had taken
care to set out early enough. I stopped these
3"> two days at Bndgewater, and when I was
tired of sauntering on the banks of its
muddy river, returned to the inn, and read
Camilla. So have I loitered my life away,
reading books, looking at pictures, going
40 to play, hearing, thinking, writing on what
pleased me best I have wanted only one
thing to make me happy; but wanting that,
ha\e wanted everything!
I arrived, and was well received. The
« country about Nether Stowey is beautiful,
green and hilly, and near the sea-shore. I
saw it but the other day, after an interval
of twenty years, from a hill near Taunton.
How was the map of my life spread out
60 before me, as the map of the country lay
at ray feet9 In the afternoon Coleridge
took me over to All-Foxden, a romantic old
family-mansion of the St. Aubins, where
Wordsworth lived. It was then in the pos-
66 session of a friend of the poet's, who gave
»In Fielding's TJie JTMory ol Tom Jcme», 10, 0
This was one of Haslltt's favorite books
• See Haslltt's On Qo%ng a Journey (p I025b, 21)
•Wordsworth wrote seven poems of this char-
acter. See It Wat an April Morning (p 278).
1034
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
him the free use of it.1 Somehow that
period (the tune just after the French Rev-
olution) was not a time when nothing ^was
given for nothing. The mind opened, and
a softness might be perceived coming over
the heart of individuals, beneath "the scales
that fence" our self-interest Wordsworth
himself was from home, hut his sister kept
house, and set before us a frugal repast;
and we had free access to her brother's
poems, the Lyncal Ballads, which were still
in manuscript, or in the form of Sybilline
Leaves. I dipped into a few of these with
great satisfaction, and with the faith of a
novice. I slept that night in an old room
with blue hangings* and covered with the
round-faced family-portraits of the age of
George I and II and from the wooded
declivity of the adjoining park that over-
looked my window, at the dawn of day, could
Hear the loud stag speak.
In the outset of life (and particularly at
this time I felt it so) our imagination has a
body to it. We are in a state between sleep-
ing and waking, and have indistinct but
glorious glimpses of strange shapes, and
there is always something to come better
than what we see. As in our dreams the
fulness of the blood gives warmth and
reality to the coinage of the brain, so in
youth our ideas are clothed, and fed, and
pampered with our good spints; we breathe
thick with thoughtless happiness, the
weight of future years presses on the strong
pulses of the heart, and we repose with un-
disturbed faith in truth and good. As we
advance, we exhaust our fund of enjoyment
and of hope. We are no longer wrapped in
lamb 's-wool, lulled in Elysium. As we taste
the pleasures of life, their spirit e\apomtes,
the sense palls , and nothing is left but the
phantoms, the lifeless shadows of what lias
been'
That morning, as soon as breakfast was
over, we strolled out into the park, and seat-
ing ourselves on the trunk of an old ash-tree
that stretched along the ground, Coleridge
read aloud with a sonorous and musical voice
The Ballad of Betty Foy. I was not criti-
cally or skeptically inclined I saw touches
of truth and nature, and took the rest for
granted. But in The Thorn* The Mad
Mother* and The Complaint of a Poor
Indian Woman, I felt that deeper power and
iWordiworth paid £23 H year ft» Alfoiden.
• Bee p 22fi
•This ooern waa later tntltltd Her Eye* Art
Wild See p 229.
10
pathob which ha\e been since acknowledged,
In spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,*
as the characteristics of this author; and the
r> sense of a new style and a new spirit in
poetry came over me It had to roe some-
thing of the effect that arises from the turn-
ing up of the fresh soil, or of the first wel-
come breath of spring:
While yet the trembling year i§ unconfirmed.*
Coleridge and myself walked back to Stowey
that evening, and his voice sounded high
1R Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
15 Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge ab»olute>
as we passed through echoing grove, by
fairy stream or waterfall, gleaming in the
summer moonlight! He lamented that
20 Wordsworth was not prone enough to be-
lieve in the traditional superstitions of the
place, and that there was a something cor-
poreal, a matter-of-fact-ness^ a clinging to
the palpable, or often to the petty, in his
25 poetry, in consequence. His genius was not
a spint that descended to him through the
air; it sprung out of the ground like a
flower, or unfolded itself from a green
spray, on which the gold-finch sang He
30 said, however (if I remember right) that
this objection must be confined to his de-
scriptive pieces, that his philosophic poetry
had a grand and comprehensive spirit in it,
so that his soul seemed to inhabit the universe
*5 like a palace, and to discover truth by intui-
tion, rather than by deduction.8 The next
day Wordsworth armed fiom Bristol at
Coleridge's cottage. I think I see him now
lie answered in some degree to his friend fs
40 description of him, but was more gaunt and
Don Quixote-like. He was quaintly dressed
(according to the costume of that uncon-
strained period) in a brown fustian jacket
and stuped pantaloons There was some-
45 thing of a roll, a lounge, in his gait, not
unlike his own Peter Bell There was a
severe, worn pressure of thought about his
temples, a fire in his eye (as if he saw some-
thing in objects more than the outward
5ft appearance), an intense high narrow fore-
head, a Roman nose, cheeks furrowed by
strong purpose and feeling, and a convulsive
inclination to laughter about the mouth, a
good deal at variance with the solemn,
65
» Pope, JfcM* on Man. 1, 20.1.
• Thomfion, The ftc<uon*. Spring, 298
• Paradise Lout. 2, WS9-60.
«Rte ColerM**'* BiograjtM* /jJfmirfo. 22 (p.
• Pee ibid (p* .102a, 26 ff ).
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1035
stately expression of the rest of his face.
Chantry's bust wants the marking traits;
bnt he was teased into making it regular and
heavy: Hay don's head of him, introduced
into The Entrance of Christ into Jerusalem,
is the most like his drooping weight of
thought and expression. He sat down and
talked very naturally and freely, with a
mixture of clear, gushing accents in his
voice, a deep guttural intonation, and a
strong tincture of the northern burr/ like
the crust on wine. He instantly began to
make havoc of the half of a Cheshire cheese
on the table, and said triumphantly that "his
marriage with experience had not been 30
productive as Mr. Southey 's in teaching him
a knowledge of the good things of life."
He had been to see The Cattle Spectre, by
Monk Lewis, while at Bristol, and described
it very well. He said "it fitted the taste of
the audience like a glove. " This ad captan-
dum* merit was however by no means a rec-
ommendation of it, according to the severe
principles of the new school,8 which reject
rather than conrt popular effect. Words-
worth, looking out of the low, latticed win-
dow, said, "How beautifully the sun sets on
that yellow bank'" I thought within my-
self, "With what ej'es the«ie poets see na-
ture!" and ever after, when I saw the sun-
pet stream upon the objects facing it, con-
ceived I had made a discovery, or thanked
Mr. Wordsworth for hrfving made one for
me! We went over to All-Foxden again the
day following, and Wordsworth read us the
story of Peter Bell in the open air , and the
comment made upon it .by his face and voice
was very different from that of some later
critics! Whatever might be thought of the
poem, "his face was as a book where men
might rend strange matters"* and he an-
nounced the fate of his hero in prophetic
tones. There in a chaunt in the recitation
both of Coleridge and Wordsworth, which
acts UK a spell upon the hearer, and dis-
arms the judgment. Perhaps they have de-
ceived themselves by making habitual use of
this ambiguous accompaniment. Coleridge '**
manner is more full, animated, and varied;
Wordsworth's more equable, sustained, and
internal. The one might be termed more
dramatic, the other more lyrical. Coleridge
has told me that he himself liked to compose
in waking over uneven ground, or breaking
i A trifled pronunciation of the letter r, common
•desined to catch popular applanw*
, — Word
through the straggling branches of a copse-
wood ; whereas Wordsworth always wrote (if
he could) walking up and down a straight
gravel-walk, or in some spot where the conti-
s nuity of his verse met with no collateral
interruption. Returning that same evening,
I got into a metaphysical argument with
Wordsworth, while Coleridge was explaining
the different notes of the nightingale to his
10 sister, in which we neither of us succeeded
in making ourselves perfectly clear and in-
telligible. Thus I passed three weeks at
Nether Stowey and in the neighborhood,
generally devoting the afternoons to a de-
lft lightful chat in an arbor made of bark by
the poet's friend Tom Poole, sitting under
two fine elm-trees, and listening to the bees
humming round us, while we quaffed our
flip * It was agreed, among other thing*,
20 that we should make a jaunt down the
Bristol-Channel, as far as Linton. We set
off together on foot, Coleridge, John Ches-
ter, and L This Chester was a native of
Nether Stowey, one of those who were at-
26 tracted to Coleridge's discourse as flies are
to honey, or bees in swarming-time to the
sound of a brass pan. He "followed in the
> chase like a dog who hunts, not like one that
made up the cry."* He had on a brown
30 cloth coat, boots, and corduroy breeches, was
low in stature, bow-legged, had a drag in
his walk like a drover, which he assisted by
a ha/el switch, and kept on a sort of trot by
the side of Coleridge, like a running foot-
So man by a state coach, that he might not lose
a syllable or sound, that fell from Cole-
ridge's lips He told me his private opinion,
that Coleridge was a wonderful man. He
scarcely opened his lips, much less offered an
40 opinion the whole way: yet of the three,
had I to choose during that journey, I would
be John Chester. He afterwards followed
Coleridge into Germany.8 where the Kantean
philosophers were puzzled how to bring him
tf under any of their categories.4 When he sat
down at table with his idol, John's felicity
was complete; Sir Walter Scott's or Mr.
Blaekwood's, when they sat down at the
same table with the King,5 was not more RO
BO We passed Dunster on our right, a small
town between the brow of a hill and the sea.
I remember eying it wistfully as it lay below
i A apleed drink
» Of ftrflo. IT, ft, 370
tttea. w*
of poeta, —
*Marbrth, I, ft. A1
ith Kant, a ratcgon man on.- of the constitu-
tional forms of the functioning of Intellect in
all kind* of Judgment.
•Probably a reference to the banquet which the
on An*. 24, 1822.
of Edinburgh pure to George IV
Bcoft
1036
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
us: contrasted with the woody scene around,
it looked as clear, as pure, as embrowned, and
ideal as any landscape I have seen since, of
Gasper Pouctin's or Domenichino's. We
had a long day's march— (our feet kept
time to the echoes of Coleridge 9t» tongue) —
through Minehead and by the Blue Anchor,
and on to Lonton, which we did not reach till
near midnight, and where we had some diffi-
culty in making a lodgment. We however
knocked the people of the house up at last,
and we were repaid foi our apprehensions
and fatigue by some excellent rashers of
fued bacon and eggb The view in coming
along had been splendid We walked for
miles and miles on dnik brown heaths o\er-
lookmg the channel, with the Welsh lulls
beyond, arid at time* descended into blllc
sheltered valleys close by the sea-side, with
a smuggler's face scowling by us, and then
had to ascend conical lulls with a path wind-
ing up thiough a coppice to a barren top,
like la monk's shaven crown, fiom one of
which I pointed out to Coleiidge's notice the
bare masts of a vessel on the very edge of
the horizon and within the red-orbed disk of
the setting sun, like his own spectie-ship in
The Ancient Manner.* At Linton the char-
acter of the sea-coast becomes moie marked
and lugged There is a place called The
Valley of Hocks (I suspect this was only the
poetical name for it) bedded among pieci-
pieeb ovei hanging the sea, with rocky cav-
erns beneath, into winch the waves dash, and
where the sea-gull forever wheels its sci earn-
ing flight On the tops of these are hucre
stones thrown transverse, as if an earth-
quake had tossed them there, and behind
these is a fietwork of peipendicular rocks,
something like Tin* Giant9 a Cuuseirai) A
thunder-storm came on while we were at the
inn, and Coleridge was running out bare-
headed to enjoy the commotion of the ele-
ments in The Valley of Pocks, but as if in
spite, the clouds only muttei ed a few angry
sounds, and let fall a few refreshing drops
Coleridge told me that he and Wordsworth
were to have made this place the scene of a
prose-tale, which was to have been in the
manner of, but far superior to, The Death of
Abel, but they had relinquished the design.
In the morning of the second day,$we break-
fasted luxuriously in an old-fashioned par-
lor, on tea, toast, eggs, and honey, in the
very sight 'of the bee-hives from which it
had been taken, and a garden full of thyme
and wild flowers that had produced it On
this occasion Coleridge spoke of Virgil's
* flee 11. 143 ff. (p, 837).
Georgics, but not well. I do not think he
had much feeling for the classical or elegant
It was in this room that we found a little
worn-out copy of The Seasons, lying in a
5 window-beat, on which Coleridge exclaimed,
11 That is true fame!" He said Thomson
was a great poet, rather than a good one,
Ins style was as meretricious as his thoughts
were natural. He spoke of Cowper as the
10 best modern poet. He said the Lyncal Bal-
lads were an experiment about to be tried
by him and Wordsworth, to see how far the
public taste would enduie poetry written in
a more natural and simple style than had
U hitherto been attempted ; totally discarding
the artifices of poetical diction, and making
use only of such words as had pi obably been
common, in the most ordinary language
since (lie days of Heniy IT 1 Some compari-
30 Hon was introduced between Shakespear and
Milton. He said "he hardly knew which to
prefer Shakespear appeared to him a ineie
stripling in the art , he was a<* tall and as
si long, with infinitely more activity than
25 Milton, but he nevei appealed to have come
to man 's estate ; or if he had, he would not
have been a man, but a moiister " He spoke
f with contempt of Oiay, and with intolerance
of Pope-' He did not like the* verification
30 of the latter. He observed that "the mi B of
these couplet-wi iterti might be charged with
hai ing short memories, that could not retain
the harmony of whole passages ' ' He thought
little of Junms as a writei ,' he hud a
35 dislike of Dr Johnson, and a much higher
opinion of Buike as an oiator and politician,
than of Fox or Pitt He however thought
him very inferior nv richness of style and
imagery to some of our eldei prose-writers,
40 particularly Jeiemy Taylor He liked Rich-
ardson, but not Fielding, nor could T get
him to enter into the merits of Caleb Wil-
liams^4 In shoit, lie was ptofound and dis-
criminating with respect to those authors
46 whom he liked, and wheie he gave his judg-
1 Henry II was King of England 1154-89
» SOP lrolcrldgr'8 Biof/raphia Litcrarta. 1-2
'For comments on Junta* and the other writer*
here mentioned, see Coleridge** Table Talk.
60
* virmutv • 4 »t*»t f. HIM i
July 3, 1833; July 4, 1833, Apr. 8, 1813, and
July 5, 1834 In the latter paper, Coleridge
1814*
exprenej a
araaon.
4 "Tie had no Idea
Raphael, and .at
he H<
for Fielding over Rich-
of pictures, of Claude or
n time I had as little an
ve* a striking account at
toon* at Ptaa, by Bnf-
maJeo and others: of one In particular
where Death IB seen In the air nrandi*nlng hli
*ovthe, and the great and mighty of the earth
Hhudder athls approach, while the beggars
and the wretched isneel to him an their deliv-
erer. He would of course understand so
,
and the wretched isneel to him an their
erer. He would of course understand so broad
and fine a moral as this at any time." — Hai-
II tt
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1037
ment fair play; capncious, perverse, and
prejudiced in his antipathies and distastes.
We loitered on the "nbbed sea-sands,"1 in
such talk as this, a whole morning, and I
recollect met with a curious sea-weed, of
which John Chester told us the country
name! A fisherman gave Coleridge an ac-
count of a boy that had been drowned the
day before, and that they had tried to sa^e
him at the rak of their own lives He said
"he did not know bow it wab that they ven-
tured, but, sii, we have a nature towards
one another." This expression, Coleridge
remarked to me, was a fine illustration of
that theory of disinterestedness which I
(in common with Butler) had ad >pted I
broached to him an aigument of mine to
prove that likeness was not mere association
of ideas I said that the mark in the sand
put one m mind of a man 's foot, not because
it was part of a former impression of a
man's foot (for it was quite new) but be-
cause it was like the shape of a man 's font
He assented to the justness of this distinc-
tion (which I have explained at length else-
where, for the benefit of the curious), and
John Chester listened: not from any inter-
est in the subject, but because he was aston-
ished that I should lie able to suggest anv-
thmg to Coleridge that he did not aheady
know We returned on the third morning,
and Coleridge remarked the silent cottage-
smoke curling up the \alleys where, a few
evenings befoie, we had seen the lights
gleaming through the daik
In a day or two after we arrived at
Stowey, we set out, T on mv retuin home,
and he for Germany. It was a Sunday
morning, and he was to preach that day for
Dr. Toulmin of Taunton. I asked him if
he had piepared anything for the occasion 1
He said he had not even thought of the text,
but should as soon as we parted. T did not
go to hear him,— this was a fault,— but we
met in the evening at Bridgewater. The next
day we had a long day's walk to Bnstol, and
sat down, I recollect, by a well-side on the
road, to cool ourselvps and satisfy our thirst,
when Coleridge repeated to me some descrip-
tive hues of his tragedy of Remorse, which
I must say became his mouth and that occa-
sion better than they, some years after, did
Mr. Elliston's and the Drury-lane boards,—
Oh memory! shield me from the world's poor
strife,
And give those scenes thine everlasting life,
I saw no more of him for a year or two,
Rime of Hie Inelrnt Mariner. 227 (p 338).
during which period he had been wandering
in the Hartz Forest in Germany; and his
return was cometary, meteorous, unlike his
setting out. It wad not till some time after
5 that I knew his f nends Lamb land Southey.
The last always appears to me (as I first
saw him) with a common-place-book under
his arm, and the first with a bon-mot1 in his
mouth It wab at Godwin 's that I met him
10 with Jlolcioft and Coleridge,2 where they
were disputing fiercely which was the best—
Man as he was, of man abbe is to be. ft Give
me," says Lamb, "man as he is not to be.''
This saying was the beginning of a fnend-
15 ship between ITS, which I believe still con-
tinues.—Enough of this for the present
But there is matter for another rhyme,
And I to this muv add a second tale s
20 ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY
IN YOUTH
1827
Life Is a purr flamo, and *e Ihe by an Invisible
bun within us. — fcm TUOMAS BBO\INL*
25 No young man believes he shall ever die.
It was a saving of mv biothei 's,5 and a fine
one. There is a feeling of Eternity in youth,
which makes us amends ior everything To
be vnung is to be as one of the Immortal
30 Oods One half of time indeed is flown—
the other half remains in store for us with
all its countless treasures; for there is no
line dra\\n, and we bee no limit to our hopes
and wishes We make the coming age our
35 own.—
The vaBt, the unbounded prospect lies before
us.fl
Death, old age, are words without a meaning,
40 that pass by us like the idle air which we
legard not. Others may have undergone, or
may still be liable to them— we "beai a
charmed life,"1 which Itmghs to scorn all
such sickly fancies. As in setting out on a
45 delightful journey, we strain our eager gaze
forward-
Bidding the lovely scene at distance hail," —
nnd sep no end to the landscape, new objects
w presenting themselves as we advance; so, in
the commencement of life, we set no bounds
to our inclinations, nor to the unrestricted
opportunities of gratifying them We have
as yet found no obstacle, no disposition to
66 flag; and it seems that we can go on so for-
1 clever OP wlttv saying f This was in 1804.
"Wordsworth, H ait-Leap Well, OH-Ort
« I rn Wwr/<i7, oh. r» "John llaxlltt (1767-1*17).
• \<ldl«<>n. ruff), V, 1, IB * Jfncftetfi. V, 8, 12.
•ColllUH, The Papons, 32 (p 51)
1038
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANT1C18T8
ever. We look round in a new world, full of
life, and motion, and ceaseless progress; and
feel in ourselves all the vigor and spirit to
keep pace with it, and do not foresee from
any present symptoms how we shall be left
behind in the natural course of things, de-
cline into old age, and drop into the grave.
It is the simplicity, and as it were abstracted-
ness of our feelings in youth, that (so to
speak) identifies us with nature, and (our
experience being slight and our passions
strong) deludes us into a belief of being
immortal like it. Our short-lived connection
with existence, we fondly flatter ourselves,
is an indissoluble and lasting union— a
honey-moon that knows neither coldness, jar,
nor separation. As infants smile and sleep,
we are rocked in the cradle of our wayward
fancies, and lulled into security by the roar
of the universe around us— we quaff the cup
of life with eager haste without draining it,
instead of which it only overflows the more
—objects press around us, filling the mind
with their magnitude and with the throng of
desires that wait upon them, so that we have
no room for the thoughtb of death From
the plenitude of our being, we cannot change
all at once to dust and abhes, we cannot
imagine "thi& sensible, warm motion, to be-
oome a kneaded clod"1— we are too much
dazzled by the brightness of the waking
dream around us to look into the darkness
of the tomb. We no more see our end than
our beginning: the one is lost in oblivion
and vacancy, as the other is hid from us by
the crowd and hurry of approaching events
Or the grim shadow is seen lingering in the
horizon, which we are doomed never to over-
take, or whose last, faint, glimmering out-
line touches upon Heaven and translates us
to the skies! Nor would the hold that life
has taken of us permit us to detach our
thoughtb from the present objects and pur-
suits, even if we would. What is there more
opposed to health, than sickness ; to strength
and beauty, than decay and dissolution; to
the active search of knowledge than mere
oblivion f Or is there none of the usual ad-
vantage to bar the approach of Death, and
mock his idle threats; Hope supplies their
place, and draws a veil over the abrupt ter-
mination of all our cherished schemes. While
the spirit of youth remains unimpaired, ere
the "wine of life is drank up,"* we are like
people intoxicated or in a fever, who are hur-
ried away by the violence of their own sen-
sations: it is only as present objects begin
* Jtauwre /or JfeoMire, III, 1, 120.
•tf«MJb/lI. 3, 100.
• to pall upon the sense, as we have been dis-
appointed in our favorite pursuits, cut off
from our closest ties, that passion loosens
its hold upon the breast, that we by degrees
6 become weaned from the world, and allow
ourselves to contemplate, "as in a glass,
darkly, MI the possibility of parting with it
for good. The example of others, the voice
of experience, has no effect upon us what-
10 e\cr. Casualties we must avoid: the slow
and deliberate advances of age we can play
at hide-and-seek with. We think ourselves
too lubty and too nimble for that blear-eyed
decrepid old gentleman to catch us. Like
15 the foolish fat scullion, in Sterne/ when she
hears that Master Bobby is dead, our only
reflection is— "So am not II" The idea of
death, instead of staggering our confidence,
rather seems to strengthen and enhance our
20 possession and our enjoyment of life. Oth-
ers may fall around like leaves, or be mowed
down like flowers by the scythe of Time*
these are but tropes and figures to the unre-
flecting eais and overweening presumption
25 of youth. It is not till we see the flowers of
Love, Hope, and Joy, withering around us,
and our own pleasures cut up by the roots,
that we bnng the moral home to ourselves,
that we abate something of the wanton ex-
so travagance of our pretensions, or that the
emptiness and dreariness of the prospect
before us reconciles us to the stillness of the
Life I thou strange thing, thou has a power to
7661
Thou art, and to perceive that others are.-*
Well might the poet begin his indignant
in\ecti\e againHt an art, whose protested
40 object is its destruction, with this animated
apostrophe to life. Life is indeed a strange
gift, and its privileges are most miraculous.
Nor is it singular that when the splendid
boon is first granted us, our gratitude, our
46 admiration, and our delight should prevent
us from reflecting on our own nothingness.
or from thinking it will ever be recalled.
Our first and strongest impressions are taken
from the mighty scene that is opened to us,
60 and we very innocently transfer its dura-
bility as well as magnificence to ourselves.
So newly found, we cannot make up our
minds to parting with it yet and at least put
off that consideration to an indefinite term.
K» Like a clown at a fair, we are full of amaze-
, 13-12.
•77*0 TAfe and Opinion* nf TrMrum
•"FawcetfB Art of War, a poem, 1794."— Ha*»
lltti
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1039
at and rapture, and have no thoughts of
going home, or that it will soon be night.
We know our existence only from external
objects, and we measure it by them. We can
never be satisfied with gazing; and nature *
will still want us to look on and applaud.
Otherwise, the sumptuous entertainment,
"the feast of reason and the flow of soul,"1
to which they were invited, seems little better
than mockery and a cruel insult. We do not *°
go from a play till the scene is ended, and
the hghts are ready to be extinguished. But
the fair face of things still shines on ; shall
we be called away, before the curtain falls,
or en we have scarce had a glimpse of wkat i&
is going on f Like children, our step-mother
Nature holds us up to see the raree-show2
of the universe; And then, as if life were a
burthen to support, Jet* us instantly down
again. Yet in that short interval, what »
"brave sublunary things"1 does not the
spectacle unfold ; like a bubble, at one min-
ute reflecting the um\er>e, and the next,
shook to nir !— To see the golden sun and the
aztm feky, the outstretched ocean, to walk •£
upon the green earth, and to be lord of a
thousand creatures, to look down the giddy
precipices or over the distant flowery vales
to see the world spread out under one'b
finger in a map, to bring the stars near, »
to view the smallest inswts in a microscope,
to read history, and witness the revolutions
of empires and the succession of genera-
tions, to hear of the glory of Sidon and
Tyre, of Babylon and Susa, as of a faded 35
pageant, and to say all these were, and are
now nothing, to think that we exist in such
a point of time, and hi such a corner of
space, to be at once spectators and a part
of the moving scene, to watch the return of *0
the seasons of spring and autumn, to hear
The stockdove plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustles to the sighing gale*—
to traverse desert wilderness, to listen to the
midnight choir, to MMt lighted balls or 45
plunge into the dungeon 's gloom, or sit in
crowded theatres and see life itself mocked,
to feel heat and cold, pleasure and pain,
light and wrong, truth and falsehood, to
study the works of art and refine the sense 60
of beauty to agony, to worship fame and to
dream of immortality, to have read Shak-
speare and belong to the same species as Sir
i Pope, Imitations of Horace, Satire 1, 128.
o'jrSr Dearly Loirt Friend, Henry
"if . 106
Canfle •/ Indolence. 1, WWU (p.
25).
Isaac Newton,1 to be and to do all thib, and
then in a moment to be nothing, to have it
•ays, in one of her
men rather be a rich
Wortley Montagu .
that ahe would m
__
an impolitic c___
ce of becoming one
Isaac
aa she had a
the other.
there being many rich effendls to one Sir
Isaac Newton The wish was not a Tory in-
tellectual one. The same petulance of rank
and BCI breaks ont everywhere In these Let-
ters. She Is constantly reducing the poets or
philosophers who have the misfortune of her
acquaintance, to the figure they might make
at lier Ladyship's levee or toilette, not consid-
ering that the public mind does not sympa-
thise with this process of a fastidious imagi-
nation. In the hame spirit, she declares of
Pope and Swift, that 'had it not been for the
pood-nature of mankind, these two superior
beings were entitled, by their birth and hered-
itary fortune, to be only a couple of link-boys.6
UulHi cr*8 Trai et*t and The Rape of the Look.
go for nothing In this critical estimate, and
the world raised the authors to the rank of
superior beings, In spite of their disadvan-
tages of birth and fortune, out of pure good-
nature! So again, she says of Richardson,
that be had never got beyond the servant's
hall, and was utterly unfit to describe the
manners of people of quality, till in the
capricious workings of her vanity, she per-
suades herself that Clarissa is very like what
she was at her age. and that Sir Thomas and
Lady Grandlson strongly resembled what she
had beard of her mother and remembered of
her father.* It is one of the beauties and ad-
vantages of literature, that it is the means of
abstracting the mind from the narrowness of
local and personal prejudices, and of enabling
us to judge of truth and excellence by their
Inherent merits alone. Woe bo to the pen
that uould undo this flue Illusion (the onlv
reality >, and teach us to regulate our notions
of genius and \irtue bj the circumstances In
which they happen to be placed* You would
not expert a person whom yon saw in a serv-
ant's nail, or behind a counter, to write
riarfona; hut after be had written the work,
to prc-judffe it from the situation of the
writer, is an unpardonable piece of injustice
and folly. His merit could onlv be the greater
from the contrast. If literature is an elegant
accomplishment, which none but persons of
hirth and fashion should be allowed to excel
in, or to exercise with advantage to the pub-
lic, let them by all means take upon them the
task of enlightening and refining mankind ; if
they decline this responsibility as too heavy
for their shoulders, let those who do the
drudgery In their stead, however Inadequately,
for want of their polite example, receive the
meed that is their due, and not be treated as
low pretenders who have encroached upon the
provinces of their betters. Suppose Richard-
son to have been acquainted with the great
man's steward, or valet, instead of the great
man himself, I will venture to sav that there
was more difference between him who lived in
an Weal irorfcf. and had the genius and felic-
ity to open that world to others, and his
friend the steward, than between the lacquev
and the mere lord, or between those who
lived in different room* of the tame house,
who dined on the same luxuries at different
tables, who rode outside or Inside of the same
coach, and were proud of wearing or of be-
• A Turkish title of respect
"Letter, May 17, 1717: For her comments on
Fielding and Richardson, see letters dated
Dec 14, 1750, Dec 8. lYol. Oct. 20. 1732.
m A June 23, 17S4. and! Bepi. 22, jjr,?.
1040
NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTICIST8
fcll snatched from one like a juggler's ball
or a phantasmagoria ; there is something re-
volting and incredible to sense in the transi-
tion, and no wonder that, aided by youth and
warm blood, and the flush of enthusiasm, the
mind contrives for a long time to reject it
with disdain and loathing as a monstrous and
improbable fiction, like a monkey on a house-
top, that is loath, amidst its fine discoveiies
and specious antics, to be tumbled headlong
into the street, and crushed to atoms, the
sport and laughter of the multitude !
The change, from the commencement to
the close of life, appears like a fable, aftei
it had taken place; how should we treat it
stowing the same tawdry livery. If the lord
IM distinguished from bis \alot by anything
rise, It la by education and talent, which he
has in common with the author But if the
latter shows thm* in the highest degree, it la
asked What are his pretension** * Not birth or
fortune, for neither of these would enable him
to write Clanwta. One man is born with a
title and estate, another with genius. That in
sufficient, and we have no right to question
the genius for want of the gentility, unless
the former ran In families, or could be be-
queathed with a fortune, which is not the
case Wore it so, tho flowers of literature.
like Jewels and embroidery, would be confined
to the fashionable circlet*; and there would bo
no pretenders to taste or elegance but those
whose names were found in the court list No
one objects to Claude's Landscapes as the
work of a pastry-cook, or withholds from
Raphael the epithet of dliine, because bit
parents were not rich This impertinence is
confined to men of letters : the evidence of the
senses baffles the envy and foppery of man-
kind No quarter ought to be given to this
aristocratic tone of criticism whenever It ap-
pears. People of quality are not contented
with canning all the external advantages for
their ovm share, but would persuade you that
all the Intellectual ones are packed up in the
same bundle. Lord Byron was a later In-
stance of this double and unwarrantable style
of pretension— monntr um fitf/ciiN. bi forme* lie
could not endure a lord who was not a wit.
nor a poet who was not a lord Nobody but
himself answered to his own standard of per
fectton. Mr. Moore carries a proxy in bis
pocket from some noble persons to estimate
literary merit by tbe same rule. Lady Mary
calls Fielding names, but she afterwards
makes atonement by doing Justice to his
frank, free, hearty nature, where she savs
'bis spirits gave him raptures with his cook-
maid, and cbeerfulnetw when he was starving
In a garret, and his happy constitution made
him forget everything wren he was placed
before a venison-pasty or over a flask of cham-
pagne* Bbe does not want shrewdness and
spirit when her petulance and conceit do not
get ttro better of her. and she has done ample
and merited execution on Lord Bolingbroie.
She Is, however, very angry at the freedoms
taken with the Great : m»rH* a rut In this in-
discriminate scribbling, and the familiarity of
writers with the reading public : and inspired
by her Turkish costume, foretells a French
and Bngllsh revolution as the consequence of
transferring, the patronage of letters from the
tpattty to the mob, and of supposing that or
dlnary writers or readers can have any no-
tions in common with their superiors." — Has-
Htt
• a monster, huge, misshaped (JEneid, 8, 658)
* See Works, 2, 283
otherwise than as a chimera before it has
come to pass. There are some things that
happened so long ago, places or personb we
have formerly seen, of which such dim traces
6 remain, we hardly know whether it was
sleeping or waking they occurred , they are
like dreams within the dieam of life, a mist,
a film before the eye of memory, which, as
we try to recall them more distinctly, elude
10 our notice altogether. It is but natural that
the lone interval that we thus look back
upon, should have appealed long and end-
less in prospect. Theie aie others so distinct
and fresh, they seem but of yesterday— their
in very vividness might be deemed a pledge of
their permanence. Then, however far back
our impressions may go, we find others still
older (for our yeais are multiplied in
youth) ; descriptions of scenes that we had
20 read, and people before our time, Priam and
the Trojan war; and even then, Nestor was
old and dwelt delighted on his youth, and
spoke of the race, of heroes that were no
more,— what wonder that, seeing thib long
25 line of beings pictured in our minds, and
reviving as it were in us, we should give our-
selves involuntary credit for an indetermi-
nate existence! In the Cathedral at Peter-
borough there is a monument to Mary, Queen
so of Scots, at which I used to gaze when a boy.
while the events of the period, all that had
happened since, passed in review before me.
If all this mass of feeling and imagination
could be crowded into a moment's compass,
85 what might not the whole of life be supposed
to contain f We are heirs of the past, we
count on the future as our natural reversion.
Besides, there are some of our early impres-
sions so exquisitely tempered, it appears that
40 they must always last— nothing can add or
take away from their sweetness and purity—
the first breath of spring, the hyacinth
dipped in the dew, tbe mild lustre of the
evening-star, the rainbow after a fiiorm—
« while we have the full enjoyment of these,
we must be young, and what can ever altrr
us in this respect 1 Truth, friendship, love,
books, are also proof against the canker of
time; and while we live, but for them, we
BO can never grow old. We take out a new lease
of existence from the objects on which we
net our affections, and become abstracted,
impassive, immortal in them. We cannot
conceive how certain sentiments should ever
55 decay or grow cold in our breasts; and,
consequently, to maintain them in their first
youthful glow and vigor, the flame of life
must continue to burn as bright as ever, or
rather, they are the fuel that feed the sacred
WILLIAM HAZLITT
1041
lamp, that kifedle "the purple light of
love,"1 and spread a golden cloud around
our heads ! Again, we not only flourish and
survive m our affections (in which we will
not listen to the possibility of a change, any
more than we foresee the wrinkles on the
brow of a mistress), but we have a farther
guarantee against the thoughts of death in
our favorite studies and pursuits and in their
continual advance. Art we know is long,
life, we feel, should be so too. We see no
end of the difficulties we have to encounter
perfection is slow of attainment, and WP
must have time to accomplish it in liubens
complained that when he had just learned
his art, he was snatched away from it. we
ti ust we shall be more fortunate ! A wiinkJe
in an old head takes whole days to finish it
properlv but to catch "the Raphael giace,
the Gmdo air,"2 no limit should be put to
OUT cndpavois. What a prospect for the
future ? What a task we ha> e enteied upon f
and shall we be a nested in the middle of it T
We do not reckon oui tune thus employed
lost, or our pains tin own away, or our prog-
ress slow— ve do not dioop 01 glow tired,
but ' * gam a new vigor nt oui endless task , ' '8
—and shall Tune giudge us the oppoit unity
to finish what we ha\e auspiciously begun,
and ha\e formed a soil ot compact with
natuie to achiPte? The fame of the great
names we look up to is also impei ishable ,
and shall not we, \iho contemplate if with
such intense yearnings, imbibe a portion of
ethereal fiie, the dnm<r particula aura,4
which nothing can extinguish T I remember
to have looked at a punt of Kembiaudt fni
IMIUIS together, wnhowt being conscious of
the flight of time, tiymg to resolve it into
its component parts, to connect its strong
And sharp giaclations, to learn the secret of
its icflected lights, and found neither satiety
nor pause in the prosecution of my studies
The pnnt o\ei which J was poiing would
last long enough ; why should the idea of
my mind, which was finer, more impalpable,
perish before it? At this, T redoubled the
aidnr of my pursuit, and bv the very sub-
tlety and ipfinemcnt of my inquiries, seemed
to bespeak for them an exemption fiom cor-
ruption and the rude grasp of Death.5
Objects, on our first acquaintance with
i flray. The Proarri* of Poe*j/t 41 (p 62)
•Pope. Moral KwayK, 8, »0 Raphael (148?
1320) nnd Guiflo Ronl (157 5-1 (Hi!)
Italian pn Inters
•Cowmr. Charity. 104
'portions of tho divine breath, — i r. Innplrntlon
t^In it not thin that lr«»qucntJv kcops artlfcN
alive go long, n: , tho constant occupation of
tholr minds ulth vivid image*, with little of
the wtar-and-tear of the body ?"— Haili 1 1
them, have that singleness and integrity of
impression that it seems as if nothing: could
destroy or obliterate them, so firmly are they
stamped and riveted on the brain. We re-
6 pose on them with a sort of voluptuous indo-
lence, in full faith and boundless confidence.
We are absorbed in the present moment, or
return to the same point— idling away a
great deal of time in youth, thinking we have
10 enough to spare There is often a local feel-
ing in the air, which is as fixed as if it were
marble; we loiter m dim cloisters, losing
oursehes in thought and in their glimmering
arches; a winding road before us seems as
16 long as the journey of life, and as full of
events. Time and experience dissipate this
illusion, and by reducing them to detail,
circumscribe the limits of our expectations.
It is only as the pageant of life passes by
20 and the masques turn their backs upon us,
that we see through the deception, or believe
that the tram will have an end In many
cases, the slow progress and monotonous tex-
ture of our lives, befoie we mingle with the
25 woild and are embroiled in its affairs, has a
tendency to aid the same feeling. We have
a difficulty, when left to ourselves, and with-
out the resomc'C of books or some more lively
pursuit, to "beguile* the slow and creeping
30 hours of time,"1 and argue that if it moves
on always at this tedious snail 's-pace, it can
ne\er come to an end We aie willing to
skip o\ei ceitam portions of it that separate
us from favorite objects, that irritate our-
33 sehes at the unnecessary delay. The young
are prodigal of life from a superabundance
of it, the old are tenacious on the same
scoie, because they have little left, and can-
not enjoy e\en what lemains of it.
40 For my pait, I set out in life with the
French Resolution, and that event had con-
sidciable influence on my early feelings, as
on those of others. Yontli was then doubly
such It WHS .he dawn of a new eia, a new
43 impulse had bwi given to men '& minds, and
the sun of Liheity rose upon the sun of Life
m the same da\, and both were proud to inn
their race together little did I dteam, while
my first hopes and wishes went hand in hand
50 with those of the human race, that long be-
fore my eyes should close, that dawn wonld
be overcast, and set once more in the night
of despotism2— " total eclipse!" Happy
that T did noL I felt for years, and during
65 the best pait of my existence, heart-wJiole in
that cause, and triumphed in the triumphs
* 40 Tow Ltlc //. II, 7. 112
•A lofmncp to the Reign of Torror and to the
accession of Napoleon
1042
CUNttJBV
At that tifflti, while
faU&t ri&piratttWB of the hitman mind
seemed about to be miiMlj et-e the image of
man was defaced and his breast mangled in
seoin, philosophy took a higher, poetry could
afford a deeper range. At that time, to read
The Bobbers, was indeed delicious,1 and to
hear
From the dungeon of the tower time-rent,
That fearful voice, a famish 'd father's cry*
ocmld be borne only amidst the fulness of
hope* the crash of the fall of the strong--
helds df power, and tha eiulting-sounda of
the march of human freedom, what feel-
ings the death-scene in Don Carlos* bent into
the &oul ! In that headlong career of lofty
enthusiasm, and the joyous opening of the
profepectb of the world and our own, the
thought of death ciosung it, smote doubly
cold upon the mind; there was a stifling
sense of oppression and confinement, an im-
patience of our present knowledge, a desire
to grasp the whole of our existence in one
strong embrace, to sound the mystery of life
and death, and in order to put an end to the
agony of doubt and dread, to burst through
our prison-house, and confront the King
of Terrors in his grisly palace!— As I was
writing out this passage, my miniature pic-
ture when a child lay on the mantle-piece,
and I took it out of the case to look ftt it.
I could perceive few traces of myself in it ;
but there was the same placid brow, the
dimpled mouth, the same timid, inquisitive
glance as ever. But its careless smile did not
seem to reproach me with having become
recreant to the sentiments that were then
sown in my mind, or with having written a
sentence that could call up a blush in this
image of ingenuous youth !
"That time is past with all its giddy rap-
tures."4 Since the future was barred to my
progress, I have turned for consolation to
the past, gathering up the fragments of my
early recollections, and putting them into
form that might live. It is thus, that when
we find our personal and substantial identity
vanishing from UH, we strive to gain a re-
flected and substituted one in our thoughts •
we do not like to perish wholly, and wish to
1 The ffobberg Is the immt MtroDgh rovolntlonarr
work of Schiller and of tbc Storm and Stow*
period in German literature. In Don Carlo*,
Schiller ibowi hlH impatience with the revo-
lutionary struggle In BO far as it concern*
physical liberty only, and stresses the value of
•Coleridge, To thf' Author of Th€ RoMcr*, 8-4.
• \ct I. 1
• WordRWorth. TAne* Compote* 9 Few Jftto 4 tot r
Tinter* Jbftey, 83-85 (p. 234).
our tittttft* at Ictet to posterity.
As" long as we' crfti tap «bv« oW etoifchfd
thoughts and nearest interest* ift toe tritd*
of others, we do not appear to have ttftfad
5 altogether flora the stage, we fetili occupy a*
place in the estimation of mankind, exercise
a powerful influence over them, and it is only
our bodies that are trampled ittto dust or dis-
persed to air. Our darling speculations still
10 find favor and encouragement, and we rtfflkff
as good a figure in the eyes of our descend-
ants, nay. perhaps, a better than we did in
our life-time* This is one point gained ; the
demands of our selMove are so far satisfied.
15 Besides, if by the proofs of intellectual supe-
riority wfl stiitlv* ourselves hi this world, by
exemplary virtue or unblemished^ faith, we
are taught to ensure dn interest in another
and a higher state of being, and to anticipate
so at the same time the applauses of men and
angels.
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries ,
Even in our ashes live their \\onted fires *
36 As we advance in life, we acquire a keener
sense of the value of time. Nothing else,
indeed, seeids of any consequence; and we
become misers in thin letipect. We try to
arrest its few last tottering steps, and to
30 make it linger on the brink of the grave. We
can never leave off wondenn? how that which
has e\er been should cease to be, and would
still live on, that we may wonder at our own
shadow, and when "all the life of life is
83 flown,"3 dwell on the retrospect of the past.
This is accompanied by a mechanical tena-
ciousneMt of whatever we possess, by a dis-
trust and a sense of -fallacious hollowness in
all we nee. Instead of the full, pulpy feeling
40 of youth, everything is flat and insipid. The
world is a painted witch, that puts us off with
false shows and tempting appearances The
ease, the jocund gaiety, the unsuspecting
security of youth are fled • nor can we, with-
46 out flying in the face of common sense,
From the last dregs of life, hope to receive
What its first sprightly runnings could not
give.'
50 If we can slip out of the world without
notice or mischance, can tamper with bodily
infirmity, and frame our minds to the becom-
ing composure of still-life, before we sink
into total insensibility, it in an much at we
K ought to expect. We do not in the regular
course of nature die all at once: we have
1 Gray, Ulew, Wrlttm in * Gauntry OfctfrrAyorrf,
91-92 (p 01)
• Burns, Lament for Jame*, Karl of Glmcatm, 46.
8 Dryden, Avremyscbe, IV, 1, 41-42
THOMAS DE QUlNCEY
1043
mouldered away gradually long before ; fac-
ulty after faculty, attachment after Attach-
ment, we are torn from ourselves piece-meal
while living; year after year tarn Borne*
thing from us; and death only consigns the
last remnant of what we were to the grave
The revulsion IB not BO great, and a quiet
euthanasia1 is a windmg-up of the plot, that
if not out of reason or nature.
That we should thus in a manner outlive
ourselves, and dwindle imperceptibly into
nothing, is not surprising, when evert in our
prime the strongest impressions leave so
little traces of themselves behind, and the
last object is dnven out by the succeeding
one. How little effect is produced on UR at
any time by the books we have read, the
scenes we have witnessed, the sufferings we
have gone through ! Think only of the va-
riety of feelings we experience in readintr
an interesting romance, or being present at
a fine play— <* hat beauty, what sublimity,
what soothing, what heart-rending emotions !
You would suppose these would last f orevei ,
or at least subdue the mind to a correspond-
ent tone and harmony— while we turn over
the page, while the scene is passing before
us, it seems as if nothing could ever after
shake our resolution, that "treason domes-
tic, foreign levy, nothing could touch us
farther!"3 The first splash of mud we get,
on entering: the street, the first pettifogging
shop-keeper that cheats us out of two-pence,
and the whole vanishes clean out of our re-
membrance, and we become the idle prey of
the most petty and annoying circumstances.
The mind soars by an effort to the grand and
lofty it is at home, in the grovelling, the
disagreeable, and the little. This happens in
the height and hey-day of our existence,
when novelty gives a stronger impulse to the
blood and takes a faster hold of the brain,
(I have known the impression on coming out
of a gallery of pictures then last half a day)
—as we grow old, we become more feeble
and querulous, every object "reverbs its own
hollowness,"* and both worlds are not
enough to satisfy the peevish importunity
and extravagant presumption of our de-
sires! There are a few superior, happy
beings, who are born with a temper exempt
from every trifling annoyance. This spirit
sits serene and smiling as in its native skies,
and a divine harmony (whether heard or
not) plays around them.4 This is to be at
peace. Without this, it is in vain to fly into
**anr death
•vSXrtfc, III, 2. 24. *F&L*K'& *• 14B-
« A reference to the ancient belief that the move-
ment of the celestial vpheres produced mt»!<
deserts, or to build a hermitage btt the top
of rock*, if tttret and ill-hum^ follow Us
there l attd with thte, it is ttbedless to make
the fcxperunent. The only true retirement
6 is that ot the heart ; the only true leisure is
the repose of the passions. To such personb
it makes little difference whether they are
young or old; and they die as they have
lived, with graceful resignation.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1715-1859)
CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-
KATEB
16404*
From Ptutuim \HT CONFESSIONS
»•••••
1 ha\e otten been abked how I came to be
a regular opium-eater; and have buffered,
20 very unjustly, in the opinion of my acquaint-
ance, from being reputed to have brought
upon mybclf all the sufferings which I shall
have to record, by a long course of indul-
gence in this practice purely for the sake of
26 creating an artificial state of pleasurable
excitement This, however, is a misrepresen-
tation of my case. True it is, that for
nearly ten years I did occasionally take
opium for the sake of the exquisite pleasure
so it gave me : but, so long as I took it with
this view, I was effectually protected from
all material bad consequences by the neces-
sity of interposing long intervals between
the several acts of indulgence, in order to
35 renew the pleasurable sensations. It was
not for the purpose of creating pleasure, but
of mitigating pain in the severest degree,
that I first began to use opium as an article
of daily diet. In the twenty-eighth year of
40 my age, a most painful affection of the
stomach, which I had first experienced about
ten years before, attacked me in great
strength. This affection had originally been
caused by extremities of hunger, suffered in
46 my boyish days. During the season of hope
and redundant happiness which succeeded
(that is, from eighteen to twenty-four) it
had slumbered : for the three following years
it had revived at intervals: and now, under
60 unfavorable circumstances, from depression
of spirits, it Attacked me with a violence that
yielded to no remedies but opium. As the
youthful sufferings which first produced this
derangement of the stomach, were interesting
66 in themselves, and in the circumstances that
attended them, I shall here briefly retrace
them.
My father died when I was about seven
years old, and left me to the care of four
1044
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
guardians. I was sent to various schools,1
great and small; and was very early distin-
guished lor my classical attainments, espe-
cially for my knowledge of Greek. At
thirteen I wrote Greek with ease, and at
fifteen my command of that language was
so great that I not only composed Greek
verses in lyric metres, but could converse
in Greek fluently, and without embarrass-
ment—an accomplishment which I have not
tince met with in any scholar pf my tunes,
and which, in my case, was owing to the
practice of daily reading off the newspapers
into the best Greek I could furnish extem-
pore for the necessity of ransacking: my
memory and invention for all sorts and com-
binations of periphrastic expressions, as
equivalents for modern ideas, images, rela-
tions of things, etc., gave me a compass of
diction which would never have been called
out bv a dull translation of moral essays,
etc "That boy/' said one of my masters,2
pointing the attention of a stranger to mo,
''that boy could harangue an Athenian mob
better than you or I could address an Eng-
lish one " He who honored me with this
eulogy, was a scholar, "and a ripe and good
one" 8 and, of all my tutors, was the only
one whom I loved or reverenced Unfortu-
nately for me (and, as I afterwards learned,
to this worthy man's great indignation), I
was transferred to the care, first of a block-
head,4 who was in a perpetual panic lest I
should expose his ignorance, and finally, to
that of a respectable scholar,5 at the head
of a great school on an ancient foundation
This man bad been appointed to his situa-
tion by [Brasenose]0 College, Oxford; and
was a sound, well-built scholar, but, like
most men whom I have known from that
college, coarse, clumsy, and inelegant A
miserable contrast he presented, in my eyes,
to the Etonian brilliancy7 of my favorite
master • and, besides, he could not disguise
from my hourly notice the poverty and
meaprrenpss of his understanding It is a
bad thing for a boy to be, and to know him-
self, far beyond his tutors, whether in knowl-
edge nr in power of mind. This was the case,
so far as regarded knowledge at least, not
with myself only for the two boys, who
»At Bath, at Winkfleld, and at Manchester.
•Mr Morgan, master of Bath School.
, ^
•Mr. LawBon, matter of Manchester School The
School wa» founded hy Hugh Oldham. Blihop
of Exeter. in 1519.
•The bracketed words In the text are nuppllert
from the 1856 edition of the ConfeyUm*
•A reference to the emphasis placed upon the
claraical training at Eton.
jointly with myself composed the first form,
were better Grecians1 than the head-master,
though not more elegant scholars, nor at all
more accustomed to sacrifice to the graces.
6 When I first entered, 1 remember that we
read Sophocles; and it was a constant mat-
ter of triumph to us, the learned triumvirate
of the first form, to see our Archuhdaaca-
lua* as he loved to be called, conning our
10 lesson before we went up, and laying a regu-
lar train, with lexicon and gramroai, ioi
blowing up and blasting, as it were, any
difficulties he found in the choruses, whilM
1170 never condescended to open our books
IB until the moment of going up, and were
generally employed in writing epigrams
upon his wig, or some such important mat-
ter. My two class-fellows were poor, and
dependent for their future prospects at tho
20 university, on the recommendation of the
head-master, but I, who had a small patri-
monial property, the income of which was
sufficient to support me at college, wished to
be sent thither immediately. I made earnest
25 representations on the subject to my guar-
dians, but all to no purpose One, who was
more reasonable, and had more knowledge
of the world than the rest, lived at a dis-
tance- two of the other three resigned all
30 their authonty into the hands of the fourth ,*
and this fourth, with whom I had to nego-
tiate, was a worthy man in his way, but
haughty, obstinate, and intolerant of all
opposition to his will. After a certain nuni-
35 ber of letters and personal interviews, I
found that I had nothing to hope for, not
even a compromise of the matter, from mv
guardian : unconditional submission was
what be demanded : and I prepared myself,
*0 therefore, for other measures Summer was
now coming on with hasty steps, and my
seventeenth birthday was fast approaching,
after which day I had sworn within myself
that I would no longer be numbered amongst
45 schoolboys Money being what I chiefly
wanted, I wrote to a woman of high rank,4
who, though young herself, baa known mo
from a child, and had latterly treated me
with great distinction, requesting that she
» would "lend" me five guineas. For up-
wards of a week no answer came; and T
was beginning to despond, when, at length,
'That iff, had had more Greek.
1 Toe word means head matter.
• In hlfl Introduction to the World of fttrijr. De
Quince? mention* tbew guardians an B. E.
O, and II The fourth WBH the Reverend
Samuel Hall, curate at Ralfnrd, a part of Man-
cheater.
* Lady Carbery. a friend of De Qulncey'n mother.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1015
a servant put into my hands a double letter,
with a coronet on the seal. The letter was
kind and obliging:: the fair writer was 011
the sea-coast, and in that way the delay had
arisen : she enclosed double of what I had 6
asked, and good-naturedly hinted that if I
should never repoy her it would not abso-
lutely ruin her. Now, then, I was prepared
for my scheme • ten guineas, added to about
two which I had remaining from my pocket w
money, seemed to me sufficient for an in-
definite length of time • and at that happy
age, if no definite boundary can be assigned
to one's power, the spnit of hope and pleas-
ure makes it virtually infinite. 16
It is a just lenmrk of Dr. Johnson's, and,
what cannot often be said of his remarks,
it is a wry feeling one, that we never do
anything consciously for the last time— of
things, that is, which we have long been in 20
the habit oi doing— without sadness of
heart1 This tnith I felt deeply, when I
came to lea\e [Manchestei], a place which
I did not lo\e, and where I had not been
happv On tlio evening before I left [Man- 25
chestei] foic\Pi, T #rie\ed when the ancient
and lom school -room resounded with the
evening Reiviee, performed for the last time
in my hearing , and at night, when the
mustei-Toll of names was called over, and 30
mine, as usual, vas called first, I stepped
forward, and, passing the head-master, who
was standing- bv, T bowed to him, and looked
earnestly in his face, thinking to myself,
"He is old and infirm, and in this world T 35
shall not see him again " I was right* T
never did see him again, nor ever shall. He
looked at me complacently, smiled good-
naturedty, returned my salutation, or rather
my valediction, and we parted, though he 40
knew it not, forever T could not reverence
him intellectually but he had been uni-
foimly kind to me, and had allowed me
many indulgence* and T grieved at the
thought of the mortification I should inflict to
upon him
The morning came which was to launch
me into the world, and from which my whole
succeeding life has, in many important
points, taken its coloring. I lodged in the 60
head-master's house, and had been allowed,
from my first entrance, the indulgence of a
private room, which I used both as a sleep-
ing-room and as a study At half after three
I rose, and gazed with deep emotion at the B
ancient towers of |"the Collegiate Church],
"dressed ip earliest light, " and beginning
Johnson's The liter, No 103 (the tat pa-
per).
to crimson with the radiant lustre of a
cloudless July morning I was firm and
immovable in my purpose . but yet agitated
by anticipation of uncertain danger and
troubles, and, if I could have foreseen the
hurricane and perfect hail-storm of affliction
which soon fell upon me, well might I have
been agitated. To this agitation the deep
peace of the morning presented an affecting
contrast, and in some degree a medicine.
The silence was more profound than that of
midnight : and to me the silence of a sum-
mer morning is more touching than all other
silence,1 because, the light being broad and
strong, as that of noon-day at other seasons
of the year, it seems to differ from perfect
day chiefly because man is not yet abroad ;
and thus the peace of nature, and of the
innocent creatures of God, seems to be se-
cure and deep, only so long as the presence
of man, and his restless and unquiet spirit,
are not there to trouble its sanctity. I
dressed myself, took my hat and gloves, and
lingered a little in the room. For the last
year and a half thi* room had been my
''pensive citadel" 2 here I had read and
studied thiough all the hours of night: and,
though true it was that for the latter part
of this tune I, who was framed for love and
gentle affections, had lost my gaiety and
happiness, during the stnfe and fever of
contention with my guardian; yet, on the
other hand, as a boy so passionately fond
of books, and dedicated to intellectual pur-
suits, I could not fail to have enjoyed many
happy hours in the midst of general dejec-
tion. T wept as I looked round on the chair,
hearth, writing-table, tmd other familiar ob-
jects, knowing too certainly that I looked
upon them for the last time Whilst T wnte
this, it is eighteen years ago- and yet, at
this moment, I see distinctly as if it were
yesterday the lineaments and expression of
the object on which I fixed my parting gaze:
it was a picture of the lovely ,» which
hung over the mantle-piece; the eyes and
mouth of which were so beautiful, and the
whole countenance so radinnt with benignity
and divine tranquillity, that T had a thou-
sand times laid down my pen or my book,
to gather consolation from it, as a devotee
from his patron saint Whilst I was yet
gazing upon it, the deep tone* of [Man-
chester] clock proclaimed that it was fonr
o'clock. I went up to the picture, kissed it,
1 R*e p 1077b, 1-42 : alao The JSntflsh Mati-QoMh,
8. 1 (p. 1125b. 46 ff).
1 Wordsworth, Jfuns Fret not at their Conrent'i
yarrow Room, 8 (p 800)
''The name of the subject of this picture !• un-
known.
1046
NINETEENTH CENTUBY B6MANT1C1ST6
and then gently walked out, and closed the
door forever!
• •*•*•
So blended and intertwisted in this life
are occasions of laughter and of tears, that
I cannot vet recall, without smiling, an inci-
dent which occurred at that tune, and which
had nearly put a stop to the immediate exe-
cution of my plan. I had a trunk of im-
mense weight; for, besides my clothes, it
contained nearly all my library. The diffi-
culty was to get this removed to a carrier's:
my room was at an aenal elevation in the
house, and (what was worne) the staircase,
which communicated with this angle of the
building, was accessible only by a gallery
which passed the head-master's chamber-
door. I was a favorite with all the servants ;
and, knowing that any of them would screen
me, and act confidentially, I communicated
my embarrassment to a groom of the head-
mastei'a The groom swore he would do
anything I wished ; and, when the time ar-
rived, went up stairs to bring the trunk
down. This I feared was beyond the strength
of any one man : however, the groom was a
Of Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear
The weight of mightiest monarchies*
and had a back as spacious as Salisbury
plain. Accordingly, he persisted in bringing
down the trunk alone, whilst I stood waiting
at the foot of the last flight, in anxiety for
the event. For some time I heard him de-
scending with slow and firm steps: but,
unfortunately, from his trepidation as he
drew near the dangerous quarter, within a
few stops of the gallery, his foot slipped;
and the mighty burden, falling from his
shoulders, gained such increase of impetus
at each step of the descent, that, on reach-
ing the bottom, it tumbled, or rather leaped,
right across, with the noise of twenty devils,
against the very bedroom door of the Archi-
didascalus. My first thought was that all
was lost, and that my only chance for exe-
cuting a retreat was to sacrifice my baggage.
However, on reflection, I determined to
abide the issue. The groom was in the ut-
most alarm, both on his own account and
on mine: but, in spite of this, so irresistibly
bad the sense of the ludicrous, in this un-
happy contretemps* taken possession of his
fancy, that he sang out a long, loud, and
canorous8 peal of laughter, that might have
wakened the Seven Sleepers. At the sound
•mooant;
lout. 2, 806-7.
•untoward accident
of this resonant merriment, within the very
ears of insulted authority, I could not my-
self forbear joining in it: subdued to this,
not so much by the unhappy ttourderie1 of
6 the trunk, as by the effect it had upon the
groom. We both expected, os a matter of
course, that Dr. [Lawson] would sally out
of his room : for, in general, if but a mouse
stirred, he sprang out like a mastiff from his
10 kennel. Strange to say, however, on this
occasion, when the noise of laughter had
ceased, no sound, or rustling even, was to
be heard in the bedroom. Dr. [Lawson]
had a painful complaint, which, sometimes
15 keeping him awake, made his sleep, perhaps,
when it did come, the deeper. Gathering
courage from the silence, the groom hoisted
his burden again, and accomplished the re-
mainder of his descent without accident. I
20 waited until 1 saw the trunk placed on a
wheel-barrow, and on its road to the cai-
rier's: then, " with Providence my guide,"2
I set off on foot,— carry ing a small parcel,
with some articles of dret»8, under my arm ,
26 a favorite English poet in one pocket, and a
small 12mo \olume, containing about nine
plays of Euripides, in the other.
It had been my intention onginally to
proceed to Westmoreland, both from the
90 love I bore to that country, and on othei
personal accounts8 Accidents, however,
ga\e a different direction to my wanderings,
and I bent my steps towards North Wales
After wandering about for some time in
85 Denbighshire, Merionethshire, and Carnar-
vonshire, I took lodgings in a small neat
house in B[angor]. Here I might have
stayed with great comfort for many weeks;
for provisions were cheap at B[angor],
40 from the scarcity of other markets for the
surplus produce of a wide agricultural dis-
trict An accident, however, in which, per-
haps, no offence was designed, drove me out
to wander again. I know not whether my
45 reader may have remarked, but 7 have often
remarked, that the proudest class of people
in England, or, at any rate, the class whose
pride is most apparent, are the families of
bishops* Noblemen and their children carry
60 about with them, in their \ery titles, a suffi-
cient notification of their rank. Nay, their
very names, and this applies also to the
children of many untitled houses, are often
to the English ear adequate exponents of
a high birth or descent Sackville, Manners,
Fiteroy, Paulet, Cavendish, and scores of
others, tell their own tale. Bueh perrons,
> blonder • PwmNf 0 T**t, 12, 647.
" For the purpnup of rlaltlnf Wonlnwortta.
THOMAS DU QUINCEY
1047
therefore, find everywhere a due sense of
their claims already established, except
among those who are ignorant of the world
by virtue of their own obscurity: "Not to
know them, argues one's self unknown.9'1 5
Their manners take a suitable tone and color-
ing; and, for once that they find it neces-
sary to impress a sense of their consequence
upon others, they meet with a thousand
occasions for moderating and tempering thib 10
sense by acts of courteous condescension.
With the families of bishops it is otherwise :
with them it is all uphill work to make
known their pretensions: for the propoition
of the episcopal bench taken from noble IB
families is not at any time very large; and
the succession to these dignities is so rapid
that the public ear seldom has time to bo-
come familiar with them, unless where they
are connected with some literary reputation. 20
Hence it is, that the children of bishop*
parry about with them an austere and re-
pulsive air, indicative of claims not gener-
ally acknowledged, a sort of noli me tan-
gere* manner, nervously apprehensive of too 25
familiar approach, and shrinking with the
sensitiveness of a gouty man, from all con-
tact with the ol iroAAoc.8 Doubtless, a power-
ful understanding, or unusual goodness of
nature, will preserve a man from such weak- so
ness: but, in general, the truth of my repre-
sentation will be acknowledged: pride, if
not of deeper root in such families, appear*,
at least, more upon the surface of their
manners. The spirit of manners naturally x>
communicates itself to their domestics and
other dependents. Now, my landlady had
been a lady's maid, or a muse, in the family
of the Bishop of f Bangor] ; and had but
lately married away and "settled" (as mioli 40
people express it) for life In a little to* n
like BTanpor] merely to have lived in the
bishop's family conferred some distinction •
and my good landlady had rather more than
her share of the pride I have noticed on that &
wore What "my lord" said, and what
"my lord" did, how useful he was in Par-
liament, and how indispensable at Oxford,
formed the daily burden of her talk. All
this I bore very well: for I was too good- GO
natured to laugh in anybody's face, and I
could make an ample allowance for the gar-
rulity df an old servant. Of necessity, how-
ever, I must have appeared in her eyes very
inadequately impressed with the bishop's 65
importance: and, perhaps, to punish me for
i P»rmffa» £oftt. 4. RIO.
• touch DIP not
» mmiv multitude
my indifference, or possibly by accident, she
one day repeated to me a conversation m
which I was indirectly a party concerned.
She had been to the palace to pay her re-
spects to the family; and, dinner being
over, was summoned into the dining-room.
In giving an account of her household econ-
omy, she happened to mention that she had
let her apartments. Thereupon the good
bishop (it seemed) had taken occasion to
caution her as to her selection of inmates:
"for," said he, "you must recollect, Betty,
that this place is in the high road to the
Head;1 so that multitudes of Irish s\un-
dleis, running away i'rora their debts into
England— and of English swindlers, run-
ning away from their debts to the Isle of
Man, are likely to take this place in their
route." This advice was certainly not with-
out reasonable grounds: but rather fitted to
be stored up for Mrs. Betty's private medi-
tations, than specially reported to me. What
followed, howe\er, was somewhat worse:—
"Oh, my lord," answered my landlady (ac-
cording to her own representation of the
matter), "I really don't think this young
gentleman is a swindler; because "
—"You don't tlrink me a swindler?" said
I, interrupting her, in a tumult of indigna-
tion "for the future I shall spare you the
trouble of thinking about it." And without
delay I prepared for my departure Some
concessions the good woman seemed dis-
posed to make: but a harsh and contemp-
tuous expression which I fear that I applied
to the learned dignitary himself, roused lirr
indignation in turn : and reconciliation then
became impossible. I was, indeed, greatly
nritatod at the bishop's having suggested
any grounds of suspicion, however remotely,
against a person whom he had never Been :
and I thought of letting him know my mind
in Greek: which, at the same time that it
would furnish some presumption that I was
no swindler, would also, I hoped, compel
the bishop to reply in the same language;
in which case, I doubted not to make it ap-
pear, that if I was not so rich as his lordship,
I was a better Grecian. Calmer thoughts,
however, drove this boyish design out of my
mind : for I considered that the bishop was
in the right to counsel an old servant; that
he could not have designed that his advice
should be reported to nie ; and that the same
coarseness of mind which had led Mrs. Betty
to repeat the advice at all might have colored
it in a way more agreeable to her own style
1 Probably Rolyhead, from which tnroler* woulrt
cm hark for irrinnfl or th<» Mo of Man
1048
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
of thinking than to the actual expressions of
the worthy bishop.
I left the lodgings the same hour, and
this turned out a very unfortunate occur-
rence for me: because, living henceforwaid
at inns, I was drained of my money very
rapidly. In a fortnight I was reduced to
short allowance; that is, I could allow my-
self only one meal a day. From the keen
appetite produced by constant exercise and
mountain air acting on a youthful stomach,
I soon began to suffer greatly on this slender
regiiren ; for the single meal which I could
venture to oider was coffee or tea. Even
this, however, was at length withdiawn : and
afteiwards, so long as 1 remained in Wales,
1 subsisted eithei on blackberries, hips, haws,
etc , or on the casual hospitalities which T
now and then received, in return for such
little service as I had an oppoitunity of
rendering Sometimes I wrote letters of
business for cottagers, who happened to
have relatives an Liverpool, or in London •
more often I wiote love-letters to their
sweethearts for young women who had Ined
AS servants m Shrewsbury, or other towns
on the English bolder. On all such occa-
Mons I gave gieat satisfaction to mv hnmblp
f i lends, and was generally treated with hos-
pitality and once, in particular, near the
Milage of Llan-y-<.tyndw (or some such
name), in a sequestered part of Merioneth-
shire, I was entertained for upwards of
three days by a family of younjr people,
with an affectionate and fraternal kindness
that left an impression upon my heait not
yet impaired The family consisted, at that
time, of four sisters and' three brothers, all
grown up, and all remarkable for ele«anee
and delicacy of manners So much beauty,
nnd so much native good-breeding1 and re-
finement, I do not remember to have seen
before or since in any cottage, except once
or twice in Westmoreland and Devonshire
They spoke English, an accomplishment not
often met with in so many members of one
family, especially in villages remote from
the high road. Here I wrote, on my fiist
introduction, a letter about prize-money, for
one of the brothers, who had served on
board an English man-of-war; and more
privately, two love-letters for two of the
sisters. They were both interesting looking
girls, and one of uncommon loveliness. In
the midst of their confusion and blushes,
whilst dictating, or rather giving me general
instructions, it did not require any great
penetration to discover that what they
wished was, that their letters should be as
kind as was consistent with proper maidenly
pnde. I contnved so to temper my expres-
sions as to reconcile the gratification of both
feelings: and they were as much pleased
5 with the way in which I had expressed their
thoughts, as, in their simplicity, they were
astonished at my having so readily discov-
ered them. The reception one meets with
fiom the women of a family generally de-
10 termines the tenor of one's whole entertain-
ment. In this case I had discharged my
confidential duties as secretary so much to
the general satisfaction, perhaps also amus-
ing them with my conversation, that I was
15 pressed to stay with a cordiality which I had
little inclination to resist. I slept with the
brothers, the only unoccupied bed standing
in the apartment of the young women • but
in all other points they treated me with a
20 respect not usually paid to puises as light
as mine; as if my scholarship were sufficient
evidence that I was of "gentle blood "
Thus I lived with them for three days, and
a greater part of a fourth • and from the
25 undimimshed kindness which they continued
to show me, I bel^e I might have stayed
with them up to this time, if then power
had corresponded with their wishes On the
last morning, howe\ei, J perceived upon
30 their countenances, as they sat at bieakfffst,
the expression of some unpleasant commu-
nication which was at hand, and soon after
one of the brothers explained to me that
their parents had gone, the day before my
35 arnval, to an annual meeting of Methodists,
held at Carnarvon, and were that day ex-
pected to leturn; "and if they should not
l>e so civil as they ought to be," he begged,
on the part of all the young1 people, that I
40 would not take it amiss The parents re-
turned, with churlish faces, and "/tyro
Sassenach" (no English) 9'm answer to all
mv addresses. I saw how matters stood;
nnd so, taking an affectionate leave of my
46 kind and .interesting young hosts, I went
my way. For, though they spoke warmly
to their parents in my behalf, and often
excused the manner of the old people,
by saying that it was "only their way,1'
60 yet I easily understood that my talent
for wnting love-letters would do as little
to recommend me with two grave sexa-
genarian Welsh Methodists, as my Greek
Sapphics or Alcaics*1 and what had been
65 hospitality, when offered to me with the
gracious courtesy of my young friends,
1 Greek love lyrlct written after the manner of
Bappho and AlraiiH, famous Greek poets (000
B C)
THOMAS DB QUINCEY
1049
would become chanty, when connected
with the harsh demeanor of these old
people. Certainly, Mr. Shelley is right
in his notions about old age:1 unless
powerfully counteracted by all sorts ol
opposite agencies, it is a miserable corrupter
and blighter to the genial chanties of the
human heart
Soon after this, I contrived, by means
which I must omit foi want of room,2 to
transfer myself to London. And now began
the latter and fiercer stage of my long suffer-
ings, without using a disproportionate ex-
pression, I might say, of my agony. For T
now suffered, for upwards of sixteen weeks,
the physical anguish of hunger in various
degrees of intensity ; but as bitter, perhaps
as ever any human being can ha\e suffered
who has survived it I would not needlessly
harass my reader's feelings by a detail of all
that I endured* for extremities such as
these, under any circumstances of heaviest
misconduct or guilt, cannot be contemplated
even in description without a rueful pity
that is painful to the natural goodlier of
the human heart. Let it suffice, at least on
this occasion, to sav that a few fragments
of bread from the breakfast -table of one
individual,8 who supposed me to be ill, but
did not know of my being in utter want, and
these at uncertahi intenals, constituted mv
whole support "Dunns the formei part of
my suffenngs, that is, generally in Wales,
arid always for the first two months in
London, I was houseless, and very seldom
slept under a roof To this constant expo-
sure to the open air T ascribe it mainly that
F did not sink under my torments Latterlv,
however, when colder and more inclement
weather earne on, and when, from the length
of my snffcnnsrsf T had begun to sink into
a more lansnu&hmg condition, it was, no
doubt, fortunate for me that the same per-
son to whose breakfast-table I had access
allowed me to sleep in a large unoccupied
house, of which he was tenant Unoccupied,
T call it, for there was no household or
establishment in it ; nor any furniture \n-
ileed, except for a table and a few chair*
But T found, on taking possession of my
new quarters, that the house already con-
tained one single inmate, a poor friendless
child, apparently ten years old; but she
seemed hunger-bitten ; and sufferings of that
i Shelley nav* that old age !« cold and cruel Rte
hi* T&r Rrrolf o/ firtam, 2, »3
•He borrowed twelve guineas from two friends
• A Mr Brunei), fin o hum re lawyer, who had
heen recommended to De Qnlncey h? a monev-
Icnder named Dell
sort often make children look older than
they are. From this foilorn child I learned
that she had slept and lived there alone for
some tune before I came . and great joy the
5 poor creature expressed, when she found
that I was, in future, to be her companion
through the hours of darkness. The house
was large , and, from the want of furniture,
the noise of the rats made a prodigious echo-
10 mg on the spacious staircase and hall ; and,
amidst the real fleshly ills of cold, and, I
fear, hunger, the forsaken child had found
leisure to suffer still more, it appeared, from
the self -created one of ghosts I promised
16 her protection against all ghosts whatso-
ever but, alas I I could offer her no other
assistance. We lay upon the floor, with a
handle of cursed law papers for a pillow
but witlj no other covering than a sort of
20 large horseman's cloak: afterwards, how-
ever, we discoveied, in a garret, an old sofa-
cot er, a small piece of rug, and some frag-
ments of other articles, which added a little
to our \vannth The poor child crept close
25 to me for warmth, and for security against
her ghostly enemies When I was not more
than usually ill, T took her into my arms, so
that, in general, she was tolerably warm, and
often slept when I could not for, duiim?
30 the last two months of my sufferings, I slept
much in the day-tune, and was apt to fall
into transient dozing at all hours. But my
sleep distiessed me more than my watcli-
ing for, besides the tumult nousness of my
85 dreams, which were only not so awful as
those which I shall have to descuhe here-
after as produced by opium, my sleep was
never more than what is called doqsleep.
so that T could hear myself moaning, and
40 was often, a* it seemed to me, wakened sud-
denly by my own voice; and, about this
time, a hideous sensation began to haunt
me as soon as T fell into a slumber, which
has since returned upon me at different
« periods of my life, ru , a sort of twitching,
T know not where, but apparently about the
legion of the stomach, which compelled me
violently Bto throw out my feet for the sake
of relieving it This sensation coming on
60 as soon as I began to sleep, and the effort
to relieve it constantly awaking me, at
length^ T slept only from exhaustion ; and
from increasing weakness, a* T said before,
T was constantly falling asleep, and eon-
B stantlv awaking Meantime, the master of
the house sometimes came in npon us sud-
denly, and very early, sometimes not till
ten o'clock, sometimes not at all. He was
in constant fear of bailiffs- improving on
1050
NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
the plan of Cromwell,1 every mgfat he blept
in b different quarter of London; and I
observed that he never failed to examine
through a private window the appearance
of those who knocked at the door, before he
would allow it to be opened. He break-
fasted alone: indeed, his tea equipage
would hardly have admitted of hib hazard-
ing an invitation to a second person— any
more than the quantity of esculent matfncl,
which, for the most part, was little more
than a roll, or a few biscuits, which he had
bought on nis road from the place where he
had slept. Or, if he had asked a party, as
I once learnedly and facetiously observed to
him— the several members of it must have
stood in the relation to each other (not sat
m any relation whatever) of succession, as
the metaphysicians ha\e it, and not of co-
existence; in the relation of the parts of
time, and not of the parts of space. During
his breakfast, I generally contra ed a reason
for lounging in; and, with an air of as
much indifference as I could asbume, took
up such fragments as he had left— some-
times, indeed, there were none at all. In
doing this, I committed nd robbery except
upon the man himself, who was thus
obliged, I believe, now and then to send
out at noon for an extra biscuit ; for, as to
the poor child, she was never admitted into
his study, if I may give that name to bis
chief depository of parchments, law writ-
ings, etc ; that room was to her the Blue-
beard room of the house, being regularly
locked on his departure to dinner, about six
o'clock, which usually was his final depar-
ture for the night Whether this child were
an illegitimate daughter of Mr. [Brunell],
or only a servant, I could not ascertain ; she
did not herself know; but certainly she was
treated altogether as a menial servant. No
sooner did Mr. [Brunell] makers appear-
ance, than she went below stairs, brushed
his shoes, coat, etc.; and, except when she
was summoned to run an errand, she never
emerged from the dismal Tartarus of the
kitchens, etc, to the upper air, until my
welcome knock at night called up her little
trembling footsteps to the front door. Of
her life during the daytime, however, I
knew little but what I gathered from her
own account at night; for, as soon aft the
to the precautions for tafetj_ W
. li mid to have taken after Ihe dta-
of hli last Parliament According to
------ « -------- „„<!„, M§
SSSrty lodged two pistil together
nber" Bee Cltrendon'ii The H1*-
fieoefflo* und Wrll Warn 1« B«fi-
hours of business commenced, I saw that my
absence would be acceptable; and, in gen-
eral, therefore, I went off, and sat in the
parkb, or elsewhere, until nightfall.
5 But who, and what, mfeantime, was the
master of the house himself f Reader, he
was one of those anomalous practitioners in
lower departments of the law, who— what
shall 1 ba} t — who, on prudential reasons, or
10 from necessity, deny themsehes all indul-
gence in the luxury of too delicate a con-
science: (a periphrasis which might be
abndged considerably, but that I leave to
the reader's taste:) in many walks of life,
16 a conscience i& a more expensive encum-
brance, than a wife or a carnage; and just
as people talk of "laying- dcron" their car-
nages, M> I suppose my fnend, Mr [Bru-
nell], had 'Maid down" his conscience for a
20 time, meaning, doubtless, to resume it as
soon an he could afford it. The inner econ-
omy of such a man 'b daily life would pre-
bent a most strange picture, if I could allow
myself to amuse the reader at his expense
25 Even with my limited opportunities foi
observing \\hat went on, I saw many scene*,
of London intrigues, and complex chicanery
"cycle and epicycle, orb in orb,"1 at which
I sometimes wmle to this day— and at winch
» I smiled then, in spite of my misery Mi
situation, however, at that^ time, gave mo
little experience, in my own person, of any
qualities in Mr. [Brunell]^ character but
such as did him honor, and of his whole
85 gtrange composition I must forget every-
thing but that towards me he was obliging
xmd, to the extent of hib power, generous.
That power was not, indeed, very exten-
sive; however, in common with the rats, I
40 gat rent free; and, at* Dr Johnson has re-
corded, that he never but once in Ins life
had as much wall-fruit as he could eat,2 HO
let me be grateful, that on that single occa-
sion I had as large a choice of apartments
45 in a London mansion as I could possibly
desire. Except the Bluebeard room, which
the poor child believed to be haunted, all
others, from the attics to the cellars, were
at our service; "the world was all before
BO us";8 and we pitched our tent for the night
in any spot we chose. This house I have
already described as a large one; it stands
in a conspicuous situation, and in a well-
known part of London. Many of my read-
i Paradise Lent. 8. 84
•The incident \* recorded Id Mn. Pionl'i Anec-
dote* of the tale Bamnel Jo***on, LL D., <f«r-
Jftjvtto toff Twenty Team of ftto Mf* (1786).
" Pmdtoe Lout, 12, 040
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1051
en will have passed it, I duubt not, within a
few hours of reading this. For myself, I
never fail to visit it when business draws
me to London; about ten o'clock, this very
night, August 15, 1821, being my birthday,
—I turned aside from my evening walk,
down Oxford Street, purposely to take a
glance at it : it is now occupied by a re-
spectable family; and, by the lights in the
front drawing-room, I observed a domestic
party, assembled perhaps at tea, and appar-
ently cheerful and gay. Marvellous contrast
in my eyes to the darkness— cold— silence—
and desolation of that same house eighteen
years ago, when its nightly occupants were
one famishing scholar, and a neglected child.
—Her, by the bye, in after years, I vainly
endeavored to trace. Apart from her situa-
tion, she was not what would be called an
interesting child: she was neither pretty,
nor quick in understanding, nor remarkably
pleasing in manners. But, thank Ood! even
in those years I needed not the embellish-
ments of novel accessaries to conciliate my
affections; plain human nature, in its hum-
blest and most homely apparel, was enough
for me: and I loved the child because she
was my partner in wretchedness. If she is
now living, she is probably a mother, with
children of her own; but, as I have said, I
could never trace her.
This I regret, but another person there
was at that time, whom I have since sought
to trace with far deeper earnestness, and
with far deeper sorrow at my failure. This
person was a young woman, and one of that
unhappy class who subsist upon the wages
of prostitution. I feel no shame, nor have
any reason to feel it, in avowing that I was
then on familiar and friendly terms with
many women in that unfortunate condition.
The reader needs neither smile at this
avowal, nor frown. For, not to remind my
classical readers of the old Latin proverb—
"Sine Cerere,"1 etc., it may well be sup-
posed that in the existing state of my purse
my connection with such women could not
have been an impure one. But the truth is,
that at no time of my life have I been a
person to hold myself polluted by the touch
or approach of any creature that wore a
human shape: on the contrary, from my
very earliest youth it has been my pride to
converse familiarly, more Socratico* with
all human beuijpR, man, woman, and child,
that chance might fling in my way: a prae-
i without food and wine lore grows cold (Te-
rence, Kn**oh*9t IV, 5, 6)
•after the .manner of Socratesr-4. «„ by ques-
and answers
tice which is friendly to the knowledge of
human nature, to good feelings, and to that
frankness of address which becomes a man
who would be thought a philosopher. For a
s philosopher should not see with the eyes of
the poor limitary creature calling himself a
man of the world, and filled with narrow
and self-regarding prejudices of birth and
education, but should look upon himself as
10 a catholic creature, and as standing in an
equal relation to high and low— to educated
and uneducated, to the guilty and the inno-
cent. Being myself at that time of necessity
a peripatetic, or a walker of the streets, I
15 naturally fell in more frequently with those
female peripatetics who are technically
called street-walkers. Many of these women
had occasionally taken my part against
watchmen who wished to drive me off the
20 bteps of houses where I was sitting. But
one amongst them, the one on whose account
I have at all introduced this subject— yet
no! let me not class thee, oh noble-minded
Ann , with that order of women; let
25 me find, if it be possible, some gentler name
to designate the condition of her to whose
bounty and compassion, ministering to my
necessities when all the world had forsaken
me, I owe it that I am at this time alive.—
» For many weeks I had walked at nights with
this poor friendless girl up and down Ox-
ford Street, or had rested with her on steps
and under the shelter of porticoes. She
could not be so old as myself: she told me,
35 indeed, that she had not completed her six-
teenth year. By such questions as my in-
terest about her prompted, I had gradually
drawn forth her simple history. Hers was
a case of ordinary occurrence (as I have
40 since had reason to think) , and one in which,
if London beneficence had better adapted its
arrangements to meet it, the power of the
law might oftener be interposed to protect,
and to avenge. But the stream of London
tf charity flows in a channel which, though
deep and mighty, is yet noiseless and under-
ground; not obvious or readily accessible
to poor houseless wanderers: and it cannot
be denied that the outside air and frame-
50 work of London society is harsh, cruel, and
repulrive. In any ease, however, I saw that
part of her injuries might easily have been
redressed; and I urged her often and ear-
nestly to lay her complaint before a magis-
55 trate: friendless as she was, I assured her
that she would meet with immediate atten-
tion; and that English justice, which was
no respecter of persons, would speedily and
amply avenge her on the brutal ruffian who
1052
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIGI8TB
had plundered her little properly. She
promised me often that she would; but she
delayed taking the steps I pointed out
from time to tune: for she was timid and
dejected to a degree which showed how
deeply sorrow had taken hold of her young
heart : and perhaps she thought justly that
the most upright judge, and the most right-
eous tribunals, could do nothing to repan
her heaviest wrongs. Something, howevei,
would perhaps have been done: for it had
been settled between us at length, but un-
happily on the veiy last time but one that I
was ever to see her, that in a day or two wi»
should go together before a magistrate, and
that I should speak on her behalf. This
little service it was destined, however, that
I should never realize. Meantime, that
which she rendered to me, and which was
greater than I could ever have repaid hci,
was this:— One night, when we were pacing
slowly along Oxtoid Street, and after a day
when I had felt more than usually ill and
faint, I requested her to turn off with me
into Soho Square • thither we went ; and we
sat down on the steps of a house, which, to
this hour, I never pass without a pang of
grief, and an inner act of homage to the
spirit of that unhappy girl, in memory of
the noble action which she there performed.
Suddenly, as we sat, I grew much worse:
I had been leaning my head against her
bosom; and all at once I sank from her
arms and fell backwards on the step. From
the sensations I then had, I felt an inner
conviction of the liveliest kind that without
some powerful and reviving stimulus, I
should either have died on the spot— or
should at least have sunk to a point of ex-
haustion from which all re-ascent under my
friendless circumstances would soon have
become hopeless. Then it was, at this crisis
of my fate, that my poor orphan companion
—who had herself met with little but in-
juries in this woi Id— stretched out a saving
hand to me. Uttering a cry of terror, but
without a moment's delay, she ran off into
Oxford Street, and in less time than could
be imagined, returned to me with a glass of
port wine and spices, that acted upon my
empty stomach (which at that time would
have rejected all solid food) with an instan-
taneous power of restoration: and for this
glass the generous girl without a murmur
paid out of her own humble purse at a
time— be it remembered!-*' when she had
scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare
necessaries of life, and when she could have
no reason to expect that I should ever be
able to reimburse her. Oh! youthful
benefactress! how often in succeeding
years, standing in solitary places, and think-
ing of thee with grief of heart and perieet
6 love, how often have I wished that, as in
ancient times the curse of a father was
believed to have a supernatural power, and
to pursue its object with a fatal necessity
of self-fulfillment,— even so the benediction
10 of a heart oppressed with gratitude might
have a like prerogative; might have power
given it from above to chase— to haunt— to
way-lay1— to overtake— to pursue thee into
the central darkness of a London brothel,
IB or, if it were possible, into the daikness of
the grave— there to awaken thee with an
authentic message of peace and forgiveness,
and of final reconciliation!
I do not often weep: for not only do
20 mv thoughts on subjects connected with the
chief interests of man daily, nay hourly,
descend a thousand fathoms "too deep for
tears "f not only does the sternness of my
habits of thought present an antagonism to
26 the feelings which prompt tears— wanting
of necessity to those who, being protected
usually by their levity from any tendency
to meditative sorrow, would by that same
levity be made incapable of resisting it on
30 any casual access of such feelings.— but
also, I believe that all minds which hax?
contemplated such objects as deeply as 1
have done, must, for their own protection
fiom utter despondency, have early encour-
86 aged and cherished some tranquillizing be-
lief as to the future balances and the lneio-
glyphic meanings of human suffeiings On
these accounts, I am cheerful to this houi ,
and, as I have said, I do not often weep
40 Yet some feelings, though not deeper 01
more passionate, are more tender than oth-
ers, and often, when I walk at this tune in
Oxford Street by dreamy lamp-light, and
hear those airs played on a barrel-organ
45 which years ago solaced me and my dear
companion, as I must always call her, I
shed tears, and muse with myself at the mys-
terious dispensation which so suddenly and
so critically separated us forever. How it
60 happened, the reader will understand from
what remains of this introductory narration.
Soon after the period of the last incident
I have recorded, I met, in Albemarle Street,
a gentleman of his late majesty's8 house-
66 hold. This gentleman bad received hospital-
» Bee WordflWorth'H She wot a Phantom of D0-
Ii0ht, 10 (p 295)
•Wordsworth, Ode- Intimation of Immortality,
208 (p SOB)
•George III, who had recently died (1820).
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1053
ities, on different occasions, from my family :
and he challenged me upon the strength of
my family likeness. I did not attempt any
disguise. I answered hib questions ingenu-
ously,—and, on his pledging his word of
honor that he would not betray me to my
guardians, I gave him an address to my
friend the attorney's. The next day I re-
ceived from him a £10 Bank-note The let-
ter enclosing it was delivered with other
letters of business to the attorney; but,
though his look and manner informed me
that he suspected its contents, he gave it up
to me honorably and without demur
This present, from the particular service
to which it was applied, leads me naturally
to speak of the purpose which had allured
me up to London, and which I had been (to
use a forensic word) soliciting from the first
day of my arrival m London, to that of my
final departure.
In so mighty a world as London, it will
surprise my readers that I should not have
found some means of stavintr off the last
extremities ot penury and it will strike
than that two resomoes at least must have
been open to me,— viz., either to seek assist-
ance from the friends of my family, or to
turn my youthful talents and attainments
into some channel of pecuniary emolument.
Af? to the first course, 1 may observe, gener-
ally, that what F dreaded beyond all other
evils was the chance of being reclaimed by
my guardians, not doubting that whatever
power the law gave them would have been
enforced against me to the utmost; that is,
to the extremity of forcibly restoring me to
the school which I had quitted: a restora-
tion which as it would in my eyes have been
a dishonor even if submitted to voluntarily,
could not fail, when extorted from me in
contempt and defiance of my known wishes
and efforts, to have been a humiliation
worse to me than death, and which would
indeed have terminated in death I was,
therefore, shy enough of applying for as-
sistance even in those quarters where I was
sure of receiving it— at the risk of furnish-
ing my guardians with any clue for recov-
ering me But, as to London in particular,
though, doubtless, my father had in his life-
time had many friends there, yet, as ten
years had passed since his death, I remem-
bered few of them even by name : and never
having seen London before, except once for
n few hours, I knew not the address of even
those few. To thift mode of gaining help,
therefore, in part the ^difficulty, but much
more the paramount fear which T have men-
tioned, habitually indisposed me. In regard
to the other mode, I now feel half inclined
to join my reader in wondeung that I should
have overlooked it. As a corrector of Greek
6 proofs, if m 110 other way, I might doubtless
have gained enough for my slender wants.
Such an office as this I could have discharged
with an exemplary and punctual accuiacy
that would soon have gained me the eonfi-
10 dence of my employers. But it must not be
forgotten that, even tor such an office as
this, it was necessary that I should first of
all have an introduction to some respectable
publisher: and this I had no means of ob-
is taming. To say the truth, however, it had
never once occurred to me to think of liter-
ary labors as a source of profit. No mode
Hiitficiently speedy of obtaining money had
ever occurred to me but that of borrowing
20 it on the strength of my future claims and
expectations. This mode I sought by every
avenue to compass, and amongst other per-
sons I applied to a Jew named Dfell].1
To this Jew, and to other advertising
25 money-lenders, some of whom were, I be-
lieve, also Jews, T had introduced myself
with an account of my expectations; which
account, on examining- my father's will at
Doctor's Commons, they had ascertained to
30 be correct. The person there mentioned as
1 "To this rame Jew, bv the wav, some eighteen
months after wards. 1 applied again on the
hanie business T and, dating at that time from
A respectable college. I waa fortunate enough
to gain his serious attention to my proposals
«e My necessities had not arisen from any ex-
0 travagance or youthful levities (these mv
habits and the nature of my pleasures raised
me far alxne), but simply from the vindictive
malice of my guardian, who. when he found
himself no lunger able to prevent me from go
ing to the unh entity, had, as a parting token
of his good nature refused to sign an order
40 for granting me a shilling beyond the allow-
ance made to me at school-— t is.t £100 per an-
num Upon this sum it was. in mv time,
barelv possible to have lived In college, and
not possible to a man who, though above the
paltrv affectation of ostentatious disregard for
money, and without anv expend ve tastes, con-
.- fl«1ed nevertheless rather too much In serv-
*& silts, and did not delight In the pettv details
of minute economy. I soon, therefore, became
embarrassed , and at length, after a most
voluminous negotiation *fth the Jew (some
parts of which, If I had leisure to rehearse
them, would greatly amuse my readers). T
was put In possession of the num T asked for,
GO on the 'regular* terms of pacing the Jew
seventeen and a half per cent by way of an-
nuity on all the money furnished, Imel, on
his part graciously resuming no more than
about ninety guineas of the said money, on
account of nn attorney's Mil (for what serv-
ices, to whom rendered, and when whether at
.. the siege of Jerusalem — at the building of the
Go Second Temple— or on some earlier occasion,
1 have not vet been able to discover >. How
many peicfces this bill measured I really for-
; but I still keep It in a cabinet of natural
KI-I • uui K HMJI ««-c|, „
cariosities, <*nd sometime or other I believe I
shall present It to " ~ ~
Quincey.
the British Museum."— De
1054
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8T8
the second son of , was found to have
all the claims, or more than all, that I
had stated: bat one question still remained,
which the faces of the Jews pretty signifi-
cantly suggested,— was I that person f This
doubt had never occurred to me as a pos-
sible one: I had rather feared, whenever
my Jewish friends scrutinized me keenly,
that I might be too well known to be that
person— and that some scheme might be
passing in their minds for entrapping me,
and selling me to my guardians. It was
strange to me to find my own self , mat eria-
fcttr1 considered (so I expressed it, for I
doted on logical accuracy of distinctions),
accused, or at least suspected, of counter-
feiting my own self, formaliteir* considered.
However, to satisfy their scruples, I took
the only course in my power. Whilst I was
in Wales, I had received various letters from
young friends: these I produced: for I
earned them constantly in my pocket-
being, indeed, by this time, almost the only
relics of my personal incumbrances (except-
ing the clothes I wore) which I had not in
one way or other disposed of. Most of these
letters were from the Earl of fAltamont],
who was at this time my chief, or rather
only, confidential friend. These letters were
dated from Eton. I had also some from the
Marquess of [Sligo], his father, who, though
absorbed in agricultural pursuits, yet having
been an Etonian himself, and as good a
scholar as a nobleman needs to be— still re-
tained an affection for classical studies, and
for youthful scholars. He had, accordingly,
from the time that I was fifteen, corre-
sponded with me; sometimes upon the great
improvements which he had made, or was
meditating, in the counties of M[ayo] and
Slfigo] since I had been there; sometimes
upon the merits of a Latin poet; at other
times suggesting subjects to me cm which he
wished me to write verses.
On reading the letters, one of my Jewish
friends agreed to furnish two or three hun-
dred pounds on my personal security— pro-
vided I could persuade the young Earl, who
was, by the way, not older than myself, to
guarantee the payment on our coming of
age: the Jew's final object being, as I now
suppose, not the trifling profit he could
expect to make by me, but the prosper t of
establishing a connection with my noble
friend, whose immense expectations were
well known to him. In pursuance of this
proposal on the part of the Jew, about eight
to material, <tt substance
to form, or •
> appearance
or nine days after I had roccncd the £10, 1
prepared to go down to Eton. Nearly £3 of
the money I had given to my money-lending
friend, on his alleging that the stamps must
be bought, in order that the writings might
be preparing whilst I was away from Lon-
don. I thought in my heart that he was
lying; but 1 did not wish to give him any
excuse for charging his own delays upon me,
10 A smaller sum I had given to my friend
the attorney, who was connected with the
money-lenders as their lawyer, to which, in-
deed, he was entitled for his unfurnished
lodgings. About fifteen shillings 1 had em-
1B ployed in re-establishing, though in a very
humble way, my dress. Of the remainder I
gave one-quarter to Ann, meaning on my
return to have divided with her whatever
might remain. These arrangements made,—
20 boon after six o'clock, on a dark winter
evening, I set off, accompanied by Ann,
towards Piccadilly, for it was my intention
to go down as far as Salt Hill on the Bath
or Bristol mail. Our course lay through a
25 part of the town which has now all dis-
appeared, so that I can no longer retrace it*
ancient boundaries: Swallow Street, I think
it was called. Having time enough before
us, however, we bore away to the left until
80 we came into Golden Square: there, near
the corner of Sherrard Sheet, we sat down,
not wishing to part in the tumult and blaze
of Piccadilly. I had told her of my plans
some time before: and I now assured her
K again that she should share in my good
fortune, if I met with any ; and that I would
never forsake her, as soon as I had power to
protect her. This I fully intended, as much
from inclination as from a sense of duty:
40 for, setting aside gratitude, which in any
case must have made me her debtor for life,
I loved her as affectionately as if she had
been my sister: and at this moment; with
sevenfold tenderness, from pity at witness-
es ing her extreme dejection. I had. appar-
ently, most reason for dejection, because I
was leaving the savior of my life- yet I,
considering the shock my health had re-
ceived, was cheerful and full of hope. She,
60 on the contrary, who was parting with one
who had little means of serving her, except
by kindness and brotherly treatment, was
overcome by sorrow ; so that, when I kissed
her at our final farewell, she put her arms
H about my neck, and wept without speaking
a word. I hoped to return in a week at
farthest, and I agreed with her that on the
fifth night from that, and every night after-
wards, she should wait for me at six o'clock
THOMAS DK QUtNCEY
1055
near the bottom of Great Titchfield Street,
which had been our customary haven, as it
were, of rendezvous, to prevent our miss-
ing each other m the great Mediterranean of
Oxford Street. This and other measures of
precaution 1 took : one only I forgot She
had either never told me, or (as a matter of
no great interest) I had forgotten, her sur-
name. It is a general practice, indeed, with
girls of humble rank in her unhappy condi-
tion, not (as novel-reading women of high-
er pretensions) to style themselves— Mm
Douglas, Jfu* Montague, etc., but simply
by their Christian names, Mary, Janf, Fran-
ces, etc. Her surname, as the surest means
of tracing her hereafter, I ought now to
have inquired : but the truth is, having no
reason to think that our meeting could, in
consequence of a short interruption, be more
difficult or uncertain than it had been for so
many weeks, I had scarcely for a moment
adverted to it as necessary, or placed it
amongst my memoranda against this part-
ing interview : and, my final anxieties being
spent in comforting her with hopes, and in
pressing upon her the necessity of getting
Rome medicines for a violent cough and
hoarseness with which she was troubled, I
wholly forgot it until it was too late to
recall her.
It was past eight oMoek when I reached
the Gloucester coffee-house: and, the Bris-
tol mail being on the point of going off, I
mounted on the outside. The fine fluent
motion1 of this mail soon laid me asleep:
it is somewhat remarkable that the first easy
or refreshing sleep which I had enjoyed for
some months was on the outside of a mail-
coach— a bed which, at this day; I find rather
an uneasy one. Connected with this sleep
was a little incident, which served, as hun-
dreds of others did at that time, to convince
me how easily a man who has never been in
any great distress may pass through life
without knowing, in his own person at least,
anything of the possible goodness of the
human heart— or, as I must add with a sigh,
of its possible vileness. So thick a curtain of
manners is drawn over the features and ex-
pression of men 9s natures, that to the ordi-
nary observer the two extremities, and the
infinite field of varieties which lie between
them, are all confounded— the vast and
multitudinous compass of their several har-
monies reduced to the meagre outline of
i "The Brlvtol mall
kingdom— owing
an nxnuraally —
the bMt appointed In the
- doable advantage* of
and of an extra mun
by the Brtrtol mer
'-De Qulncty.
differences expressed in the gamut or alpha-
bet of elementary, sounds. The case was
this: for the first four or five miles from
London, I annoyed my fellow-passenger on
5 the roof by occasionally falling against him
when the coach gave a lurch to his side; and
indeed, if the road had been less smooth
and level than it is, I should have fallen off
from weakness. Of this annoyance he cora-
10 plained heavily, as perhaps in the same cir-
cumstances most people would ; he expressed
his complaint, however, more morosely than
the occasion seemed to warrant; and, if I
had parted with him at that moment, I
16 should have thought of him, if I had con-
sidered it worth while to think of him at all,
as a surly and almost bnital fellow. How-
ever, I was conscious that I had given him
some cause for complaint: and, therefore,
20 I apologized to him, and assured him that I
would do what I could to avoid falling
asleep for the future; and, at the same
time, in as few words as possible, I explained
to him that I was ill and in a weak state
25 from long suffering; and that I could not
afford at that time to take pn inside place.
The man's manner changed, ppon hearing
this explanation, in an instant : and when I
next woke for a minute from the noise and
» lights of Hounslow (for in spite of my
wishes and efforts I had fallen asleep again
within two minutes from the time I had
spoken to him), I found that he had put his
arm around me to protect me from falling
» off: and for the rest of my journey he
behaved to me with the gentleness of a
woman, so that, at length, I almost lay in
his arms: and this was the more kind, as
he could not have known that I was not
40 going the whole way to Bath or Bristol.
Unfortunately, indeed, T did go rather far-
ther than 1 intended: for so genial and
refreshing was my sleep, that the next time
after leaving Hounslow that I fully awoke,
tt was upon the sudden pulling up of the mail,
possibly at a post-office, and on inquiry, I
found that we had reached Maidenhead— six
or seven miles, I think, ahead of Salt Hill.
Here I alighted: and for the half-minute
60 that the mail stopped, I was entreated by
my friendly companion, who, from the tran-
sient glimpse I had had of him in Picca-
dilly, seemed to me to be a gentleman's
butler— or person of that rank, to go to bed
K without delay. This I promised, though
with no intention of doing so: and in fact,
I immediately set forward, or rather back-
ward, on foot It must then have been
nearly midnight • but RO slowly did I creep
1056
NINETEENTH CENTTTRY ROMANTICISTS
along, that I heard a clock in a cottage strike
four before I turned down the lane from
Slough to Eton. The air and the sleep had
both refreshed ine; but I was weary never-
theless. I remember a thought, obvious
enough, and which has been prettily ex-
pressed by a Roman poet,1 which gave me
some consolation at that moment under my
poverty. There had been some time before
a murder committed on or near Hounslow
Heath I think I cannot be mistaken when
I say that the name of the murdered person
Was Steele, and that he was the owner of a
lavender1 plantation in that neighborhood
Every step of my progress was bringing me
nearer to the heath- and it naturally oc-
curred to me that T and the accursed mur-
derer, if he were that night abroad, might
at every instant be unconsciously approach-
ing each other through the darkness- in
which case, said I,— supposing that T, in-
stead of being, as indeed I am, little better
than an outcast,—
Lord of my learning and no land beside,8
were, like mv friend, Lord fAltamonf"!, heir
by general repute to £70,000 per ann , what
a panic should I be under at this moment
about my throat '—indeed, it was not likely
that Lord [Altamont] should ever be in my
situation. But neveitheless, the spirit of the
remark remains true— that vast power and
possessions make a man shamefully afraid
of dying* and I am convinced that many of
the most intrepid adventurers who, by for-
tunately being poor, enjoy the full use of
their natural courage, would, if at the very
instant of going into action news were
brought to them that they had unexpectedly
succeeded to an estate in England of £50,000
a vear, feel their dislike to bullets consider-
ably sharpened4— and their efforts at per-
fect equanimity and self -possession propor-
tionably difficult So true it is, in the
Innemage of a wise man whose own expe-
rience had made him acquainted with both
fortunes, that riches are better fitted—
To slacken virtue, and abate lier edge,
Than tempt her to do aught may merit praise
— Paradise Regained*
i"An empty-pocketed tramp will ring 10 the fare
of a robber "—Juvenal, Satires, 10, 22.
•A small shrub cultivated for Itfl perfume
•King John, I, 1, 137
* "It will be objected that many men, of the
highest rank and wealth, have in our own day,
a* well as throughout our history, been
amongflt the foremont tn courting danger In
battle True . but thin la not the raw sup
pwed, long familiarity with power ban to
them deadened Ita effect and attraction* "—
•Book
2, 45T>y
I dally with my subject because, to my-
self, the remembrance of these tunes is
profoundly interesting But my reader shall
not have any furthei cause to complain*
5 for I now hasten to its close —In the road
between Slough and Eton, 1 fell asleep:
and, just as the morning began to dawn, I
was awakened by the voice of a man stand-
ing over me and surveying me 1 know not
10 what he was • he was an ill-looking fellow—
but not therefore of necessity an ill-meaning
fellow : or, if he were, I suppose he thought
that no pei-son sleeping out-of-doors in
winter would be worth robbing) In winch
15 conclusion, however, an it regarded my*elf,
I beg to assure him, if he should be among
my readers, that he was mistaken After a
slight remark he passed on and I wa«* not
sorry at his distmbance, as it enabled me to
20 pass through Eton before people were gen-
e rally up. The night had been henw and
lowering- but towards the morning it hnd
changed to a slight frost • and the ground
and the trees were now covered with rime
25 I slipped through Eton unobspnecl, washed
myself, and, as far as possible, adjusted my
dress at a little public-house in Windsor;
nnd about eight o'clock went down towards
Pote's On my road T met some junior boys
30 of whom I made inquiries an Etonian 'IB
always a gentleman, and, in spite of my
shabby habilamentb, thev answered me cn"-
illy My friend, Lord [Altamont~|, wns
sronc to the Universitv of ffnnihndge|
35 "Ibi omnis effusus labor |M| I had, how-
ever, other fnends at Eton but it w not
to all who wear that name in prosperity
that a man is willing to present him pelf in
distress On recollect msr mvself, however,
40 T asked for the Enrl of DfeRartl, to whom
(though my acquaintance with him was not
so intimate as with some others) I should
not have shrunk from presenting myself
under any circumstances He was still at
46 Eton, though I believe on the wing for Cam-
bridge f called, wns received kindly, and
asked to breakfast
Here let me stop for a moment to check
my reader from any erroneous conclusion :
so because T have had occasion incidentally to
speak of various patrician friends, it must
not be supposed that T have myself any
pretensions to rank or high blood I thank
God that T have not-— T am the son of a
C5 plain English merchant, esteemed during his
life for his great integrity, and strongly
attached to literary pursuits; indeed, he
i There wan all bis labor lost.— Virgil, Qrorgic*,
4, 400-91.
THOMAS DK QUINCEY
1057
was himself, anonymously, an author: if
he had lived, it was expected that he would
have been very rich; but, dying prema-
turely, he left no more than about £30,000,
amongst seven different claimants. My
mother I may mention with honor, as still
more highly gifted For, though unpretend-
ing to the name and honors of a literary
woman, I shall presume to call her (what
many literary women are not) an intellec-
tual woman : and I believe that if ever her
letters should be collected and published,1
they would be thought generally to exhibit
as much strong and masculine sense, deliv-
ered in as pure "mother English,1' racy
and fiesh with idiomatic graces, as any in
our language— hardly excepting those of
Lady M W. Montagu. —These are my hon-
ors of descent: I have no others: and I
have thanked God sincerely that I have not,
because, in my judgment, a station which
raises a man too eminently above the level
of his fellow-creatni es is not the most favor-
able to moral, or to intellectual qualities.
Lord Dfesart] placed before me a most
raasrpiflccnt breakfast. It was really so;
but in my eyes it seemed trebly magnificent
—from being the first regular meal, the first
"good man's table/1 that I had sat down
to for months Strange to say, however, I
could scarcely eat anything. On the day
when T flrM received my £10 Bank-note, I bad
gone to a baker'* shop and bought a couple
of rolls • this very shop I had two months or
six weeks befoie surveyed with an eager-
ness of desire which it was almost humiliat-
ing to me to recollect. I remembered the
story about Otway,* and feared that there
might be danger in eating too rapidly. But
T had no need for alarm, my appetite was
quite sunk, and T became sick before I had
eaten half of what I had bought. This effect
from eating what approached to a meal, I
continued to feel for weeks: or, when I did
not experience any nausea, part of what I
ate wan rejected, sometimes with acidity,
sometimes immediately, and without anv
ncidity. On the present occasion, at Lord
Dferartl's table, I found myself not at all
bettor than usual: and, in the midst of
luxuries, I had no appetite. I had, however,
unfortunately, at all times a craving for
wine- I explained mv situation, therefore,
i A number of Mr* DP QnineevVi letter* an*
printed in Jfipp'n De Quincey UcmorWt
• ThomflH OtwuY (1652-05) in mid to hare
chokort to death from eating too rapidly after
a period of enforced utarvanon. The tradition
IR related in Cibhert £fc*» of the Poett
(17ffft). 2, 3186.
to Lord D[esart], and gave him a short
account of my late sufferings, at which he
expressed great compassion, and called for
wine. This gave me a momentary relief and
5 pleasure; and on all occasions when I had
an opportunity, I never failed to drink wine
—which I worshipped then as I have since
worshipped opium. I am convinced, how-
ever, that this indulgence in wine contrib-
10 uted to strengthen my malady ; for the tone
of my stomach was apparently quite sunk,
but by a better regimen it might sooner, and
pei haps effectually, have been revived. 1
hope that it was not from this love of wine
is that I lingered in the neighborhood of my
Eton friends: I persuaded myself then that
it was from reluctance to ask of Laid
Dfesart], on whom I was conscious I had
not sufficient claims, the particular service
20 in quest of which I had come down to Eton.
I was, however, unwilling to lose my joui-
ney, and— I asked it. Lord Dfesart], whose
good nature was unbounded, and winch, m
regard to myself had been measured rather
25 by his compassion perhaps for my condition,
and his knowledge of my intimacy with
some of his relatives, than by an over-rig-
orous inquiry into the extent of my own
direct claims, faltered, nevertheless, at this
ft request. He acknowledged that he did not
like to have any dealings with money-lenders,
and feared lest such a transaction might
come to the ears of his connections. More-
over, he doubted whether his signature,
35 whose expectations were so much more
bounded than those of [his cousin], would
avail with my unchristian friends. How-
ex er, he did not wish, as it seemed, to mor-
tify me by an absolute refusal • for after a
40 little consideration, he promised, under cer-
tain conditions which he pointed out. to give
his security. Lord Dfesart] was at this time
not eighteen years of age • but I have often
doubted, on recollecting since the good sense
tf and prudence which on this occasion he
mingled with so .much urbanity of manner,
an urbanity which in him woie the graco of
youthful sincerity, whether anv statesman
—the oldest and the most accomplished in
w diplomacy— could have acquitted himself
better under the same circumstances. Most
people, indeed, cannot be addressed on such
a business without surveying you with looks
as austere and nnpropitions as those of a
B Saracen's head.1
Recomforted by this promise, which was
not quite equal to the best, but far above the
« The head of a Raraeen. Turk, or Arab, imed at
a tavern Hlan.
1058 NINETEENTH CENTUBT ROMANTICISTS
wont that I had pictured to myself as poa- family. But, to this hour, I have never
Bible, I returned m a Windsor coach to heard a syllable about her.1 This, amongst
London three days after I had quittql it such troubles as most men meet with in this
And now I come to the end of my story:— life, has been my heaviest affliction.— If she
the Jews did not approve of Lord D[esait]'s & lived, doubtless we must have been some-
terms; whether they would in the end have times in search of each other, at the very
acceded to them, and were only seeking tune same moment, through the mighty labyrinths
for making due inquires, I know not; but of London; perhaps even within a few feet
many delays were made— time passed on— of each other— a bamer no wider in a Lon-
the small fragment of my Bank-note had 10 don street often amounting in the end to
just melted away; and before any conclu- a separation for eternity! During some
sion could have been put to the business, I years, I hoped that she did live; and I sup-
must have relapsed into my former state of pose that, in the literal and unrhetoncal use
wretchedness. Suddenly, however, at this of the word myriad, I may say that on my
crisis, an opening was made, almost by acci- 15 different visits to London, I have looked into
dent, for reconciliation with my friends.1 many, many myriads of female faces, hi the
I quitted London, in haste, for a remote part hope of meeting her. I should know her
of England:2 after some time, I proceeded again amongst a thousand, if I saw her for
to the university,8 and it was not until a moment, for, though not handsome, she
many months had passed away that I had » had a sweet expression of countenance, and
it in my power again to revisit the ground a peculiar and giacef ul carriage of the head,
which had become so interesting to me, and — •! sought her, I have said, in hope. So it
to this day remains so, as the chief scene of was for years; but now I should fear to nee
my youthful sufferings. her; and her cough, which grieved me when
Meantime, what had become of poor Ann 1 S I parted with her, is now my consolation.
Tor her I have reserved my concluding I now wish to see her no longer, but think
words: according to our agreement, I sought of her, more gladly, as one long since laid
her daily, and waited for her every night, in the grave; in the grave, I would hope, of
so long as I stayed in London, at the corner a Magdalen; taken away, befoie injuries
of Titchfield Street. I inquired for her of 30 and cruelty had blotted out and transfigured
every one who was likely to know her; and her ingenuous nature, or the brutalities of
during the last hours of my stay in London ruffians had completed the rum they had
I put into activity every means of tracing begun,
her that my knowledge of London suggested,
and the limited extent of my power made « So then, Oxford Street, stony-hearted
possible. The street where she had lodged step-mother! thou that listenest to the sighs
I knew, but not the house • and I remembered of orphans, and dnnkest the tears of chil-
at last some account which she had gnen dren, at length I was dismissed flora thee:
me of ill treatment from her landlord, which the time was come at last that I no more
made it probable that she had quitted those 40 should pace in anguish thy never-ending
lodgings before we parted She bad few terraces; no more should dream, and wake
acquaintance; most people, besides, thought m captivity to the pangs of hunger Sue-
that the earnestness of my inquiries aroec lessors, too many, to myself and Ann, have,
from motives which moved their laughter, doubtless, since trodden in our footsteps,—
or their slight regard; and others, thinking 46 inheritors of our calamities, other orphans
I was in chase of a girl who had robbed me than Ann have sighed • tears have been shed
of some trifles, were naturally and excusably by other children : and thou, Oxford Street,
indisposed to give me any clue to her, if, hast pinee, doubtless, echoed to the groans
indeed, they had any to give. Finally, as of innumerable hearts. For myself, how-
my despairing resource, on the day I left 50 ever, the storm which I had outlived seemed
London I put into the hands of the only to have been the pledge of a long fair-
person who (I was sure) must know Ann by weather; the premature sufferings which I
sight, from having been in company with us had paid down to have been accepted as a
once or twice, an address to in ransom for many years to come, as a price
— -shire,4 at that time the residence of my «
_ 'Another meetinr between the Opium-Hater md
*» ««Me«tl, dUcorerrf b, U. frtad,
CblleK O.foM.
riory, in Chejtrr.
THOMAS PE QUINCEY
1059
of long immunity from sorrow : and if again
I walked in London, a solitary and contem-
plative man (as oftentimes I did), I walked
for the nifbt part in berenity and peace of
mind. And, although it is true that the
calamities of my noviciate in London had
struck root so deeply in my bodily constitu-
tion that afterwards they shot up and flour-
ished afiefch, and giew into a noxious um-
biage that has overshadowed and daikened
my latter years, yet these second assaults of
suffering were met with a foititude more
confirmed, with the resources of a matnrer
intellect, and with alleviations from sympa-
thizing affection— how deep and tender!
Thus, however, with whatsoever allevia-
tions, yeais that were far asunder were
bound together by subtle links of suffering
derhed from a common root. And herein
I notice an instance of the short-sightedness
of human desires, that oftentimes on moon-
light mphtfc, dui ing my first mournful abode
in London, iny consolation was (if such it
enuld be thought) to gaze from Oxford
Street up e^eiy avenue in succession which
pierces tlnough the heart of Marylebone tn
the fields and the woods; and that, said I,
t levelling with my eyes up the long vistas
nhich lay part in light and part in shade,
"tliat is Ihe road to the north, and there-
fore to fGrasmereJ, and if I had the wings
of a dove, that way I would fly for com-
fort Ml Thus I said, and thus I wished,
in my blindness, yet, e-ven in that very
northern region it was, even m that very
valley, nay, in that very house to which my
erroneous wishes pointed, that this second
birth of my sufferings began;8 and that
they nj>ain tlueatened to besiege the citadel
of life and hope There it was, that for
years I was peismited by visions as uglv,
and as ghastly phantoms as ever haunted
the coneh of Oiestes * and in this unhap-
pier than he, that sleep which conies to all
as a respite and a restoration, and to him
especially, as a blessed4 balm for his
wounded heart and his h mm ted btain, visited
ror'as my bitterest scourge. Thus blind was
I in my desires; yet, if a veil interposes be-
tween 'the dirn-sightedness of man and his
future calamities! the same veil hides from
•The first period of De Qutncey's Bufferings was
In 1818-14 Bee p 1048b. 18 ff.
•After he bad slain his mother and her lover In
vengeance for their murder of his father,
Ore«te«t wan pursued by the Furies (eupheml*-
(t tlrally called the Emnentdea).
^lAOF VSTW VCn^ftTpOP GfUCOVpOW PQffW — I*e
Quince*. (O BweM* Malm of sleep, cure of dls-
4W*e.— IQnripldes, Owrten, 211 )
him their alleviations; and a grief which
had not been feared is met by consolations
which had not been hoped. I, theiefore,
who participated, as it weie, in the tioubles
6 of Oiebtes (excepting only m his agitated
oonscience)y participated no less in all his
suppoits: my Eurnemdeb, like his, were at
my bed-feet, and stared in upon me thiough
the curtains: but, watching by my pillow,
10 or defrauding herself of sleep to bear me
company through the heavy watches of the
night, bat my Electra. for thou, beloved
[Maigaret],1 dear companion of my later
years, thou wast my Electra' and neither
15 in nobility of mind nor in long-suffering
affection, wouldst permit that a Grecian sis-
ter should excel an English wife. For thou
though test not much to stoop to humble
offices of kindness, and to seivile2 ministra-
20 tious of tenderest affection,— to wipe away
for years the unwholesome dews upon the
forehead, or to refresh the lips when parched
and baked with fevei; nor, even when thy
own peaceful slumbers had by long sym-
25 pathy become infected with the spectacle of
my dread contest with phantoms and shad-
owy enemies that oftentimes bade me "sleep
no moiei"*— not even then, didst thou utter
a eoinplaint or any murmur, nor withdraw
ao thy angelic smiles, nor shrink from thy serv-
ice of love raoie than Electra did of old.
For she too, though she was a Grecian
woman, and the daughter of the kinsr4 of
men, yet wept sometimes, and hid her face0
33 in her lobe.
But these troubles are past ; and thou wilt
read these records of a period so dolorous
to us both as the legend of some hideous
dream that can return no more. Meantime,
*o I am again in London • and again I pace the
terraces of Oxford Street by night and
oftentimes, when T am oppressed by anxi-
eties that demand all my philosophy and the
» T)e Qnfncev's wife She died tn
f"*W ArfXcupcu— Eurip. Orert."— De Qulmey.
(sweet service — Euripides, Orr*tC9, 221 )
— De Qulneey.
1. 172)
[covering your eye
• Mncbeth, II, 2. J5
*"*>a« drftm
(Agamemnon king of
1 ouua 9«V tlff» *6rXw
60 SJH? Z?up Barmen t* — Euripides. Grotfr*.
™ 280]. the scholar will know that throughout
this nassage I refer to the earlier noenen of
the Omttt, one of the most beautiful exhi-
bitions of the domestic affections which even
the dramas of Buripldes can furnish. To the
frowwh reader, It may be necessary to say
that the situation at the. opening of the drama
fr $at <it* h™ther attended only bv his slater
during the demoniacal pMsessIon of a suffer-
ing conscience (or, In Ihe mythology of the
fia£jan2t?1 b' ,«¥ Furies) an« to clrcum-
xrienoa —
. from
or cold regard from nominal
Qulnrev
1060
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
comfort of thy presence to support, and yet
remember that I am separated from thee by
three hundred miles, and the length of three
dreary months,— I look up the streets that
run northwards from Oxford Street, upon
moonlight nights, and recollect my youthful
ejaculation of anguish;— and remembering
that thou art sitting alone in that same val-
ley, and mistress of that very house to which
my heart turned in its blindness nineteen
years ago, I think that, though blind indeed,
and scattered to the winds of late, the
promptings of my heart may yet have had
reference to a remoter time, and may be
justified if read in another meaning:— and,
if I could allow myself to descend again to
the impotent wishes of childhood, I should
again say to myself, as I look to the north,
"Oh, that I had the wings of a dove-"
and with how just a confidence in thy good
and gracious nature might I add the other
half of my early ejaculation— " And tliat
way I would fly for comfort >f
THE PLK \SURES or OPIUM
It N so long since I fir*t took opium that
if it had been a trifling incident in my life
I might have forgotten its date * but cardi-
nal events are not to be forgotten ; and from
circumstances connected with it I remember
that it must be refeired to the autumn of
1804. During that season I was in London,
having come thither for the first time since
my entrance at college. And my introduc-
tion to opium arose in the following way.
From an early acre I had been accustomed
to wash my head in cold water et least once
a day: being suddenly seized with tooth-
ache, I attributed it to some relaxation
caused by an accidental intermission of that
practice; jumped out of bed; plunged my
head into a basin of cold water; and with
hair thus wetted went to sleep. The next
morning, as I need hardly say, I awoke with
excruciating rheumatic pains of the head
and face, from which I had hardly any res-
pite for about twenty days. On the twenty-
first day, I think it was, and on a Sunday,
that I went out into the streets, rather to
run away, if possible, from my torments,
than with any distinct purpose. By accident
I met a college acquaintance who recom-
mended opium. Opium I dread agent of
unimaginable pleasure and pain! I had
heard of it as I had of manna or of am-
brosia, but no further: how unmeaning a
sound was it at that time! what solemn
chords does it now strike upon my heart!
what heart-quaking vibrations of sad and
happy remembrances I Reverting for a mo-
ment to these, I feel a mystic importance
attached to the minutest circumstances con-
5 nected with the place and the time, and the
man, if man he was, that first laid open to
me the Paradise of Opium-eaters. It was a
Sunday afternoon, wet and cheerless: and
a duller spectacle this earth of ours has not
10 to show than a rainy Sunday in London.
My road homewards lay through Oxford
Street; and near "the stately Pantheon,"1
as Mr. Wordsworth has obligingly called it,
1 saw a druggist's shop. The druggist, un-
15 conscious minister of celestial pleasures!—
as if in sympathy with the rainy Sunday,
looked dull and stupid, just as any mortal
druggist might be expected to look on a
Sunday • and, when I asked for the tincture
» of opium, he gave it to me as any other man
might do: and furthermore, out of my shil-
ling, returned me what seemed to be real
copper halfpence, taken out of a real wooden
drawer. Nevertheless, in spite of such jndi-
25 cations of humanity, he has ever since existed
in my mind as the beatific vision of an im-
mortal druggist, sent down to earth on a
special mission to myself. And it confirms
me in this way of considering him, that,
ao when I next came up to London, I sought
him near the stately Pantheon, and found
him not : and thus to me. who knew not his
name (if indeed he had one), he seemed
rather to have vanished from Oxford Street
35 than to have removed in any bodily fashion.
The reader may choose to think of him as,
possibly, no more than a sublunary druggist :
it may be so: but my faith is better: I be-
lieve him to have evanesced,* or evaporated.
40 So unwillingly would I connect any mortal
remembrances with that hour, and place,
and creature, that first brought me ac-
quainted with the celestial drug.
4, 'Wordsworth, Power of MuHr, ft (p. 200). The
w Pantheon wan a concert room or theatre.
»''#r«*£»oed'~ -Tbl« war of going off the attge
of life appear* to have been well known IP
the Neventeenth century, but at that tine to
have been considered a peculiar privilege of
blood-royal, and by no meann to be allowed
so &«tJSai!U^TJ«R
SWttVi«&-3%fatt
ozprefwen bin rarprlHe that any prince
commit ao abrara an act a* *
ra?fl he,
n dying- became.
•Kings should dtodalD to die, and only
-'
• "«-f WMWWVU vvwyinwj »«£» ••• •«*» UIV WUirr
worM.n— De dalncey. For the line, quoted,
we Thorna* FfatnUn'i O« ttoMt *ei IMMMteJ
?/"« °/ our tete taw*!?* Lortf fff** Cfttrl*
It of JMPMAf Jfmor*. 14, 25
THOMAS DE QUINCE?
1061
Arrived at my lodgings, it may be gup-
poted that I lost not a moment in taking the
quantity prescribed. I was necessarily igno-
rant of the whole art and mystery of opium-
taking : and, what I took, I took under every
disadvantage. But I took it:— and in an
hour, oh! heavens! what a revulsion I what
an upheaving, from its lowest depths, of the
inner spirit! what an apocalypse of the
world within me ! That niy pains had van-
ished, was now a trifle in uiy eyes.— this
negative effect was swallowed up in the im-
mensity of those positive effects which had
before me— in the abyss of divine
enjoyment thus suddenly revealed. Here
waa a panacea— a jAfiiw p^rortu for all
human woes: here was the secret of happi-
ness, about which philosophers had disputed
for so many ages at once discovered: happi-
ness might now be bought for a penny, and
earned in the waMcoat pocket: portable
ecstasies might be had corked up in a pint
bottle: and peace of mind could be sent
down in gallons by the mail-coach. But, if
I talk in this way, the reader will think I
am laughing: and I can assure him, that
nobody * ill laugh long uho deals much with
opium: its pleasures even are of a gra\e
and solemn complexion ; and in Ins happiest
state, the opium-eater cannot present him-
self in the character of "L'AIkgro" :2 c\on
then, he speaks and thinks as becomes "II
Penhcroso."8 Nevertheless, I have a \ery
reprehensible way of jesting at times in the
midst of my own misery : and, unless when
I am checked by some more pouciful feel-
ings, I am afraid I shall be guiltv of tins
indecent practice even in these annals of
suffering or enjoyment. The reader must
allow a little to iny infirm nature in this
respect: and with a few indulgences of that
sort, I shall endeavor to be as grave, if not
drowsy, as fits a theme like opium, so anti-
mercurial as it really is, and so drowsy as
it is falsely reputed.
And, first, one word with respect to its
bodily effects: for upon all that has been
hitherto written on the subject of opium,
whether by travellers in Turkey, who may
plead their privilege of lying as an old imme-
morial right, or Iry professors of medicine,
writing ex cathedra,*— I have but one em-
phatic criticism to pronounce— Lies ! lies!
lies! I remember once, in passing a book-
itorrow-banlihlng drug (Bee the OoVtM*. 4, 220-
LUH«vro; the title mean* /*<>
iXII P«r«ro*o; the title mean* /»«•
•with™
stall, to have caught these words from a
page of some satiric author:— "By this
time I became convinced that the London
newspapers spoke truth at least twice a week,
o vcr,jon Tuesday and Saturday, and might
safely be depended upon for — the list of
bankrupts." In like manner, I do by no
means deny that some truths have been de-
livered to the world in regard to opium : thus
10 it has been repeatedly affirmed by the learned
that opium is a dusky brown in color, and
this, take notice, I grant: secondly, that it
is rather dear; which I also grant, for in
ray time, East-India opium has been three
is guineas a pound, and Turkey eight: and,
thirdly, that if you eat a good deal of it,
incibt probably you must do what is particu-
larly disagreeable to any man of regular
habits, iij., die.1 These weighty propositions
20 are, all and singular, true: I cannot gainsay
them : and truth ever was, and will be, com-
mendable. But in these thiee theorems, I
believ e we have exhausted the stock of knowl-
edge as yet accumulated by man on the sub-
•£ ject of opium. And therefore, worthy doe-
tors, as tlieie seems to be room for further
discoveries, stand aside, and allow me to
come forward and lecture on this matter.
First, then, it is not so much affirmed as
30 taken for granted by all who ever mention
opium, formally or incidentally, that it does,
or can, produce intoxication. Now, reader,
assure yourself, meo peiiculof that no quan-
tity of opium ever did, or could intoxicate.
55 As to the tincture of opium (commonly
called laudanum) Mat might certainly in-
toxicate if a man could bear to take enough
of it ; but why f because it contains so much
proof spirit, and not because it contains so
*0 much opium. But crude opium, I affirm per-
emptoiilv, is incapable of producing any
state of body at all resembling that which is
produced by alcohol : and not in degree only
incapable, but even in lind: it is not in the
4i quantity of its effects merely, but in the
quality, that it differs altogether. The pleas-
ure given by wine is always mounting, and
tending to a crisis, after which it declines:
that from opium, when once generated, is
GO stationary for eight or ten hours: the first,
to borrow a technical distinction from medi-
« "Of tW«, however, the
to have doubted f
RnohaiTH Domestic i _ _
wife who *aa
her health, the
.--__..- .-, Be pt.rticnli.rlY
___ never to take above flve-and-twenty
v_~vW of laudanum at once* : the true read-
ing being probably flve-and-twenty tVoM.
which are held equal to about one grata of
crude opium."-— De Quince?,
t tov own rink
the leaned appear latterly
for In a pirated edition of
o Jfetffoffie. which I onceaaw
In the haada of a farmer's wif '
studying It for the benefit of her
Doctor waa made to aay — 'Be
1062
NINETEENTH CENTUBY fcOMANTIOISTS
cine, is a case of acute— the second, of
chronic pleasure: the one is a flame, the
other a steady and equable glow. But the
mam distinction lies in 'this, and whereas
wine disorders the mental faculties, opium, 5
on the contrary, if taken in a proper man-
ner, introduces amongst them the most ex-
quisite order, legislation, and harmony.
Wine robs a man of his self-possession-
opium greatly invigorates it. Wine un&ettlcb 10
and clouds the judgment, and gives a preter-
natural brightness and a vivid exaltation to
the contempts and the admirations, the loves
and the hatreds, of the drinker- opium on
the contrary communicates serenity and equi- is
poise to all the faculties, active or passive •
and with respect to the temper and moral
feelings in general, it gives simply that sort
of vital warmth which is approved by the
judgment, and which would probably always 20
accompany a bodily constitution of primeval
or antediluvian health. Thus, for instance,
opium, like wine, gives an expansion to the
heart and the benevolent affections* but
then, with this remarkable difference, that 26
in the midden development of kind-lieai ted-
ness which accompanies inebriation, there is
always more or less of a maudlin1 character,
which exposes it to the contempt of the by-
stander Men shake hands, swear eternal 90
friendship, and shed tears— no mortal knows
why: and the sensual creatme is clearly
uppermost Rut the expansion of the be-
nigner feelings incident to opium, is no feb-
nle access, but a healthy restoration to that 35
state which the mind would naturally recover
upon the removal of any deep-seated irrita-
tion of pain that had disturbed and quar-
relled with the impulses of a heart originally
just and good. True it is, that even wine, 40
up to a certain point, and with certain men,
rather tends*to exalt and to steady the intel-
lect : I myself, who have never been a great
wine-drinker, used to find that half a dozen
glasses of wine advantageously affected the &
faculties— brightened and intensified the
consciousness— and gave to the mind a feel-
ing of being "ponderibus librata mis99'1
and certainly it is most absurdly said HI
popular language of any man that he is M
disguised in liquor: for, on the contrary,
most men are disguised by sobriety; and it
is when they are drinking (as some old
gentleman says in Athena^), that men
ofrnrft tlffiv* _ display B
* balanced with its own weight: self-poised (Bee
Orld'H Metamorphoi€8t 1. 18 i
•Quoted from the historian Phllochorus (3rd
cent B c ) br Athturav (200) In hit Drfp-
nosophirta, 87 B
themselves in their true complexion of char-
acter,—which surely is not disguising them-
selves. But still, wine constantly leads a
man to the brink of absurdity and extrava-
gance; and, beyond a certain point, it is
sure to volatilize and to disperse the intel-
lectual energies: whereas opium always
seems to compose what has been agitated,
and to concentrate what had been districted.
In short, to sum up all in one word, a man
who is inebriated, or tending to inebriation,
is, and feels that he is, in & condition which
calls up into supremacy the merely human,
too often the brutal, part of his nature but
the opium-eater (I speak of him who is not
suffering from any disease, or other remote'
effects of opium) feels that the diviner part
of his nature is paramount, that is, the
moral affections arc in a state of cloudless
serenity; and mer all is the great light of
the majestic intellect.
Thu is the doctrine of the true church on
the biibject of opium of which church 1
acknowledge myself to be the only member
—the alpha and the omega but then it is
to be recollected that 1 speak from the
giound of a large and profound personal
oxpeiience: whereas in«wt of the unscien-
tific1 authors who have at all treated of
opium, and CACH of those who have wntten
expressly on the matena medico, make it
evident, from the honor they express* of
it, that then expenmental knowledge of
its action is none at all: I will, however,
1 "Amongqt the groat herd of travellers, etc , who
Bhow sufficiently bv their stupidity that they
never held any Intercourse with opium, I rou«»t
(RUtlon my readers especially against the bril-
liant author of Ana*tiHHuti ThlH gentleman,
whose wit would lead one to presume him an
opium eater, IIAH made It inipmurfhle to con-
hider him In that character from the grievous
misrepresentation which he gives of ItN ef-
fertH, at pp 215-17 of TO! I. Upon consider-
ation. It must appear such to the author him-
Holf, for, waiving the error* I have inhlsted
on In the text, which (and others) are adopted
In the fullest manner, he will himself admit,
that an old gentleman, 'with a snow-white
beard,' who eat* 'ample doses of opium,1 and
la vet able to deliver what in meant and re-r
celved aa very weighty counsel on the had
effects of that practice, la but an Indifferent
evidence that opium either kills people prema-
turely, or sends them Into a mad-house. But
for ray part, I see into this- old gentleman
and his motives ; the fact la, he was enamored
of 'the little golden receptacle of the per-
nicious drag* which Anastaslus carried about
him ; and no way of obtaining It so aafe and
HO feasible occurred an that of frightening its
owner out of hH wits (which, by the by, are
none of the strongest) This commentary
throws a new light upon the case, and greatly
improves It ns a story : for the old gentleman's
speech, considered aa a lecture on pharmacy,
is highly absurd, but, considered as^ a hoax on
Aiiaatmsius, it reads excellently."--!)* Qulnoey
The author of Anantmtwi, or Memoir* of a
Greek (1810) la Thomas Hope (1770-1881).
THOMAS DB QUIKCEY
1068
candidly acknowledge that I, have met with
one person who bore evidence to its intox-
icating power, such as staggered my own
incredulity: for he was a surgeon, and had
himself taken opium largely. I happened
to say to him that his enemies, as I had
heard, charged him with talking nonsense
on politics, and that his friends apologized
for him by suggesting that he was constantly
in a state of intoxication from opium. Now
the accusation, said I, is not prima facte,*
and of necessity, an absurd one: but the
defence is. To my surprise, however, he
insisted that both his enemies and his
friends wore in the right: "I will main-
tain, " said he, "that I do talk nonsense,
and secondly, I will maintain that I do not
talk nonsense upon principle, or with any
view to profit, but solely and simply," said
he, "solely and simply,— solely and simply"
(repeating it three times over), "because
I am drunk with opium; and that daily "
I replied that, as to the allegation of his
enemies, as it seemed to be established upon
such respectable testimony, seeing that the
three parties concerned all agreed in it, it
did not become me to question it; but the
defence set up I must demur to He pro-
reeded to discuss the matter, and to lay
down his reasons; but it beemed to me BO
impolite to pursue an argument whieh must
have presumed a man mistaken in a point
belonging to his own profession, that I did
not press him even when his course of argu-
ment seemed open to objection • not to men-
tion that a man who talks nonsense, even
though "with no view to profit," is not
altogether the most agreeable partner in ft
dispute, whether as opponent or respondent
I confess, however, that the authority of a
surgeon, and one who was reputed a good
one, may seem a weighty one to my preju-
dice* but still I must plead my experience,
which was greater than his greatest by
7000 drops a day; and, though it was not
possible to suppose a medical man unac-
quainted with the characteristic symptoms
of vinous intoxication, it yet struck me that
he might proceed on a logical error of using
the word intoxication with too great latitude,
and extending it generally to all modes of
nervous excitement, instead of restricting
it as the expression for a specific sort of
excitement, connected with certain diagnos-
tics. Some people have maintained, in my
hearing, that they have been drunk upon
green tea : and a medical student in London,
for whose knowledge in his profession I
a at first view
have reason to feel great respect, assured
me, the other day, that a patient, in recov-
ering from an illness, had got drunk on a
beef -steak
5 Having dwelt so much on this first and
leading error in respect to opium, I shall
notice very briefly a second and a third;
which are, that the elevation of spirits pro-
duced by opium is necessarily followed by
10 a proportionate depression, and that the
natural and even immediate consequence of
opium is torpor and stagnation, animal and
mental The first of these errors I shall
content myself with simply denying, assur-
16 mg my reader that for ten years, during
which T took opium at intervals, the day
succeeding to that on which I allowed my-
self this luxury was always a day of unusu-
ally good spints
20 With respect to the torpor supposed to
follow, or rather, if we were to credit the
numerous pictures of Turkish opium-eaters,
to accompany the practice of opium-eating,
I deny that also Certainly, opium is classed
25 under the head of narcotics, and some such
effect it may produce m the end: but the
primary effects of opium are always, and
in the highest degree, to excite and stimu-
late the system this first stage of its action
90 always lasted with me, during my noviciate,
for upwards of eight hours; so that it must
be the fault of the opium eater himself if
he does not so time his exhibition of the
dose, fb speak medically, as that the whole
35 weight of its narcotic influence may descend
upon his sleep Turkish opium-eaters, it
seems, are absurd enough to sit, like so many
equestrian statues, on logs of wood as stupid
as themselves. But that the reader may
40 judge of the degree in which opium is likely
to stupify the faculties of an Englishman.
I shall, by way of treating the question
illustratively, rather than argumentatively.
describe the way in which I myself often
45 passed an opium evening in London, during
the period between 1804 and 1812. It will be
seen that at least opium did not move me
to seek solitude, and much less to seek inac-
tivity, or the torpid state of self-involution
50 ascribed to the Turks. I give this account
at the risk of being pronounced a crazy
enthusiast or visionary: but I regard that
little- I must desire my reader to bear in
mind that I was a hard student, and at
55 Revere studies for all the rest of my time:
and certainly I had a right occasionally to
relaxations as well as other people: these,
however, I allowed myself but seldom.
The late Duke of [Norfolk] used to say,
1064
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIST8
"Next Friday, by the blessing of Heaven,
I purpose to be drunk": and in like manner
I used to fix beforehand how often, within a
given time, and when, I would commit a
debauch of opium. This was seldom more
than once in three weeks: for at that time
I could not have ventured to call every day
(as I did afterwards) for "a glass of lauda-
num negus,1 warm, and without sugar."
No : as I have said, I seldom drank lauda-
num, at that time, more than once in three
weeks: this was usually on a Tuesday or a
Saturday night; iny reason for which was
this. In those days Grassini sang at the
Opera: and her voice was delightful to
me beyond all that I had ever heard. I
know not what may be the state of the
Opera-house now, having never been within
its walls for seven or eight years, but at
that tune it was by much the most pleasant
place of public resort in London for pass-
nig an evening. Five shillings admitted one
to the gallery, which was subject to far
less annoyance than the pit of the theatres :
the orchestra was distinguished by its sweet
and melodious grandeur from all English
orchestras, the composition of which, I con-
fess, is not acceptable to my ear, from the
predominance of the clangorous instru-
ments, and the absolute tyranny of the vio-
lin The choruses were divine to hear: and
when Grassini appeared in some interlude,8
as she often did, and poured forth her pas-
sionate soul as Andromache at the ttmb of
Hector,8 etc., I question whether any Turk,
of all that ever entered the paradise of
opium-eaters, can have had half the pleasure
I had. But, indeed, I honor the Barbarians
too much by supposing them capable of
any pleasures approaching to the intellec-
tual ones of an Englishman. For music is
an intellectual or a sensual pleasure, accord-
ing to the temperament of him who hears it.
And, by the by, with the exception of the
fine extravaganza on that subject in Twelfth
Night,4 I do not recollect more than one
thing said adequately on the subject of
music in all literature- it is a passage in
the Religio Medici6 of Sir T. Brown; and,
i Negus IH a beierage of wine, hot wati-r. ragar,
nutmeg, and lemon Juice; It. te said to be
namwl after its firnt mater, CoL Frauds Nego*
fd. 1732).
•Probably a vocal solo rang between the parts
of some formal program.
•In. Ortftiy's Androma&e, which was produced
at ParlR In 1780.
rait T^irr think
though chiefly remarkable for its sublimity,
has also la philosophic value, inasmuch as it
points to the true theory of musical effects
The mistake of most people is to suppose
6 that it is by the ear they communicate with
music, and, therefore, that they are purely
passive to its effects. But this is not so • it
is by the reaction of the mind upon the
notices of the ear (the matter coming by
Ii the senses, the form from the mind) that
the pleasure is constructed: and therefore
it is that people of equally good ear differ
so much in this point from one another.
Now opium, by greatly increasing the activ-
16 ityof the mind generally, increases, of neces-
sity, that particular mode of its activity
by which we are able to construct out of the
raw material of organic sound an elaborate
intellectual pleasure. But, says a friend,
20 a succession of musical sounds is to nir
like a collection of Arabic characters I
can attach no ideas to them. Ideas! niy
good sirt there is no occasion for them*
all that class of ideas which can be avail-
26 able in such a case has a language of rep-
resentative feelings. But this is a subject
foreign to my present purposes: it is suffi-
cient to say that a chorus, etc , of elaborate
harmony, displayed before me, as in a piece
20 of arras work, the whole of my pabt life—
not as if recalled by an act of memory, but
as if present and incarnated in the music*
no longer painful to dwell upon: but the
detail of its incidents removed, or blended
86 in some hazy abstraction; and its passions
exalted, spiritualized, and sublimed. All
this was to be had for five shillings. And
over and above the music of the stage and
the orchestra, I had all around me, in the
40 intervals of the performance, the music of
the Italian language talked by Italian
women : for the gallery was usually crowded
with Italians: and I listened with a pleasure
such as that with which Weld the traveller
tf lay and listened, in Canada, to the sweet
laughter of Indian women ;' for the less you
understand of a language the more sensible
yon are to the melody or harshness of its
sounds: for such a purpose, therefore, it
60 was an advantage to me that I was a pooi
Italian scholar, raiding it but little, and not
speaking it at all, nor understanding a tenth
part of what I heard spoken.
These were my Opera pleasures: but an-
66 other pleasure I had which, as it could be
have not the book at this moment to eon
_jlt: but I think the passage begins— 'And
evrn that tawn mmde, which makes one man
merry, another _
of deration,' etr.
occurs In Part 3, flee 9
fit
^
THOMAS DE QUINOEY
1065
had only on a Saturday night, occasionally
struggled with my love of the Opera; for,
at that time, Tuesday and Saturday were
the regular Opera nights. On this subject
I am afraid I shall be rather obscure, but,
I can asRiire the reader, not at all more so
than MarinuR in his Life of Proclua, or many
other biographers and autobiographers of
fair reputation. This pleasure, I have said,
was to be had only on a Saturday night
What then was Saturday night to me more
than any other night t I had no labors that
I rested from; no wages to receive: what
needed I to care for Saturday night, more
than as it was a summons to hear Grassinil
True, most logical reader: what you say is
unanswerable. And yet so it was and is,
that, whereas different men throw their feel-
ings into different channels, and most are
apt to show their interest in the concerns of
the poor, chiefly by sympathy, expressed in
some shape or other, with their distresses
and sorrows, I, at that time, was disposed
to expiess my interest by sympathizing
with their pleasures. The pains of poverty
I had lately seen too much of, more than
I wished to remember: but the pleasures
of the poor, their consolations of spirit, and
their reposes from bodily toil, can never be-
come oppresshe to contemplate. Now Sat-
urday night is the season for the chief, reg-
ular, and periodic return of rest to the poor:
in this point the most hostile sects unite, and
acknowledge a common link of brotherhood :
almost all Christendom rests from itfl
labors. It in a rest introductory to another
rest ' and divided by a whole day and two
nights from the renewal of toil. On this
account I feel always, on a Saturday night,
as though I also were released from some
yoke of labor, had some wages to receive,
and some luxury of repose to enjoy. For
the sake, therefore, of witnessing, upon a*
large a scale as possible, a spectacle with
which my sympathy was so entire, I used
often, on Saturday nights, after I had taken
opium, to wander forth, without much re-
garding the direction or the distance, to all
the markets and other parts of London to
which the poor resort on a Saturday night
for laying out their wages. Many a family
party, consisting of a man, his wife, and
sometime* one or two of his children, have
I listened to, as they stood consulting on
their ways and means, or the strength of
their exchequer, or the price of household
articles. Gradually I became familiar with
their wishes, their difficulties, and their
opinions. Sometimes there might be heard
murmurs of discontent, but far oftener
expressions on the countenance, or uttered
in words, of patience, hope, and tranquil-
lity. And taken generally, I must say that,
5 in this point at least, the poor are far more
philosophic than the rich— that they show
a more ready and cheerful submission to
what they consider as irremediable evils, or
irreparable losses. Wbeue\er 1 saw occa-
li won, or could do it without appearing to be
mtrnuye, I joined their parties; and gave
my opinion upon the matter in discussion,
which, if not always judicious, was always
recened indulgently. If wages were a bttle
15 higher, or expected to be so, or the quartern
loaf1 a little lower, or it was reported that
onions and butter were expected to fall, I
was glad: yet, if the contrary were true, I
drew from opium some means of consoling
» myself. For opium, like the bee, that ex-
tracts its materials indisciunmately from
roses and from the soot of chimneys, can
overrule all feelings into a compliance with
the master key. Some of these rambles led
25 me to great distances- for an opium-eater
is too happy to observe the motion ol time.
And sometimes in my attempts to steer
homewards upon nautical principles, by fix-
ing my eye on the pole-star, and seeking
so ambitiously for a northwest passage, instead
of circumnavigating all the capes and head-
lauds I had doubled in my outward voyage,
1 came suddenly upon such knotty prob-
lems of alleys, such enigmatical entries, and
85 such sphinx's riddles2 of streets without
thoroughfares, as must, I conceive, baffle the
audacity of porters, and confound the intel-
lects of hackney-coachmen. I could almost*
have believed, at times, that I must be the
<• first discoverer of some of these terra tncog-
luta* and doubted whether they had yet been
laid down in the modern charts of London.
For all this, however, I paid a heavy price
in distant yearn, when the human face tyran-
45 nized o\er my dreams, and the perplexities
of my steps in London came back and
haunted my sleep with the feeling of per-
plexities, moral or intellectual, that brought
confusion to the reason, or anguish and
50 remorse to the conscience.
Thus I have shown that opium does not,
of necessity, produce inactivity or torj>or;
but that, on the contrary, it often led me
into markets and theatres. Yet, in candor,
65 I will admit that markets and theatres are
» V loaf of brad weighing alnrot 4 M*
•The aphlax nropoandeda riddle to the The-
I*M and Wiled all pa*wr*-by who could not
iiolve It Bee T>e Qnlncey'ii T*r SpM**** JTM-
tffo 'unknomn lands
1066
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIOIBT8
not the appropriate haunts of the opium-
eater, when in the divinest state incident to
his enjoyment In that state, crowds be-
come an oppression to him; music even, too
sensual and gross. He naturally seeks soli-
tude and silence, as indispensable conditions
of those trances and profoundest reveries
which are the crown or consummation of
what opium can do for human nature. I,
whose disease it was to meditate too much,
and to observe too little, and who upon my
first entrance at college was nearly falling
into a deep melancholy from brooding too
much on the sufferings which I had wit-
nessed in London, was sufficiently aware of
the tendencies of my own thoughts to do
all I could to counteract them.— I was, in-
deed, like a person who, according to the
old legend, had entered the cave of Tro-
phonius:1 and the remedies I sought were
to force myself into society, and to keep
my understanding in continual activity upon
matters of science. But for these remedies,
I should certainly have become hypochon-
driacally melancholy In after years, how-
ever, when my cheerfulness was more fully
re-established, I yielded to my natural in-
clination for a solitary life. And, at that
time, I often fell into these reveries upon
taking opium; and more than once it has
happened to me, on a summer night, when I
have been at an open window, in a room
from which I could overlook the sea at a
mile below me, and could command a view
of the great town of Liverpool], bt about
the same distance, that I have sat, from sun-
set to sun-rise, motionless, and without
fashing to move.
I shall be charged with mysticism, Beh-
menism,2 quietism,8 etc., but that shall not
alarm me Sir H. Vane, the Younger,4 was
one of our wisest men : and let my readers
see if he, in his philosophical works, be
half as unmystical as I am.— I say, then,
that it has often struck me that the scene
itself was somewhat typical of what took
place in such a reverie. The town of
Liverpool] represented the earth, with its
sorrows and its graves left behind, yet not
out of sight, nor wholly forgotten. The
ocean, in everlasting but gentle agitation,
'It was supposed that a visitor to this cave
never smiled a gain,
•The teachings of the German Mystic, Jacob
Behman (Bdhme), who held that everything
manifested Its divine origin; that the mate-
rial and moral powers were one ; etc
•A system of religions mysticism based on Indif-
ference to worldly Interests, and on passive
contemplation of spiritual Interests
' Bee Wordsworth's Great Men Have Bee* Among
U§ (p. 287).
and brooded over by a dove-like calm,1
might not unfitly typify the mind and the
mood which then swayed it For it seemed
to me as if then first I stood at a distance,
I and aloof from the uproar of life, as if the
tumult, the fever, and the strife, were sus-
pended; a respite granted from the secret
burthens of the heart, a sabbath of repose;
a resting from human labors. Here were
10 the hopes which blossom in the paths of
life, reconciled with the peace which is in
the grave; motions of the intellect as un-
wearied as the heavens, yet for all anxieties
a halcyon calm :s a tranquillity that seemed
16 no product of inertia, but as if resulting from
mighty and equal antagonisms; infinite ac-
tivities, infinite repose.
Ohl just, subtle, and mighty opium! that
to the hearts of poor and nch alike, for the
20 wounds that will never heal, and for "the
pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel, "J
bringest an assuaging balm, eloquent
opium ! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest
away the purposes of wrath, and to the
26 guilty man for one night givest back the
hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure
from blood; and to the proud man a brief
oblivion for
w Wrongs unredresa'd and insults unavenged,*
that summonest to the chancery of dreams,
for the triumphs of suffering innocence,
false witnesses; and confoundest perjury;
and dost reverse the sentences of unnght-
35 eons judges:— thou buildest upon the bosom
of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of
the brain, cities and temples beyond the art
of Phidias and Praxiteles— beyond the
splendor of Babylon and Hekatoinpylos :B
40 and "from the anarchy of dreaming
sleep,1'6 callest into sunny light the faces
of long-buried beauties, and the blessed
household countenances, cleansed from the
"dishonors of the grave."7 Thou only giv-
45 est these gifts to man; and thou hast the
keys of Paradise, oh, just, subtle, and
mighty opium I8
1 Bee PonKfiftf Lout. 1, 21
•The halcyon or kingfisher was fabled to nest
60 on the sea and to calm the waves
•Wordsworth, Thf White Doe of Rylttone, Dedl-
4 Wordsworth, The Bmovrtto*. 8, 874
•The hundred-gated, an epithet applied by De
Qnlnoey to Thebes, the capital or Egypt The
Hanging Gardens at Babylon were regarded
as one of the seven wonders of the world See
Daniel 4*29-80
• Wordsworth, The Btcwr*ion. 4. ST.
' Bee 1 OoHnthiOMi, 15 43. This verse Is a por-
tion of the lesson read at the burial service
of the Church of England
•Adapted from the address to Death with which
Raleigh closes his Htotory of the World.
THOMAS DB QUINCEY
1067
From INTRODUCTION TO TW Pxifcs 'OF OPIUM
• •••••
If any man, poor or rich, were to say that
he would tell us what had been the happiest
day in his life, and the why, and the where-
fore, I suppose that we should all cry out
—Hear him! Hear him I— As to the hap-
piest day, that must be very difficult for any
wise man to name because any event, that
could occupy so distinguished a place in a
man's retrospect of his life, or he entitled
to have shed a special felicity on any one
day, ought to he of such an enduring char-
acter, as that, accidents apart, it should have
continued to shed the same felicity, or one
not distmguishably less, on many years to-
gether. To the happiest lustrum,1 however,
or even to the happiest year, it may he al-
lowed to any man to point without discoun-
tenance from wisdom. This year, m ray
case, reader, was the one which we have now
reached,3 though it stood, I confess, as a
parenthesis between year* of a gloomier
character. Tt was a year of brilliant water,
to speak after the manner of jewelers, set
as it were, and insulated, iti the gloom and
cloudy melancholy of opium. Strange as
it may sound, I had a little before this time
defended sudden IV, and without any con-
siderable effort, from 320 grains of opium
(«.?, eight* thousand diops of laudanum)
per day, to forty grains or one-eighth part.
Instantaneously, and as if by magic, the
cloud of piofoundest melancholv which
rested upon my brain, like some black
vapois that T ha\e seen roll away from the
summits of mountains, drew off in one day
(rvx^i/Mpo'4) ; pawed off with its murky
banners as simultaneously as a ship that has
been stiajicled. and ia floated off by a spring
tide-
That moveth altogether, if it move at all.'
Now, then, T was again happy: I now
took only 1000 drops of laudanum per day :
apd what was that! A latter spring had
1 period of five yearn
•That !H, IK 16,
• "I hero reckon twenty five drop* of laudanum
an, equivalent to one grain of opium, which, I
believe, in the common tutlmate. However, as
both may be ironaMered variable quantities
(tho crude opium varying much in Htrenath.
and the tincture atlll more), I auppone that
no infinitesimal accuracy can be had in rach
a calttiUittafti TpA-npoomi van an much in
•lie as opium In strength Km a 11 ones hold
about 100 drops, no that 8000 drops are
about eighty tlmpfl a tea-spoonful The reader
seen bow much I kept within Dr Rnchan'a
indulgent allowance." — De Quincey. On Dr.
Buchnn'n allowance, see p lohlb, n 1.
•Wordsworth, i?r*oM4on and Indtpmtfmoe, 77
(p. 284).
come to close up the season of youth : my
brain performed its functions as healthily
as ever before : I lead Kant again ; and again
I understood him, ur fancied that I did.
• Again my feelings of pleasure expanded
themselves to all around me* and if any
man from Oxford or Cambridge, or from
neither, had been announced to me in my
unpretending cottage, I should have wef-
10 corned bun with as sumptuous a reception
as so poor a man could offer. Whatever
else was wanting to a wise man's happiness,
—of laudanum I would have given him as
much as he wished, and in a golden cup.
15 And, by the way, now that I speak of giv-
ing laudanum away, I remember, about this
time, a little incident, which I mention, be-
cause, trifling as it was, the reader will soon
meet it again m my dreams, which it mflu-
20 enced more fearfully than could be imag-
ined. One day a Malay knocked at my door.
What business a Malay could have to trans-
act amongst English mountains, I cannot
conjecture • but possibly he >\ as on his road
25 to a seaport about foity miles distant.
The servant who opened the door to him
was a young girl1 born and bred amongst
the mountains, who had never seen an Asi-
atic dress of any sort his turban, theiefore,
80 confounded her not a little and, as it turned
out that his attainments in English were
exactly of the same extent as hers in the
Malay, there seemed to be an impassable
gulf fixed between all communication of
36 ideas, if either party had happened to pos-
sess any In this dilemma, the girl, recol-
lecting the reputed learning of her master,
and doubtless giving me credit for a knowl-
edge of all the languages of the earth, be-
40 sides, perhaps, a few of the lunar ones,
came and gave me to understand that therq
was a sort of demon below, whom she
clearly imagined that my art could exorcise
from the house I did not immediately go
45 down: but, when I did, the gronp which
presented itself, arranged as it was by acci-
dent, though not very elaborate, took hold
of my fancy and iny eve in a way that none
of the statuesque attitudes exhibited in the
GO ballets at the Opera-house, though so osten-
tatiously complex, had ever done. In a cot-
tage kitchen, but panelled on the wall with
dark wood that from age and nibbing re-
sembled oak, and looking more like a rustic
B hall of entrance than a kitchen, stood the
Malay— his turban and loose trousers of
dingy white relieved upon the dark panel-
* Barbara Lewthwalte. See Wordswortb'» Th*
Pet Lamb.
1068
NINETEENTH CKNTUBY BOMANTICI8TS
ling: he had placed himself nearer to the
girl than she seemed to relish; though her
native spirit of mountain intrepidity eon-
tended with the feeling of simple awe which
her countenance expressed as she gazed upon
the tiger-eat before her. And a more strik-
ing picture there could not be imagined,
than the beautiful English face of the girl,
and its exquisite fairness, together with her
erect and independent attitude, contrasted
with the sallow and bilious skin of the Ma-
lay, enamelled or veneered with mahogany,
by marine air, his small, fierce, restless eyes,
thin lips, slavish gestures and adorations.
Half -hidden by the ferocious looking Malay
was a little child from a neighboring cot-
tage who had crept in after him, and was
now in the act of reverting its head, and
gating upwards at the turban and the fiery
eyes beneath it, whilst with one hand he
caught at the dress of the young woman
foi protection. My knowledge of the Ori-
ental tongues is not remarkably extensive,
being indeed confined to two words— the
Arabic word for barley, and the Turkish
for opium (madjoon), which I have learnt
from Anastasius. And, an T had neither a
Malay dictionary, nor even Adelung's Alitlt-
ridates, which might have helped me to a
few words, I addressed him in some lines
from the Ibad, considering that, of such
languages as I possessed, Greek, in point
of longitude, came geographically nearest
to an Onental one. He worshipped me in
a most devout manner, and replied in what
I suppose was Malay. In this way I saved
my reputation with my neighbors for the
Malay had no means of betraying the secret
He lay down upon the floor for about an
hour, and then pursued his journey. On
his departure, I presented him with a piece
of opium. To him, as an Orientalist, I con-
cluded that opium must be familiar: and the
expression of his face convinced me that
it was. Nevertheless, I was struck with some
little consternation when I saw him sud-
denly raise his hand to his month, and, in
the schoolboy phrase, bolt the whole, divided
into three pieces, at one mouthful The
quantity was enough to kill three dragoons
and then hones: and I felt some alarm for
the poor creature: but what could be done!
I had given him the opium in compassion
for his solitary life, on recollecting that if
he had travelled on foot from London it
must be nearly three weeks since he could
have exchanged a thought with any human
being. I could not think of violating tbe
laws of hospitality by having him seized
and drenched with an emetic, and thus
frightening him into a notion that we were
going to sacrifice him to some English idol.
No: there was clearly no help for it:— he
i took his leave: and for some days I felt
anxious: but as I never heard of any Malay
being found dead, I became convinced that
he was used1 to opium: and that I must
have done him the service I designed, by
10 giving him one night of respite from the
pains of wandering.
This incident I have digressed to men-
tion, because this Malay, partly from the
picturesque exhibition he assisted to frame,
iff partly from the anxiety I connected with
his image for some days, fastened after-
wards upon my dreams, and brought other
Malays with him worse than himself, that
ran "a-muck"2 at me, and led me into a
20 world of troubles.— But to quit this episode,
and to return to my intercalary8 year of
happiness. I have said already, that on a
subject so important to us all as happiness,
we should listen with pleasure to any man's
25 experience or experiments, even though he
were but a plough-boy, who cannot be sup-
posed to have ploughed very deep into such
nn intractable soil as that of human pains
and pleasures, or to have conducted his re-
al) searches upon any vety enlightened prin-
ciples. But I, who have taken happiness,
both in a solid and a liquid shape, both
boiled and unboiled, both East India and
Turkey— who have conducted my experi-
36 ments upon this interesting subject with
a sort of galvanic battery— and have, for
the general benefit of the world, inoculated
myself, as it were, with the poison of 8000
drops of laudanum per day (just for the
40 same reason ns a French surgeon inoculated
himself lately with cancer— an English one,
twenty years ago, with plague— and a third,
1 "Thli, however, Is not a necemiary conclusion ;
the varletie* of effect produced by opium on
different eanHtltufconii are infinite A London
through Lfr.
Magistrate ( Harriott' «
vnj ill, p. 801, Third
that, on the flnt occasi
occasion of bin trying lauda-
num for the gout, he took forty drops, the
timty, and on the nYth night efefcty.
at an
without a
advanced
ext night
ithout any effect whatever ;
age. I have an anecdote from a
alnks Mr
rargeon. however, which
caae. into a trifle: and In my pro-
opium, which I will
ge of Burgeons will
__ _
•4iflee the" common "account*" in anv Baatern
traveller flf V<HTV °* *** frantic eiceaaet
committed by Malaya who have taken opium.
or are reduced to dmperattoa bj ill luck at
other* in the calendar
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1069
I know not of what nation,1 with hydro-
phobia),— I, it will be admitted, must rarely
know what happiness w, if anybody does.
And, therefore, I will here lay down an
analysis of happiness; and as the most in-
teresting mode of communicating it, I will
give it, not didactically, but wrapt up and
involved in a picture of one evening, as I
spent every evening during the intercalate
year when laudanum, though taken daily,
was to me no more than the elixir of
pleasure. This done, I shall quit the sub-
ject of happiness altogether, and pass
to a very different one— ike pains of
opium.
Let then be a cottage, standing in a val-
ley, eighteen miles from any town— no spa-
cious valley, but about Iwo miles long, by
three-quarters of a mile in average width,
the benefit of which provision it. that all the
families resident within its circuit will com-
pose. aft it were, one larger household pei-
sonally familiar to your eye, and more or less
interesting to your affections. Let the moun-
tains be real mountains, between three and
four thousand feet high ; and the cottage, a
real cottage; not, as a witty author has it,
"a cottage, with a double coach-house "•-
let it be, in fatt-for I must abide by the
actual scene— a white cottage, embowered
with flowering shrubs, so chosen as to un-
fold a succession of flowers upon the walls,
and clustering round the windows through
all the months of spring, Hummer, and
autumn— beginning, in fact, with May roses,
and ending with jasmine. Let it, however,
not be spring, nor bummer, nor autumn—
but winter, in Ins bternest shape This is a
most important point in the science of hap-
piness. And I am surprised to see people
overlook it, and think it matter of congratu-
lation that winter is going; or, if coming,
is not likely to be a severe one On the con-
trary, I put up a petition annually for as
much snow, hail, frost, or storm, of one
kind or other, as the skies can possibly
afford us Surely everybody is aware of the
divine pleasures which attend a winter fire-
side: candles at four o'clock, warm hearth-
rugs, tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed,
curtains flowing in ample draperies on the
floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging
audibly without,
And at the doom and windows seemed to call,
As heav*n and earth they would together meU:»
' Ta the enlarged edition of
Qntnccy »• that the
Dt\ TOonpftfe, 21
C<m/ftttow, Tte
WM an English
; Coleridge, T**r
mingle
Tet the least entrance find they none at all
Whence sweeter grows our rest secure in massy
halL —Castle of Indolence.*
All these are items in the description of
i a winter evening, which must surely be
familiar to everybody born in a high lati-
tude. And it is evident that niobt of these
delicacies, like ice-cream, require a very
low temperature of the atmosphere to pro-
10 duee them: they are fruits which cannot
be ripened without weather stormy or in-
clement, in some way or other. I am not
"particular," as people say, whether it be
snow, or black frost, or wind so strong
i* that (as Mr. [Anti-Slavery Clarkson] says)
"you may lean your back against it like
a post." I can put up even with rain,
provided it rains cats and dogs: but some-
thing of the sort I must have: and, if I
20 have it not, I think myself in a manner
ill-used: for why am I called on to pay so
heavily for winter, in coals, and candles, and
various privations that will occur even to
gentlemen, if I am not to have the article
26 good of its kind! No: a Canadian winter
for my money: or a Russian one, where
every man j& but a co-proprietor with the
north wind in the fee-simple2 of his own ears.
Indeed, so great an epicure am I in this
30 matter, that I cannot relish a winter night
fully if it be much past St. Thomas's dnv,8
and have degenerated into disgusting ten-
dencies to vernal appearances: no: it must
be divided by a thick wall of dark nights
35 from all return of light and sunshine —
From the latter weeks of October to Christ-
mas-eve, therefore, is the period during
which happiness is in season, which, in my
judgment, enters the room with the tea-tray :
40 for tea, though ridiculed by those who aie
naturally of coarse nerves, or are become
so from wine-drinking, and are not suscep-
tible of influence from so refined a stimulant,
will always be the favorite beverage of the
tf intellectual: and, for iny part, I would
have joined Dr. Johnson in a bellwn inter-
necinum* againrt Jonas Han way, or any
other impious person who should presume
to disparage it.— But here, to save myself
60 the trouble of too much verbal description,
T will introduce a painter, and give him
directions for the rest of the picture.
Painters do not like white cottages, unless
'Thornton, The Celtic e/ J*4olr*<x, I, 38387
(p. 31) .
8 unrestricted ownonhlp (literally, an evtat* of
Inheritance In land, without i&trWon £ to
INK FBI
"Dec 21.
•rtjrll wir (8w Bcwwrtl's m* JMv of Semnel
Sofcuran [Oxford «!., 1904], 1, 209 and 281 )
1070
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
a good deal weather-stained: but as the
reader now understands that it is ft winter
night, his services will not be required; ex-
cept for the inside of the house.
Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by
twelve, and not more than seven and a half
feet high This, reader, is somewhat ambi-
tiously styled, in my family, the drawing-
room: but, being contrived "a double debt
to pay,"1 it is also, and more justly, termed
the library; for it happens that books are
the only article of property in which I am
ucher than my neighbors. Of these, I have
about five thousand, collected gradually since
my eighteenth year. Therefore, painter, put
as many as you can into this room Make
it populous with books- and, furthermore,
paint me a good fire; and furniture, plain
and modest, befitting the unpretending cot-
tage of a scholar. And, near the fire, paint
me a tea-table; and, as it is clear that no
creature can come to see one such a stormy
mght, place onlv two cups and saucers on
the tea-tray : and, if you know how to paint
such a thing symbolically, or otherwise,
paint me an eternal tea-pot— eternal a parte
ante, and a parte post;2 for I usually drink
tea from eight o'clock at night to four
o'clock in the morning. And, as it is very
unpleasant to make tea, or to pour it out
for oneself, paint me a lovely young woman,
sitting at the table. Paint her arms like
Auroia's, and her smiles like Hebe's —But
no, dear Margaret"],8 not even in jest let
me insinuate that thy power to illuminate
my cottage rests upon a tenure so perishable
as mere personal beauty; or that the witch-
craft of angelic smiles lies within the empire
of any earthly pencil. Pass, then, my good
painter, to something more within its power
and the next article brought forward should
naturally be myself— a picture of the
Opium-eater with his "little golden recep-
tacle of the pernicious drug, ' '* lying beside
him on the table. As to the opium, I have
no objection to see a picture of that, though
I would rather see the original* you may
paint it, if yon choose; but T apprise you,
that no "little" receptacle would, even in
1816, answer my purpose, who was at a dis-
tance from the "stately Pantheon, "B and
all druggists (mortal or otherwise). No:
you may as well paint the real receptacle,
which was not of gold, but of glass, and as
much like a wine-decanter as possible. Into
» Goldsmith, The De**rttd TOey*. 229
9 from tbe part before and from the part after
1 1* Qulncev'B wife
4 Hee p 1062b, o 1
'See p liNNMi, 11-4'S, and n 1.
this you may put a quart of ruby-colored
laudanum; that, and a book of German
metaphysics1 placed by it* side, will suffi-
ciently attest my being in the neighborhood ;
5 but, as to myself ,— there I demur. I admit
that, naturally, I ought to occupy the fore-
ground of the picture, that being the hero
of the piece, or (if you choose) the criminal
at the bar, my body should be had into court.
10 This seems reasonable but why should I
confess, on this point, to a painter 1 or why
confess at allf If the public (into whose
pnvate ear I am confidentially whimpering
my confessions, and not into any painter's)
16 should chance to have framed some agree-
able picture for itself, of the Opium-eater's
exterior,— should have ascribed to him, ro-
mantically, an elegant person, or a hand-
some face, why should I barbarously tear
20 from it so pleasing a delusion— pleasing both
to the public and to met No* paint me, it
at all, according to your own fancy; and,
as a painter's fancy should teem with beau-
tiful creations, 1 cannot fail, in that way,
25 to be a gainer. And now, reader, we have
run through all the ten categories of my
condition, as it stood about 1816-17. up
to the middle of which latter year I judge
myself to have been a happy man : and the
30 elements of that happiness I have endeav-
ored to place before you, in the above sketch
of the interior oi! a scholar 's hbiary, in
a cottage among the mountains, on a btormy
winter evening.
35 But now farewell— a long farewell to
happiness— winter or summer* farewell to
smiles arid laughter! farewell to peace of
mind1 farewell to hope and to tiauquil
dreams, and to the blessed consolations oi
40 sleep! for more than three years and a
half I am summoned away from these- I
am now arrived at an Iliad of woe*.2 toi
I have now to ieconl
45 THE PAINS OF OPIUM
-- as when some great painter dips
HlK pencil In the gloom of earthquake and ecltpne
— flHKLLKY'b Revolt of //flam *
60 Readeis who have thus far accompanied
me, I must request your attention to a bnef
explanatory note on three points:
1. For several reasons, I have not been
able to compose the notes for this part of
K my narrative into any regular and connected
shape. I give tbe notes disjointed as I find
1 He meann bv Rant, Flcfate. or Bchelllnn
•That in, unnumbered wot*. Bee the opening
lines of Homer'a
^ CantoR, 4t 2.'l
THOMAS DE QULNCEY
1071
thorny or have now drawn them up from
memory. Some of them point to their own
date; some I have dated, and some are un-
dated. Whenever it could answer my pur-
pose to transplant them from the natural
or chronological order, I have not scrupled
to do BO. Sometimes I speak m the present,
sometimes in the past tense. Few of the
notes, perhaps, were written exactly at the
period of time to which they relate , but this
can little affect their accuracy, as the im-
pressions were such that they can never
fade from my mind. Much has been omitted
I could not, without effort, constrain myself
to the task of either recalling, or construct-
ing into a regular narrative, the whole
burthen of horrors which lies upon my brain
This feeling partly I plead in excuse, and
partly that I am now in London, and am a
helpless sort of person, who cannot even
arrange his own papers without assistance ,
and I am separated from the hands which
are wont to perform for me the offices of
an amanuensis
2 You will think, perhaps, that I am too
confidential and communicative of my own
private history. It may be so. But my way
of writing is rather to think aloud, and follow
ray own humors, than much to consider who is
listening to me, and, if I stop to consider
what is proper to be said to this or that per-
son, I shall soon come to doubt whether any
part at all u> proper. The fact is, I place
myself at a distance of fifteen or twenty
years ahead of this time, and suppose my-
self wnting to those who will be interested
about me hereafter, and wishing to have
some record of a time, the entire history of
which no one can know but myself, I do it
as fully as I am able with the efforts I fern
now capable of making, because I know
not whether I can ever find time to do it
again.
3. It will occur to you often to ask why
did I not release myself from the horrors
of opium, by leaving it off, or diminishing
it To this I must answer briefly : it might
be supposed that I yielded to the fascina-
tions of opium too easily; it cannot be sup-
posed that any man can be charmed by its
terrors. The reader may be sure, therefore,
that I made attempts innumerable to reduce
the quantity. I add that those who wit-
nessed the agonies of those attempts, and
not myself, were the first to beg me to
desist But could not I have reduced it a
drop a day, or by adding water, have bisected
or trisected a dropf A thousand drops bi-
sected would thus have taken nearly six
years to reduce; and that way would cer-
tainly not have answered. But this is a
common mistake of those who know nothing
of opium experimentally; I appeal to those
6 who do, whether it is not always found
that down to a certain point it can be re-
duced with ease and even pleasure, but that,
after that point, further reduction causes
intense suffering. Yes, say many thougbt-
10 less persons, who know not what they are
talking of, you will suffer a little low spirits
and dejection for a few days. I answer, no ,
there is nothing like low spirits; on the
contrary, the mere animal spirits are nn-
16 commonly raised* the pulse is improved.
the health is better It is not there that the
suffering lies. It has no resemblance to the
sufferings caused by renouncing wine It
is a state of unutterable irritation of stom-
20 ach (which surely is not much like dejec-
tion), accompanied by intense perspirations,
and feelings such as I shall not attempt to
describe without more space at my com-
mand.
26 I shall now enter in media* res,1 and shall
anticipate, from a time when my opium
pains might be said to be at their acme,
an account of their palsying effects on the
intellectual faculties.
ao
My studies ha\e now been long inter-
rupted. I cannot read to myself with any
pleasure, hardly with a moment's endurance.
Yet I read aloud sometimes for the pleasure
85 of others , because reading is an accomplish-
ment of mine; and, in the slang use of the
word accomplishment as a superficial and
ornamental attainment, almost the only one I
possess: and formerly, if I had any vanity
40 nt all connected with any endowment or
attainment of mine, it was with this; for I
had observed that no accomplishment was
RO rare Players are the worst readers of all •
•John Kemble reads vilely : and Mrs. Siddons,
46 who is so celebrated, can read nothing well
but dramatic compositions* Milton she can-
not read sufferably. People in general either
lead poetry without any passion at all, or
else overstep the modesty of nature,2 and
60 read not like scholars Of late, if I have
felt moved by anything in books, it has been
by the grand lamentations of Samson
Agon fetes, or the great harmonies of the
Satanic speeches in Paradise Regained.
66 when read aloud by myself. A young lady*
sometimes comes and drinks tea with us: at
mffdst of thing* (Horace, 4rt Poettoa,
•Re* HamJct, 1IT, 2, 22
• Probably Dorothy Wordsworth.
1072
NINETEENTH OENTUBT BOMANTICIST8
her request and M[argaret] 's 1 now and
then read Wordsworth's poems to them
(Wordsworth, by the by, is the only poet I
ever met who could read his own verse*:
often indeed he reads admirably.)
For nearly two years I believe that I read
no book but one 1 aud I owe it to the authoi ,
in discharge of a great debt of gratitude, to
mention what that was. The subliiner and
more passionate poets I still read, as 1 ha>e
said, by snatches, and occasionally. But my
proper vocation, as I well knew, was the
exercise of the analytic understanding. Now,
for the most part, analytic studies are con-
tinuous, and not to be pursued by fits and
starts, or fragmentary efforts. Mathemat-
ics, for instance, intellectual philosophy, etc.,
were all become insupportable to me; and T
shrunk from them with a sense of power-
less and infantine feebleness that gave me
an anguish the greater from remembering
the time when I grappled with them to my
own hourly delight; and for this further
reason, because I had devoted the labor of
my whole life, and had dedicated my intel-
lect, blossoms and fruits, to the slow and
elaborate toil of constructing one single
work, to which I had presumed to give tb*
title of an unfinished work of Spinoza's;
r?jf De emendations liumani intellect^2
This was now lying locked up, as by frost,
like any Spanish bndge or aqueduct, begun
upon too great a scale for the resources of
the architect; and, instead of surviving me
as a monument of wishes at least, and aspi-
rations, and a life of labor dedicated to the
exaltation of human nature in that way in
which God had best fitted me to promote so
great an object, it was likely to stand a
memorial to my children of hopes defeated,
of baffled efforts, of materials uselessly ac-
cumulated, of foundations laid that were
never to support a superstructure,— of the
grief and the ruin of the architect. In this
state of imbecility, I had, for amusement,
turned my attention to political economy;
inv understanding, which formerly had been
as active and restless as a hyena, could not, I
suppose (so long as I lived at all), sink into
utter lethargy; and politieal economy offers
1his advantage to a person in my state, that
though it is eminently an organic science
(no part, that is to say, but what acts on the
whole, as the whole again reacts on each
part), yet the several parts may be detached
and contemplated singly. Great as was the
* Political Economv, by David Rtairdo (17T2-
1*2.1), a noted Enguih Jewish political econo-
mint
•of the* Amendment of the human mind
prostration of my powers at this time, yet I
could not forget my knowledge; and my
understanding had been for too many yea is
intimate with severe thinkers, with logic.
* and the great masters of knowledge, not
to be aware of the utter feebleness of the
main herd of modern economists. I had
been led in 1811 to look into loads of books
and pamphlets on many branches of econ-
10 omy; and, at my desire, M[argaret] some-
times read to me chapters from more recent
works, or parts of parliamentary debates
T saw that these weie generally the very
dregs and rinsings of the human intellect
is and that any man of sound head, and prac-
ticed in wielding logic with a scholastic
adroitness, might take up the whole acad-
emy of modem economists, and throttle them
between heaven and earth with his finger
>0 and thumb, or bray their fungus heads to
powder with a lady's fan. At length, in
1819, a fnend in Edmbuigh sent me clonu
Mr. Ricardo 's book and recurring to my
own prophetic anticipation of the advent of
25 some legislator for this science, 1 said, bef 01 e
I had finished the first chaptei, "Thou art
t he man I ' ' Wonder and curiosity were emo-
tions that had long been dead in me. Yet I
wondered once more • I wondered at myself
30 that I could once again be stimulated to the
effort of reading: and much more I won-
dered at the book. Had this profound work
been really written in England during- the
nineteenth century f Was it possible f 1
35 supposed thinking had been extinct in Eng-
land. Could it be that an Englishman, and
he not in academic bowers, but oppressed
by mercantile and senatorial cares, had ac-
complished what all the unnersities of
40 Europe, and a century of thought, had failed
even to advance by one hair's breadth f All
other writers had been crushed and overlaid
by the enoimons weight of facts and docu-
ments; Mr. Ricardo had deduced, a priori,
45 from the understanding itself, laws which
first gave a ray of light into the unwieldy
chaos of materials, and had constructed
what had been but a collection of tentative
discussions into a science of regular pro-
Co portions, now first standing on an eternal
basis.
Thus did one single work of a profound
understanding avail to give me a pleasure
and an activity which I had not known for
K years:— it roused me even to write, or, at
least, to dictate what M[argaret] wrote for
me. It seemed to me that some important
truths had escaped even ' ' the inevitable eye 9 '
of Mr. Ricardo: and, as these were, for the
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1073
moat part, of Buch a nature that I could
express or illustrate them more briefly and
elegantly by algebraic symbols than in the
usual clumsy and loitenng diction of econ-
omists, the whole would not have filled a
pocket-book; and being so brief, with
M[argnret] for iny amanuensis, even at this
time, incapable as £ was of all general exer-
tion, I drew up my Prolegomena to all Fu-
ture Systems of Political Economy.1 I hope
it will not be found redolent of opium;
though, indeed, to most people, the subject
itself is a sufficient opiate.
This exertion, however, was but a tempo-
rary flash, as the sequel showed —for I de-
signed to publish my woik: arrangements
were made at a provincial press, about eight-
een miles distant, for printing it. An addi-
tional compositor was retained, for some
days, on this account. The work was even
twice advertised* and I was, m a mannei,
pledged to the fulfillment of my intention
But I had a preface to write ; and a dedica-
tion, winch I wished to make a splendid one,
to Mr. Ricnrdo. T found m\self quite unable
to accomplish all this. The arrangements
were countermanded: the compositor dis-
missed : and my Prolegomena rested peace-
fully by the side of its elder and more digni-
fied brother.
1 have thus described and illustrated m\
intellectual torpor, in terms that appK,
more or less, to every part of the four yeais
during1 which I was under the Circean2 spell*
of opium. But for misery and suffering, I
might, indeed, be said to have existed in a
dormant state. I seldom could prevail on
myself to write a letter; an answer of a
few woids to any that I received, was the
utmost that I could accomplish; and often
that not until the letter had lain weeks, or
even months, on my wnting table. Without
the aid of Mfargaret] all records of bills
paid, or to be paid, must have perished : and
my whole domestic economy, whatever bo-
ca'me of Political Economy, must have gone
into irretrievable confusion. I shall not
afterwards allude to this part of the case :
it is one, however, which the opium-eater
will flnd, in the end, as oppressive and tor-
menting as any other, from the sense of in-
capacity and feebleness, f rum the direct em-
barrassments incident to the neglect or pro-
crastination of each day's appropriate
duties, and from the remorse which must
often exasperate the stings of these evils to
» plearim but harmful COirce WM th* •oroerww
in the O4v*9eM who feasted mariner* and then
tamed them Into beasta )
a reflective and conscientious mind. The
opium-eater loses none of his moral sensi-
bilities, or aspirations : he wishes and longs,
as earnestly as ever, to realize what he be-
i lieves possible, and feels to be exacted by
duty; but his intellectual apprehension of
what is possible m finitely outruns his powei .
not of execution only, but even of power to
attempt. He lies under the weight of incubus
10 and night-mare: he lies in the sight of all
that he would fain perform, just as a man
forcibly confined to his bed by the mortal
languor of a relaxing disease, who is com-
pelled to witness injury or outrage offered
15 to some object of his tenderest love*— he
cmses the spells which chain him down from
motion:— he would lay down his life if be
might but get up and walk ; but he is power-
less as an infant, and cannot even attempt
so to rise.
I now pass to what is the main subject of
these latter confessions, to the history and
journal of what took place in my dreams,
for these were the immediate and proximate
.5 cause of my acutest suffering.
The first notice I had of any important
change going on in this part of my physical
economy, was from the reawakening of a
«*tate of eye geneially incident to childhood.
JO or exalted states of irritability. I know
not whether ray reader is aware that many
children, perhaps most, have a power of
painting, as it were, upon the darkness, all
sorts of phantoms; in some, that power is
35 simply a mechanic affection of the eye;
others ha%e a voluntary, or a senii-voluntai y
power to dismiss or to summon them , 01, as
a child once said to me when I questioned him
on this matter, "I can tell them to go, and
40 they go; but sometimes they come when I
don't tell them to come." Whereupon I told
him that he had almost as unlimited com-
mand over apparitions as a Roman centurion
o\er his soldiers.— In the middle of 1817.
45 T think H was, that this faculty became posi-
tively distressing to me: at night, when I
lay awake in bed, vast processions passed
along in mournful pomp; friezes of ne\er-
endinjr stories, that to mv feelings were as
BO sad and *olemn as if they were stories drawn
from times before (Edipus or Priam— before
Tyre— before Memphis And, at the same
time, a corresponding- change took place in
my dreams; a theatre seemed suddenly
65 opened and lighted up within my brain,
which presented nightly spectacles of more
than earthly splendor. And the four fol-
lowing facts may be mentioned, as noticeable
at this time:
1074
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
1. That, as the cieative state of the eye
increased, a sympathy seemed to arise be-
tween the waking and the dreaming states
of the biam in oiie point— that whatsoever
I happened to call up and to trace by a vol-
untary act upon the darkness was very apt
to tiansfer itself to my di earns; so that I
feaied to exercise this iaculty , foi, as Midas
turned all things to gold, that yet baffled
bis hopes and defrauded his human desues,
so whatever things capable of being visually
represented I did but think of in the daik-
uess, immediately shaped themselves into
phantoms of the eye , and, by a process ap-
parently no less inevitable, when thus once
traced jn faint and vi&ionary colors, like
writings 111 sympathetic ink,1 they were
drawn out by the fierce chemistry of my
di earns, into insufferable splendor that fret-
ted ray heart.
2. For this and all other changes in my
dreams were accompanied by deep-seated
anxiety and gloomy melancholy, such as are
wholly incommunicable by words I seemed
every night to descend, not metaphorically,
but lit ei ally to descend, into chasms and
sunless abysses, depths below depths, from
which it seemed hopeless that T could tvor
reascend Nor did I, by waking, feel that I
had roawnded This I do not dwell upon ,
because the state of gloom which attended
these got genus spectacles, amounting at least
to utter daikness, as of some suicidal de-
spondency, cannot be approached by words
3 The sense of space, and in the eud, the
sense of time, were both powerfully affected
Buildings, landscapes, etc, were exhibited
in pioportions so vast as the bodily eye is
not fitted to receive Space swelled, and
was amplified to an extent of unutterable
infinity This, however, did not distuib me
so much as the vast expansion of time, I
sometimes seemed to have lived foi 70 or 100
years in one night, nay, sometimes had
feelings representative of a millennium
passed in that time, or, however, of a dura-
tion far beyond the limits of any human
experience.
4 The minutest incidents of childhood, or
forgotten scenes of later years, were often
revived I could not be said to recollect
them ; for if T had been told of them when
waking, I should not have been able to ac-
knowledge them as parts of my past expe-
rience. But placed as they were before me,
in dreams like intuitions, and clothed in all
their evanescent circumstances and accom-
' \ fluid usrf for Invisible writing, which becomea
viHlbJe when hcatnl
panying feelings, I recognised them instan-
taneously. I was once told by a near relative
of mine, that having in her childhood fallen
into a river, and being on the very verge of
6 death but for the critical assistance which
reached her, she saw in a moment her whole
life, in its minutest incidents, arrayed be-
fore her simultaneously as in a mirror; and
she had a faculty developed as suddenly for
10 comprehending the whole and every part
Thus, from some opium experiences of mine,
1 can believe; I have, indeed, aeen the same
thing asserted twice in modern books, and
accompanied by a remark which I am con-
ic vinced is true; vie., that the dread book of
account1 which the Scriptures speak of is,
in facl, the mind itself of each individual
Of this, at least, I feel assured, that there is
no such thing as forgetting possible to the
20 mind ; a thousand accidents may and will in-
terpose a veil between our present conscious-
ness and the secret inscriptions on the mind ,
accidents of the same soit will also rend
away this veil, but alike, whether veiled or
25 unveiled, the inscription remains forever,
just as the stars seem to withdraw before
the common light of day, whereas, in fact,
we all know that it is the light which is
drawn over them as a veil— and that they
30 are waiting to be revealed, when the obscur-
ing daylight shall have withdrawn.
Having noticed these four facts as mem-
orably distinguishing my dreams from those
of health, I shall now cite a case illustrative
35 of the first fact, and shall then cite any
otheis that I remember, either in their
chronological ordei, or any other that may
give them more effect as pictures to the
reader
40 I had been in youth, and even since, for
occasional amusement, a great reader of
Livy, whom I confess that I prefer, both
for style and matter, to any other of the
Roman historians; and I had often felt as
45 most solemn and appalling sounds, and most
emphatically representative of the majesty
of the Roman people, the two words so often
occurring in Livy— Consul Romania; espe-
cially when the consul is introduced in his
50 military character. I mean to say that the
words fang— sultan— regent, etc., or any
other titles of those who embody in their
own persons the collective majesty of a great
people, bad less power over my reverential
86 feelings. I had also, though no great reader
of history, made myself minutely and crit-
ically familiar with one period of English
history; t>i*, the period of the Parliamen-
» *rt elation, 20 -12.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1075
tary War,1 having been attracted by the
moral grandeur of some who figured in that
day, and by the many inteiesting meiuoirb
which survive these unquiet tunes. Both
these parts of my lighter reading, having
furnished ine often with matter of reflec-
tion, now furnished me with matter for my
dreams. Often I used to see, after painting
upon the blank darkness a bort of iehean»al
whilst waking, a crowd of ladies, and perhaps
a festival, and danceh. And I heaid it said,
01 1 wild to uiybelf, "These are English
ladies from the unhappy times of Charles T
Thehe are the wives and the daughters of
those who met in peace, and sat at the same
tables, and were allied by marriage or by
blood, and yet, after a certain day in Au-
pifot, 1642,1 never smiled upon each other
again, nor met but in the field of battle;
and at Marston Moor, at Newbury, or at
Naseby, cut asunder all ties of love by the
cruel babre, and washed away in blood the
memoiy of ancient friendship.1'— The ladies
danced, and looked as lovely as the court of
George IV Yet 1 knew, even in my dream,
that they had been in the grave for nearly
t\vo centimes —This pageant would sudd en K
dissohe and, at a clapping ni hands, would
be heard the heart-quaking sound of Consul
Romanuv and immediately came "sweep-
ing by,"2 in gorgeous paludameutK,8 Paulus,
en Manup, gilt round by a company oi con-
tunons, with the crimson tunic hoisted on a
spear,4 and followed by the alalagmos* of
the Roman legions.
Many years ago, when I was looking ovei
Piranesi's Antiquities of Rome, Mr. Cole-
ndgo, who was standing by, described to me
a set of plates by that artist, called his
Dreamt*, and which recoid the sceneiy of hi«
own iisions duuiiK the delnmni-oi1 a fever
some of them (T desciibe only from memory
oi1 Mr Tolendge's account) representuitr
vast Gothic halls, on the floor of which
stood all Knits of engines and machinery,
wheels, cobles, pulleys, levers, catapults, etc ,
etc, expressive of enormous power put
loith, and lesistance overcome. Creeping
iiloug the sides of the walls, you perceived
a stfinease; and upon it, groping his wav
upwards, was Piranesi himself: follow the
staiis a little further, and you perceive it
come to a Midden abrupt termination, with-
out any balustrade, and allowing no step
onwards to him who had reached tfre extrem-
ity, except into the depths below. Whatever
'The wer between Cbarles I and the Parlia-
mentary party began A Tiff 22, 1642 £
* II PfuwfToao, 08
a military cloaks • A signal for battle,
•hattle cry (originally of the Greekw)
is to become of poor Piranesi, you suppose,
at least, that his labors must in some way
terminate here. But laise your eyes, and
behold a second flight of stairs still highei :
5 on which again Piranesi is perceived, but
this time standing on the very brink of the
abyss. Again elevate your eye, and a still
inoie aerial flight of stairs is beheld: and
again is poor Piranesi busy on his aspiring
10 labors : and so on, until the unfinished stairs
and Piranesi both are lost in the upper
gloom of the hall.— With the same power of
endless growth and self -reproduction did niy
architecture proceed in dreams. In the eaily
15 stage of my malady, the splendors of my
dreams were indeed chiefly architectuial
and 1 beheld such pomp of cities and palaces
as was never yet beheld by the waking eye,
unless in the clouds. Prom a great modem
20 poet 1 cite part of a passage which describes,
as an appearance actually beheld in the
clouds what in many of its circumstances I
saw frequently in sleep :
% The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
* Was of a mighty city — boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self -withdrawn into a wondrous depth,
Far sinking into splendoi — without endf
Fabric it seem 'd of diamond, and of gold,
80 With Alabaster domes, and silver spires,
And glazing terrace upon teirace, high
Uplifted, here, serene pavilions bright
Tn avenues disposed, there, towers begirt
With battlements that on their restless fronts
Bore stars — illumination of all gems!
85 By earthly nature had the effect been wrought
Upon the dark materials of the storm
Now pacified on them, and on the coves,
And mountain-steeps and eummits, whereunto
The vapors had receded, — taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky, etc , etc *
The sublime circumstance— " battlements
that on then restless fronts bore stais,"—
might have been copied from my aichitec-
tural dreams, for it often wcuned — We
*& hea.i it leported of Dry den, and of Fuseli
in modern tunes-, that they though pioper to
rat raw meat for the sake of obtaining splen-
did dreams how much bettei for such a
purpose to have eaten opium, which yet I
60 do not remember that any poet is recoided
to have done, except the dramatist Shad-
well and in ancient days, Homer is, I think,
rightly reputed to have known the virtues of
opium.3
a To my architecture succeeded dreams of
lakes and wlvery expanses of water:— these
I Wordcrworth. The Bvcwrton 2 R14 ff
•In norapr's Odysiw. 4, 22021. Helen glvi* to
H flt-nj? *trirh banish"*
to
1076
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANTIGI8TB
haunted me BO much that I feared, though
possibly it will appear ludicrous to a med-
ical man, that some dropsical state or tend-
ency of the brain might thns be making
itself, to use a metaphysical word, objective;
and the sentient organ project itself as its
own object.— For two months I suffered
greatly in my head— a part of my bodily
structure which had hitherto been so clear
from all touch or taint of weakness, physi-
cally, I mean, that I used to say of it, as the
last Lord Orf ord said of his stomach, that it
seemed likely to survive the rest of my
person.— Till now I had never felt headache
even, or any the slightest pain, except rheu-
matic pains caused by my own folly. How-
ever, I got over this attack, though it must
have been verging on something very dan-
gerous.
The waters now changed their character,—
from translucent lakes, shining like mirror?,
they now became seas and oceans. And now
came a tremendous change, which, unfolding
itself slowly like a scroll, through many
months, promised an abiding torment; and,
in fact, never left me until the winding up
of my case. Hitherto the human f aee had
mixed often in my dreams, but not despot-
ically, nor with any special power of tor-
menting. But now that which I have called
the tyranny of the human face began to
unfold itself. Perhaps some part of my
London life might be answerable for this.
Be that as it may, now it was that upon the
rocking waters of the ocean the human face
began to appear: the sea appeared paved
with innumerable faces, upturned to the
heavens: faces, imploring, wrathful, de-
spairing, surged upwards by thousands, by
myriads, by generations, by centuries :— my
agitation was infinite,— my mind tossed—
and surged with the ocean.
The Malay has been a fearful enemy for
months. I have been every night, through
his means, transported into Asiatic scenes.
I know not whether others share in my
feelings on this point; but I have often
thought that if I were compelled to forego
England, and to live in China, and among
Chinese manners and modes of life and scen-
ery, I should go mad. The causes of my
horror lie deep and sotoe of them must be
common to others. Southern Asia, in gen-
eral, is the seat of awful images and associa-
tions. As the cradle of the human race, it
would alone have a dim and reverential feel-
ing connected with it. But there are other
reasons. No man can pretend that the wild,
15
35
barbarous, and capricious superstitions of
Africa, or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect
him in the way that he is affected by the
ancient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate
religions of Indostan, etc. The mere antiq-
uity of Asiatic things, of their institutions,
histories, modes of faith, etc., is so impres-
sive, that to me the vast age of the race and
name overpowers the sense of youth in the
individual. A young Chinese seems to me
an antediluvian man renewed. Even English-
men, though not bred in any knowledge of
such institutions, cannot but shudder at the
mystic sublimity of castes that ha\e flowed
apart, and refused to mix, through such im-
memorial tracts of time; nor can any man
fail to be awed by the names of the Ganger
or the Euphrates. It contributes much to
these feelings that southern Asia is, and has
been for thousands of years, the part of the
earth most swarming with human Hie,
the great of etna gentium* Man is a weed
in those regions. The vast empires also, into
which the enormous population of Asia has
always been cast, give a further sublimity
to the feelings associated with all Oiiental
names or images. In China, over and abcne
what it has in common with the rest of
southern Asia, I am terrified by the modes
of life, by the manners, and the barrier of
utter abhorrence, and want of sympathy,
placed between us by feelings deeper than I
can analyze. I could sooner live with luna-
tics, or brute urimals. All this, and much
more than I can say, or have time to say, the
reader must enter into before he can com-
prehend the unimaginable horror which these
dreams of Oriental imagery, and mytholog-
ical tortures, impressed upon me. Under
the connecting feeling of tropical heat and
vertical sunHghts, I brought together all
creatures, birds, beasts, reptiles, all trees
and plants, usages and appearances, that are
found in all tropical regions, and assembled
them together in China or Indostan. From
kindred feelings, I soon brought Egypt and
all Jier gods under the same law. I was
stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at,
by monkeys, by paroquets, by cockatoos. I
ran into pagodas: and was fixed for cen-
turies at the summit, or in secret rooms; I
was the idol; I was the priest; I was wor-
shipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the
wrath of Brama1 through all the forests of
L the creator.
wife, .«-»
the crocodile
' Egyptian*.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1077
Ana: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid wait
for me. I came suddenly upon Isb and
Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, which
the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was
buried for a thousand years in stone coffins,
with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow
chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids.
1 wa& kissed, with cancerous kisses, by croco-
diles; and kid, confounded with all unutter-
able slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic1
mud.
I thus give the reader some slight abstrac-
tion of my Oriental dreams, which always
filled me with such amazement at the mon-
strous scenery, that horror seemed absorbed,
for a while, in sheer astonishment Sooner
or later, came a reflux of feeling that swal-
lowed up the astonishment, and left me, not
so much in terror, as in hatred and abomi-
nation of what I saw. Over every form, and
threat, and punishment, and dim sightless
incarceration, brooded a sense of eternity
and infinity that drove me into an oppression
as of madness. Into these dreams only, it
was, with one or two slight exceptions, that
any circumstances of physical horror en-
tered. All before had been moral and spiri-
tual terrors. But here the main agents were
ugly birds, or snakes, or crocodiles; espe-
cially the last The cursed crocodile became
to me the object of more horror than almost
all the rest. I was compelled to live with
him; and (as wa& always the case almost in
nay dreams) for centuries. I escaped some-
times, and found myself in Chinese houses,
with cane tables, etc. All the feet of the
tables, sofas, etc., soon became instinct with
life: the abominable head of the crocodile,
and his leering eyes, looked out at me, multi-
plied into a thousand repetitions: and I
stood loathing and fascinated. And so often
did this hideous reptile haunt my dreams,
that many times the very same dream was
broken up in the very same way: I heard
gentle voices speaking to me (I hear every-
thing when I am sleeping) ; and instantly I
awoke: it was broad noon; and my children
were standing, hand in hand, mt my bedside ;
come to show me their colored shoes, or new
frocks, or to let me see them dressed for
going out. I protest that so awful was the
transition from the damned crocodile* and
the other unutterable monsters and abortions
of my dreams, to the sight of innocent Jtvmtm
natures and of infancy, that, in the mighty
and sudden revulsion of mind, I wept, and
could not forbear it, as I kissed their fates.
i belonfing to the NDc
I have had occasion to remark, at various
periods of my life, that the deaths of those
whom we love, and indeed the contemplation
s of death generally, is (caterw panbus)* more
affecting in summer than in any other season
of the year.2 And the reasons are these thiee,
I think: first, that the visible heavens in
^ summer appear far higher, more distant, and
10 (if such a solecism may be excused) more
infinite; the clouds, by which chiefly the eye
expounds the distance of the blue pa\ilion
stretched over our heads, are in summer more
voluminous, massed, and accumulated in far
15 grander and more towering piles: secondly,
the light and the appearance of the declining
and the setting sun are much more fitted to
be types and characters of the Infinite : and,
thirdly, which is the main reason, the exube-
ao rant and riotous prodigality of life natu-
rally forces the mind more powerfully upon
the antagonist thought of death, and the
wintry sterility of the gra\e. For it may
be observed, generally, that wherever two
25 thoughts stand related to each other by a
law of antagonism, and exist, as it were, by
mutual repulsion, they are apt to suggest
each other. On these accounts it is that I
find it impossible to banish the thought of
ao death when I am walking alone in the end-
less days of summer; and any particular
death, if not more affecting, at least haunts
ray mind more obstinately and bemegmgly
in that season. Perhaps this cause, and a
K slight incident which I omit, might have been
the immediate occasion of the following
dream, to which, however, a predisposition
must always have existed in my mind; but
having been once roused, it never left me.
40 and split into a thousand fantastic varieties,
which often suddenly reunited, and com-
posed again the original dream.
I thought that it was a Sunday morning in
May, that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet
*5 very early in the morning I was standing,
as it seemed to me, at the door of my own
cottage. Right before me lay the very scene
which could really be commanded from that
situation, but exalted, as was usual, and sol-
50 emnized by the power ^of dreams. There
were the same mountains, and the same
lovely valley at their feet; but the moun-
tains were rained to more than Alpine height,
and there was interspace far larger between
65 them of meadows and forest lawns; the
hedges were rich with white roses; and no
• otter cowMttoiMi txUur tbe Mm*
•See p. 104T»b, 12-22: aluo, AntobioorapM
ftrfofcm (p 1002ft. 2ft f). and T
IfoU-retrA:* 1 (p lISRh 4Rff)
1078
NINETEENTH CENTURY^BCMANTICISTS
living creature was to be seen, excepting that
in the green churchyard there were cattle
tranquilly reposing upon the verdant grbves,
and particularly round about the giave of a
child whom 1 had tenderly loved,1 just as 1
had really beheld them, a little before sun-
use in the same summer, when that child
died. I gazed upon the well-known scene,
and I said aloud (as I thought) to myself,
"It yet wants much of sunnse; and it is
Easter Sunday ; and that is the day on which
they celebrate the first-fruits of resui rectum.
1 will walk abroad; old griefs shall be forr
gotten today; for the air is cool and still,
and the hills are high, and stretch away to
heaven ; and the forest-glades are as quiet
as the churchyaid; and with the dew 1 can
wash the fever from my foiehead, and then
1 shall be unhappy no longer." And I
turned, as if to open my garden gate, and
immediately I haw upon the left a scene far
different ; but which yet the power of dreams
had leconciled into harmony with the other.
The scene was an Oriental one, and theie
also it was Easter Sunday, and veiy eaily
in the motnitig. And at a vast distance were
visible, as u stain upon the horizon, the
domes and cupolas of a gieat city—an linage
or faint abstraction, caught perhaps in
childhood from some picture of Jerusalem
And not a bowshot from me, upon a stone,
and shaded by Judean palms, there sat a
woman, and 1 looked; and it was— Ann fj
She fixed her eyes upon me earnestly; and 1
said to her at length: "So then I have
found you at last." I waited: but she an-
swered me not a word. Her face was the
same as when I saw it last, and yet again
how different! Seventeen years ago, when
the lamplight fell upon her face, as for tb£
last time I kissed her lips (lips, Ann, that
to me were not polluted), her eyes were
streaming with tears, the tears weie now
wiped away; she seemed more beautiful
than she was at that time, but in all other
points the same, and not older Her looks
were tranquil, but with unusual solemnity of
expression ; and I now gazed upon her with
some awe, but suddenly her countenance
grew dim, and, turning to the mountains, I
perceived vapors rolling between us; in a
moment, all had vanished; thick darkness
came on; and, in the twinkling of an eye, I
was far away from mountains, and by lamp-
light in Oxford Street, walking again with
Ann— just as we walked seventeen years be-
fore, when we were both children*
i Catherine Worduworth
•Bee pp 10M-60.
As a final specimen, I cite one of a differ-
ent character, from 1820.
The dream commenced with a music which
now I often heard in dreams— a music of
5 preparation and of awakening suspense; a
music like the opening of the Coronation
Anthem, and which, like that, gave the
feeling of a vast march— of infinite caval-
. cades filing off— and the tread of innumer-
10 able armies. The morning was come of a
mighty day— a day of crisis and of final
hope lor human nature, then suffering some
mysterious eclipse, and laboring in some
dread extremity. Bomewheie, ] knew not
IB where— somehow, I knew not how— by some
beingH, I knew not whom— a battle, a Htnfe,
nn agony, was conducting,— was c\ol\mp
like a great drama, or piece of music; with
winch my sympathy wan the more msupport-
20 able from my contusion as to its place, its
cause, its natuie, and its possible issue. I,
as is usual in dreams (where, of necessity,
we make ourselves central to every move-
ment), had the power, and yet had not the
25 powei, to decide it. 1 had the power, if 1
could raise myself, to will it, and yet again
hud not the power, ior the weight of twenty
Atlantics was upon me, 01 the oppression of
inexpiable ffinlt "Deeper than evei plum-
30 met Miui'ded,"1 I lav mnctiw1 Then, like a
choius, the passion deepened Some gi eater
interest was at stake, some mightier cause
than ever yet the sword had pleaded, or
ti umpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden
35 alarms : hurrying to and fro : trepidations
of innumerable fugitives, I knew not wheth-
er from the good cause or the bad • darknew
and lights, tempest and human faces: and
at last, with the sense that all was lost, female
40 forms, and the features that were worth all
the world to me, and but a moment allowed,
—and clasped hands, and heart-breaking
partings, and then— everlasting farewells'
and with a sigh, such as the caves of hell
46 sighed when the incestuous mother2 uttered
the abhorred name of death, the sound was
reverberated — everlasting farewells' and
again, and yet again reverberated— e>ei -
lasting farewells!
BO And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud
—"I will sleep no more'"'
But I am now called upon to wind up a
narrative which has already extended to an
» unreasonable length,-/ Within more spacious
limits, the materials which I have used might
1 Tim Tempent, V, 1, !MI
• Sin (Roe Paradtoe Lott. 2, 787 ff )
•*«* MatTteth, II, 2, 3B
THOMAS DE QUIMGEY
1079
have been better unfolded; and much which
I have not used might have been added with
effect. Perhaps, however, enough has been
given. It now remains that I should say
something of the way in which this conflict
of horrors was finally brought to its crisis.
The reader is already aware ( from a passage
near the beginning of the introduction to the
first part) that the opium-eater has, in some
way or other, "unwound, almost to its final
links, the accursed chain which bound
him."1 By what means T To have nar-
rated this, according to the original inten-
tion, would have far exceeded the space
which can now be allowed. It is fortunate,
as such a cogent reason exists for abridging
it, that I should, on a maturer view of the
cane, have been exceedingly unwilling to in-
jure, by any such un affect ing details, the
impression of the history itself, as an appeal
to the prudence and the conscience of the yet
unconfirmed opium-eater— or even, though a
very infenor consideration, to injure its
effect as a composition. The interest of the
judicious reader will not attach itself chiefly
to the subject of the fascinating spells, but
to the fascinating power. Not the opium-
eater, but the opium, is the true hero of the
tale; and the legitimate center on which
the interest revolves The object was to
display the marvellous agency of opium,
whether for pleasure or for pain • if that is
done, the action of the piece has closed
However, as some people, in spite of all
laws to the contrary, will persist in asking
what became of the opium-eater, and in what
state he now is, I answer for him thus The
reader is aware that opium had long ceased
to found its empire on spells of pleasure;
it was solely by the tortures connected with
thfe attempt to abjnie it, that it kept its hold.
Yet, as other tortures, no less it may be
thought, attended the non-abjuration of such
ft tyrant, a choice only of evils was left ; and
that might as well have been adopted, which,
however terrific in itself, held out a prospect
of final restoration to happiness This ap-
pears true; but good logic gave the author
no strength to act upon it. However, a crisis
arrived for the author's life, and a crisis for
other objects still dearer to him— and which
will always be far dearer to him than his
life, even now that it is again a happy one —
I saw that I must die if T continued the
opium- I determined, therefore, if that
should be required, to die in throwing it off.
How much I was at that time taking I cannot
i Quoted from the pamafft addwyiaed to the
reader, at the beginning of the Confessions.
say; for the opium which I used had been
purchased for me by a friend who after-
wards refused to let me pay him; so that I
could not ascertain even what quantity I had
6 used within the year. I apprehend, however,
that I took it very irregularly : and that I
varied from about fifty or sixty grains, to
150 a day. My first task was to reduce it to
forty, to thirty, and, as fast as I could, to
10 twelve grains.
I triumphed : but think not, reader, that
thereioie my bufferings weie ended; nor
think oi me o& of one sitting in a dejected
state. Think of me as of one, crien when
15 four months had passed, still agitated, wnth-
nig, throbbing, palpitating, shattered; arid
much, perhaps, m the situation of him who
has been racked, as 1 collect the torments of
that state from the affecting account of them
20 left by the most innocent feiiffeier1 of the
times of James I. Meantime, I derived no
benefit from any medicine, except one pre-
set ibecl to me by an Kdmburgh surgeon of
#reat eminence, r/j, aiiiuioniated tincture of
25 \alerian. Medical account, therefore, of niv
emancipation 1 lia\e not much to t»ive- and
even that little, as managed by a man so
ignoiant of medicine as myself, would prob-
ably tend only to mislead Ai all exents, it
30 would be misplaced in this situation. The
moral oi the narrative is addressed to the
opium-eater; and, therefore, of necessity,
limited m its application If he is taught to
fear and tremble, enough has been effected
35 But he may say, that the issue of my case
is at least a proof that opium, after a seven-
teen years' use, and nn eight years' abuse of
its powers, may still be renounced • and that
he may chance to brine; to tlie task greater
40 energy than I did, or that with a stronger
constitution than mine he may obtain the
same results with less This may be true • I
would not pi mime to measure the efforts of
other men by my own* T heartily wish him
46 more energy: I wish him the same success.
Nevertheless, I had motives external to my-
self which he may unfortunately want • and
these supplied me with conscientious sup-
ports which mere personal interests might
BO fail to supply to a mind debilitated by
opium.
Jeremy Taylor conjectures that it may be
as painful to be born as to die:2 T think
55 '"William Llthgnw bin book (TVaifft, etc) I,
111 and pedantically written • but tbe account
of bin own minVringR on the rack at Malaga
Is overpowerlnglv affecting " — De Qulncey
* In the enlarged Confrtrton*, De Quince? change*
the name to Lord Bacon, and in a note refers
to Bacon's Essay on J)fatft
1080
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTIdSTS
it probable: and, during the whole period
of diminishing the opium, I had the torments
of a man passing out of one mode of exist-
ence into another. The issue was not death,
but a sort of physical regeneration : and I
had a restoration of more than youthful
spirits, though under the pressure of diffi-
culties, which, in a less happy state of mind,
I should have called misfortunes.
One memorial of my former condition still
remains: my dreams are not yet perfectly
calm : the dread swell and agitation of the
storms have not wholly subsided: the legions
that encamped in them are drawing off, but
not all departed: my sleep is still tumultu-
ous, and, like the gates of Paradise to our
first parents when looking back from afar, it
ib still, in the tremendous line of Milton—
With dreadful faces throng M and fiery armi.i
ON THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE IN
MACBETH9
1823
From my boyish days I had always felt a
great perplexity on one point in Macbeth.
It was this :— the knocking at the gate which
succeeds to the murder of Duncan produced
to my feelings an effect for which I ne\er
could account. The effect was that it re-
flected back upon the murderer a peculiar
awfulness and a depth of solemnity; yet,
however obstinately I endeavored with my
understanding to comprehend this, for many
years I never could sec why it should pro-
duce such an effect.
Here I pause foi one moment to exhort
the reader never to pay any attention to his
understanding when it stands in opposition
to any other faculty of his mind. The mere
understanding, however useful and indis-
pensable, is the meanest faculty in the human
mind and the moht to be distrusted ; and yet
the great majority of people trust to noth-
ing else,— which may do for ordinary life,
but not for philosophical purposes. Of this,
out of ten thousand instances that I might
produce, I will cite one Ask of any person
whatsoever who is not previously prepared
for the demand by a knowledge of perspec-
tive, to draw in the rudest way the common-
est appearance which depends upon the laws
of that wience,— as, for instance, to repre-
sent the effect of two walls standing at right
angles to each other, or the appearance of
iparwMH* Aoft/,12, 644.
•Act II, M
the houses on each side of a street, as i
by a person looking down the street from
one extremity. Now, in all cases, unless the
person has happened to obwene in pictures
6 how it is that artists produce these effects,
he will be utterly unable to make the small-
est approximation to it Yet why t For he
has actually seen the effect every day of bib
life. The reason is that he allows his under-
10 standing to overrule his eyes. His under-
standing, which includes no intuitive knowl-
edge of the laws of vision, can furnish him
with no reason why a line which is known
and can be proved to be a horizontal line
1ft should not appear a horizontal line: a line
that made any angle with the perpendicular
less than a right angle would seem to him to
indicate that his houses were all tumbling
down together. Accordingly he makes {he
90 line of his houses a horizontal line, and fails
of course to produce the effect demanded.
Here then is one instance out of many in
which not only the understanding is allowed
to overrule the eyes, but where the under-
25 standing is positi\ely allowed to obliterate
the eyes, as it were; for not only does the
man believe the evidence of his understand-
ing in opposition to that of hu» eyes, but
(which is monstrous) the idiot is not aware
30 that his eyes ever gave such evidence. He
does not know that he has seen (and there-
fore, quoad f his conflciousnesn lias not seen )
that which he has seen every day of his life.
But to return from this digression,— my
85 understanding could furnish no reason why
the knocking at the gate in Macbeth should
produce any effect, direct 01 reflected. In
fact, my understanding said potutn ely that it
could not produce any effect. But T knew
40 better; I felt that it did; and I waited and
clung to the problem until further knowl-
edge should enable me to solve it. At length,
in 1812,z Mr. Williams made his debut on
the stage of Ratehffe Highway, and exe-
<6 cuted those unparalleled murders which have
procured for him such a brilliant and undy-
ing reputation. On which murders, by the
way, I must observe, that in one respect they
have had an ill effect, by making the con-
60 noisseur in murder very fastidious in hi*
taste, and dissatisfied with anything that
has been since done in that line. All other
murders look pale by the deep crimson of
his; and, as an amateur* once said to me
56 m a querulous tone, "There has been abso-
lutely nothing doing since his time, or noth-
1 therefor*
•It WM In December, 1811.
* A pemon fond of
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1081
ing that's worth speaking of." But this is
wrong, for it is unreasonable to expect all
men to be great fertists, and born with the
genius of Mr. Williams. Now it will be
remembered that in the first of these mur-
ders (that of the Marre) the same incident
(of a knocking at the door Boon after the
work of extermination was complete) did
actually occur which the genius of Shak-
spere has invented ; and all good judges, and
the most eminent dilettanti, acknowledged
the felicity of Bhakspere's suggestion as
soon as it was actually realized. Here then
was a fresh proof that I had been right
in relying on my own feeling in opposition
to my understanding; and again I set my-
self to study the problem. At length I
solved it to my own satisfaction; and my
solution is this:— Murder, in ordinary cases,
where the sympathy is wholly directed to
(he case of the murdered person, is an inci-
dent of coarse and vulgar horror; and for
this reason— that it flings the interest ex-
clusively upon the natural but ignoble in-
stinct by which we cleave to life : an instinct
which, as being indispensable to the primal
law of self-preservation, is the same in kind
(though different in degiee) amongst all
living creatures. This instinct, therefore,
because it annihilates all distinctions, and de-
grades the greatest of men to the level of
"the poor beetle that we tread on,"1 ex-
hibits human nature in its most abject and
humiliating attitude. Such an attitude
would little suit the purposes of the poet
What then must he dot He must throw
the interest on the murderer. Our sympathy
must be with htm (of course I mean a sym-
pathy of comprehension, a sympathy by
\shich we enter into his feelings, and are
made to understand them— not a sympathy
of pity or approbation).2 In the murdered
person all strife of thought, all flux and
reflux of passion and of purpose, are crushed
by one overwhelming panic; the fear of in-
stant death smites him "with its petnfic3
mace.'9 But in the murderer, such a mur-
derer as a poet will condescend to, there must
' Jrew«r0 /or JfeoMitt. Ill, 1, 78.
• ••It fleems almort ludicrous to guard and ex-
plain my UM of a word In a dtuatton wnm
ftwonld naturally explain itself Bat It
the nnicbolar-llke me of the i
Jt Pi«nt «o s*oml.
tai
many writer*
of 'aympathy
b* raging some great storm of passion-
jealousy, ambition, vengeance, hatred—
which will create a hell within him; and into
this hell we are to look.
B In Macbeth, for the sake of gratifying
his own enormous and teeming faculty of
creation, Shakspere has introduced two mur-
derers: and, as usual in his hands, they are
remarkably discriminated: but— though in
10 Macbeth the strife of mind is greater than
in his wife, the tiger spirit not so awake, and
his feelings caught chiefly by contagion from
her— yet, as both were finally involved in
the guilt of murder, the murderous mind of
IB necessity is finally to be presumed in both.
This was to be expressed, and on its own
account, as well as to make it a more pro-
portionable antagonist to the unoffending
nature of their victim, "the gracious Dun-
20 can,991 and adequately to expound "the
deep damnation of his taking off,'93 thu»
was to be expressed with peculiar energy.
We were to be made to feel that the human
nature,— i. e., the divine nature of love and
a mercy, spread through the hearts of all
creatures, and seldom utterly withdrawn
from man— was gone, vanished, extinct, and
that the fiendish nature had taken its place.
And, as this effect is marvellously accoin-
30 plished in the dialogues and soliloquies
themselves, so it is finally consummated by
the expedient under consideration; and it
is to this that I now solicit the reader's at-
tention. If the reader has ever witnessed a
K wife, daughter, or sister, in a fainting fit,
he may chance to have observed that the most
affecting moment in such a spectacle is that
in which a sigh and a stirring announce the
recommencement of suspended life Or, if
40 the reader has ever been present in a vast
metropolis on the day when some great
national idol was earned in funeral pomp
to his grave, and, chancing to walk near the
course through which it passed, has felt
« powerfully, in the silence and desertion of
the streets and in the stagnation of ordinary
business, the deep interest which at that
moment was possessing- the heart of man—
if all at once he should hear the death-like
BO stillness broken up by the sound of wheels
rattling away from the scene, and making
known that the transitory vision was dis-
solved, he will be aware that at no moment
was his sense of the complete suspension
K and pause in ordinary human concerns so
full and affecting as at that moment when
the suspension ceases, and the goings-on of
1 1feotofft, III, 1, ft*.
» /ftW , 1, 7, 2A
1082
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
human life are suddenly resumed. All action
in any direction is best expounded, meas-
ured, and made apprehensible, by reaction.
Now apply this to the case in Macbeth.
Here, as I have said, the retiring of the
human heart and the enhance of the fiendish
heart was to be expressed and made sensible.
Another world has stepped in , and the mur-
deiers are taken out of the region of human
things, human purposes, human desires.
They are transfigured: Lady Macbeth is
"unsexed",1 Macbeth has forgot that he
was born of woman; both are conformed to
the image of devils; and the world of devils
is suddenly revealed. But how shall this
be conveyed and made palpable! In order
that a new world may step in, this woild
must for a time disappear. The murderers,
and the minder, must be insulated — cut off
by an immeasurable gull from the ordinary
tide and succession of human affairs-
locked up and sequestered in some deep re-
cess, we must be made sensible that the
world of ordinary life is suddenly arrested—
laid asleep— tianced— racked into a dread
armistice; time must be annihilated, rela-
tion to things without abolished, and all
must pass sell-withdrawn into a deep syn-
cope and suspension of earthly passion.
Hence it is that, when the deed is done,
when the woik of daikness is perfect, then
the world ot darkness passes away like
a pageantiy in the clouds the knocking
at the (rate is heaid, and it makes known
audibly that the leaction has commenced;
the human has made its reflux upon the
fiendish: the pulses of life are beginning
to beat again; and the re-establishment of
the goings-on of the world in which we
live first makes us profoundly sensible of
the awful parenthesis that had suspended
them
0 mighty poet! Thy works are not as
those of other men, simply and merely great
works of art, but are also like the phenom-
ena of nature, like the sun and the sea, the
stars and the flowers, like frost and snow,
rain and dew, hail-storm and thunder, which
are to be studied with entire submission of
our own faculties, and in the perfect faith
that in them there can be no too much or
too little, nothing useless or inert, but that,
the farther we press in our discoveries,
the more we shall see proofs of design
and self-supporting arrangement where the
careless eye had seen nothing but acci-
dent!
i Macbeth, I, 5, 42 .
From EECOLLECTION8 OF OHABLEfl
LAMB
1888
Amongst the earliest literary acquaint-
6 ances I made was that with the inimitable
Charles Lamb: inimitable, I say, but the
word is too limited in its meaning, for, as
is said of Milton m that well-known life of
him attached to all common editions of the
10 Paradise Lost (Fenton's, I think), "in both
senses he was above imitation. ' ' Yes ; it was
as impossible to the moral nature of Charles
Lamb that he should imitate another as, in
an intellectual sense, it was impossible that
15 any other should successfully mutate him.
To write with patience even, not to say
genially, for Charles Lamb it was a very
necessity of his constitution that he should
write from his own wayward nature; and
ao that nature was so peculiar that no other
man, the ablest at mimicry, could counter-
feit its voice. But let me not anticipate , for
these were opinions about Lamb which 1
had not when I first knew bun, nor could
25 have had by any reasonable title "Eha,"1
be it observed, the exquisite ''Ella,99 was
then unborn, Lamb had as yet published
nothing to the world which proclaimed him
in his proper character of a most original
80 man of genius-2 at best, he could have been
thought no more than a man of talent— and
of talent moving in a narrow path, with a
power rather of mimicking the quaint and
the fantastic than any large grasp over cath-
«6 olic beauty And, therefore, it need not offend
the most doting admirer of Lamb as he is
now known to us, a brilliant star forever
1The pseudonym of Charles Lamb.
40 J"Mfan of genius' . . 'man of talent' —
I have, in another place, laid down what I
conceive to be the true ground of distinction
between genius and talent: which lies mainly
in thin— that genius in intellectual power im-
pregnated with the moral nature, and ex-
i a synthesis of the active In man with
Igtnal organic capacity of pleasure and
In Hence the very word genius, because
IMUU »«-uro i,uv TVIJ TTUIU yortvnv, ut .
the penial nature in its whole organisation Is
expressed and involved 'in it Hence, also,
arisen the reason that genius is always pe-
culiar and Individual , one man's genius never
exactly repeats another man's But talent Is
the same in all men; and that which is ef-
fected by talent can never serve to identify
or indicate Its author Hence, too, that, al-
though talent is the object of respect, it
never conciliates love, you love a man of
talent perhaps in concrete, but not talent:
whereas genius, even for itself, is idolised I
am the more proud of this distinction since I
have seen the. utter failure of Mr. Coleridge,
attempt in bis.
60
1,
— ..
Nat
fffOMAS DB
1088
fixed *in the firmament of English Liter-
ature, that I acknowledge myself to have
Bought his acquaintance rather /under the
reflex honor he had enjoyed of being known
as Coleridge's fnend than for any which
he yet held directly and separately in his
own person My earliest advances towards
this acquaintance had an inauspicious
aspect; and it may be worth while reporting
the circumstances, for they were character-
istic of Charles Lamb; fend the immediate
result was— that we parted, not perhaps
(as Lamb says of his philosophic fnend R.
and the Parisians) "with mutual con-
tempt," but at least with coolness, and, on
my part, with something that might have
even turned to disgust — founded, however,
entirely on my utter misapprehension of
Lamb's character and his manners— had it
not been for the winning goodness of Miss
Lamb,1 before winch all resentment must
have melted in a moment.
It was eithei late in 1804 or early in 1805,
according to my present computations, that'
I had obtained from a literary fnend a let-
ter of introduction to Mr. Lamb. All that
I knew of his works was his play of John
Woodml, which 1 had bought in Oxford,
and pei haps 7 only had bought thimurhout
that gieat University, at the time ot my
matriculation there, about the Christmas of
1803. Another book fell into my hands on
that same morning, I recollect— the Gcbir2
of Mr. Walter Savage Landor, which aston-
ished me by the splendor of its descriptions
(for I had opened accidentally upon the
sea-nymph's mairiape with Tamor, the
youthful brother of Gebir— and I bought
this also Afterward*, when placing these
two most unpopular of books on the same
shelf with the other far holier idols of my
heart, the joint poems of Wordsworth and
Coleridge as then associated in the Lyrical
Ballads— poem* not equally unknown, per-
haps a 7t///r better known, but only with the
result of being more openly scorned, re-
jected— T could not but smile internally at
the fair prospect I had of congregating a
library which no man had read but myself
John Woodvtl I had almost studied, and
Miss Lamb's pretty High-Born Helen, and
the ingenious imitations of Burton;9 these
I had read, and, to a certain degree, must
have admired, for some parts of them had
settled without effort fa my memory, I
'See p. 959 The marriage of Tamar and tho
sea-nymph la described in Book 8
• Lamb'a imitations were called Curiov* Frag-
ments.
had read also the Edinburgh1 notice of
them; and with what contempt may be sup-
posed from the fact that my veneration
for Wordsworth transcended all that I felt
5 for any created being, past or present ; in-
somuch that, in the summer, or spring
rather, of that same year, and full eight
months before I first went to Oxford, I
had ventured to address a letter to him,
10 through his publishers, the Messrs. Long-
man (which letter, Miss Wordsworth in
after years assured me they believed to be
the production of some person much older
than I represented myseli), and that in due
i& time I had been honored by a long answer
from Wordsworth; an honor which, I well
remember, kept me awake, from mere ex-
cess of pleasure, through a long night in
June, 1803. It was not to be supposed that
20 the very feeblest of admirations could be
shaken by mere scorn and contumely, un-
supported by any shadow of a reason.
Wordsworth, therefore, could not have suf-
fered in any man 's opinion from the puny
25 efforts of this new autociat amongst re-
viewers ; but what was said of Lamb, though
not containing one iota of criticism, either
good or bad, had certainly more point and
cleverness. The supposition that John
TO Woodvil might be a lost drama, recovered
from the age of Thespis,2 and entitled to the
hircus,* etc , must, 1 should think, have won
a smile from Lamb himself; or why say
"Lamb himself," which means "even
33 Lamb/' when he would have been the very
first to laugh (as he was afterwards among
the first to hoot at his owu farce),4 pro-
vided only he eonld detach his mind from the
ill-nature and hard contempt which accom-
40 panied the wit. This wit had certainly not
dazzled my eyes in the slightest degree. So
far as I was left at leisure by a more potent
order of poetry to think of the John Wood-
vil at all, I had felt and acknowledged a
« delicacy and tenderness in the situations as
well as the sentiments, but disfigured, as 1
thought, by quaint, grotesque, and mimetic
phraseology The mam defect, however, of
which I complained, was defect of power.
so T thought Lamb had no right to take his
station amongst the inspired writers who
had just then risen to throw new blood into
* T*«j Edinburgh Review, April, 1803 (vol. 2, 90-
85 * ThHt* la, from the rudest agp of the drama.
Theapla (6th cent B. c ) is the reputed founder
•gait <<w!5rto have b«yn tho prlte of tragedy to
the time of Theapta)
* Lamb'a farce, Mr B , waa hooted off the stage
at its first appearance, in 1806.
1084
NINETEENTH GENTUBT BOMANTIdBTS
our literature, and to bieathe a breath of
life through the worn-out, or, at least, tor-
pid organization of the national mind. He
belonged, I thought, to the old literature;
and, as a poet, he certainly does. There
were in his verses minute scintillations of
genius— HOW and then, even a subtle sense
of beauty; and there were shy graces, lurk-
ing half-unseen, like violets in the shade.
But there was no power on a colossal scale;
no breadth; no choice of great subjects;
no wrestling with difficulty; no creative
energy. So I thought then; and so I should
think now, if Lamb were viewed chiefly
fts a poet. Since those days he has estab-
lished his right to a seat in any company.
But wliyt and in what character t As
a".-t
Eha
the essays of "Elia" are as ex-
quisite a gem amongst the jewelry of liter-
ature as any nation can show. They do not,
indeed, suggest to the typifying imagination
a Last Supper of da Vinci or a Group from
tlie Sistine Chapel, but they suggest some
exquisite cabinet painting; such, for in-
stance, as that Carlo Dolce known to all
who have visited Lord Exeter's place of
Bnrleigh (by the way, I bar the allusion to
Charles Lamb which a shameless punstei
suggests in the name Carlo Dolce1) ; and in
tins also resembling that famous picture—
that many critics (Hazhtt amongst others)
can see little or nothing in it. Quam nthtl
(tdgenium^Papiniane^tuum!2 Those, there-
fore, err, in my opinion, who present Lamb
to our notice amongst the poets. Very
pretty, very elegant, very tender, very beau-
tiful verses he has written; nay, twice he
has written verses of extraordinary force,
almost demoniac force— «*., The Three
Graves, and The Gipsy's Malison.9 But
speaking generally, he writes verses as one
to whom that function was a secondary
and occasional function, not his original
and natural vocation— not an M?", but a
For the reasons, therefore, I have given,
never thinking of Charles Lamb as a poet,
and, at that time, having no means for
judging of him in any other character, I
had requested the letter of introduction to
him rather with a view to some further
knowledge of Coleridge (who was then ab-
' Italian for "tweet
at all In
sent from England) than from any special
interest about Lamb himself. However. I
felt the extreme discourtesy of approaching
a man and asking for his time and civility
i under such an avowal: and the letter, there-
fore, as I believe, or as I requested, repre-
sented me in the light of an admirer. I hope
it did; for that character might have some
excuse for what followed, and heal the mi-
ll pleasant impression likely to be left by a
sort of fracas which occurred at my first
meeting with Lamb. This was so character-
istic of Lamb that I have often laughed at
it since I came to know what tea* eharac-
u teristic of Lamb.
But first let me describe my brief intro-
ductory call upon him at the India House.
I had been told that he was never to be found
at home except hi the evenings; and to have
20 called then would have been, in a manner,
forcing myself upon his hospitalities, and
at a moment when he might have confidential
friends about him; besides that, he was
sometimes tempted away to the theatre*.
tf I went, therefore, to the India House; made
inquiries amongst the servants; and, aftet
some trouble (for that was early in his
Leadenhall Street career, and possibly he
was not much known), I uas sho\\n into a
10 small room, or else a small section of a largo
one (thirty-four years affects one's remem-
brance of some circumstances), in which
was a very lofty writing desk, sepaiated by
a still higher railing from that part of the
* floor on which the profane— the laity, like
myself— were allowed to approach the
clervs,OT clerkly rulers of the room. Within
the railing* sat, to the best of my remem-
brance, six quill-driving gentlemen; not
40 gentlemen whose duty or profession it was
merely to drive the quill, but who were then
driving it— gens de plume,1 such in ease,
as well as t» posse— & act as well as habit ,
for, as if they supposed me a spy sent by
tf some superior power to report upon the
situation of affairs as surprised by me, they
were all too profoundly immersed in their
oriental studies to have any sense of my
presence. Consequently, I was reduced to a
i) necessity of announcing myself and my er-
rand. I walked, therefore, into one of the
two open doorways of the railing, and stood
closely by the high stool of him who occu-
pied the first place within the little aisle. I
touched his win, by way of recalling him
from his lofty Leadenhall speculation to this
sublunary world ; and, presenting my letter,
* «ea of the pen
THOMAS DE QUINOEY
1085
asked if that gentleman (pointing to the
address) were really a citizen of the present
room; for I had been repeatedly mislead,
by the directions given me, into wrong rooms.
The gentleman smiled; it was a smile not to
be forgotten. This was Lamb. And here
occurred a very, very little incident— one
of those which pass so fugitively that they
are gone and harrying away into Lethe
almost before your attention can have
arrested them; but it was an incident
which, to me, who happened to notice it,
served to express the courtesy and deli-
cate consideration of Lamb's manner. The
seat upon which he sat was a very high
one; so absurdly high, by the way, that
I can imagine no possible use or sense in
Bueh an altitude, unless it were to restrain
the occupant from playing truant at the
fire by opposing* Alpine difficulties to his
descent.
Whatever might be the original purpose
of this aspiring seat, one serious dilemma
arose from it, and this it was which gave the
occasion to Lamb's act of courtesy. Some-
where there is an anecdote, meant to illus-
trate the ultra-obsequiousness of the man,—
either I haVe heard of it in connection with
some actual man known to myself, or it is
told in a book of some historical coxcomb,—
that, being on horseback, and meeting some
person or other whom it seemed advisable
to flatter, he actually dismounted, in order
to pay his court by a more ceremonious bow.
In Russia, as we all know, this was, at one
time, upon meeting any nf the Imperial
family, an act of legal necessity: and there,
accordingly, but there only, it would have
worn no ludicrous aspect. Now, in this sit-
uation of Lamb's, the act of descending from
his throne, a very elaborate process, with
steps and stages analogous to those on horse-
back—of slipping your right foot out of
the stirrup, throwing your leg over the
crupper, etc.— was, to all intents and pro-
poses, the same thing as dismounting from
a great elephant of a hone. Therefore it
both was, and was felt to be by Lamb, su-
premely ludicrous. On the other hand, to
have sate still and stately upon this aerial
station, to have bowed condescendingly from
this altitude, would have been— not ludi-
crous indeed; performed by a very superb
person and supported by a superb bow, it
might have been vastly fine, and even terri-
fying to many young gentlemen under six-
teen; but it would have had an air of
qngentlemanly assumption. Between these
extremes, therefore, Lamb had to choose:—
ridiculous himself for
going through a ridiculous
evolution which no man could execute with
grace ; or, on the other hand, appearing lofty
3 and assuming, in a degree which his truly
humble nature (for he was the humblest of
men in the pretensions which he put for-
ward for himself) must have shrunk from
with horror. Nobody who knew Lamb can
10 doubt how the problem was solved : he began
to dismount instantly; and, as it happened
that the very first round of his descent
obliged him to turn his back upon me as if
for a sudden purpose of flight, lie had an
i> excuse for laughing; which he did heartily
—saying, at the same time, something to this
effect: that I must not judge from first
appearances; that he should revolve upon
me; that he was not going to fly; and other
90 facetuB, which challenged a general laugh
from the clerical brotherhood.
When he had reached the basis of ten a
flnna on which I was standing, naturally, as
a mode of thanking him for his courtesy, I
25 presented my hand; which, in a general
case, I should certainly not have done; for
I cherished, in an ultra-English desrree, the
English custom (a wise custom) of bowing
in frigid silence on a first introduction to a
90 stranger; but, to a man of literary talent,
and one who had just practiced so much
kindness in my favor at so probable a haz-
ard to himself of being laughed at for his
pains, I could not maintain that frosty re-
33 serve. Lamb took my hand; did not abso-
lutely reject if: but rather repelled my ad-
vance by his manner. This, howevei, Ion?
afterwards I found, was only a habit de-
rived from his too great sensitiveness to the
40 variety of people's feelings, which run
through a gamut so infinite of degrees and
modes as to make it unsafe for any man
who respects himself to be too hasty in his
allowances of familiarity Lamb had, as he
«3 was entitled to have, a high self-respect ; and
me he probably suspected (as a young
Oxonian) of some aristocratic tendencies
The letter of introduction, containing (T
imagine) no matter* of business, was speed-
60 ily run through; and I instantly received an
invitation to spend the evening with him.
Tjamb was not one of those who catch at the
chanee^of escaping from a bore by fixing
some distant day, when accidents (in dnpli-
56 cate proportion, perhaps, to the number of
intervening days) may have carried you
away from the place: he sought to benefit
by no luck of that kind ; for he was, with his
limited income— and T say it deliberately—
1086
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
positively the most hospitable man I have
known in this world. That night, the same
night, I was to come and spend the evening
with him. I had gone to the India House
with the express purpose of accepting what-
ever invitation he should give me, and,
therefore, I accepted this, took my leave,
and left Lamb in the act of resuming his
aerial position.
I was to come so early as to drink tea with
Lamb; and the hour was seven. He lived
in the Temple; and I, who was not then,
as 'afterwards I became, a student and
member of "the Honorable Society of the
Middle Temple," did not know much of the
localities However, I found out his abode,
not greatly beyond my time* nobody had
been asked to meet me,— which a little sur-
prised me, but I was glad of it; for, besides
Lamb, there was present his sister, Miss
Lamb, of whom, and whose talents and
sweetness of disposition, I had heard. I
turned the conversation, upon the first open-
ing which offered, to the subject of Cole-
ridge; and many of my questions weie
answered satisfactorily, because seriously,
by Miss Lamb. But Lamb took a pleasure
in baffling me, or in throwing ridicule upon
the subject. Out of this grew the matter of
our affray We were speaking of The An-
cient Mariner.1 Now, to explain what fol-
lowed, and a little to excuse myself, I must
beg the reader to understand that I was
under twenty years of age, and that iny
admiration for Colendge (as, in perhaps
a still greater degree, for Wordsworth) was
literally in no respect short of a religious
feeling* it had, indeed, all the sanctity of
religion, and all the tenderness of a human
veneration. Then, also, to imagine the
strength which it would derive from circum-
stances that do not exist now, but did then,
let the reader further suppose a case— not
such as he may have known since that eia
about Sir Walter Scotts and Lord Byrons,
where every man you could posubly fall
foul of, early or late, night or day, summei
or winter, was in perfect readiness to feel
and express his sympathy with the admirer—
but when no man, beyond one or two in each
ten thousand, had so much as heard of either
Coleridge or Wordsworth, and that one, or
those two, knew them only to scorn them,
trample on them, spit upon them. Men so
abject in public estimation, I maintain, as
that Colendge and that Wordsworth, had
not existed before, have not existed since,
» Bee p. 335.
will not exist again. We have heard in old
tunes of donkeys insulting effete or dying
lions by kicking them; but in the case of
Coleridge and Wordsworth it was effete
6 donkeys that kicked living lions. They,
Colendge and Wordsworth) were the Pa-
riahs1 of literature in those days, as much
scorned wherever they were known; but
escaping that scorn only because they were
30 as little known as Pariahs, and even more
obscure.
Well, after this bravura,8 by way of con-
veying my sense of the real position then
occupied by these two authors— a position
H which thirty and odd years have altered, by
a revolution more astonishing and total than
ever before happened in literature or in
life— let the reader figure to himself the
sensitive horror with which a young person,
20 carrying his devotion about with him, of
necessity, as the prof oundest of secrets, like
a primitive Christian amongst a nation of
Pagans, or a Roman Catholic convert
amongst the bloody idolaters of Japan8—
"5 HI Oxford, above all places, hoping for no
sympathy, and feeling a daily grief, almost
a shame, in harboring this devotion to that
which, nevertheless, had done moie for the
expansion and sustenance of his own inner
ao mind than all literature besides— let the
reader figure, I bay, to himself, the shock
with which such a person must recoil from
hearing the very fneud and associate of
these authors uttei what seemed at that time
35 a burning ridicule of all which belonged to
them— their books, their thoughts, their
places, their persons. This had gone on for
some time befoie wo came upon the ground
of The Anctent Manner; I had been grieved,
40 perplexed, astonished, and how else could I
have felt reasonably, knowing nothing of
Lamb's propensity to mystify a stranger;
he, on the other hand, knowing nothing of
the depth of my feelings on these subjects,
46 and that they were not so much mere litei ury
preferences an something that went deeper
than life or household affections! At length,
when he had given uttei anee to some fero-
cious canon of judgment, which seemed to
50 question the entire value of the poem, I said,
perspiring (I dare say) in this detestable
crisis— "But, Mr. Lamb, good heavens! how
is it possible you can allow yourself in such
__ ' onteaat* (A Pariah properly to a member of a
M very extensive low cuite In Southern India,
but the name wan extended to memben of
any low Hindu caste, and by European* ap-
pl&fl to pffponn of no caste >
1 Bravura In a brilliant frtyle of music
• Jatan pmpmtrf Chrurtfana until the middle of
the l£th century
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1087
opinions I What instance could you bring
from the poem that would bear you out in
these insinuations f"— ' 'Instances t" said
Lamb: "oh, I'll instance you, if you come
to that. Instance, indeed' Pray, what do
yon say to this—
The many men BO beautiful,
And they all dead did lief*
So beautiful, indeed! Beautiful! Just
think of such a gang of Wappmg vaga-
bonds,2 all covered with pitch, and chewing
tobacco; and the old gentleman himself—
what do you call him 1— the bright-eyed f el-
low t"8 What more might follow 1 never
heard; for, at this point, in a perfect rap-
ture of horror, I raised my hands— both
hands— to both ears, and, without stopping
to think or to apologize, I endeavored to
restore equanimity to my disturbed sensi-
bilities by shutting: out all further knowl-
edge of Lamb's impieties. At length he
seemed to have finished;* BO I, on my part,
thought I might venture to take off the
embargo- and in fact he had ceased , but
no sooner did he find me restored to my hear-
ing than he said with a most sarcastic smile
—which he could assume upon occasion—
"If you please, sir, we'll say grace before
we begin." I know not whether Lamb were
really piqued or not at the mode by which
I bad expressed my disturbance • Miss Lamb
certainly was not; her goodness led her to
pardon me, and to treat me— m whatever
light she might really view my almost in-
voluntary rudeness— as the party who had
suffered wrong; and, for the rest of the
evening, she was so pointedly kind and
conciliatory in her manner that I felt
greatly ashamed of my boyish failure in
self-command. Yef, after all, Lamb nec-
essarily appeared so much worse, in my
eyes, as a traitor is worse than on open
enemy
Lamb, after this one visit— not knowing
at that time any particular reason for con-
tinuing to seek his acquaintance— I did not
trouble with my calls for some years. At
length, however, about the year 1808, and
for the six or seven following years, in my
evening visits to Coleridge, I used to meet
him again; not often, but sufficiently to
correct the altogether very false impression
I had received of his character and man-
ners
* The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, 230-7 (P
«The8dl«trlct of Wapplng along the Thames In
- - •.thef.vorlteha^fgalloj..^
STYLE
1840-41
From PART I
It is a fault, amongst many faults, of
such works as we have on this subject of
style, that they collect the list of qualities,
good or bad, to which competition is liable,
10 not under any principle from which they
might be deduced £ pnon, so as to be as-
sured that all had been enumerated, but by
a tentative groping, a mere conjectural esti-
mate. The word style has with us a twofold
15 meaning : one sense, the narrow one, express-
ing the mere synthesis onomaton,1 the syn-
taxis or combination of words into sentences ;
the other of far wider extent, and expressing
all possible relations that can anse between
20 thoughts and words— the total effect of a
writer, as derived from manner Style may
be viewed as an organic thing- and as a
mechanic thing. By organic, we moan that
which, being acted upon, reacts, and winch
25 propogates the communicated power with-
out loss, by mechanic, that which, being
impressed with motion, cannot throw it back
without loss, and therefore soon comes to
an end. The human body is an elaborate
30 svstem of organs , it is sustained by organs.
But the human body is exercised as a ma-
chine, and, as such, may be viewed in the
arts of riding, dancing, leaping, etc, sub-
ject to the laws of motion and equilibrium.
35 Now, the use of woids is an organic thing,
in so far as language is connected with
thoughts and modified with thoughts It is
a mechanic thin?, in so far as words m com-
bination determine or modify each other.
*o The science of style, as an organ of thought,
of style in relation to the ideas and feelings,
might be called tbe orqanology of stylo.
The science of style, considered as a machine,
in which words act upon woids, and through
« a particular grammar, might be called the
mechanology of stvle. It is of little inipni -
tance by what name these two functions of
composition are expressed. But it is of
great importance not to confound the func-
60 tions ; that function by which stvle maintains
a commerce with thought, and that by which
it chiefly communicates with grammar and
with words. A pedant only will insist upon
the names; but the distinction in the ideas,
56 under some name, dan be neglected only by
the man who is careless of logic
We know not how far we may be ever
i patting together of nouns (Bee Arlntotle's Rhrt-
1088
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8TS
called upon to proceed with this dug
if it should happen that we were, an inter-
esting field of questions would he before us
for the first part, the organology. It would
lead us over the ground trodden by the
Greek and Roman rhetoricians; and over
those particular questions which have arisen
by the contrast between the circumstances of
the ancients and our own since the origin of
printing:. Punctuation,1 trivial as such an
innovation may seem, was the product of
typography; and it is interesting to trace
the effects upon style even of that one
slight addition to the resources of logic.
Previously, a man was driven to depend for
his security against misunderstanding upon
the pure virtue of his syntax. Miscollocation
or dislocation of related words disturbed the
whole sense; its least effect was to give no
sense ; often it gave a dangerous sense. Now,
punctuation was an artificial machinery for
maintaining the integrity of the sense
against all mistakes of the writer; and, as
one consequence, it withdrew the energy of
men's anxieties from the natural machinery,
which lay in just and careful arrangement.
Another and still greater machinery of art
for the purpose of maintaining the sense,
find with the effect of relaxing the care of
the writer, lay in the exquisitely artificial
structure of the Latin language, which, by
means of its terminal forms, indicated the
arrangement, and referred the proper pred-
icate to the proper subject, spite of all that
affectation or negligence could do to disturb
the series of the logic or the succession of
the syntax. Greek, of course, had the same
advantage in kind, but not in degree; and
thence rose some differences which have
escaped all notice of rhetoricians. Here also
would properly arise the question started by
Charles Fox (but probably due originally
i"Thls IB a mo*t Instructive fact, and It te an-
other fact not less Instructive, that lawyer*
In most part* of Christendom. I belter? , cer-
Ulnly wherever they are wide awake profes-
sionally, tolerate no punctuation But why'
Are lawyers not sensible to the luminous ef-
fect from a point happily placed' Ted, tbev
are aenalhlc : but aim they are sensible of the
false prejudlcating effect from a punctuation
managed (an too generally It Is) careleailv
and llWcallf. Here is the brief abstract of
the cue. All punctuation narrows the path,
which Is else unlimited ; and (Iw narrowing
It) may chance to guide the reader Into the
right groove amongst several that are not
right tat, also Punctuation baa the effect
very often (and almost always has the power)
of Mating and predetennining the reader to
an erroneous choice of meaning. Better,
therefore, no guide at all than one.<*rhlch Is
always be SUB, . — . ,,
as very nearly always It has the ponwr
leafl astray."—!* Qntacey.
to the conversation of some far subtler
friend, such as Edmdbd Burke), how far
the practice of footnotes— a practice purely
modern in its form— is reconcilable with the
S laws of just composition; and whether in
virtue, though not in form, such footnotes
did not exist for the ancients, by an eva-
sion we could point out1 The question is
clearly one which prows out of style in its
10 relations to thought— how far, rwv such
an excrescence as a note argues that the
sentence to which it is attached has not
received the benefit of a full development
for the conception involved; whether if
15 thrown into the furnace again and remelted,
it might not be so recast as to absorb the
redundancy which had previously flowed over
into a note. Under this head would fall not
only all the differential questions of stjle
» and composition between us and the ancients,
but also the questions of merit as fairly dis-
tributed amongst the moderns compared with
each other. The French, as we recently in-
sisted,2 undoubtedly possess one vast ad-
26 vantage over all other nations in the good
taste which governs the arrangement of
their sentences; in the simplicity (a strange
pretension to make for anything French)
of the modulation under which their thoughts
» flow; in the absence of all cumbrous involu-
tion, and in the quick succession of their
periods.* In reality this invaluable merit
tends to an excess; and the style coupS as
opposed to the 0fyfe sontenu* flippancy
85 opposed to gravity, the snbsultory6 to the
continuous, these are the two frequent ex-
tremities to which the French manner be-
trays men. Better, however, to be flippant
than, by a revolting form of tumor and per-
40 plexity, to lead men into habits of intellect
such as result from the modern vice of
English style Still, with all its practical
value, it is evident that the intellectual merits
of the French style are but small.9 They
tf are chiefly negative, in the first place; and,
<*eeondly, founded in the accident of their
colloquial necessities. The law of conver-
sation has prescribed the model of their
sentences; and in that law there is quite an
so much of self-interest at work as of respect
for equity. Four vtniam petimvsqu* da-
'Probably a reference to the habit of the an-
dents of Incorporating foot-note, material In a
parenthesis in the text.
• In an earlier part of the essay.
•sentences
* concise style as opposed to loft? strle
•leaping; bounding
•For a corrective of this unsound rlew. see F
ittB&Taasft ar-7 * "*"*•"
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1089
musque mctssim.1 Give and take is the rule,
and ne who expects to be heard must con-
descend to listen; which necessity, for both
parties, binds over both to be brief. Brev-
ity so won could at any rate have little
ment; and it is certain that, for piofound
thinkers, it must sometimes be a hindrance.
Tn order to be brief, a man must take a
short sweep of view . his range of thought
cannot be extensive; and such a rule, applied
to a general method of thinking, is fitted
rather to aphorisms and maxims as upon
a known subject, than to any process of
investigation as upon a subject yet to be
fathomed. Advancing still further into the
examination of style as the organ of think-
ing, we should find occasion to see the pro-
digious defects of the French in all the
higher qualities of prose composition. One
advantage, for a practical purpose of life,
IB sadly counterbalanced by numerous
faults, many of which are faults of stamina,
lying not in any corrigible defects but in
such as imply penury of thinking, from rad-
ical inaptitude in the thinking faculty to
connect itself with the feeling, and with the
creative faculty of the imagination There
are many other,researches belonging to this
subject of subjects, affecting both the logic
and the ornaments of style, which would
fall under the head of organology. But for
instant practical use, though far less diffi-
cult for investigation, yet, for that reason,
far more tangible and appreciable, would
be all the suggestions proper to the other
head of mechanology. Half a dozen rules
for fading the most frequently recurring
forms of awkwardness, of obscurity, of mis-
proportion, and of double meaning, would
do more to assist a writer in practice, laid
under some necessity of hurry, than volumes
of general disquisition. It makes us blush
to add that even grammar is so little of a
perfect attainment amongst us that, with
two or three exceptions (one being Shak-
speare, whom some affect to consider as be-
longing to a semi-barbarous age), we have
never seen the writer, through a circuit of
prodigious reading, who has not sometimes
violated the accidence or the syntax of Eng-
lish grammar.3
Whatever becomes of our own possible
speculations, we shall conclude with insist-
ing on the growing necessity of style fls a
practical interest of daily life Upon sub-
i We both aeek Bin! grant this indulgence In turn.
— Horace, Ar* Portica, 11
•De Qolncey make* thN Rtatemont evidently on
the nsmjmptlon that the lawa of grammar are
conntnnt for all ties.
jects of pubhc concern, and in pioportion
to that concern, there will always be a suit-
able (and as letters extend, a growing) com-
petition. Other things being equal, or ap-
6 peering to be equal, the determining prin-
ciple for the pubhc choice will he in the
style. Of a German book, otherwise entitled
to respect, it was said— er lasst sich mcht
lesen, it does not permit itself to be read :
10 such and so repulsive was the style. Among
ourselves, this has long been true of news-
papers : they do not suffer themselves to be
read in cxtenso, and they are road short—
with what injury to the mind may be
IB guessed The same style of reading, once
largely practiced, is applied urmersally.
To this special evil an improvement of style
would apply a special redress. The same
improvement is otherwise clamorously called
20 for by each man's interest of competition.
Public luxury, which is gradually consulted
by everything d*P» must at length be con-
sulted in style.
-. From AUTOBIOGRAPHIC SKETCHES
a 1845-51
THB AFFLICTION OF CHILDHOOD
The earliest incidents in my life, which
80 left stings in my memory so as to be remem-
bered at this day, were two, and both before
I could have completed my second year;
namely, 1st, a remarkable dream of terrific
grandeur about a favorite nurse, which is
35 inteiestmg to myself for this reason— that
it demonstrates my dreaming tendencies to
have been constitutional, and not dependent
upon laudanum;1 and, 2dly, the fact r*1
ha\ing connected a profound sense of
40 pathos with the reappearance, very early in
the spnng, of some crocuses. This I mention
as inexplicable; for such annual resurrec-
tions of plants and flowers affect us only a«
memorials, or suggestions of some burlier
« change, and theiefore in connection with the
idea of death ; yet of death I could, at that
time, ha\e had no experience whate^ei.
Tliis, however, I was speedily to acquiie.
My two eldest sisters— eldest of three then
» hvincr, and also elder than myself— were
summoned to an early death. The first who
1 "It In true that In thorn* dam mrrroorfo
wan occasionally Riven to children In colds,
find In thia mod I ci DP then* IH a Bmall propor-
tion of laudanum. But no medicine wan over
66 administered to an? member of onr nuntenr
except under medical function . and thin, as-
Kuredly. would not have been obtained to the
exhibition of laudanum in a caae auch aa
mine. For 1 wan not more than twentY-one
months old : at which age the action of opium
la capricious, and therefore perilous*' — De
Qnlncey
1090
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICISTS
died was Jane, about two years older than
myself.1 She was three aiid a half, I one
and a half, more or less by some trifle that
I do not recollect. But death was then
scarcely intelligible to me, and I could not 5
so properly be said to buffer sorrow as a sad
perplexity. There was another death in the
house about the same time, namely, of a
maternal grandmother, but, as she had come
to us for the express purpose of dying in 10
her daughter's society, and from illness had
lived perfectly secluded, our nursery circle
knew her but little, and were certainly
more affected by the death (which I wit-
nessed) of a beautiful bird— cur., a king- 15
fisher, which had been injured by an acci-
dent. With my sister Jane's death (though
otherwise, as I have said, less sorrowful than
perplexing) there was, however, connected
an incident which made a most fearful im- 20
pression upon myself, deepening my ten-
dencies to thoughtfulnt'sfe and abstraction
beyond what would seem credible for my
years. If there was one thing in this world
from winch, more than from any other, J5
nature had forced me to revolt, it was bru-
tality and violence Now, a whisper arose
in the family that a female servant, who by
accident was drawn off from her proper
duties to attend my sister Jane for a day JO
or two, had on one occasion treated her
harshly, if not brutally; and as this ill-
treatment happened within three or four
days of her death, so that the occasion of it
must have been some fretfulness in the poor 36
child caused by her sufferings, naturally
there was a sense of awe and indignation
diffused through the family. I believe the
story never readied my mother, and possibly
it was exaggerated ; but upon me the effect 40
was terrific I did not often see the person
charged with this cruelty; but, when I did,
my eyes sought the ground ; nor could I have
borne to look her in the face; not, however,
in any spirit that could be called anger. ff
The feeling which fell upon me was a shud-
dering horror, as upon a first glimpse of
the truth that I was in a world of evil and
strife. Though bom in a large town (the
town of Manchester, even then among the 60
largest of the island) , I had passed the whole
of my childhood, except for the few earliest
weeks, in a rural seclusion. With three
innocent little sisters for playmates, sleep-
ing always amongst them, and shut up for B
ever in a silent garden from all knowledge
of poverty, or oppression, or outrage, I had
»The record on the grave-stones makes Jan* one
year jounger than De Qulncey
not suspected until this moment the true
complexion of the world in which myself
and my sisters were living. Henceforward
the character of my thoughts changed
greatly; for so representative are some acts,
that one single case of the class is sufficient
to throw open before you the whole theatre
of possibilities m that direction. I never
heard that the woman accused of this cruelty
took it at all to heart, even after the event
which so immediately succeeded had re-
flected upon it a more painful emphasis.
But for myself, that incident hud a lasting
re\ olutionary power in coloring my estimate
of life.
So passed away from earth one of those
tliiee sisters that made up my nursery play-
mates; and so did my acquaintance (if such
it could be called) commence with mortality.
Yet, in fact, I knew little moie of mortality
than that Jane had disappeared. She had
gone away; but, perhaps, she would come
back. Happy interval of heaven-bom igno-
rance! Gracious immunity of infancy from
sorrow disproportioned to its strength! I
vi as sad for Jane's absence But still in my
heart I trusted that slie would come again
Summer and winter cnme again— crocuses
and roses; why not little Jane 1
Thus easily was healed, then, the first
wound in my infant heart. Not so the sec-
ond. For thou, dear, noble Elizabeth,
around whose ample brow, as often as thy
sweet countenance rises upon the darkness,
I fancy a tiara1 of light or a gleaming
aureola2 in token of thy premature intellec-
tual grandeur— thou whose head, for its
superb developments, was the astonishment
of science8— thou next, but after an inter-
1 A crownllke bead ornament.
•"The mttreola is the name given In the Lcpend*
of the Christian Saint* to that golden diadem
or circlet of supernatural light (that glory,
as it la commonly called In English) which,
amongst the great masters of painting in
Italy, surrounded the heads of Christ and of
distinguished saints.*1— De Qulncey
»'"TA0 astonishment of trimcc1 — Her medical
attendants were Dr. Percival, a well-known
literary physician, ivho had been a corre-
spondent of Condorcet, D'Alembcrt, etc , and
Mr. Charles White, the most distinguished
surgeon at that time in the North of Bug-
land. It was he who pronounced her head to
be the finest in its development of any that
he had ever seen — an assertion which, to my
own knowledge, he repeated In after yean,
and with enthusiasm,
qualnf
That he bad some ac-
may be pre-
itance with the subject , .
J from this, that, at so early a stage of
such Inquiries, he had published a work on
human cranlologv, supported by meamire-
ments of beads selected from all varieties of
the human species. Meantime, as it would
grieve me that any trait of what might seem
yanltv should creep into thte record, I will
admit that my sinter died of h vdrocephahw ;
and It has been often supposed that the pro-
THOMAS DM QUINCEY
1091
val of happy years, them also wert sum-
moned away from our nuibery; and the
night which for me gatheied ujwn that
event ran after my steps far into hfe; and
perhaps at this day I resemble little for
pood or for ill that which else I should have
been. PilJar of fire that didst go before me1
to guide and to quicken— pillar of dark-
ness, \\hen thy countenance was turned away
to God, that didbt too truly reveal to my
dawning fears the scciet shadow of death,
by what mystenous grautation was it that
my heart had been diawn to thine T Could
a child, six yeais old, place any special value
upon intellectual foiwaidncssf Serene and
rapacious as my sister's mind appeared to
me upon after review, was that a charm for
stealing away the heart of an infant! Oh
no! 1 think of it now with interest, because
it lends, in a stranger's ear, some justifica-
tion to the excess of my fondness. But then
it was lost upon me, or, if not lost, was pei-
ceived only through its effects Hadst thou
been an idiot, my Bister, not the less I mu^t
lune loved thee, having that capacious heart
— ovei flowing, e\en as mine overflowed, wiih
tenderness, sttung, even as mine was stumer,
bv the necessity of loving and being lined
Thm it was which crowned thee with beauty
aud power.—
Love, tbe holy sense,
Host gift of God, in thee was most intense?
That lamp of Paradise was, for myself,
kindled by icflection from the liwn« light
winch burned so steadfastly in thee, and
never but to thee, nevei again since thy
depaitme, had I powei or temptation, coin-
age 01 desne, to uttei the feelings which
possessed me For I was the shyest of chil-
dien, and, at all stage* of life, a natuial
**nse of personal dignity held me back from
exposing the least ray of feelings which
I was not encouraged wholly to reveal.
It is needless to pursue, circumstantially,
the couise of that sickness which earned off
my lender and companion. She (accoidmg
to'iiiy iccollectiou at this moment) was jubl
mature expansion of the Intellect In caw of
thut clAHii IH altogether morbid— fon ed on, In
fact, by the ineic Rtlmulatlon of tbo dlwaw
I would however, RUggeat, aa a nowlhllth , the
Aorv opposite order of relation l»etween the
illwafie cnnd the Intellectual manifertarlnnq.
Not the dlneaiie may alwava have routed the
nrctcrnatmal growth of the intellect, bat, In-
veiHely, thin growth of the intellect coming
on spontaneous v, and outrunning the capacl-
tlen of the phvalcal structure, may have
canned the dljwme "-De Qnlncty.
•WwSlworth, THbwff 1o r»e Memory of thr
flame Do0, 27
as near to nine years as I to six. And per-
haps this natural precedency in authoiity
of years and judgment, united to the tender
humility with which she declined to asseit
s it, had been amongst the fascinatioiib of her
presence. It was upon a Sunday evening,
if such conjectures can be tiubted, that the
spaik of fatal fire fell upon that tram of
predispositions to a brain complaint which
10 had hitherto slumbered within her. She had
been peimitted to dunk tea at the house of
a laboring man, the father of a favonte
female seivant. The sun had set when she
returned, in the company of this sen ant,
is thiough meadows reeking with exhalations
after a feivent day From that day she
sickened. Ill such circumstances, a child, as
young as myself, feels no anxieties. Look-
ing upon medical men as people privileged,
20 and naturally commissioned, to make war
upon pain and sickness, I never had a
nii&grung about the result I grieved, in-
deed, that my sister should he in bed, I
giie\ed still more to hear her moan. But
£ all this appeared to me no moie than as a
night of tiouble, on which the dawn would
win ause 0! moment of darkness and
delnium, when the elder nurse awakened me
fiom that delusion, and launched God's
30 thunderbolt at my heart in the assurance
that my sister MUST die. Rightly it is said
of utter, utter misery, that it "cannot be
lemembered"1 Itself, as a remaiknble
thing,, is swallowed up in its own chaos
& Blank anarchy and confusion of mind fell
upon me Deaf and blind I was, as I reeled
under the revelation. I wish not to lecall
the circumstances of that time, when mif
agony was at its height, and hen, in anotbci
40 sense, was approaching Enough it is to sav.
that all was soon ovei , and the moining of
that day had at last arrived winch looked
down upon her innocent face, sleeping the
sleep from which theie is no awaking, mid
tf upon me sorrowing the soirow for which
there is no consolation
On the day after my sistei 's death, whilst
the sweet temple of her brain iias yet un-
violated by human scrutiny, I formed my
60 own scheme for seeing hei once more Not
for the world would I have made this known,
nor have suffeied a witness to accompany
me. I had never heaid of feelings that take
the name of "sentimental," noi dreamed ot
tf such a possibility. But grief, even in a child,
i"'I stood in unimaginable trance
And agonr which cannot he remomlier'd *
Bpeoch of Albadra in C^ilerldfte'a
r*rt [IV, 8, 77 RJ "-De Qulnoey.
1092
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
liates the light, aud shrinks from human
eyes. The houbo was large enough to have
two staircases , and by one of these I knew
that about mid-day, when all would be quiet
(for the seivants dined at one o'clock), I
could steal up into her chamber. I imagine
that it u as about an hour after high noon
when I reached the chamber-door; it was
locked, but the key uas not taken am ay
Entei ni£», I closed the door so softly, that,
although it opened upon a hall winch as-
cended tin oui» h all the stories, no echo ran
along the silent walls. Then, turning round,
I sought my sistei 's face But the bed had
been moAcd, and the back was now tinned
toward h nrvself Nothing1 met my eyes but
one luii>e Timdow, wide open, through winch
the sun of niKUummei at mid-day \vas
showenng down toi rents of splendor. The
\\cather was diy, the sky 'was cloudless, the
blue depths seemed to expic<<s types of in-
finity, and it uas not possible for eye to
behold, or foi heart to conceive.1 any
symbols more pathetic of life and the glory
of life.
Let me pause for one mutant in appioach-
ing a lenieinbrauce so affecting for my o\sn
mind, to mention that, in the Opium Con-
fcsawns, I endeavored to explain the reason
\\hy death, other conditions remaining the
same, is more profoundly affecting in suni-
'mer than in other pait" of the year— so far,
at least, as it is liable to any modification at
all from accidents of scenery or season -
The reason, as I there suggested, lies in the
antagonism between the tropical ledundancy
of life in summer, and the frozen sterilities
of the grave The summer we see, the gra\ e
we haunt with our thoughts; the glory is
around us, the daikness is within us, and,
the two coming into collision, each exalts the
other into stronger relief. But, in im case,
theie was even a subtler reason uhv the
summer had this intense power of vrufving
the spectacle or the thoughts of death. And,
recollecting it, 1 am stnick with the truth,
that far more of our deepest thoughts and
feelings pa««s to us through perplexed com-
binations of concrete objects, pass to us as
involutes (if T may coin that word) in com-
pound experiences incapable of being dis-
entangled, than ever reach us directly, and in
their own abstract shapes. It had happened
Hint amongst onr vast nursery collection of
books was the Bible illustrated with many
pictures And in long dark evenings, as my
three sisters with myself sat by the firelight
M, 2 0.
i fU* 1 rortntMa**!
• See p 10771), 1-42
round the guard1 of our nursery, no book
was so much in request amongst us. It ruled
us and swayed us as mysteriously as music.
Oui younger nuise, whom we all loted, would
5 sometimes, according to her simple powers,
endeavor to explain what *c found obscuie.
We, the children, were all constitutionally
touched with pensheness; the fitful gloom
and sudden lambencies of the loom by fiie-
10 light suited our evening state of feelings,
and they suited, also, the div me re\ elat ions of
powei and mystei ions beauty which awed us.
Above all, the story of a just man3— man
and yet not man, real above all things, and
is yet shadowy above all things— who had suf-
t'eied the passion of death in PalcMtine, slept
niton our minds like eaily dawn upon the
\\aters. Tlie nurse knew and explained to
us the chief differences in oriental climates,
20 and all these differences (as it happens) e\-
piess> themselves, moie 01 less, in vailing
lelations to the great accidents and poucis
of Mimniei The cloudless sunlights of Sj na
—those seemed to nrgue everlasting snm-
•26 mei , the disciples plucking the eais of
coin8— that mutt be suinniei , but, aboxe al1,
the \or\ name of Palm Sunday (a fe«Ui\al
in the English (Munch) troubled me like an
anthem. "Snndo} ''' 11 lint was tfar/' Tint
30 was the day of peace \\hich masked annlhci
peace deeper than the heait of man can
comprehend "Palms1" mhat weie tho\ 1
That TV as an eqimocal A\oul, palms, in the
sense of ti opine*, expiessed the pomps of
3"* ht'e; palms, as a product oi natme, ex-
pi essed the pomps of summer. Yet still e\ en
this explanation does not suffice, it \\as not
meiely by the pence and by the sunnnei, b>
the deep sound ol iest below all rest and ol
40 ascending gloiy, that 1 had been h.imiu>d
It was also because Jeiusalem stood neai to
those deep images both in tune and in place
The gieat e^ent of Jeinsalem was at hand
\ihen Palm Sunday came, and the scene ot
46 (hat Sunday uas near in place to Jei usaleni
What then was Jeinsalem? Did I fancy it
to be the omphalos (navel) or physical cen-
tre of the earth f Why should ffttrf affect
met Such a pietension had once been made
60 lor Jeiusalem/ and once lor a Grecian city ,"'
1 " 'The guard' —I know not whether the wonl I*
ii local one In tills BPIIHP What I nioun Is n
sort of fender, four or five feet high. «lil<h
lockn up the flro from too near an appioiuh
ou the part of children." — De Quince
K f \ inference to nirint.
99 "Moe 7,nAr. 0 1
<Hee Ksdlrl. Ii X A round atone In the diun'i
of the Holv Sepulchre Indicates *hat wan wihl
to he the center of the world
BThe fctone on uhlch \ polio rat In the temple at
Delphi marked, mpponedly. the center of the
world
THOMAS DE QUIKCEY
1093
and both pretensions had become ridiculous,
as the figure of the planet became known.
Yes; but if not of the earth, yet of mortal-
ity, for earth 's tenant, Jerusalem, had now
become the omphalos and absolute centre.
Yet howl There, on the contrary, it was,
as we infants understood, that mortality had
been trampled under foot. True, but, for
that very reason, there it was that mortality
had opened its very gloomiest crater. There
it was, indeed, that the human had risen on
wings from the grave ; but, for that reason,
there also it was that the divine had been
swallowed up by (he abyss; the lesser star
could not rise, before the greater should sub-
mit to eclipse. Summer, therefore, had con-
nected itself with death, not merely as a
mode of antagonism, but also as a phenome-
non brought into intricate relations with
death by scriptural scenciv and events
Out of this digression, foi the purpose of
showing how inextricable my feelings and
images of death weie entangled with those
(if summer, as connected with Palestine and
Jerusalem, let me come back to the bed-
chamber of my sister. From the gorgeous
sunlight I turned round to the corpse There
lay the sweet childish figure , there the angel
face; and, as people usually fancy, it was
said in the house that no features had suf-
fered any change Had they not f The fore-
head, indeed— the serene and noble forehead
—that might be tbe same; but the frozen
ovelids, the daikness that seemed to steal
from beneath them, the marble lips, the
stiffening hands, In id palm to palm, as if
tepeating the supplications of closing an-
guish—could these be mistaken for life?
Had it been so, wherefore did I not spring
to those heavenly lips with tears and never-
ending kisses 1 But so it was not. I stood
checked for a moment; awe, not fear, fell
upon me ; and, whilst I stood, a solemn wind
began to blow— the saddest that ear ever
heard It was a wind that might have swept
the fields of mortality for a thousand* cen-
turies. Many times since, upon summer
days, when the sun is about the hottest, I
have remarked the same wind arising and
uttering the same hollow, solemn, Memno-
nian,1 but saintly swell : it is in this world
i " 'Mrmnonian' — For the sake of manv readers,
whose hearts may go along earnest!* with a
record of infant Borrow, but whose course of
life has not allowed them much leisure for
study, I Wiuse to explain— that the head of
Memnon, in tbe British Mutenm. that sub-
lime head which wears upon its lips a smile
co-extensive with all time and all space, an
jRonlan ntnlle of gracious love and Panlike
mystery, the m<v*t diffusive and pathetically
divine that the hand of man has created, is
the one great audible symbol of eternity.
And three times in my hie have I happened
to hear the same sound in the same oncum-
stances— namely, when standing between an
5 open window and a dead body on a summer
day.
Instantly, when my ear caught this vast
^Eohan intonation, when my eye filled with
the golden fulness of life, the pomps of the
10 heavens above, or the glory of the flowers
below, and turning when it settled upon the
frost which overspiead my sister's face, in-
stantly a trance fell upon me. A vault
seemed to open in the zenith of the far blue
15 bky, a shaft which ran up forever I, in
spmt, rose as if on billows that also lan up
the shaft forever; and the billows beeuied
to pursue the throne of God; but that also
ran before us and fled away continually.
20 The flight and tbe pursuit seemed to go on
forever and ever. Frost gathering frost,
some Sarsar1 wind of death, teemed to repel
me; some mighty relation between God and
death dimly struggled to evolve itself from
£ the dreadful antagonism between them;
shadowy meanings even yet continue to exer-
represented on the authority of ancient tradl-
tloriH to have uttered at MinrlHP, or soon after,
as the sun'h rays had accumulated heat enough
30 to rarlfy the air within certain cavities in the
bust, a solemn and dirge-like serif* of intona-
tions, the simple explanation being, in its
general outline, this— that sonorous currents
of air wcie produced by causing chambers of
cold and beavv air to press upon other collec-
tions of air, warmed, and therefore ra rifled,
-. and therefore yielding rendlh to the pressure
86 of heavier air Currents being thus estab-
lished, l>v Hrtlflilal arrangement-, of tubes, a
certain huciession of notes could he concerted
and sustained Near the Red Sen He a clialn
of sand hills, which, bv a natural hjstem of
grooves inosculating with each other, become
vocal under r hanging circumstances In the po-
40 sltion of the BUU, etc I knew a boy who,
upon ohseMing steadily, and reflecting upon a
phenomenon that met him in his dailv experi-
ence — tiff, that t ulies, through which a stream
of water was passing, gate out a verv different
sound according to the \arilng slenderness or
fulness of the current — devised an instrument
M that yielded a rude hydraulic gamut of
*> sounds ; and, indeed, upon thin bimple phenom-
enon is founded the use and power of the
stethobcone For exactly as a thin thread of
water, trickling through a leaden tube, yields
a RtrldulouH and plaintive sound compared
with tbe full viiurne of sound corresponding
to the full volume of water — on paritv of
50 principles, nol>ody will doubt that the current
of blond pouting through the tubes of the hu-
man frame will utter to the learned ear, when
armed with the stethoscope, an elaborate
gamut or compass of music, recording the
ravages of disease, or the glorious plenitudes
of health, as faithfullv aa the cavities within
thin ancient Memnonian bust reported this
ralghtv event of sunrise to the rejoicing world
of llfrbt and life— or. again, under the sad
passion of the dying day .uttered [the sweet
requiem that belonged to Its departure." — De
Qmneey
» An Arabic wort meaning ooW
Pouthey's Thalaba, 1, st. 44.
See
1094
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANT1C1STB
cise and torment, in dreams, the deciphering
oracle within me. I slept— for how long I
cannot say; slowly I recovered my self-
possession; and, when I woke, found my-
self standing, as before, close to my sister's
bed.
1 have reason to believe that a very long
interval had elapsed during this wandering
or suspension of my perfect mind. When I
returned to myself, there was a foot (or
I fancied so) on the stairs. 1 was alarmed;
for, if anybody had detected me, means
would have been taken to prevent my coming
again. Hastily, therefore, I kissed the lips
that 1 should kiss no more, and slunk, like a
guilty thing, with stealthy steps from the
room Thus perished the vision, loveliest
amongst all the shows which earth has re-
vealed to me ; thus mutilated was the parting
which should have lasted forever; tainted
thus with fear was that farewell sacred to
love and grief, to perfect love and to grief
that could not be healed.
0 AhasnernB, everlasting- Jew!1 fable or
not a fable, thou, when first starting on thy
endless pilgrimage of woe— thou, when first
flying through the gates of Jerusalem, and
\ainly yearning to leave the pursuing curse
behind thoe— couldst not more certainly in
the words of Christ have read thy doom of
endless sorrow, than I when passing forever
from my sister's room. The worm was at
my heart; and, I may say, the worm that
could not die.1 Man is doubtless one by
some subtle nexus, some system of links, that
we cannot perceive, extending from the new-
born infant to the superannuated dotard:
but, as regards many affections and passions
incident to his nature at different stages, he
is not one, but an intermitting creature, end-
ing and beginning anew; the unity of man,
in this respect, is co-extensive only with the
particular stage to which the passion be-
longs. Some passions, as that of sexual love,
are celestial by one half of their origin,
animal and earthly by the other half. These
will not survive their own appropriate stage.
But love, which is altogether holy, like that
between two children, is privileged to revisit
by glimpses the silence and the darkness of
declining years; and, possibly, this final ex-
perience in my sister's bedroom, or some
other in which her innocence was concerned,
i Je&t—dcr evige Jude— which Is
German expression for The Wan-
1 subllmer even than our own."
,. 9, For a full account of the wide-
spread legend of The Wandering Jew, see The
ftncyclopadia Britannic* (llth ed ).
•Kee Italah. 66-24; Mark. 9*44-48, also Para-
disc Lost, 0, 730.
the common German
dering Jew/ and sub
— De Quincey* For i
may rise again for me to illuminate the
clouds of death.
On the day following this which I have
recorded, came a body of medical men to
S examine the brain, and the particular nature
of the complaint; for in some of its symp-
toms it had shown perplexing anomalies. An
hour after the strangers had withdrawn, 1
crept again to the room ; but the door was
10 now locked, the key had been taken away—
and I was shut out forever
Then came the funeral. I, in the cere-
monial character of mourner, was earned
thither. I was put into a carriage with some
15 gentlemen whom I did not know. They were
kind and attentive to me; but naturally they
talked of things disconnected with the occa-
sion, and their conversation was a torment.
At the church, I was told to hold a white
20 handkerchief to my eyes. Empty hypocrisy !
What need had he of masks or mockeries,
whose heart died within him at every word
that was uttered f Dunng that part of the
seivice which passed within the church, I
25 made an effort to attend , but I sank back
continually into my own solitary darkness,
and I heard little consciously, except some
fugitive strains from the sublime chapter of
St. Paul, which in England is always read at
90 burials.1
Lastly came that magnificent liturgical
service which the English Church performs
at the side of the grave; for this church
does not forsake her dead so long as they
85 continue in the upper air, but waits for her
last "sweet and solemn farewell"2 at the
side of the grave. There is exposed once
again, and for the last time, the coffin. All
eyes suivey the record of name, of sex, of
40 age, and the day of depart uie from earth-
records how shadowy! and dropped into
darkness as messages addressed to worms.
Almost at the very last comes the symbolic
ritual, tearing and shatteiing the heart with
45 volleying discharges, peal after peal, from
the fine artillery oi woe. The coffin is low-
ered into its home; it has disappeared from
all eyes but those that look down into the
abyss of the grave. The sacristan stands
60 ready, with his shovel of earth and stones.
The priest 's voice is heard once more—earth
*«Fint Epistle to Corinthian*, chap. 15, begin-
ning at verse 20 "-De Quincey.
• "Thli beautiful expression. I am nrettj ce
must belong to lira. Trollop* ; I read it.
ably, In a tale of hers connected wltL ..
backwoods of America, where the absence •__
such a farewell must unspeakably aggravate
the gloom at any rate belonging to a house-
hold separation of that eternal character oc-
curring nmongflt the shadows of those mighty
forests?'— lie Quincey. * v
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1095
to earth— and immediately the dread rattle
ascends from the bd of the coffin ; ashes to
ashes— and again the killing sound is heard ;
dust to dust—and the farewell volley an-
nounces that the grave, the coffin, the face
aie sealed up forever and ever.
Onef ! thou art classed amongst the de-
pressing passions. And true it is that thou
humblest to the dust, but also thou exaltest
to the clouds Thou diakest as with ague,
but also thou steadiest like frost Thou
sickenest the heart, but also thou healest its
infirmities. Among the very foremost of
mine was morbid sensibility to shame. And,
ten years afterwards, I used to throw my
self-reproaches with regaid to that infirmity
into this shape— vis, that if I were sum-
moned to seek aid for a perishing fellow-
creature, and that I could obtain that aid
only by facing a vast company of critical or
sneering faces, I might, perhaps, shrink
basely from the duty. It is true that no such
case had ever actually occurred ; so that it
was a mere romance of casuistry to tax my-
self with cowardice so shocking. But to feel
a doubt was to feel condemnation ; and the
crime that might have been, was in my eyes
the crime that had been. Now, however, all
wan changed; arid, for anything uhich re-
gaided my sister 'b memory, in one hour I
i eceived a new heart. Once m Westmoreland
I saw a case resembling it. I saw a ewe sud-
denly put off and abjure her own nature, in
a service of love— yes, slough it as com-
pletely as ever serpent sloughed his skin.
Her lamb had fallen into a deep trench, from
which all escape was hopeless without the
aid of man. And to a man she advanced,
bleating clamorously, until he followed her
and rescued her beloved. Not less was the
change m myself. Fifty thousand sneering
faces would not have troubled me now in
any office of tenderness to my sister's mem-
ory Ten legions would not have repelled
me from seeking her, if there had been a
chance that she could be found. Mockery!
it was lopt upon me. Laughter! I valued it
not And when I was taunted insultingly
with "my girlish tears," that word "girl-
it*h" had no sting for me, except as a verbal
echo to the one eternal thought of my heart
—that a girl was the sweetest thing which I,
in my short life, had known— that a girl it
waft who had crowned the earth with beauty,
and had opened to my thirst fountains of
pure celestial love, from which, in this world,
I wa*. to drink no more.
Now began to unfold themselves the con-
rotations of solitude, those consolations which
only I was destined to taste; now, therefore,
began to open upon me those fascinations
of solitude, wbich, when acting as a co-
agency with unresisted grief, end in the
i paradoxical result of making out of gnef
itself a luxury, such a luxury as finally be-
comes a snare, overhanging life itself, and
the energies of life, with growing menaces
All deep feelings of a chronic class agree in
10 this, that they seek for solitude, and are fed
by solitude. Deep gnef, deep love, how nat-
urally do these ally themselves with religious
feeling! and all thiee— love, gnef, religion
— are haunters of solitary places. Love,
IB grief, and the mystery of devotion— what
were these without solitude f All day long,
Avhen it was not impossible for me to do so,
I sought the most silent and sequestered
nooks in the grounds about the house, or in
20 the neighboring fields. The awful stillness
oftentimes of summer noons, when no winds
were abroad, the appealing silence of gray
or misty afternoons— these weie fascinations
as of witchcraft. Into the woods, into the
26 desert air, I gazed, as if some comfort lay
hid in them. 1 weaned the heavens with my
inquest of beseeching looks. Obstinately I
tormented the blue depths with my scrutiny,
sweeping them forever with my eyes, and
30 seaiching them for one angelic face that
might, perhaps, have permission to reveal
itself for a moment
At this time, and under this impulse of
rapacious gnef, that grasped at what it
85 could not obtain, the faculty of shaping
images in the distance out of slight elements,
and grouping them after the yearnings of
the heart, grew upon me in morbid excess.
And I recall at the present moment one m-
*0 stance of that sort, which may show how
merely shadows, or a gleam of brightness,
or nothing at all, could furnish a sufficient
basis for this creative faculty.
On Sunday inoniings 1 went with the rest
<B of iny family to church : it was a church, on
the ancient model of England, having aisles,
galleries,1 organ, all things ancient and
venerable, and the proportions majestic.
Here, whilst the congregation knelt through
00 the long litany, as often as we came to that
passage, so beautiful amongst many that are
so, where God is supplicated on behalf of
"all sick persons and young chihlien," and
65 1-r<0«ltoH«t»<— The**, though condemned on w>me
grounds by the restorers of authentic church
architecture, have, nevertheless this one ad-
vantage—-that, when the height of a church ii
that dlmenfrfon which most of nil CXPITOHCH it*
racred character, galleries expound and inter-
pret that height u— DC Qulncey.
1096
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
that be would "show his pity upon all pris-
oners and captives," I wept in secret; and
laismg my streaming eyes to the upper win-
dows of the galleries, saw, on days when the
bun was sliming, a spectacle as affecting as
ever prophet can have beheld. The sides of
the windows were rich with stoned glass;
through the deep puiples and crimsons
streamed the golden light; emblazonries of
heavenly illumination (fiom the sun) min-
gling with the earthly emblazoniies (fiom
art and its gorgeous coloring) of what is
(grandest in man Tlieie ueic the apostles
that had trampled upon eaith, and the glo-
ries of earth, out of celestial Icne to man.
There were the martyrs that had borne wit-
ness to the truth thiough flames, thiough
torments, and through armies of fierce, in-
sulting faces. There were the saints who,
under intolerable pangs, had glonfied God
by meek submission to his will. And all the
time whilst this tumult of sublime memorials
held on as the deep chords Irom some accom-
paniment in the bass, I saw thiough the wide
cential field of the window, inhere the glass
uas wwcoloied, \\lnte, fleecy clouds sailing
over the azure depths of the sky; were it
but a fragment or a hint of such a cloud,
immediately under the flash of my SOTTOW-
baunted eye, it grew and shaped itself into
visions of beds with white lawny curtains;
and in the beds lay sick ehildien, dying
children, that were tossing in anguish, and
weeping clamorously for death. Qod, for
some mysterious reason, could not suddenly
release "them fiom their pain; but he suf-
feied the beds, as it seemed, to rise slowly
through the clouds ; slowly the beds ascended
into the chambers of the air, slowly also his
arms descended from the heavens, that he
and his young children, whom m Palestine,
once and forever, he had blessed, though
they must pass slowly through the dreadful
chasm of separation, might yet meet the
sooner. These visions were self -sustained.
These visions needed not that any sound
should speak to me, or music mould my feel-
ings. The hint from the litanv, the frasrmont
from the clouds— those and the stoned win-
dows were sufficient. But not the less the
blare of the tumultuous organ wrought its
own separate creations And oftentimes in
anthems, when the mighty instrument threw
its vast columns of sound, fierce yet melo-
dious, over the voices of the choir— high in
arches, when it seemed to rise, surmounting
and overriding the strife of the vocal parts,
and gathering by strong coercion the total
storm into unify— sometimes I seemed to
use and walk triumphantly upon those
clouds which, but a moment before, 1 bad
looked up to as mementos of prostrate sor-
low, yes, sometimes under the transfiguia-
5 turns of music, felt of gncf itself as of a
fieiy chauot for mounting victonously abo\e
the causes of gnef.
God speaks to children, also, in dreams,
and by the oiacles that link in darkness
10 But in solitude, above all things, when made
vocal to the meditative heart by the truths
and sen-ices of n national church, God holds
\iith child i en "communion undisturbed 'n
Solitude, though it may be silent as light, is,
15 like light, the mightiest of agencies; for
solitude is essential to man All men come
into this woild alone, all leave it alone.
Even a little child has a dread, whimpering
consciousness, that, if ho should be sura-
20 moned to tiavel into God's presence, no
gentle nurse will be allowed to lead him by
the hand, nor mother to cany him in her
amis, nor little sister to shaic his trepida-
tions King and priest, warnor and maiden,
25 philosopher and child, all must walk those
mighty qnllenes alone The solitude there-
fine, which in this woild appals or fasci-
nates a child's heait, is but the echo of a far
deeper solitude, through which alieady ho
30 has passed, and of another solitude, deeper
still, through which he has to pass- reflex
of one solitude— pi efiguration of another.
Oh, bin den of solitude, that cleavest to
man through e\ery stage of his being! in
35 his bnth, nhioh liav been— in his life, which
M— in his death, which shall be— mighty and
essential solitude' that wast, and art, and
ait to be; thou broodest, like the Spint of
God moving upon the suiface of the deeps-'
40 over every heart that sleeps in the miraenes
of Christendom. Like the vast laboratory of
the air, which, seeming to be nothing, or less
than the shadow of a shade, hides within
itself the principles of all things, solitude
46 for the meditating child is the Agrippa's
mirroi3 of the unseen unnorse Deep is the
solitude of millions who, with hearts welling
forth lo\e, have none to krve them. Deep is
the solitude of those who, under secret grief n,
60 have none to pity them. Deep is the solitude
of those who, fighting with doubts or dark-
new, have none to counsel them. But deeper
than the deepest of these solitudes is that
. i.
•That in, the medum by which the JM
be made vlilble. For an account of the alleged
marvel* performed by CoroeliuiAgrippa<1486
15315) by means of a wonderful glaja, see
Nanh's The Unfortunate Traveller, or Tke Uf*
of Joel Wilton (ed. Gone), pp. 86 ff
THOMAS I>E QUINCEY
1097
which broods over childhood under the pas-
sion of sorrow— bringing before it, at inter-
vals, the final solitude which watches for it,
and is waiting foi it within the gates of
death Oh, mighty and essential solitude,
that wast, and art, and art to be ! thy king-
dom is made perfect in the grave ; but e\ en
over those that keep watch outside the grave,
like myself, an infant of six year*; old, thou
stret chest out a sceptre of fascination
Prom 8USPIHTA DE PROFUNDTSi
184r>-40
LEVAVA AND OUR LADIES OF SORROW
1845
Oftentimes at Oxford I saw Levana in
my dreams. I knew her by her Roman sym-
bols. Who is Levana T Reader, that do not
pretend to have leisure for very much
scholarship, you will not be angry with me
for telling you. Levana was the Roman
Cfoddess that perf mined for the new-bom
infant the earliest office of ennobling kind-
ness,—typical, by its mode, of that grandeur
which belongs to man everywhere, and of
that benignity m powers invisible which e\en
in Pagan woilds sometimes descends to sus-
tain it. At the very moment of birth, just
as the infant tasted for the first time the
atmosphere of our troubled planet, it was
laid on the ground. That might bear differ-
ent interpretations. But immediately, lest
so grand a creature should grovel there for
more than one instant, cither the paternal
hand, as proxy for the goddess Levana, or
some near kinsman, as proxy for the father,
raised it upright, bade it look eiect as the
king of all this world, and presented its fore-
head to the stars, saying, perhaps, in his
heart, "Behold what is greater than youi-
selves'" This symbolic act represented the
function of Levana And that mvsterious
lady, who never revealed her face (except to
me in dreams), but always acted bv delega-
tion, had her name from the Latin \erb (as
still it is the Italian verb) lerare, to raise
aloft.
This is the explanation of Levana. And
hence it has arisen that some people have
understood by Levana the tutelnrv power
that controls the education of the nursery.
She, that would not suffer at his birth even
a preflguraHve or mimic degradation for her
awful ward, far less could be supposed to
suffer the real degradation attaching to the
i RIgbfl from the DepthR, the title of a wrtc* of
'Mreama and noon-day visions." intended In
De Qulnccv to he the "Last Confessions" of
an Opium Rater.
non-development of his powers. She there-
fore watches over human education. Now, the
word cduco, with the penultimate short, was
derived (by a process often exemplified in
5 the crystallization of languages) from the
word educo, with the penultimate long.
Whatsoe\er educes, or de\elops, educates.
By the education of Levana, therefore, is
meant,— not the poor machinery that moves
10 by spelling-books and grammars, but that
mighiy system of central forces hidden in
the deep bosom of human life, which by
passion, by stiife, by temptation, by the
energies of resistance, works forever upon
K children,— resting not day or night, any more
than the mighty wheel of day and night
themselves, whose moments, like restless
spokes, are glimmering1 forever as they
revolve.
20 If, then, these aie the ministries by which
Levana works, how profoundly must she
reverence the agencies of grief But you,
reader, think that children generally are not
liable to gncf such as mine There are two
26 senses in the woild generally,— the sense of
Euclid, where it means universally (or in
the whole extent ol the genus), and a foolish
sense of this word, wheie it means usually
Now, I am far from saying that children
30 universally are capable of grief like mine
But there ai e more than you ever heard of
who die of grief in this island of ours I
will tell you a common case The rules of
Eton require that a boy on the foundation*
3"> should be there twelve years: he is super-
annuated at eighteen ; consequently he must
come at six. Children torn away from moth-
ers and sisters at that age not un frequently
die. I speak of what I know. The complaint
40 w not entered by the registrar as gnef ; but
that it is. Ciief of that soit, and at that age,
has killed more than ever have been counted
amongst its martyrs
*"> * "As I have never allowed myself to covet any
man's ox nor his ass, nor an j thing that IB his,
still less would it become a philosopher to
invot other people's Image* or metaphors.
I lore, therefore, I restore to Mr. Wordnworth
thlH fine Image of the revolving wheel and the
glimmering spokes, as applied bv him to the
GO living successions of day and night. I bor-
rowed It for one moment In order to point mv
o*n Rentence . which being done, the reader is
ultness that I now pay It hack instantly by a
note made for that Role purpose On the name
principle I often borrow their seal* from
voting ladles when closing my letter*, because
65
there la sure to be some tender sentiment upon
them about 'memory.' or hope/ or 'roses/ or
•reunion ' and my correspondent must be a sad
brute who IB not touched by the eloquence of
the seal, even If his taste Is so bad that he re-
mains deaf to mine"— He Qnlneey
• holding a scholarship provided by terms of the »
endowment
1098
NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS
Therefore it is that Levana often com-
munes with the powers that shake man's
heart; therefore it is that she dotes upon
grief. " These ladies, " said I softly to my-
self, on seeing the ministers with whom 5
Levana was conversing, "these are the Sor-
rows; and they are three ui number: as the
Graces are three, who dress man's life with
beauty; the Paicce are three, who weave
the dark arras of man's life in their myste- 10
rious loom always with colors sad in part,
sometimes angry with tragic crimson and
black, the Furies are three, who visit with
retributions called from the other side of
the grave offences that walk upon this; and 16
once even the Muses were but three, who fit
the harp, the trumpet, or the lute, to the
great burdens of man's impassioned crea-
tions. These are the Sorrows; all three of
whom I know.91 The last words I say now; 20
but in Oxford I said, "one of whom I know,
and the others too surely I shall know."
For already, in my fervent youth, I saw
(dimly relieved upon the dark background
of my dreams) the imperfect lineaments of 26
the awful Sisters.
These Sisters— by what name shall we
call them 1 If I say simply ' ' The Sorrows, f f
there will be a chance or mistaking the term ;
it might be understood of individual sorrow, 80
—separate cases of sorrow,— whereas I want
a term expressing the mighty abstractions
that incarnate themselves in all individual
sufferings of man's heart, and I wish to have
these abstractions presented as impersona- 35
tions,— that is, as clothed with human attri-
butes of life, and with functions pointing to
flesh. Let us call them, therefore, Our Ladies
of Sorrow.
I know them thoroughly, and have walked 40
in all their kingdoms. Three sisters they
are, of one mysterious household ; and their
paths are wide apart ; but of their dominion
there is no end. Them I saw often convers-
ing with Levana, and sometimes about my- 46
self Do they talk, then? 0 no! Mighty
phantoms like these disdain the infirmities
of language. They may utter voices through
the organs of man when they dwell in human
hearts, but amongst themselves is no voice nor 60
sound; eternal silence reigns in their king-
doms. They spoke not as they talked with
Levana; they whispered not ; they sang not;
though oftentimes xnethought they might
have sung: for I upon earth had heard their 66
mysteries oftentimes deciphered by harp and
timbrel, by dulcimer and organ. Like Ood.
whose servants they are, they utter their
pleasure not by sounds that perish, or by
words that go astray, but by signs in heaven,
by changes on earth, by pulses in secret
rivers, heraldries painted on darkness, and
hieroglyphics written on the tablets of the
brain. They wheeled in mazes, 7 spelled the
steps. They telegraphed1 from afar; I read
the signals. They conspired together; and
on the mirrors of darkness my eye traced
the plots. Theirs were the symbols; mine
are the words.
What is it the Sisters are! What is it that
they do. Let me descnbe their form and
their presence, if form it weie that still fluc-
tuated in its outline, or presence it were that
forever advanced to the front or forever
receded amongst shades.
The eldest of the three is named Mater
Lachrymantm, Our Lady of Tears. She it
is that night and day raves and moans, call-
ing for vanished faces She stood in Rama,
where a voice was heard of lamentation,—
Rachel weeping for her children,2 and refus-
ing to be comforted She it was that stood
in Bethlehem on the night when Herod's
sword swept its nurseries of Innocents,8
and the little feet weie stiffened forevei
which, heard at times as they trotted along
floors overhead, woke pulses of love in house-
hold hearts that were not unmarked in
heaven. Her eyes are sweet and subtle, wild
and sleepy, by turns ; of tent lines rising to the
clouds, oftentimes challenging the heavens
She wears a diadem round her head And I
knew by childish memories that she could go
abroad upon the winds, when she heard the
sobbing of litanies, or the thundering of or-
gans, and when she beheld the mustering of
summer clouds. This Sister, the elder, it is
that carries keys more than papal at her
girdle,4 which open every cottage and every
palace. She, to my knowledge, sat all last
summer by the bedside of the blind beggar,
him that so often and BO gladly I talked
with, whose pious daughter, eight years old,
with the sunny countenance, resisted the
temptations of play and village mirth, to
travel all day long on durty roads with her
afflicted father. For this did Ood send her
a great reward. In the springtime of the
year, and whilst yet her own spring was
budding, He recalled her to himself. But
her blind father mourns forever over her:
still he dreams at midnight that the little
guiding hand is locked within his own ; and
still he wakens to a darkness that is now
1 Thl« word WAI formerly used of varloni meth-
1 Ree j£«mlaft* 31*16 ; also Jfaff Aero, 2 in 18
•Ree JTattftw, 2 1ft
« Bee Matthew, 15 18-19.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1099
within a second and a deeper darkness. This
Mater Lachrymarwn also has been sitting
all this winter of 1844-6 within the bed-
chamber of the Czar,1 bringing before
his eyes a daughter (not less pious) that
vanished to God not less suddenly, and
left behind her a darkness not less pro-
found. By the power of the keys it is
that Our Lady of Tears glides, a ghostly
intruder, into the chambers of sleepless
men, sleepless women, sleepless children,
from Ganges to the Nile, from Nile to
Mississippi. And her, because she is the
first-born of her house, and has the wid-
est empire, let us honor with the title of
"Madonna."
The second Sister is called Mater Sus-
pinorum, Our Lady of Sighs. She never
scales the clouds, nor walks abroad upon the
winds. She wears no diadem. And her eyes,
if they were ever seen, would be neither
sweet nor subtle, no man could read their
story, they would be found filled with per-
ishing dreams, and with wrecks of forgotten
delirium. But she raises not her eyes; her
head, on which sits a dilapidated turban,
droops forever, forever fastens on the dust.
She weeps not She groans not. But she
sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her sister,
Madonna, is oftentimes stormy and frantic,
rapine: in the highest against heaven, and
demanding back her darlings. But Our
Lady of Sighs never clamors, never defies,
dreams not of rebellious aspirations She is
humble to abjectness. Hers is the meekness
that belongs to the hopeless Murmur she
may, but it is in her sleep. Whisper she may,
but it is to herself 111 the twilight Mutter
she does at times, but it is in solitary places
that are desolate as she is desolate, in ruined
cities, and when the sun has gone down to
his rest. This Sister is the visitor of the
Pariah, of the Jew, of the bondsman to the
oar in the Mediterranean galleys; of the
English criminal in Norfolk Island, blotted
out from the books of remembrance1 in
sweet far-off England; of the baffled peni-
tent reverting his eyes forever upon a solitary
grave, which to him seems the altar over-
thrown of some past and bloody sacrifice, on
which altar no oblations can now be availing,
whether towards pardon that he might ^im-
plore, or towards reparation that he might
Attempt. Every slave that at noonday looks
up to the tropical sun with timid Reproach,
as he points with one hand to the earth, our
» Nlcholaa I. whom daughter Aleiandra died In
August, 1844
•Bee
} XCVCtOttOHf
S*.
general mother, but for him a stepmother,
as he points with the other hand to the Bible,
our general teacher, but against him sealed
oiid sequestered;1 every woman sitting in
5 darkness, without love to shelter her head,
or hope to illumine her solitude, because the
heaven-born instincts kindling in her nature
germs of holy affections, which God im-
planted in her womanly bosom, having been
10 stifled by social necessities, now burn sul-
lenly to waste, like sepulchral lamps amongst
the ancients; every nun defrauded of her
unretnrning May-tune by wicked kinsman,
whom God will judge ; every captive in every
is dungeon ; all that are betrayed, and all that
are rejected; outcasts by traditionary law,
and children of hereditary disgrace: all
these walk with Our Lady of Sighs. She
also carries a key; but she needs it little.
20 For her kingdom is chiefly amongst the tents
of Shem,8 and the houseless vagrant of every
clime. Yet in the very highest ranks of man
she finds chapels of her own ; and even in
glorious England there are some that, to the
26 world, carry tbeir heads as proudly as the
reindeer, who yet secretly have received her
mark upon their foreheads
But the third Sister, who is also the
youngest ! Hush! whisper whilst we
30 talk of herl Her kingdom is not large, or
else no flesh should live; but within that
kingdom all power is hers. Her head, tur-
reted like that of Oybele, rises almost be-
yond the reach of sight. She droops not;
tf and her eyes, rising so high, might be hidden
by distance But, being what they are, they
cannot be hidden : through the treble veil of
crape which she wears the fierce light of a
blazing misery, that rests not for matins
40 or for vespers, for noon of day or noon of
night, for ebbing or for flowing tide, may be
read from the very ground. She is the defier
of God. She also is the mother of lunacies,
and the fniggestress of suicides. Deep he the
45 roots of her power; but narrow is the nation
that she rules. For she can approach only
those in whom a profound nature has been
upheaved by central convulsions; in whom
the heart trembles and the brain rocks tinder
BO conspiracies of tempest from without and
» "This, the reader will be aware. appUea chiefly
tolhe cotton and tobacco States of North
America : but not to them only on which ac-
count I oare not acrnpled to figure the aun
K. which looks down upon slavery aa tropical/—
86 no matter if strictly within the tropic*, or
•Imply ao near to them as to produce a almllmr
climate " — De Qulncev.
•That la, among outcast! ; literally, among the
Hebrews. Araba, and other Semitic racei.
mid to be deflcended from Rhem, the eon of
Noah. Ree Generic, 9 27.
1100
NINETEENTH CKNTURY BOMANTIOISTS
tempest from within. Madonna move*, with
uncertain steps, fast or slow, but still with
tragic grace. Our Lady of Sigh* creeps
timidly and btealthily. But this youiigrht
Sister moves with incalculable motion*.,
bounding, and with tiger 'h leaps. She cai-
nes no key, for, though coining laiely
amongst men, she btoims all doois at winch
she is permitted to enter at all And hci
name is Matei Tenebraiumg—Qw. Lady of
Darkness.
These were the tiemnai Theai or Sublime
Goddesses,1 these were the Eumemdes 01
Gracious Ladies (so called by antiquity in
shuddeiing propitiation), of my Oxford
dreams Madonna spoke She spoke by her
mysterious hand. Touching my head, she
beckoned to Our Lady of Sighfe, and ulal
she spoke, translated out of the signs which
(except in dreams) no man reads, was
this—
"Lo! here is he whom in childhood I
dedicated to my altars Tins is he that once
I made my darling. Him I led astray, him I
beguiled; and from heaven I stole away his
young heart to mine. Through me did he
become idolatrous; and through me it was,
by languishing desires, that he worshipped
the worm, and prayed to the wormy grave.
Holy was the grave to him ; lovely was its
darkness, saintly its corruption. Him, this
young idolater, I have seasoned for thee,
dear gentle Sister of Sighs 1 Do thou take
him now to thy heart, and season bun for
our dreadful aster. And thou,"— turning
to the Mater Tcnebrarum, she soul,—" wick-
ed sister, that temptest and hatcst, do thou
take him from her. See that thy sceptre lie
heavy on his head. Suffer not woman and
her tenderness to sit near him in his dark-
ness. Banish the frailties of hope; withei
the relenting of love; scorch the fountains
of tears,* curse him as only toatt^canst
curse. So shall he be accomplished in the
furnace; so shall he see the things that ought
not to be seen, sights that are abominable,
and secrets that are unutterable So shall he
read elder truths, sad truths, grand truths,
fearful truths. So shall he rise again before
he dies. And so shall our commission be
accomplished which from God we had,— to
plague his heart until we had unfolded the
capacities of his spirit "
» « 'BuWme OoddcaMt' -—The word *cur6* it usu-
ally rendered venerable in dl< tlonarTeM, — not a
very flattering epithet for females But I am
dlaposed to think that It comes nearest to our
Ideaof the 8*bUmr.—tut nrar as a Greek word
0o«I* come "--De Quince?.
BAVANNAH-LA-MA&I
God smote Savaiinah-la-uiar, and in one
night, by earthquake, removed her, with all
& her towerb standing and population sleep-
ing, from the steadfast foundations of the
bliore to the coral ilooib of ocean. And God
said,— "Pompeii did 1 bury and conceal
finm men through be\enteen cen tunes; thih
10 city I will buiy, but not conceal She shall
be a monument to men of my niybteiiou*
anger, set in azure light through geneiations
to coine; for I will eubhnne her in a crystal
dome of my tropic seas.1' This city, there-
is fore, like a mighty galleon with all hoi
apparel mounted, sti earners Hying, and tack-
hug perfect, seems floating along the noise-
less depths of ocean, and oftentimes in
glassy calms, through the tiaiiblucid atmos-
20 phere of water that now sti etches like an
air-woven awning above the mlenl encamp-
ment, manners fiom every chine look down
into her couits and terraces, count her gales,
and number the spiies of her churches She
•£ is one ample cemetery, and has been foi
many a year, but, in the mighty calms that
brood for weeks over tropic latitudes, she
fascinates the eye with a Fata-Morgana*
revelation, as of human life still subsisting
90 in submanne asylums sacred from the storms
that toinicnt our upper air.
Thither, lured by the loveliness of cerulean
depths, by the peace of human dwellings
pmileged from molestation, by the gleam of
36 marble altars sleeping m everlasting sanc-
tity, oftentimes in dreams did 1 and the Dark
Interpreter8 cleave the wnteiv veil that di-
\ided us from her sti eels. We looked into
the belfries, where the pendulous bells were
^o waiting in vain for the summons which
should awaken their marriage peals; to-
gether we touched the mighty organ-keys,
that sang no jubilates* for the ear of heaven,
that sang no requiems for the ear of human
« sorrow; together we searched the silent mu-
series, where the children were all asleep,
and Jiad been asleep through five genera-
tions. "They aie waiting for the heavenly
dawn,1' wlnspeied the Tnterpieter to him-
GO self "and, when that comes, the bells and
organs will utter a jubilate repeated by the
echoes of Paradise/' Then, turning to me,
he said,— "This is sad, this is piteous; but
1 Plain of the Sea.
• That la, mirage-like ; Fata Morgana IB the name
of a mirage off the coast of Blclly. formerly
regarded ft* the work of Morgana the Fairy,
a ramouH necromancer in medieval legend
•One of the Aupirfe paper* In entitled 'The
Dark Intorpretor "
•Hymn* of rcJolrJng (like the 100th Psalm).
THOMAS DE QUINCE?
1101
less \tould not Lave sufficed for tbe purpose
of God. Look here. Put into a Roman
clepsydra1 one hundred drops of water; let
these run out as the sands in an hour-glasb,
every drop measuring the hundredth part of
a second, so that each shall represent but
the tliree-hundred-and-bixty-thousandth part
of an hour. Now, count the drops as they
race along; and, when the fiftieth of the
bundled ib passing, behold ' forty-nine are
not, because already they have perished, and
fifty are not, because they are yet to come
You see, therefore, how narrow, how incal-
culably narrow, is the true and actual pre*-
ent. Of that time which we call the present,
hardly a hundredth part but belongs either
to a past which has fled, or to a future which
is still on the wing. It has perished, or it
is not born. It was, or it is not. Tet even
this approximation to the truth is infinitely
false. For again subdivide that solitary
drop, which only was found to represent the
present, into a lower senes of similai frac-
tions, and the actual present which you arrest
measures now but the thirty-six-milhonth of
an hour; and so by infinite declensions the
true and very present, in which only we Inc
and enjoy, will vanish into a mote of n mote,
distinguishable only by a heavenly vision
Therefore the present, which only man pos-
vnases, offeis less capacity for his footing
than the slendeiest film that evei spider
twisted from her womb. Therefore, also,
even this incalculable shadow from the nar-
10 west pencil of moonlight is more transi-
tory than geometry can measure, or thought
of angel can overtake. The time which is
contracts into a mathematic point , and e\en
that point perishes a thousand times befoie
we can utter its birth. All is finite in the
present; and even that finite is infinite in
its velocity of flight towards death. But in
God there is nothing finite; but in God there
is nothing transitory ; but in God there can
be nothing that tends to death Therefore it
Follows that for God there can be no present
The future is the present of God, and to the
future it is that he sacrifices the human pres-
ent. Therefore it is that he works by earth-
quake. Therefore it is that he works by
srrief O, deep is the ploughing of earth-
quake! 0, deep"— (and his voice swelled
like a sonctus2 rising from a choir of a
cathedral)— "0, deep is the ploughing of
srrief! But oftentimes less would not suffice
for the agriculture of God. Upon a night of
i water dock
•A part of tbe mass, beginning, with the Latin
words sand**, eauctvf, aanefiw (holy, holy,
holy).
earthquake he builds a thousand yeaib of
pleasant habitations for man Upon the
soi iow of an infant he raises ottentimes
fiom human intellects glorious vintages that
5 could not else have been. Less than these
fierce ploughshares would not have stirred
the stubborn soil. The one is needed for
Earth, our planet,— for Earth itself as the
dwelling-place of man; but the other is
10 needed yet oftener for God's mightiest in-
strument,—yes," (and he looked solemnly
at myself), "is needed for the mysterious
children of the Earth'"
16 Prom THE POETRY OF POPE
1848
LITERATURE OF KNOWLEDGE AND LITERATURE
OP POWER
......
20 What is it that we mean by literature f
Popularly, and amongst the thoughtless, it
is held to include everything that is printed
in a book Little logic is required to disturb
Uial definition. The most thoughtless person
25 is easily made aware that in the idea of
Utcratuic one essential element is,— some re-
lation to a genei al and common interest of
man, so that what applies only to a local or
piofessional or mciely personal interest,
so even though presenting itself in the shape
of a book, will not belong to literature So
far the definition is easily narrowed , and it
is as easily expanded For not only is much
that takes a station in books not hteratuie,
35 but, imei«ely, much that really t* literatnie
ne\ er teaches a station in books. The weekly
sermons of Chnstendom, that vast pulpit
liteinture which acts so extensively upon the
popular mind— to warn, to uphold, to renew,
40 to comfort, to alaim— does not attain the
sanctuary of hbranes in the ten-thousandth
part of its extent. The drama, again, as for
instance the finest of Shakspeare's plays m
England and all leading Athenian plays in
45 the noontide of the Attic stage,1 opeiated
as a literature on the public mind, and were
(according to the strictest letter of that
term) pulhtfird through the audiences that
witnessed2 their representation, some time
so before they were published as things to be
read ; and they were published in this scen-
ical mode of publication with much more
effect than they could have had as books
i The time of JBschylns, Sophocles, and Buripldes,
55 Mh century B. £.
•"Charles I, for example, when Prince of Wales,
and many others In his father's court, gained
their known familiarity with ShakapearV— not
through the original quartos, so slenderly dif-
fused, nor through the first folio of 1623, but
through the court representations of his chief
dramas at Whitehall. — DC Quincey
1102
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
dunug ages of costly copying or of costly
printing.
Books, therefore, do not suggest an idea
co-extensive and interchangeable with the
idea of literature, since much literature,
scenic, foiensic, or didactic (as from lectures
and public oiators), may never come into
books, and much that does coine into books
may connect itself with no literary interest.
But a far more important collection, appli-
cable to the common vague idea of literature,
i^to be sought, not so much in a better defi-
nition of literature, as in a sharper distinc-
tion of the two functions which it fulfils
In that great social organ which, collectively,
we call literature, there may be distinguished
two separate offices, that may blend and
often do so, but capable, socially, of a
<were insulation, and naturally fitted for
icciprocal repulsion. There is, first, the lit-
ciatuie of Knowledge, and, secondly, the lit-
erature of power. The function of the first
is to teach ; the function of the second is to
move: the first is a rudder; the second an oar
or a saiL The first speaks to the mere discur-
sive understanding, the second speaks ulti-
mately, it may happen, to the higher under-
standing, or reason, but (always through
affections of pleasure and sympathy. Re-
motely it may travel towards an object seated
in what Lord Bacon calls dry light,1 but
proximately it does and must operate— else
it ceases to be a literature of power— on and
through that humid light which clothes itself
in the mists and glittering ins2 of human
passions, desires, and genial emotions. Men
have so little reflected on the higher func-
tions of literature as to find it a paradox if
one should describe it as a mean or subordi-
nate puipose of books to give information
But this is a paradox only in the sense which
makes it honorable to be paradoxical. When-
ever we talk in ordinary language of seeking
information or gaming knowledge, we under-
stand the words as connected with something
of absolute novelty. But it is the grandeur
of all truth which ran occupy a very hiph
place in human interests that it is never abso-
lutely novel to the meanest of minds • it exists
eternally, by way of germ or latent principle,
in the lowest as in the highest, needing to be
developed but never to be planted. To be
capable of transplantation is the immediate
criterion of a truth that ranges on a lower
'"Heracmm the Obscure Mild: The dry light
wait the fteit soul. Meaning, when the facul
ties intellectual arc in vigor, not wet, nor, HH
it were, blooded bv the affectlppB/;— Bacon,
Apophtiegmt New and OW, 208 (188).
•rainbow uris was the personification of the
rainbow )
scale Besides which, there is a rarer thing
than truth, namely, power, or deep sympa-
thy with truth. What IB the effect, i'oi in-
stance, upon society, of children! By the
5 P*tyy by the tenderness, and by the peculiar
modes of admiration, which connect them-
selves with the helplessness, with the inno-
cence, and with the simplicity of children,
not only are the primal affections strength-
10 ened and continually renewed, but the quali-
ties \vhich are dearest in the sight of heaven
—the fiailty, for instance, which appeals to
forbeaiancc, the innocence which symbolizes
the heavenly, and the simplicity which is
15 most alien fiorn the worldly— arc kept up
in perpetual remembiance, and their ideals
are continually refreshed. A puipose of the
same nature is answered by the higher litera-
ture, viz y the literature oi power. What do
20 you learn from Paradise Lostf Nothing at
all. What do you learn fiom a cookeiy-
book? Something new, something that you
did not know before, m e\eiy puragiaph
But would you theiefoic put the wi etched
26 cookery-book on a highei level oi estimation
than the di\ine pneinf What you owe to
Milton is not any knowledge, of \\lucli a
million sepaiate items aie still but a million
of advancing steps on the same eaithly le\el ,
30 what you owe is power, that is, exeicibe and
expansion to your own latent capacity ot
sympathy with the infinite, where e\ei>
pulse and each separate influx is a step up-
wards, a step ascending as upon a Jacob's
35 ladder1 from earth to inysteiious altitudes
above the earth. All the steps of knowledge,
from first to last, carry you further on the
same plane, but could ne\er raise you one
foot above your ancient level of earth,
40 whereas the very first step in power is a
flight, is an ascending nunement into another
element where earth is forgotten
Were it not that human sensibilities are
ventilated and continually called out into
« exercise by the great phenomena of infancy,
•or of real life as it moves thion^h chance
and change, or of literature as it rmmibines
these elements in the mimicries of poetiy,
romance, etc., it is certain that, like any
GO animal power or muscular energy falling
into disuse, all such sensibilities would grad-
ually droop and dwindle It is in relation to
these great moral capacities of man that the
literature of power, as contra-distinguished
K from that of knowledge, lives and has its
field of action. It is concerned with what is
highest in man; for the Scriptures them-
selves never condescended to deal by sug-
S 12.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1103
gestion or co-operation with the mere dis-
cursive understanding when speaking of
man in his intellectual capacity, the Scrip-
tures speak, not of the undei standing, but
of "the understanding heatt,"1 making the
heart,— that is, the great intuitive (or non-
discursive) organ, to be the interchangeable
formula for man in his highest state of
capacity for the infinite. Tragedy, romance,
fairy tale, or epopee,2 all alike restoie to
man's mind the ideals of justice, of hope,
of truth, of mercy, of retribution, which
else (left to the support of daily life in its
realities) would languish for want of suffi-
cient illustration. What is meant, for in-
stance, by poeticjusticff It does not mean
a justice that differs by its object from the
ordinary justice of human jurisprudence,
for then it must be confessedly a very bad
kind of justice; but it means a justice that
differs from common foiensic justice by the
degree in which it attains its object, a jus-
tice that is more omnipotent over its own
ends, as dealing, not with the refractory ele-
ments of earthly life, but with the elements
of its own creation and with materials flex-
ible to its own purest preconceptions. It is
certain that, were it not for the literature of
power, these ideals would often remain
amongst us as mere and notional form*;
whereas, by the creative forces of man put
foith in literature, they gam a vernal life of
restoration and germinate into vital activi-
ties. The commonest no\el, by moving in
alliance with human fears and hopes, with
human instincts of wrong and light, sustains
and quickens those affection* Calling them
into action, it rescues them from torpor.
And hence the pre-emmency, over all authors
that merely teach, of the meanest that moves,
or that teaches, if at all, indirectly by mov-
ing. The very highest work that has ever
existed in the literature of knowledge is but
a provisional work, a book upon trial and
sufferance, and gvamdtu bcne se gesserit*
Let its teaching be even partially revised,
let it be but expanded, nay, even let its
teaching be but placed in a better order,
and instantly it is superseded Whereas the
feeblest works in the literature of power,
survhing at all, survive as finished and un-
alterable among men. For instance, the
Prinapia of Sir Isaac Newton was a book
mutant on earth from the first.4 In all
ijjrtafff.3 9,12
Jetfc
ifathematlca (The JfafAimatfrai Principle* of
JWttnrl PMlMOpftfO. U wna published in
1687.
stages of its progress it would have to fight
for its existence: first, as regards absolute
truth ; secondly, when that combat was over,
as regards its form, or mode of presenting
5 the truth. And as soon as a La Place, or
anybody else, builds higher upon the foun-
dations laid by this book, effectually he
throws it out of the sunshine into decay
and darkness; by weapons won from this
10 book he superannuates and destroys this
book, so that soon the name of Newton re-
mains as a mere nomtnis umbra,1 but his
book, as a living power, has transmigrated
into other forms. Now, on the contrary,
U the Iliad, the Ptomctlteus of <<Ewhylus,
the Othello or King Lear, the Hamlet or
Macbeth, and the Paradise Lost are not mili-
tant but triumphant foiever, as long as the
languages exi*t in which they speak or can
» be taught to speak They neter can trans-
migrate into new incai nations To repro-
duce these in new foims or variations, even
if in some things they should be improved,
would be to plagiarize. A good steam-engine
£ is properly superseded by a better But
one lovely pastoral valley is nut superseded
by another, nor a statue of Piaxiteles by
a statue of Michael An?elo s These things
are separated, not by impanty, but by di«-
30 parity They are not thought of as unequal
under the same standard, but as diffeieut in
lind, and, if otherwise equal, as equal under
a different standard. Human \votks of im-
mortal beauty and works of nature in one
35 respect stand on the f»ame footing : they ne\ ei
absohiteh repeat each other, never appioarii
so near as not to differ; and they differ not
as better and worse, or simply bv more and
less; they differ bv undecipherable and m-
40 communicable differences, that cannot be
caught by mimicries, that cannot be reflected
in the mirror of copies, that cannot become
ponderable in the scales of vulgar compar-
ison
45 ...
THE ENGLISH MAIL COACH
1849
SECTION I— THE Gi ORY OP MOTION
Some twenty or more years before I
matriculated at Oxford, Mr. Palmer, at
that time M. P. for Bath, had accomplished
two things, very hard to do on our little
66 planet, the Earth, however cheap they may
be held by eccentric people in comets: he
1 shadow of a name
"The work of Praxltplp* to noted for grace and
beauty , thtt of Michael Angel o for power.
1104
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
had iu \eiited mail-coaches, and lie bad mar-
ned the daughter of a duke. Hewab, theie-
fore, just twice as great a man as Gab loo,
who did certainly invent (or, which is the
same thing,1 dibco\ei ) the satellites of Jupi-
ter, those veiy next things extant to mail-
coaches in the two capital pretensions of
speed and keeping time, but, on the other
hand, who did not marry the daughter of a
duke.
These mail-coaches, as oigamzed by Mr.
Palmer, aie entitled to a circumstantial no-
tice from mytelf , having had so large a bhare
in developing the anaichies of my subse-
quent dreauib : an agency which they accom-
plished, l>t, though velocity at Ihnt time
unprecedented— for they fiist revealed the
glory of motion; 2dly, thiough giand effects
for the eye between lamplight and the daik-
ness u]>on solitary roads; 3dl>, through
animal beauty and power so olten displaced
ui the class of lioises selected foi this mail
service, 4thly, thiough the conscious pres-
ence of a cential intellect, that, in the
midst of \ast distances2— of storing ol
darkness, of danger— overniled all obstacles
into one steady co-opeiation to a national
result Foi my own feeling, this post-office
sen ice spoke as by some mighty uichestia,
wheie a thousand instruments, all disiegaid-
ing each othei, and so far in daimci of dis-
cord, yet all obedient as slaves to the supienie
baton of some gieat leader, terminate in a
perfection of harmony like that of hcait,
brain, and lungs hi a healthy animal oigun-
i/ation. But, finally, that paiticular element
in this whole combination which most im-
pressed myself, and through which it i* that
to this hour Mi. Palmer's mail-coach system
tyrannizes over my dieains by terroi and
terrific beauty, lay in the awful polifna!
mission which at that time it fulfilled. The
mail-coach it was that distnbuted over the
face of the land, like the opening of apoca-
lyptic \ials,3 the heart -shaking news ol Tia-
f algar, of Salamanca, of Vittona, of Water-
loo These "weie the harvest* that, in tin*
grandeur of their leaping, redeemed the
MM»f f ftfiiff' —Thus, In the calendar of
the Church Fmtlvulg. the dkcoverj of the true
crow (by Helm, the mother of Conatantlne)
I* recorded (atd, one might think, with the
eiprem coaHclotteneaii of rarcann) as the In-
i f fitto* of the Cross ** -De Qnlnoey
'"'Vatt dwtancc*' — One rase waa familiar to
mall-coach travellers where two matin In op
poalte directions, north and aonth. starting at
the tame minute from point* sli hundred mile*
apart, met almost constantly at a particular
hHdge which bisected the total distance"—
De Quince?.
•Bowla mentioned In the Anocalypae, containing
tbe wrath of God, which the angels are to
pour ont Bee Revelation, IS
teaib aud blood in which they had been sown.
Neither was the meanest peasant so much
below the grandeur and the sorrow of the
times as to confound battles such as these,
"> which were gradually moulding the destinies
of Chiibtendoui, with the vulgar conflicts of
oulniaiy uaifaie, so often no more than
gladiatorial tiials of national prowess. The
\ietoiieb of England in this stupendous con-
10 lest rose of theuibeh efe as natui al Te Deums1
to heaven, and it was felt by the thoughtful
that buch \ictoi ie&, at such a cnsib of general
piostration, weie not more beneficial to our-
belvcs than finally to Fiance, uui enemy, and
]& to the nations of all western 01 central
Europe, thiough \\hose piibillammity it was
that the French domination had piohpeied.
The mail-coach, as the national organ for
publishing these mighty events, thus diffu-
20 snely influential, became itself a spiritual-
ized and ft 1 01 if led object to an ini])abbioned
heait, and nutuially, in the Oxfoid of that
day, all heaits Mere impassioned, as being
all (or neaily all) in caili/ manhood. In
25 most unnerbitie.fr there is one single college;
in Oxfoid theie weie fi\e-nnd -I \\enty, all
of which were peopled by youn» men, the
fhte of their own geneiation, not bojs, but
men • none under eighteen. In some of these
30 many colleges the custom peiniitted the stu-
dent to keep what aie called "short terms";
that is, the four teims of Michaelmas, Lent,
EaRtei, and Act,2 were kept bj a residence,
in the a« ui eg ate, of ninety-one days, or thir-
35 teen weekb. Under this interrupted resi-
lience, it was possible that a student might
have a leason ioi pom? <1o\\n to his home
four times in the yeai This made eight jour-
neys to and fio. Hut, as these homes lay
40 dispersed through all the shires of the island,
and most of us disdained all coaches except
Ins Majesty's mail, no city out of London
could pretend to so extensive a connection
with Mr. Palmer's establishment as Oxford.
45 Three mails, at the least, I remember as pass-
111* everv day throimh Oxford, and benefit-
ing by my personal patronage— vis , the
Worcester, the Gloucester, and the Holyhcad
mail. Naturally, therefore, it became a
50 point of some interest with us, whose jour-
neys revolved every six weeks on an average,
to look a little into the executive details of
i HrmnH of pralw: §o railed from the flint words
of a celebrated Christian hrnin, Te Deun
landamu* (we praise thce, 0 Cod)
» Correnpondlnff ronghlv to autumn, winter,
raring, and summer terma. Micbaelmai, the
f-wtof »t Michael, In celebrated Bent 29;
Lent In the period before Fflftter. never an late
BB May; Act ia the lart term nl the academic
vear, the occasion of the public nregentatlon
of a theula b\ .a candidate for n
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1105
the tybteiu. With home of these Mr. Palmer
had no concern ; they rested upon bye-laws
enacted by posting-houses1 for their own
benefit, and u]xm other bye-laws, equally
stern, enacted by the inside passengers for 3
the illustration of their own haughty ex-
clusiveness. These last were of a nature to
rouse our scorn ; from which the transition
was not very long to systematic mutiny. Up
to this time, say 1804, or 1805 (the year of 10
Trafalgar), it had been the fixed assumption
of the four inside people (as an old tradition
of all public carnages derived from the
reign of Charles II) that they, the illustrious
quaternion8 constituted a poicclain variety i«
of the human race, whose dignity would have
been compromised by exchanging one word
of civility with the tliree mi«eiable delf-ware
outrides.8 Even to bnve kicked an outsider
might have been held to attaint4 the foot con- 20
vemed in that operation, so that, perhaps,
it would hove required an act of Parliament
to restore its purity of blood. What words,
then, could express the horror, and the sense
of treason, in that case, which liad hap- 25
pened, vliere all three outrides (the trinity
of Pariahs) mode a \am attempt to *it
down at the same breakfast-table or dinner-
table with the consecrated fourf I myself
witnessed such an attempt; and on that so
occasion a benevolent old gentleman endeav-
ored to soothe his tlnee holy associates, by
suggesting that, if the nuNides \u»ie in-
dicted for this ciinnual attempt at the next
at*.izes, the court would legaid it as a case 86
of lunacy or delirium t returns i other than of
treason. England owes much of her gran-
deur to the depth of the aristocratic element
in her social composition, when pulling
against her strong democracy. I am not the w
man to laugh at it. But sometimes, un-
doubtedly, it expressed itself in comic
shapes. The course taken with the infatu-
ated outsiders, in the particular attempt
which I have noticed, was that the writer, 45
beckoning them away from the privileged
saXle-b-fMinqcr* sang out, "This wav, my
good men," and tben enticed these good men
1 lnn§ where bones were changed
earthenware originally made at Delft,
id. in Imitation of porcelain In the
>f Charles II (1660-80) no one sat out.
later, servants occupied the outride
•msgrace (This is a legal term applied to per-
*ons convicted of treason TOe prooerty of a
person so convicted was forfeited and his right
to receive or transmit by inheritance was can-
celled' The "attaint" was extended to his de-
anto unless Parliament removed the at
away to the kitchen. But that plan bad not
always answered. Sometimes, though rarely,
cases occuned where the mtrudeis, being
stronger than usual, or more vicious than
usual, resolutely refused to budge, and so
far earned their point as to have a separate
table arranged for themselves in a corner of
the general room. Yet, if an Indian screen
could be found ample enough to plant them
out from the veiy eyes of the high table, or
daw, it then became possible to assume as a
fiction of law that the three delf fellows,
after all, weie not present They could be
ignored by the porcelain men, under the
maxim that objects not appearing and
objects not existing are governed by the
same logical construction 1
Such being, at that time, the usage of mail-
coaches, what was to be done by us of young
Oxfoidf We, the most an«tociatic of peo-
ple, who were addicted to the pi notice of
looking down superciliously e\en upon the
insides themselves as often very question-
able characters— were we, by voluntarily
going outside, to court indignitiesf If 0111
dress and bearing sheltered us generally
from the suspicion of being "raff" (the
name at that penod for "snob'-"2), ue
ically uere such constructively by the place
we assumed If we did not submit to the
deep shmlou ot eclipse, we entered at lea^t
the skirts of its pomimbia* And tin*
analogy of theatres was valid against us,—
where no man can complain of the annoy-
ances incident to the pit4 or gallery, having
his instant remedy in paying the higher pncc
of the boxes But the soundness of this
analogy we disputed In the case of the
theatre, it cannot be pretended that the infe-
rior situations have any separate atti actions,
unless the pit may be supposed to have an
advantage for the purposes of the critic or
the dramatic reporter. But the cntic or re-
porter is a rarity For most people, the sole
benefit is in the price. Now, on the contrary,
1 "De no* apparent An*, etc w— DC Qnlncev
This is a Roman legal phrase, the full foini
of which Is DC UGH apparentlbus et non <J-
wtenUbus cadcm eat Iff
""tfftofta' and its antithesis, %•!•/ arose among
the internal factions of shoemakers perhaps
ten years later Possibly enough, the terms
may have cxfeted much earlier, out the* *crc
then first made known, picturesquely and rf
fcctlvely, by a trial at some asslses which ba|>
pened to fix the public attention "— De Quince*
In university speech, snob meqnt townsman
as opposed to gownsman Later, the name
was applied to a workman who accepted lower
wages during a strike.
•Partial shadow, in an eclipse when the light is
onlv partly cut off by the intervening body
•The high-priced place—the orchestra—in the
American theater, corresponds with what for-
merly was the cheap pit of the English thea-
1106
NINETEENTH CENTURY BOMANTICI8TS
the outside of the mail had its own incom-
municable advantages. These we could not
forego. The higher price we would willingly
have paid, but not the price connected with
the condition of riding inside; whch condi-
tion we pronounced insufferable. The air,
the freedom of piospect, the proximity to
the horses, the elevation of seat : these were
what we required; but, above all, the cer-
tain anticipation of purchasing occasional
opportunities of driving.
Such was the difficulty which pressed us;
and under the coercion of this difficulty we
instituted a searching inquiry into the tiue
quality and \aluation of the different apart-
ments about the mail. We conducted tlm
inquiry on metaphysical piinciples, and it
was ascertained satisfactorily that the roof
of the coach, which by some weak men had
been called the attics, and by some the gar-
rets, was in reality the drawing-room; in
which drawing-room the box1 was the chief
ottoman or sofa, whilst it appeared that
the inside, which had been traditionally re-
garded as the only room tenantable by
gentlemen, was, in fact, the coal-cellar hi
disguise
Great wits jump.2 The ieiy same idea
had not long before struck the celestial in-
tellect of China. Amongst the presents ear-
ned out by our first embassy to that country
was a state-coach. It had been specially
selected as a personal gift by George III ,
but the exact mode of using it was an intense
mystery to Pekin. The ambassador, indeed
(Lord Macartney), had made some imper-
fect explanations upon this pout; but, as
His Excellency communicated these in a dip-
lomatic whisper at the very moment of his
departure, the celestial intellect was ver>
feebly illuminated, and it became necessary
to call a cabinet council on the grand state
question, "Where was the Emperor to sit 1 "
The hammer-cloth8 happened to be unusu-
ally gorgeous; and, partly on that considera-
tion, but partly also because the box offered
the most elevated seat, was nearest to the
moon, and undeniably went foremost, it was
resolved by acclamation that the box was
the imperial throne, and, for the scoundrel
who drove,— he might sit where he could find
a perch. The horses, therefore, being har-
nessed, Rolemnly his imperial majesty as-
cended his new English throne under a
flourish of trumpets, having the first lord of
the treasury on his right hand, and the chief
'The driver's seat; so called from the box under-
•agree " • cloth that coven the box-teat
jester on his left Pekin glor*ed in the spec-
tacle; and in the whole flowery people, con-
structively present by representation, there
was but one discontented person, and ttat
5 was the coachman. This mutinous individual
audaciously shouted, " Wheie am I to sitV
But the privy council, incensed by his dis-
loyalty, unanimously opened the door,
and kicked him into the inside. He had all
10 the inside places to himself; but such is the
rapacity of ambition that he was still dissat-
isfied. "Isay,"heciiedoutinanextempoie
petition addressed to the Emperor through
the window—' ' I say, how am I to catch hold
15 of the reins!'1— "Anyhow," was the impe-
rial answer; "don't trouble me, man, in my
glory. How catch the reins! Why, through
the windows, through the keyholes — any-
how.19 Finally this contumacious coach-
20 man lengthened the check-stiings1 into a
soi t of jury-iems2 communicating with the
horses; with these he drove as steadily as
Pekin had any right to expect. The Emperor
returned after the briefest of circuits; he
25 descended in great pomp from his throne,
with the severest resolution never to remount
it. A public thanksgiving was ordered for
his majesty's happy escape from the disease
of a broken neck; and the state-coach 'was
80 dedicated thenceforwaid as a votive offering
to the god Fo Fo'— \Uiom the learned more
accurately called Fi Fi.
A revolution of this same Chinese charac-
ter did young Oxford of that era effect in
35 the constitution of mail-coach society. It
was a perfect Fiench Revolution ; and we
had good reason to sav, ga tra.4 In fact, it
soon became too popular. The "public"—
a well-known character, particularly dis-
40 agreeable, though slightly respectable, and
notorious for affecting the chief seats in
synagogues5— had at first loudly opposed
tliis revolution; but, when the opposition
showed itself to be ineffectual, our disagree-
45 able friend went into it with headlong zeal.
At first it was a sort of race between us;
and, as the public is usually from thirty to
fifty years old, naturally we of young Ox-
ford, that averaged about twenty, had the
GO advantage. Then the public took to bribinp,
giving* fees to horse-keepers, etc., who hired
out their persons as warming-pans on the
box seat. That, you know, was shocking to
'strlngfl by which the occupant fignals to the
llio on (T
the French Re
their aonm.)
.
a popular expreaalon of
vohitlonlflta, taker from one of
1 fee Matthew. 2ft -6.
THOMAS BE QUINGEY
1107
all moral sensibilities. Gome to bribery, said
we, and there is an end to all morality,—
Aristotle's, Zeno's, Cicero's, or anybody's.
And, besides, of what use was it! For we
bribed also. And, as our bribes, to those of
the public, were as five shillings to sixpence,
here again young Oxford bad the advantage.
But the contest was ruinous to the principles
of the stables connected with the mails. This
whole corporation was constantly bribed,
rebnbed, and often sur-rebnbed; a mail-
coach yard was like the hustings1 in a con-
tested election; and a horse-keeper, ostler,
or helper, was held by the philosophical at
that time to be the most corrupt character
m the nation.
There was an impression upon the public
mind, natural enough from the continually
augmenting velocity of the mail, but quite
eironeous, that an outside seat on this class
of carriages was a post of danger. On the
contrary, I maintained that, if a man had
become nervous from some gipsy prediction
in his childhood, allocating to a particular
moon8 now approaching some unknown dan-
ger, and he should inquire earnestly,
"Whither can I fly for shelter f Is a prison
the safest retreat f or a lunatic hospital f 01
the British Museum t" I should have re-
plied, "Ob no; I'll tell yon what to do
Take lodgings for the next forty days on
the box of his Majesty 'smail. Nobody can
touch you there. If it is by bills8 at much
davs after date that you are made unhappy
—if noters and protesters4 are the sort of
wretches whose astrological shadows daiken
the house of life5— then note you what I
vehemently protest; viz., that, no matter
though the sheriff and tinder-sheriff in every
county should be running after you with his
posse, touch a hair of your head he cannot
whilst you keep house and have your legal
domicile on the box of the mail. It is felony
to stop the mail; even the sheriff cannot
do that. And an extra touch of the whip to
the leaders (no great matter if it Grazes the
sheriff) at any time guarantees your
safety." In fact, a bedroom in a quiet
house seems a safe enough retreat ; yet it is
liable to its own notorious nuisances— to
• The platform from which candidate* for Parlia-
ment were nominated .
• aiwlgnlng to a particular planet
• bills of exchange ; promissory notes
• A noter Is one who notes a protested bill of ex-
change; a protester is one who protests a bill
• For Strategical purposes the iky Is divided Into
13 sections callerfhontes Astrologers hold
that a person's fortunes are determined bv tlio
* - *— of the planets at the time of hfe
robbers by night, to rats, to fire. But the
mail laughs at these terrors. To robbers,
the answer is packed up and ready for de-
livery m the barrel of the guard's blnnder-
B buss. Rats again! there are none about
mail-coaches any more than snakes in Yon
Troil's Iceland;1 except, indeed, now and
then a parliamentary rat,8 who always hides
his shame in what I have shown to be the
10 "coal-cellar.11 And, as to fire, I never knew
but one in a mail-coach ; which was in the
Exeter mail, and caused by an obstinate
sailor bound to Devonport. Jack, making
light of the law and the lawgiver that had
15 set their faces against his offence, insisted
on taking up a forbidden seat* in the rear
of the roof, from which he could exchange
his own yarns with those of the guard. No
greater offence was then known to mail-
20 coaches, it was treason, it was Icesa ma-
jestasf it was by tendency arson ; and the
lashes of Jack's pipe, falling amongst the
straw of the hinder boot,5 containing the
mail-bags, raised a flame which (aided by
i"'Vo* Trott'g Iceland9 •— The allusion Is to a
well-known chapter In Von Troll's work, en-
titled 'Concerning the Snakes of Iceland.* The
entire chapter consists of these six words—
'There are no motet In Iceland.' »— De
Qulneey.
80 The *ork here refrired to, Von Trolls Lei-
tcr* on Jet land, contains no chapter of this
nature Such a chapter Is found, however. In
Horrebow's Xatural History of Iceland (1768)
Allusion Is made to this chapter in Boswell *»
The Litf of Samuel Johnson (Oxford ed ,
1904). 2, 212.
— "A member of Parliament who deserts his partv
w when It Is losing, as a rat Is said to leave a
sinking ship or a falling bouse
• "'Formddtn *raf — The very sternest code of
rnles was enforced upon the malls by the Post
office Throughout England, only three out-
hides were allowed, of whom one was to nit on
the box, and the other two immediately, be
40 hind the box ; none, under anv pretext, to come
near the guard , an indispensable caution
since else, under the guise of a passenger, a
robber might by anv one of a thousand ad
vantages — which sometimes are created, but
always are favored, by the animation of frank
social intercourse — have disarmed the guard.
- lleyond the Scottish border, the regulation
40 was so far relaxed as to allow of four out
sides, but not relaxed at all as to the mode of
placing them. One, as before, was seated on
the box. and the other three on the front of
the roof, with a determinate and ample sepa-
intlon from the Uttle insulated chair of the
Riinrd. This relaxation was conceded by way
60 of compensating to Scotland her disadvan-
tages in point of population England, by the
superior densltv of her population, might al
ways count upon a large fund or profits in
the fractional trips of chance passengers rid-
Ing for short distances of two or three stages.
In Scotland this chance counted for much leas.
And therefore, to make good the deficiency.
Scotland was allowed a compensatory profit
power ; often any offense violating the
of the sovereign power or Its representa
• The place tor baggage on the roof of a coach,
under the guard's seat.
..
e dlgnttv
ntative
1108
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
the wind of our motion) threatened a revo-
lution m the republic of letters.1 Yet even
this left the sanctity of the box unviolated.
In dignified repose, the coachman and my-
self sat on, resting with benign composure 5
upon our knowledge that the fire would have
to burn its way through four inside pas-
sengers before it could reach ourselves. I
remarked to the coachman, with a quotation
from Virgil 's jEneid really too hackneyed— 10
Jam proximus ardet
Ucalegon.2
But, recollecting that the Virgilian part of
the coachman's education might have been K
neglected, I interpreted so far as to say that
perhaps at that moment the flames were
catching hold of our worthy brother ami
inside pattenger, Ucalegon. The coachman
made no answer,— which is my own way 20
when a stranger addresses me either in
Synac or in Coptic; but by his faint skep-
tical smile he seemed to insinuate that he
knew better,— for that Ucalegon, as It hap-
pened, was not in the wav-bill,8 and theie- 25
fore could not have been booked.
No dignity is perfect which does not at
some point ally itself with the mysterious
The connection of the mail with the stale1
and the executive government— a connection ao
obvious, but yet not strictly defined— gave
to the whole mail establishment an official
grandeur which did us service on the roads
and invested us with seasonable terrors. Not
the less impressive were those tenois be- 35
cause their legal limits were imperfect l\
ascertained. Look at those turnpike pates
with what deferential hurry, with what nn
obedient start, they fly open at our appinnc h '
Look at that long line of carts and cartels <o
ahead, audaciously usurping the very cre<*t
of the road. Ah ! traitors, they do not heai
us as yet , but, as soon as the dreadful blast
of our horn reaches them with proclamation
of our approach, see with what frenzy of «
trepidation they fly to their horses' heads,
and deprecate our wrath by the precipita-
tion of their crane-neck quartcnnss '
Tieason they feel to be their crime; each
individual carter feels himself under the 50
ban of confiscation and attainder,5 his blood
« De QuRfceTfwrivea <t*art#i*o from the French
cartatter, to evade a rat or any obstacle. The
is attained through six generations; and
nothing is wanting but the headsman and
his axe, the block and the sawdust, to close
up the vista of his horrors. What! shall it
be within benefit of cleigy1 to delay the
king's message on the high road!- to inter-
rupt the great respirations, ebb and flood,
systole and diastole? of the national intei-
courset— to endanger the safety of tidings
running day and night between all nations
and languages! Or can it be fancied,
amongst the weakest of men, that the bodies
of the criminals will be given up to their
widows for Christian burial f8 Now, the
doubts which were raised as to our poweis
did more to wrap them in terror, by wrap-
ping them in uncertainty, than could ha>e
been effected by the sharpest definitions of
the law from the Quarter Sessions4 We,
on our parts (we, the collective mail, I
mean), did our utmost to exalt the idea of
our privileges by the insolence with which
we wielded them. Whether this insolence
tested upon law that gave it a sanction, or
upon conscious power that haughtily dis-
iwiired with that sanction, equally it spoke
from a potential station ; and the agent, in
enrh particular insolence of the moment,
was viewed reverentially, as one having
authority.
Sometimes after breakfast his Majesty's
mail would become frisky; and, in its diffi-
cult wheelings amongst the intricacies of
early markets, it would upset an apple-cart,
a rait loaded with eggs, etc. Ilnpe was the
affliction and dismay, awful was the broach
I, as far as possible, endeavored in such a
case to represent the conscience and jnoral
sensibilities of the mail , and, when wilder-
nesses of eggs were lying poached under
our horses' hoofs, then would I stretch forth
my hands in sorrow, saying (in words too
celebrated at that time, from the false
echoes of Marengo),5 "Ah ! wherefore htne
»Tbe clergy, and afterwards all persona who
could read, were on-nipt from trial In the
swular courts until 1827
'alternate contraction and expanalon (of the
heart)
•The bodies of criminal* were used by hospitals
aa subjects for dissection,
* court BMMjonc held in the counties bj the Jus-
tlces of the Peace
•"•Ffllw '**•& -Yes, false* for the woriH
aBcrlbedto Napoleon, as breathed to the mem
ory of pesalx, never were uttered at all. They
stand in the same category of theatrical fie
tions as the cry of the foundering line of
battle ship Vengcwr. as the vaunt of General
, Cambronne at Waterloo, 'La Garde meurt.
mala no QA vonn naa ' n* oa fh& •A*««**UUUI ~.i
crane-neck, here used for
Iron har that connects
parts of a vehicle. Bee p.
•Bee p. llOGa, 20 and n. 4.
!• • bent
and back
maie ne se rend
Talleyrand" ~
or as the repartees of
Incev.
,0.2.
The words quoted in the text were said to
hare been spoken by Napoleon when he beard
that Detail had been klUed in the Battle of
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1109
we not time to weep over yout"— which
was evidently impossible, since, in fact, we
had not time to laugh over them. Tied to
post-office allowance in some ruses of fifty
minutes for eleven miles, could the royal
mail pretend to undertake the offices of sym-
pathy and condolence f Could it be expected
to proude tears for the accidents of the
roadf If even it seemed to trample on hu-
manity, it did so, I felt, in discharge nf its
own more peremptory duties.
Upholding the morality of the mail, a
fort ton1 I upheld its rights; as a matter of
duty, 1 stretched to the uttermost its privi-
lege of imperial precedency, and astonished
weak minds by the feudal powers which I
hinted to be lurking constructively in the
chatters of this proud establishment. Once
I remember being on the box of the Iloly-
head mail, between Shrewsbury and Oswes-
tiy, when a tnweliy thins? from Birmingham,
some "Tallyho" or "Highflyer," all flaunl-
mg with gieen and cold, came up alongside*
of us What a contrast to our roval sim-
plicity nf form and color in this plebeian
wretch* The single ornament on our daik
ground of chocolate color was the mighty
shield of tlie imperial arms, but emblazoned
in proportions as modest as a signet-ring
bears to a seal of office Even this was dis-
played only on a single panel, whispering,
lather than proclaiming, our relations to the
rnightv state; whilst the beast from Bir-
mingham, our green-and-gold friend from
false, fleeting, perjured2 Brummagem,8 had
as much writing and painting on its sprawl-
ing flanks as would have puzzled a de-
cipheier from the tombs of Luxor. Fm
some time this Birmingham machine lan
Mnrengo, In 1800. In unite of the fart that
Demi I \ WHH instantly killed, Napoleon pu»>
1 1 shod three versions of a message from Denaix
to himself, the original version being. "G"
toll the First Control that I die with this *e
Knot, — that I have not done enough for DOS
terltv." See Alton's Snalish Caricature and
Hat ire on Napoleon I (1884), 1, 180-.'*2, also
Lanfrev's The m*tory of Napoleon the Firttt
(London, 1886), 2. .19.
In a naval battle In 1704, the British fleet
captured six French ahlpa and rank a seventh
the Vctigcur. It was falsely reported that the
Vengcur went down with her crew aboutlng
Vue la RfipuWtgue, whereaa they were 1m
ploring aid, which there wan not time to
give them. Bee Carlvle's On the OT»*/fig oj
the Venoeur and The French Revolution,
The phrase "The guard diefl, and doe* not
surrender," incorrectly said to hare been
spoken by Camhronne at Waterloo when he
waft asked to surrender, it thought to have
been Invented bv Rougemont, a prolific author
of pithy savings See Bartlett's Familinr
» w?tn° greater force • Pee Pirhard III. T. 4. 51
* A vulgar form of Birmingham. The cltv wan a
noted manufactory of gilt toys, cheap Jewelry.
etc. Bee p. lllOn, 29-81.
along by our aide— a piece of f amiliai ity
that already -of itself seemed to me suffi-
ciently Jacobinical1 But all at once a mnu»-
ment of the horbes announced a desperate
6 intention of leaving us behind. "Do you
see thatf" I said to the coachman.-"!
see," was his short answer. He was wide
awake,— yet he waited longer than seemed
prudent; for the horses of our audacious
10 opponent had a disagreeable air of fresh-
ness and power. But his motive was loyal;
his wish was that the Birmingham conceit
should be full-blown before he froze it.
When that seemed right, he unloosed, or,
1C to speak by a stronger word, he sprang, his
known resources: he slipped our royal
horses like cheetahs,2 or huntmg-leopaids,
after the affrighted game. How they could
retain such a reserve of fiery power after the
20 woik they had accomplished seemed hard to
explain. But on our side, besides the phys-
ical superiority, was a tower of moral
strength, namely, the king'6 name, "uhich
they upon the adverse faction wanted."3
-"> Passing them without an effort, as it seemed,
we threw them into the rear with so length-
ening an interval between us as proved in
itself the bitterest mockery of their presnmp-
tion , whilst our guard blew back a shatter- ,
•ft ing blast of triumph that was really too
painfully full of derision.
I mention this little incident for its con-
nection with what followed A Welsh rus-
tic, sitting behind me, asked if I had not felt
33 my heart burn within me4 dining the prog-
ress of the race! I said, with philosophic
calmness, No; because we weie not racing
\\ ilh a mail, so that no gloi v could be trained
In fact, it was sufficiently nunti lying that
10 such a Birmingham thing should dare to
challenge us. The Welshman replied that
ho didn't see that; for that a eat might look
at a king, and a Brummagem coach might
lawfully race the Holyhead mail. "Hare us,
« if you like," I replied, "though e^en tlial
has an air of sedition , but not beat us This
would have been treason: and for its own
sake I am glad that the 'Tallvho' was dis-
appointed." So dissatisfied did the Welsh-
so man seem with this opinion that at last T
was obliged to tell him a very fine story from
one of our eldei dianiatusts."1 vu., that once,
1 revolutionary (The Jacobin* were an extremely
radical dub during tbe French Revolution.
MO called from \tm being established at a
former convent of the Jacobin friars in Parii >
•That in. he let them run free of their reins, a*
cheetahs are freed from the leash to hunt
game
• Richard ///, V. .1. 12 18. • Bee Luke, 24 *32.
•Thomas Hevwood (d. 16ffOT) In The Hofa King
and Loyal Subject.
1110
NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS
in some far Oriental kingdom, when the
sultan of all the land, with his princes,
ladies, and chief omrahs,1 uere flying their
falconn, a hawk suddenly flew at a majestic
eagle, and, in defiance of the eagle's natural
advantage, in contempt also of the eagle's
traditional royalty, and before the whole
assembled field of astonished spectators from
Agra and Lahore, killed the eagle on the
spot. Amazement seized the sultan at the
unequal contest, and burning admiration fdr
its unparalleled result. He commanded that
the hawk should be brought before him; he
caressed the bird with enthusiasm; and he
ordered that, for the commemoration of his
matchless courage, a diadem of gold and
rubies should be solemnly placed on the
hawk's head, but then that, immediately
after this solemn coronation, the bird should
be led off to execution, as the most valiant
indeed of traitors, but not the less a traitor,
as ha\ ing dared to rise rebelliously against
his liege lord and anointed sovereign, the
eagle. "Now," said I to the Welshman,
"to you and me, as men of refined sensi-
bilities, how painful it would have been that
this poor Brummagem brute, the 'Tallyho,'
in the impossible case of a victory over us,
should have been crowned with Birmingham
tinsel, with paste diamonds and Roman
pearls, and then led off to instant execu-
tion." The Welshman doubted if that could
be warranted by law. And, when I hinted
at the 6th of Edward Longshanks,* chap
18, for regulating the precedency of coaches,
as being probably the statute relied on for
the capital punishment of such offences, he
replied dnly that, if the attempt to pass a
mail really were treasonable, it was a pity
that the "Tallyho" appeared to have so
imperfect an acquaintance with law.
The modern modes of travelling cannot
compare with the old mail-coach system in
grandeur and power. They boast of more
velocity,— nott however, as a consciousness,
but as a fact of our lifeless knowledge, rat-
ing upon alien evidence: as, for instance,
because somebody sayp that we have gone
fifty miles in the hour, though we are far
from feeling it as a personal experience; or
upon the evidence of a result, as that actually
we find ourselves in York four hours after
leaving London. Apart from such an asser-
tion, or such a result, I myself am little aware
i noblemen (See Worttwortb'i The Prelude, 10,
of the pace. But seated on the old mail-coach,
we needed no evidence out of ourselves to
indicate the velocity. On this system the
of our grandeurs, we realize our grandeurs
111 act, and in the very experience of life.
The vital experience of the glad animal sen-
10 sibihties made doubts impossible on the
question of our speed , we heard our speed,
we saw it, we felt it as a thrilling, and this
speed was not the product of blind insensate
agencies, that had no sympathy to give, but
16 was incarnated in the fiery eyeballs of the
noblest amongst brutes, in his dilated nim-
tril, spasmodic muscles, and thunder-beating
hoofs. The sensibility of the horse, utteiing
itself in the maniac light of his eye, might
20 be the last vibration of such a movement;
the glory of Salamanca might be the first
But the intervening links that connected
them, that spread the earthquake of battle
into the eyeballs of the horse, were tlie heart
25 pf man and its electric tlirilhngs— kindling
in the rapture of the fiery strife, and then
propagating1 its own tumults by contagious
shouts and gestures to the heart of his serv-
ant the horse. But now, on the new system
30 of travelling,2 iron tubes and boilers have
disconnected man's heart from the minis-
ters of his locomotion. Nile nor Tiafalgar
has power to raise an extra bubble in a
steam-kettle. The galvanic cycle is broken
33 up forever ; man 's imperial nature no longer
sends itself forward through the electric
sensibility of the horse; the inter-agencies
aie gone in the mode of communication be-
tween the horse and his master out of which
40 giew so many aspects of sublimity under
accidents of mists that hid, or sudden blazes
that revealed, of mobs that agitated, or
midnight solitudes that awed. Tidings fitted
to convulse all nations must henceforwards
tf travel by culinary process; and the trumpet
that once announced from afar the laurelled
mail, heart-shaking when heard screaming
on the wind and proclaiming itself through
the darkness to every village or solitary
60 house on its route, has now given way for-
ever to the pot-wallopings? of the boiler.
Thus have perished multiform openings for
public expressions of interest, scenical yet
natural, in great national tidings,— for rev-
65 elations of faces and groups that could not
the Welshman.
IBS*- yj*"!!1 ***** fif*"!* iot» we 1!,
•The flrrt railway in England waa completed be-
tween Manchester and Liverpool in 1830.
•pot-boiling*
THOMAS DK QUINCE Y
1111
offer themselves amongst the fluctuating
mobs of a railway station The gatherings
of gazers about a laurelled mail had one
centre, and acknowledged one sole interest.
But the crowds attending at a railway sta-
tion have as little unity as running water,
and own as many centres as there are sep-
arate carnages in the train.
How else, for example, than as a constant
watcher for the dawn, and for the London
mail that in summer months entered about
daybreak amongst the lawny thickets of
Marlborongh forest, couldst thou, sweet
Fanny of the Bath road, have become the
glorified inmate of my dreams T Yet Fanny,
as the loveliest young woman for face and
person that perhaps in my whole life I have
beheld, merited the station which even now,
fiom a distance of forty years, she holds in
my dreams; yes, though by links of natural
association she brings along with her a troop
of dreadful creatures, fabulous and not fab-
ulous, that are more abominable to the heart
than Fanny and the dawn are delightful
Miss Fanny of the Bath road, strictly
speaking, lived at a mile's distance from
tlmt road, but came so continually to meet
the mail that I on my frequent transits
laiely missed her, and naturally connected
her image with the great thoroughfare where
only I had ever seen her. Why she came so
punctually I do not exactly know, but I
believe with some burden of commissions,
to be executed in Bath, which had gathered
to her own residence as a central rendezvous
for converging them. The mail-coachman
who drove the Bath mail and wore the royal
livery1 happened to be Fanny's grand-
father A good man he was, that loved his
beautiful granddaughter, and, loving her
wisely, was vigilant over her deportment in
any case where young Oxford might happen
to be concerned. Did my vanity then sug-
gest that T myself, individuallv, could fall
within the line of his terrors f Certainlv not,
as regarded any physical pretensions that I
could plead; for Fanny (as a chance pas.
senger from her own neighborhood once told
me) counted in her train a hundred and
i " OPotr fk€ royal Hr«y —-The general Impres-
sion wnfl that the roval livery belonged of
right to the mall-coachmen as their profen-
•IODR! dress But that was an error. To the
guard it did belong. I hellere, and wan obvl-
otnlv essential aa an official warrant, and an a
meanfl of Instant identification for hia pemon,
In the discharge of hla Important public dntlea.
But the coachman, and espedallr if bin place
In the series did not connect him Immediately
with Lonfen and the General Pout-Office, oh-
talned the scarlet coat only as an honorary
distinction after long (or, ft not 1
and special) service"— -De Qnlncey,
ninety-nine professed admirers, if not open
aspirants to her favor; and probably not one
of the whole bngade but excelled myself in
peiMinal advantages. Ulysses even, with the
5 unfair advantage of his accursed bow,1
could baidly have undertaken that amount
of suitors. So the danger might ha\e
seemed slight— only that woman is univer-
sally aristocratic, it is amongst her nobil-
10 ities of heart that she w so Now, the ansto-
ciatic distinctions in my favor might easily
with Miss Fanny have compensated my phys-
ical deficiencies Did I then make love to
Fanny? Why, ye*, about as much lo\e as
K one could make whilbt the mail was changing
horses— a process which, ten years later,
did not occupy above eighty seconds; but
tlien,—wt., about Waterloo2— it occupied
five times eighty. Now, four hundred see-
so onds offer a field quite ample enough foi
whispering into a young woman's ear a
great deal of truth, and (by wav of paren-
thesis) some trifle of falsehood Grandpapa
did right, therefore, to watch me And yet,
25 as happens too often to the grandpapas of
earth in a contest with the admirers of grand-
daughters, how vainly would he ha\e
watched me had T meditated any evil whis-
pers to Fanny ' She, it is rav belief, would
*> have protected herself against any man's
evil suggestions But he, as the result
showed, could not have intercepted the op-
portunities for such suggestions Yet. v\liv
notf Was he not active? Was he not bloom-
35 mgf Blooming he was as Fanny herself
Say, all our praises why should lords *
Slop, that's not the line.
Say, all our roses why should girls engross*
The coachman showed rosy blossoms on his
face deeper even than his granddaughter's
— Ji« being drawn from the ale-cask, Fan-
ny's from the fountains of the dawn. But,
# m spite of his blooming face, some infirmi-
ties he had; and one particularly in which
he too much resembled a crocodile This lay
in a monstrous inaptitude for turning round
The crocodile. I presume, owes that inapti-
60 tude to the absurd length of his back; but
in our grandpapa it arose rather from the
absurd breadth of his back, combined, pos-
sibly, with some growing stiffness in his
legs. Now, upon this crocodile infirmity oi
* An allusion to the slaughter of the suitors of
Penelope, the wife of Tlvsscs. upon the lot
ter's return to Ithaca from hit wanderings
after the fall of Troy Homer, Orfi/aart/, 21
•That Is, about 1815.
•Pope, iforar JP*«ayft, A, 249
1112
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
his I planted a human advantage for tender-
ing my homage to Miss Fanny. In defiance
of all his honorable vigilance, no sooner had
he presented to us his mighty Jovian back
(what a field for dibplaying to mankind his
royal scarlet I), whilst inspecting profession-
ally the buckles, the btrap*, and the tulvery
turrets1 of Ins hainesb, that I raised Mist.
Fanny's hand to my hps, and, by the mixed
tenderness and respectfulness of my man-
ner, caused her easily to understand how
happy it would make me to rank upon her
list as No. 10 or 12: in which case a few
casualties amongst her lovers (and, observe,
they hanged liberally in those days) might
ha\e promoted me speedilj to the top of the
tree ; as, on the other hand, with how much
loyalty of submission I acquiesced by antici-
pation in her awaid, supposing that she
should plant me in the very rearward of her
faun, as No. 190+1. Most truly I lo\ed
this beautiful and ingenuous girl, and, bad
it not been for the Bath mail, timing all
courtships by post-office allowance, heaAen
only knows what might have come of it
People talk of being over head and ears in
love ; now, the mail was the cause that I sank
only over ears in love,— which, you know,
still left a trifle of brain to overlook the
whole conduct of the affair.
Ah, reader! when I look back upon those
days, it seems to me that all things change-
all things perish. "Perish the roses and
the palms of kings112: perish e\en the
crowns and trophies of Waterloo : thunder
and lightning are not the thunder and light-
ning which T remembei Roses are degen-
erating. The Fannies of our island— though
this I say with reluctance— aie not visibly
improving; and the Bath road is notoriously
superannuated. Crocodiles, you will say,
are stationary. Mr. Waterton tells me that
the crocodile does not change,— that a cay-
man,8 in fact, or an alligator, is just as
good for riding upon as he was in the time
of the Pharaohs. Tltat may be; but the
reason is that the crocodile does not live
i«"r«nr*«»'— AM one who loves and venerate*
Chaucer for his unrivalled merits of tender-
ness, of picturesque characterisation, and of
narrative skill. ? noticed with great ploasurp
that the word torrettee Is used by him to
designate the little devices through which the
reins are made to pass. This same word, In
the same exact sense. 1 heard uniformly used
by many scores of Illustrious mall-coachmen
to whose confidential friendship I had the
honor of being admitted In my younger days
""chaucer^uses the word *or»*f In The
Knigtte* Tale, 1294, where It means the ring
on a dog's collar
•Wordsworth. The /focttrrton. 7,
•The Bourn American alligator
fast— he is a slow coach. I believe it is
generally understood among natuiahsts that
the crocodile is a blockhead. It is my own
impiesbion that the Pharaohs were alf»o
i blockheads. Now, as the Pharaohs and the
crocodile domineered over Egyptian society,1
this accounts for a singular mistake that
prevailed through innumerable generations
on the Nile. The crocodile made the ridic-
10 ulous blunder of supposing man to be meant
chiefly for his own eating. Man, taking a
different view of the subject, naturally met
that mistake by another: he viewed the croc-
odile as a thing sometimes to worship, but
16 always to run away from. And this con-
tinued till Mr. Waterton8 changed the rela-
tions between the animals. The mode of
escaping fiom the reptile he showed to be
not by running away, but by leaping on its
20 back booted and spurred. The two animals
had misunderstood each other. The use of
the crocodile has now been clcaied up— ru.,
to be ridden; and the final cause of man3 is
that he may improve the health of the croeo-
-"> dile by ndmg him a-fox-huntjng before
breakfast. And it is pretty certain that any
crocodile who has been regularly hunted
through the season, and is master of the
weight he carries, will take a six-barred gate
TO now^ as well as ever he would have done in
the infancy of the pyramids.
If, therefore, the crocodile does not
change, all things else undeniably do: even
the shadow of the pyramids grows less4
35 And often the restoration in vision of Fanny
and the Bath road makes me too pathetically
sensible of that truth. Out of the darkness,
if I happen to call back the image of Fanny,
up rises suddenly fioui a gulf of forty yeais
40 a rose in June; or, if I think for an instant
nf the rose in June, up rises the heavenly
face of Fanny. One after the other, like
the antiphonies5 in the choral service, rise
'The crocodile was a aacred animal among an-
45 clent Egyptians.
•"•Mr. Waterton' —Had the reader lived through
the last generation, he would not need to be
told that, Home thirty or thirty-five yearn back,
Mr. Waterton, a distinguished country gentle-
man of ancient family in Northumberland,
publicly mounted and rode in top-boots a sav-
age old crocodile, that wan restive and \erv
lm.DeSftieSt' ^J1.11 to no P«nx»e The croco-
dile Jibbed and tried to kick, but vainly, lie
was no more able to throw the squire than
Hlnbad was to throw the old scoundrel who
used his back without paying for It, until he
discovered a mode (silently Immoral, perhaps,
though Home think not) of murdering the old
fraudulent Jockey, and BO circultously of un-
horsing him "— De Quincey.
•the purpose for which man exists
"The walls and temples of Cairo were built of
the exterior blocks of the Great Pyramid of
• Alternate tlnglngii of a choir
THOMAS DE QUINGEY
1113
Fanny and the rose in June, then back again
the rose in June and Fanny. Then come
both together, as in a chorus— robes and
Fannies, Fannies and roues, without end,
thick as blossoms in paradise. Then conies
a venerable crocodile, in a royal livery of
bcarlet and gold, with sixteen capes; and
the crocodile is driving four-in-hand from
the box of the Bath mail And suddenly
we upon the mail are pulled up by a mighty
dial, sculptured with the hours, that mingle
with the heavens and the heavenly host.
Then all at once we are arrived at Marl-
borough forest, amongst the lovely house-
holds1 of the roe-deer; the deer and their
fawns retire into the dewy thickets; the
thickets are rich with roses; once again the
roses call up the sweet countenance of
Fanny; and she, being the granddaughter
of a crocodile, awakens a dreadful host of
semi-lcgendaiy animals— griffins, dragons,
basilisks, sphinxes-'— till at length the whole
vision of fighting images crowds into one
towenng armorial shield, a vast emblazonry
of human charities and human loveliness
that have perished, but quartered her-
aldically with unutterable and demoniac
natures, whilst over all rises, as a surmount-
ing orest, one fair female hand, with the
forefinger pointing, in sweet, sorrowful
admonition, upwards to heaven, where is
sculptured the eternal wntmcrs8 which pi<»-
claims the frailty of earth and her children.
GOING Dow;* WITH VICTORY
But the grandest chapter of our experi-
ence within the whole mail-coach service was
on those occasions when we went down from
London with the news of victory. A period
of about ten years stretched from Trafalgar
to Waterloo; the second and third years of
which period (1806 and 1807 were com-
paratively sterile; but the other nine (from ,
1805 to 1815 inclusively) furnished a long
10
20
10
'— Hoe-deer do not
egate in
, but
. imrents and children, ;nli
feature of ai>pro\lnia_timi to .the sanctity of
herriN like the fallow or tbc red deer(
ftoparate famlllcn. parents and children.
bv
<li
human hearths, added to tbelr comparative!*
miniature and graceful proportion!, concilia ten
to them an interest : of Peculiar tenderness
supposing even that tbls beautiful creature .1*
leas characteristically Impressed
andeura of garage and forest
with the
life."— De
w ,
dragon in a fire-breathing serpent with
A basilisk Is « serpent said to be hatched
a cock's egg: It Is caHed a cockatrice, and Is
fabled toTFll with a look. The sphinx wss a
ae o w .
legendary animal of ancient IQgynt. half lion
and half man
•floe F!cr1c*1n*t< *. 1 2
succession of victories, the least of which,
in suoh a contest of Titans, had an inappre-
ciable1 value of position : partly for its abso-
lute interference with the plans of our en-
emy, but still more from its keeping alne
through central Europe the sense of a deep-
seated vulnerability in France. Even to
teabe the coasts of our enemy, to mortify
them by continual blockades, to insult them
by capturing if it were but a baubling8
schooner under the eyes of their arrogant
annies, repeated from time to tune a sullen
proclamation of power lodged in one quarter
to which the hopes of ChnMcmloin turned
in secret. How much moie loudly must tins
proclamation have spoken in tlie audacity *
of having bearded the tlite of their troops,
and having beaten them in pitched battles'
Fi\e years of life it was worth paying down
for the privilege of an outside place on n
mail-coach, when carrying down the firM
tidings of any such event. And it is to be
noted that, from our insular situation, and
the multitude of our frigates disposable for
t he rapid transmission of intelligence, rarely
did any unauthorized rumor steal away a
prelibation* from the first aroma ot the
icgular despatches. The government news
was generally the earliest news.
From eight P.M. to fifteen or twenty min-
utes later imagine the mails assembled on
parade in Lombard Street ; where, at that
time,5 and not in St. Martin 's-le-Grand,
v as seated the General Post-Office. In what
exact strength we mustered I do not remem-
ber; but, from the length of each separate
nttrlagef we filled the street, though a lone:
one, and though we were drawn up in double
file. On any night the spectacle was beauti-
* too great to be estimated
* trifling
•"•JwfooHy"— Such the French accounted It;
and It hag struck me that Koult would not
have been HO popular in London, at the period
of her present Majesty's coronation, or in
Manchester, on occasion of bis visit to that
town, if they had been awaie of the Inso-
lence with * lilch he spoke of us in notes writ
ten at Intervals from the Hold of Waterloo.
As though It had l»een mere felony in our
army to look a French one In the fare he said
in more notes than one. duteil from two to
four P M on the field of Waterloo, 'Her** am
the English — we have them, they are caught
en flagmnt tfrfft.' Yet no man should have
known us better; no man had drunk deeper
from the cup of humiliation than Boult bad
in 1800, when ejected by n* with headlong
violence from Oporto, and pursued through a
long line of wrecks to the frontier of Spain •
nn<f subfyqueptlY at Album, in the bloodiest
of recorded battlea. to sav nothing of Ton
louse, he riionld have learned our preten
•lona." — De Qulncey.
•foretaste
"'M*J*5* <ft»ff'— I »Pf«k of the era previous
to Waterloo " — l>e Quincev
* tram ami roach
1114
NINETEENTH GENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
ful The absolute perfection of all the
appointments about the carriages and the
harness, their strength, their brilliant clean-
liness, their beautiful simplicity— but, znoie
than all, the royal magnificence of the horses
—were what might first have fixed the atten-
tion. Every carriage on every morning in
the year was taken down to an official in-
spector for examination: wheels, axles,
linchpins, pole, glasses, lamps, were all crit-
ically probed and tested. Every part of
every carriage had been cleaned, every hoise
had been groomed, with as much rigor as if
they belonged to a private gentleman; and
that part of the spectacle offered itself
always. But the night before us is a night
of victory, and, behold 1 to the ordinary
display *hat a heart-shaking addition I—
horses, men, carnages, all are dressed in
laurelb and flowers, oak-leaves1 and ribbons.
The guards, as being officially his Majesty's
servants, and of the coachmen such as are
within the privilege of the post-office, wear
the royal liveries of course; and, as it is
summer (for all the land victories were nat-
urally won in summer), they wear, on this
fine evening, these liveries exposed to view,
without any covenng of upper coats. Such
a costume, and the elaborate arrangement of
the laurels in their hats, dilate their hearts,
by giving to them openly a personal con-
nection with the great news in which already
they have the general interest of patriotism
That great national sentiment surmounts
and quells all sense of ordinary distinctions.
Those passengers who happen to be gentle-
men are now hardly to be distinguished as
such except by dress; for the usual resene
of their manner in speaking to the attend-
ants has on this night melted away. One
heart, one pride, one glory, connects every
man by the transcendent bond of his na-
tional blood. The spectators, who are nu-
merous beyond precedent, express their
sympathy with these fervent feelings by
continual hurrahs. Every moment are shout-
ed aloud by the post-office servants, and
summoned to draw up, the great ancestral
names of cities known to history through a
thousand years— Lincoln, Winchester, Ports-
mouth, Gloucester, Oxford, Bristol, Man-
chester, York, Newcastle, Edinburgh, Glas-
gow, Perth, Stirling, Aberdeen— expressing
the grandeur of the empire by the antiquity
of its towns, and the grandeur of the mail
establishment by the diffusive radiation of
1Tbe British oak alwajs bat been venerated In
England, and its leaves frequently arc used for
garlands. The laurel IB an emblem of victory.
25
its separate missions. Every moment you
hear the thunder of lids locked down upon
the mail-bags. That sound to each individual
mail is the signal for diawing off, which
process ib the finest part of the entire spec-
tacle. Then come the horses into play.
Horses I can these be horses that bound off
with the action and gebtuies of leopaidst
What stii !— what sea-like ferment !— what
a thundering of wheels!— what a tramp-
ing of hoofs!— what a sounding of tium-
petsi— what farewell cheers— what redoub-
ling peals of brotheily congratulation,
connecting the name of the particular
mail — ' ' Liverpool f oie\ ei 1 ' f — with the
name of the particular victory— "Badajoz
forever » " or ' ' Salamanca f oro er ! " The
half -slumbei ing consciousness that all night
long, and all the next day— perhaps for
even a longer period— many of these mails,
like fire racing along a tiam of gunpowder,
will be kindling at every instant new suc-
cessions of burning joy, has an obscure effect
of multiplying the victory itself, by multi-
plying to the imagination into infinity the
stages of its progressive diffusion. A fiery
arrow seems to be let loose, which from that
moment is destined to travel, without inter-
mission, westwards for three hundred miles1
*«<Thr*e fciHUfrerf' •— Of necessity, this Male of
measurement, to an American, If he happens
to be a thoughtless man, must sound ludi-
crous Accordingly, I remember a case in
which an American writer indulges himself in
the luxury of a little fibbing, by ascribing to
60
an Englishman a pompous account of the
Thames, constructed entirely upon American
ideas of grandeur, and concluding In some-
._ • rrlvingat
rs attains
having, in
stonishing;
i+v mlltta'
thine like these terms —'And sir. arrivli
London, this mighty father of rivers
a breadth of at least two furlongs, ha
its winding; course, traversed the astc .
distance of one hundred and seventy miles.1
And this the candid American thinks it fair
to contrast with the scale of the Mississippi
Now, It is hardly worth while to answer a
pure fiction gravely ; else one might say that
no Englishman out of Bedlam ever thought of
loosing in an Island for the rivers of a conti-
nent, nor, consequently, could have thought
of looking for the peculiar grandeur of the
Thames in the length of its course, or in the
extent of soil which It drains Yet, if he fcatf
been 10 absurd, the American might have
recollected that a river, not to be compared
with the Thames even as to volume of water
•—vie., the Tiber—has contrived to make Itself
heard of in this world for twenty-five cen-
turies to an extent not reached as yet by any
river, however corpulent, of bis own land
The glory of the Thames is measured by the
destiny of the population to which it minis-
ters, by the commerce which it s
the grandeur of the empire in wh__
for from the largest, it Is the most .
stream. Upon some rach scale, and not by a
erof Columbian standards, is the course
' English mails to be valued. The Amer-
.. - - his own valu-
. supposing the
ations to our English ears by supposing the
ease of a Siberian glorifying his country In
theMterins •— These wretches, sir, In France
and England, cannot march half a mile in any
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1115
—northwards fur BIX hundred, and the
sympathy of our Lombard Street friends at
parting is exalted a hundredfold by a sort
of visionary sympathy with the yet slum-
bering sympathies which in so vast a suc-
cession we are going to awake
Liberated from the embarrassments of the
city, and issuing into the broad uiicrowded
avenues of the noil hem subuibs, we soon
begin to enter upon our natural pace of ten
miles an hour. In the broad light of the
summer evening, the sun, perhaps, only just
at the point of setting, we are seen from
eveiy story of every house. Heads of every
age crowd to the windows; young and old
understand the language of our victorious
symbols; and rolling volleys of sympathiz-
ing cheers run along us, behind us, and
before us The beggar, rearing himself
against the wall, forgets his lameness— real
or assumed— thinks not of his whining ti ade,
but stands erect, with bold exulting smiles,
as we pass him The victory has healed him,
and says, Be thou whole I1 Women and chil-
dren, fiom garrets alike and cellars, through
infinite London, look down or look up with
loving eyes upon our gay ribbons and our
martial laurels; sometimes kiss their hands;
sometimes hang out, as signals of affection,
pocket-handkerchiefs, aprons, dusters, any-
thing that, by catching the summer bieezes,
will express an aerial jubilation. On the
London side of Barnet, to which we draw
near within a few minutes after nine, ob-
scive that private carnage which is ap-
proach in 2: us The weather being so warm,
the glasses aie all down ; and one may lead,
as on the stage of a theatre, everything that
goes on within. It contains three ladies-
one likely to be "mamma," and two of
seventeen or eighteen, who are probably her
daughters. What lovely animation, what
beautiful unpremeditated pantomime, ex-
plaining to us every syllable that passes, in
these ingenuous girls! By the sudden start
and raisins? of the hands on fiist discovering"
our lain oiled equipage, by the sudden move-
ment and appeal to the elder lady from both
of them, and by the heightened color on their
animated countenances, we can almost hear
them saying, "See, see! Look at their
laurels' Oh, mamma! there has been a
great battle in Spam; and it has been a
direction without finding a house where food
can be had and lodging; whereas such In the
noble desolation of our magnificent country
that In many a direction for a thousand mile*
I will engage that a dog shall not find shelter
from a Know-storm, nor a *ren find an apoliigv
for breakfast' " — i>e Qnlncey.
» Bee L«*e, 8:48
gieat victoiy." In a moment we aie on the
point of passing them. We passengers— I
on the box, and the two on the roof behind
me— raise our hah» to the ladies; the coach-
5 man makes hu> piofessional salute with the
whip ; the guard even, though punctilious on
the matter of his dignity as an officer under
the ciown, touches his hat. The ladies uio\e
to us, in return, with a winning graciousnebH
10 of gestuie; all smile on each side in a way
that nobody could misunderstand, and that
nothing short of a grand national sympathy
could so instantaneously prompt Will these
ladies say that we are nothing to them? Oh
IB no; they will not say that. Thev cannot deny
—they do not deny— that for thib night they
are our siateis; gentle or simple, scholar or
illiterate servant, for twelve hours to come,
we on the outside have the honor to be their
20 brothers. Those poor women, again, who
stop to gaze upon us with delight at the
entrance of Barnet, and seem, by their air
of weariness, to be retimimg fiom labor-
do you mean to say that they are washer-
26 women and charwomen?1 Oh, my poor
friend, you are quite mistaken. I assure
you they stand in a far higher rank, for
this one night they feel themselves by birth-
right to be daughters of England, and an-
30 swt»r to no humbler title.
Eveiy joy, ho\\e\er, even rapturous joy—
such is the sad law of eai th— may carry with
it grief, or fear of grief, to some. Three
miles beyond Barnet, we bee approaching us
35 another private carnage, nearly repeating
the circumstances of the foinier case Heie,
also, the glasses are all down ; here, also, is
nn elderly lady seated , but the two daugh-
ters are missing; for the smele young per-
40 son bitting by the lady's side seems to be an
attendant— so I judge from her dress, and
her air of respectful rgsene The lady is
in mourning; and her countenance expresses
sorrow. At fiist she does not look up, so
tf that I believe she is not awaie of our ap-
proach, until she hcarb the measured beating
of our horses' hoofs. Then she raises her
eyes to settle them painfully on our trium-
phal equipage. Our decoiations e\ plain the
GO case to her at once, but *»he beholds them
with apparent anxiety, or even with terror.
Some time before this, I, finding it difficult
to hit a flying mark when embarrassed by
the coachman's poison and reins in t erven -
66 ing, had given to the guard a Conner
evening papei, containing the gazette,-2 for
» women who do odd Jobs of household work
» official list* of appointment*, promotions,
of bankiupts, and other public notices
1116
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
the Dext carriage that might pats. Accord-
ingly he tossed it in, so folded that the huge
capitals expressing some such legend as
GLORIOUS VICTORY might catch the eye at
once. To see the paper, however, at all,
interpreted as it was by our ensigns of tri-
umph, explained everything; and, if the
guard were right in thinking the lady to
have received it with a gesture of horror, it
could not be doubtful that she had suffered
some deep personal affliction in connection
with this Spanish war.
Heie, now, was the case of one who, hav-
ing formerly suffered, might, erroneously
pei haps, be distressing herself with antici-
pations of another similar suffering. That
bame night, and hardly three hours later,
occuned the reverse case. A poor woman,
\\lio too probably would find herself, in a
day or two, to have suffered the heaviest of
afflictions by the battle, blindly allowed her-
self to express an exultation so unmeasured
in the news and its details as gave to her
the appearance which amongst Celtic High-
landers is called fey.1 This was at some
little town where we changed horses an hour
or two after midnight. Some fair or wake
had kept the people up out of their beds,
and had occasioned a partial illumination of
the stalls and booths, presenting an unusual
but very impressive effect. We saw many
lights moving about as we drew near; and
perhaps the most striking scene on the whole
route was our reception at this place. The
flashing of torches and the beautiful radi-
ance of blue lights (technically, Bengal
lights) upon the heads of our horses; the
fine effect of such a showery and ghostly
illumination falling upon our flowers and
glittering laurels,2 whilst all around our-
selves, that formed a centre of light, the
darkness gathered oh the rear and flanks in
massy blackness: these optical splendors,
together with the prodigious enthusiasm of
the people, composed a picture at once
scenical and affecting, theatrical and holy.
As we stayed for three or four minute*, I
alighted ; and immediately from a dirnnan-
tled stall in the street, where no doubt she
had been piesiding through the earlier part
of the night, advanced eagerly a middle-
aged woman. The sight of my newspaper it
was that had drawn her attention upon my-
self. The victory which we were carrying
down to the provinces on this occasion was
* feted to Rnffer death or some other calamity
••"QUttering laurel* —I must observe that the
color of green suffers almost a snlrltuitl
change and exaltation under the effect «f
Bonpnl lights."— De Qulncey.
the impel lect one of Tala\ era— imperfect
for its results, such was the virtual treachery
of the Spanish general, Cuebta, but not im-
perfect in its ever-uiemuiable heroism. I
5 told her the mam outline ol the battle. The
agitation of her enthusiasm had been so
conspicuous when listening, and when first
applying for information, that I could not
but ask her il she had not some relative in
10 the Peninsular ai my. Oh yes, her only son
was there. In what regiment He was a
trooper in the 23d Dragoons. My heart
sank within me as she made that answer.
This sublime regiment, which an Englishman
is should never mention without raising his
hat to their memory, had made the most
memorable and effective charge recorded in
military annals. They leaped their hoises—
over a trench wheic they could , into it, and
» with the result of death or mutilation, when
they could not. What piopoition cleared
the trench is nowhci e stated Those who did
closed up and went down upon the enemy
with such divinity of fen or (I use the woid
26 divinity by design : the inspiration of God
must have prompted this movement for
those even then He was calling to His pres-
ence) that two icsults followed. As re-
garded the enemv, tins 23d Diagoons, not,
30 I believe, originally tlnee hundred and fifty
strong, paralyzed a French column six thou-
sand strong, then ascended the hill, and
fixed the gaze of the whole French army.
As reijardecl themselves, the 23d were sup-
35 posed at first to have been barely not anni-
hilated; but eventually, I behe\e, about one
in four «*invivcd. And tins then. \\a«- the
regiment— fl regiment aheadv I'm Mrnie
hours glorified and hallowed to the ear of all
40 London, as lying stretched, by a laige ma-
jority, upon one bloody aceldama1— in which
the young trooper served whose mother was
now talking in a spirit of such joyous en-
thusiasm. Did I tell her the truth t Had I
46 the heart to break up her dreams T No. To-
morrow, said I to myself— tomorrow, or
the next day, will publish the worst. For
one night iroie wherefore should she not
sleep in peace f Affei tomoirow the chances
60 are too many that peace will forsake her
pillow. This bnef respite, then, let her owe
to my gift and mi/ forbearance. But, if I
told her not of the bloody price that had
been paid, not therefore was T silent on the
66 contributions from her son's regiment to
that day's service and glory. I showed her
* field of blood (A name given to the field that
was bought with the money received bv Judas
for betraying i Mat. Hec Acts, I 18-10 )
THOMAS DK QUJNCEY
1117
Dot the t'uncial banners under which the
noble regiment was sleeping. I lifted not
the O\PI shadowing laurels from the bloody
trench in which horse and rider lay mangled
together. But I told hei how these dear ehil-
dien of England, officers and privates, had
leaped then hoises o\er all obstacles as gaily
ns hunteis to the nioining's chase. 1 told
hei how they lode then hoises into the midst
<>i' death,— saying to myself, but not saying
to 1n'i, 4<nnd laid dn\\n their young Ines toi
thee, O mot hei England' as willingly—
])oiired out their noble blood as cheei fully
— ns e\ei, after a long day's sport, when
infants, they had rested then weary heads
upon then inotliei 's knees, 01 had sunk to
sleep in her aim*. " Strange it is, yet true,
that she seemed to ha\e no fears for her
son's safety, e\en aftet this knowledge that
the 23d Dingoons had been memorably en-
gaged , but so much was she enraptured by
the knowledge that Ins regiment, and theie-
fore that he, had tendered conspicuous sei\-
ice in the dieadful conflict— a service which
had actually made them, within the last
twelve houis, the foiemost topic of conver-
sation m Londcm— so absolutely was fear
swallowed up in joy— that, in the mere
simplicity of hei fpivent natuie, the poor
woman Ihiew hei anus around my neck, as
she thought of hei son, and gave to me the
kiss i\hich secretl> uas meant for ft tin.
SECTION II— THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH
What is to be taken as the predominant
opinion of man, leflective and philosophic,
upon SUDDEN DFATiif It is remaikable that,
in different conditions of societ\, sudden
death has been \anously legaided as the
consummation of an eaithly caieer most fei-
\eiuly to be desned, 01, again, as that con-
summation which is with most horror to be
dcpiecated Cipsar the Dictator, at his last
dinner-party (tcrna), on the \ery e\ening
before his assassination, when the minutes of
his eaithly caieer were numbered, being
asked what death, in Ins judgment, might
be pronounced the most eligible, replied
"That which should be most sudden ffl On
the other hand, the divine Litany of our
English Church, when breathing forth sup-
plications, as if in some representative chai-
actor, for the whole human lace prostrate
bePoie God, places such a death in the very
van of horrors: "Fiom lightning and tem-
*Thl<* Incident IK rrtntwl by Bartonta* In MR Liff
tif Jif/ffftf GffHnr, rh 87 , nKo bv rintnith nnd
Applan
pest; from plague, pestilence, and famine;
from battle and murder, and from SUDDEN
DEATH— Good Lord, deliver us." Sudden
death is here made to ciown the climax in a
5 grand ascent of calamities; it is ranked
among the last of curses; and yet by the
noblest of Romans it was ranked as the first
of blessings. Tn that difference most readers
will see little more than the essential differ-
10 ence between Christianity and Paganism
But this, on consideration, I doubt. The
Christian Church may be light in its esti-
mate of sudden death , and it is a natural
feeling, though after all it may also be an
15 infirm one, to wish for a quiet dismissal from
life, as that which seems most reconcilable
with meditation, with penitential retrospects,
and with the humilities of farewell prayer.
There does not, howe\er, occur to me any
20 direct scriptural warrant for this earnest
petition of the English Litany, unless undei
a special consti uction of the word sud-
den. It seems a petition indulged rathei
and conceded to human infirmity than ex-
25 acted fiom human piety. It is not no much
a doctrine built upon the eternities nf the
Christian system as a plausible opinion built
upon special vaneties of physical tempera-
ment Let that, however, be as it may, two
30 lemarks suggest themselves as prudent re-
straints upon a doctrine which else mat/
wander, and lias wandeied, into an unchari-
table superstition The first is this: that
many people are likely to exaggerate the
So horror of a sudden death fiom the disposi-
tion to lay a false stress upon woids or acts
simply because bv an accident they ha\e
become final words 01 acts If a man dies,
for instance, by some sudden death when he
40 happens to be intoxicated, such a death is
falsely regarded with peculiar horror, as
though the intoxication were suddenly ex-
alted into a blasphemy But tliat is un philo-
sophic. The man was or he was not,
45 habitually a dumkard If not, if his intox-
ication weie a solitary accident, there can
lie no reason for allowing special emphasis
to this act simply because through misfor-
tune it became his final act Nor, on the
50 other hand, if it were no accident, but one
of his habitual transgressions, will it be the
more habitual or the more a tiansgression
because some sudden calamity, sui prising
him, has caused this habitual transgression
55 to be also a final one. Could the man have
had any reason even dimly to foresee his
own sudden death, there would have been
a new feature in his act of intemperance—
a feature of presumption and irreverence,
1118
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICISTS
as in one that, having known himself draw-
ing near to the presence of God, should have
suited his demeanor to an expectation so
awful. But this is no part of the case sup-
posed. And the only new element in the 5
man's act is not any element of special im-
morality, but simply of special misfortune.
The other remark has reference to the
meaning of the word sudden. Very possibly
Caesar and the Christian Church do not differ 10
in the way supposed,— that is, do not differ
by any difference of doctrine as between
Pagan and Christian views of the moral
temper appropriate to death; but perhaps
they are contemplating different cases. Both w
contemplate a violent death, a j9ta0auaroc—
death that is j&'cuos, or, in other words, death
that is brought about, not by internal and
spontaneous change, but by active force hav-
ing its origin fiom without. In this mean- 20
ing the two authorities agree Thus far they
are in harmony. But the difference is that
the Roman by the word sudden means
unlingenng, whereas the Christian Litany
by sudden death means a death without 25
warning, consequently without any available
summons to religious preparation. The
poor mutineer who kneels down to gather
into his heart the bullets from twelve fire-
locks of his pitying comrades dies by a most w
sudden death in Caesar's sense; one shock,
one mighty spasm, one (possibly not one)
groan, and all is over. But, in the sense of
the Litany, the mutineer's death is far from
sudden his offence originally, his imprison- 25
ment, his trial, the interval between his sen-
tence and its execution, having all furnished
him with separate warnings of his fate-
having all summoned him to meet it with
solemn preparation. &
Here at once, in this sharp verbal dis-
tinction, we comprehend the faithful ear-
nestness with which a holy Christian Church
pleads on behalf of her poor departing
children that Ood would vouchsafe to them *5
the last great privilege and distinction pos-
sible on a death-bed— rir , the opportunity
of untroubled preparation for facing this
mighty trial Sudden death, as a mere vari-
ety in the modes of dying where death in BO
some shape is inevitable, proposes a ques-
tion of choice which, equally in the Roman
and the Christian sense, will be variously
answered according to each man's variety
of temperament. Meantime, one aspect of 66
sudden death there is, one modification, upon
which no doubt can arise, that of all mar-
tyrdom* it is the most agitating— war , where
it surprises a man under circumstances which
offer (or which seem to offer some hurry-
ing, flying, inappreciably minute chance of
evading it Sudden as the danger which it
affronts must be any effort by which such
an evasion can be accomplished. Even that,
even the sickening necessity for hurrying
in extremity where all hurry seems destined
to be vain,— even that anguish is liable to
a hideous exasperation in one particular
case: vwr., where the appeal is made not
exclusively to the instinct of self-preserva-
tion, but to the conscience, on behalf of some
other life besides your own, accidentally
thrown upon your protection. To fail, to
collapse in a service meiely your own, might
seem comparatively venial; though, in fact,
it is far from venial But to fail in a case
where Providence has suddenly thrown into
your hands the final interests of another,—
a fellow-creature shuddering between the
gates of life and death this, to a man of
apprehensive conscience, would mingle the
misery of an atrocious criminality with the
misery of a bloody calamity. You are called
upon, by the case supposed, possibly to die,
but to die at the very moment when, by anj
even partial failure or effeminate collapse
of your energies, you will be self -denounced
as a murderer. You had but the twinkling
of an eye for your effort, and that effort
might have been unavailing, but to haw
ii*en to the level of such an effort would
have rescued you, though not from d>ing,
yet from dying as a traitor to your final
and farewell duty
The situation here contemplated exposes
a dreadful ulcer, lurking far down in the
depths of human nature It is not that men
generally are summoned to face such awful
trials. But potentially, and in shadowy out-
line, such a trial is moving subterraneous! v
in perhaps all men's natures Upon the
secret mirror of our dieanis such a trial
is darkly projected, perhaps, to every one
of us. That dream, so familiar to child-
hood, of meeting a lion, and, through Ian
gnishing prostration in hope and the energies
of hope, that constant sequel of lying down
before the lion publishes the secret frailty
of human nature— reveals its deep-seated
falsehood to itself — records its abysmal
treachery. Perhaps not one of us escapes
that dream; perhaps, as by some sorrowful
doom of man, that dream repeats for every
one of us, through every generation, the
original temptation in Eden. Every one of
us, in this dream, has a bait offered to the
infirm places of his own individual will , once
again ft snare is presented for tempting him
THOMAS PR QUTtfCEY
1119
into captivity to a luxury of ruin; once
again, as in aboriginal Paradise, the man
falls by his own choice; again, by infinite
iteration, the anrient earth groans to
Heaven, through her secret caves, over the
weakness of her ehild. "Nature, from her
seat, sighing through all her woiks," again
"gives signs of woe that all is lost99;1 and
again the counter-sigh is repeated to the
sorrowing heavens for the endless rebellion
against God. It is not without probability
that in the world of dreams every one of
us ratifies for himself the original trans-
gression. In dreams, perhaps under some
secret conflict of the midnight sleeper,
lighted up to the consciousness at the tune,
but darkened to the memory as soon as all
is finished, each several child of our mys-
terious race completes for himself the trea-
son of the aboriginal fall.
The incident, so memorable in itself by
its features of horror, and so scenical by its
grouping for the eye, winch furnished the
text for this reverie upon Sudden Death oc-
curred to myself in the dead of night, as a
solitary spectator, when seated on the box
of the Manchester and Glasgow mail, in the
second or third summer after Waterloo 2 I
find it necessary to relate the circumstances,
because they are such as could not have oc-
curred unless under a singular combination
of accidents. In those days, the oblique and
lateral communications with many rural
post-offices were so airanered, either through
necessity or through defect of system, as to
make it requisite for the main north-western
mail (» e, the down mail) on reaching
Manchester to halt for a number of hours;
how many, I do not remember; six or seven,
I think ; but the result was that, in the ordi-
nary course, the mail recommenced its jour-
ney northwards about midnight. Weaned
with the long detention at a gloomy hotel,
I walked out about eleven o'clock at night
for the sake of fresh air; meaning to fall in
with the mail and resume my seat at the
post-office. The night, however, being yet
dark, as the moon had scarcely risen, and
the streets being at that hour empty, so as
to offer no opportunities for asking the road,
I lost my way, and did not reach the post-
office until it was considerably past mid-
night; but, to my great relief (as it was
important for me to be in Westmoreland
by the morning), I saw in the huge saucer
eyes of the mail, blazing through the gloom,
an evidence that my chance was not yet lost.
o Lo*t, 9. 782 84.
•That Is, In 1817 or 1818.
Past the time it was; but, by some rare acci-
dent, the mail was not even yet ready to
start. I ascended to my seat on the box,
where my cloak was still lying as it had lain
5 at the Bndgewater Arms. I had left it
there in imitation of a nautical discoverer,
who leaves a bit of bunting on the shore of
his discovery, by way of warning off the
ground the whole human race, and notifying
10 to the Christian and the heathen worlds,
with his best compliments, that he has hoisted
his pocket-handkerchief once and forever
upon that virgin soil : thenceforward claim-
ing the jus domtnn1 to the top of the atmos-
16 phere above it, and also the right of driving
shafts to the centre of the earth below it;
so that all people found after this warning
either aloft in upper chambers of the atmos-
phere, or groping in subterraneous shafts,
20 or squatting audaciously on the surface of
the soil, will be treated as trespassers-
kicked, that is to say, or decapitated, as
circumstances may suggest, by their very
faithful servant, the owner of the said
25 pocket-handkerchief. In the present case,
it is probable that my cloak might not have
been respected, and the jus gentium2 might
have been cruelly violated in my person—-
for, in the dark, people commit deeds of
so darkness, gas being a great ally of morality ;
but it so happened that on this night there
was no other outside passenger; and thus
the crime, which else was but too probable,
missed fire for want of a criminal.
35 Haying mounted the box, I took a small
quantity of laudanum, having already trav-
elled two hundred and fifty miles— w*., from
a point seventy miles beyond London In
the taking of laudanum there is nothing
40 extraordinary But by accident it drew upon
me the special attention of my assessor on
the box, the coachman. And in that also
there was nothing extraordinary. But by
accident, and with great delight, it drew my
45 own attention to the fact that this coachman
was a monster in point of bulk, and that he
had but one eye In fact, he had been fore-
told by Virgil as
Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui
BO lumen ademptum*
He answered to the conditions in every one
of the items .—I, a monster he was ; 2, dread-
ful; 3, shapeless, 4. huge; 5, who had lost
56 an eye. But why should that delight mef
1 law of ownership
Maw of natloni
•rttteid, 8, 658. The reference is to Polyphemus,
one of the Cyclopes, whose eye wai put out
by Ulysses.
1120
NINETEENTH CENTURT ROMANTICISTS
Had he been one of the Calendars1 in The
Arabian Ntgkts, and had paid down his eye
as the price of his criminal curiosity, what
right had I to exult in his misfortune? I
did not exult; I delighted in no man's pun- 6
ishment, though it were even merited. But
these personal distinctions (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4,
5) identified in an instant an old friend oi
mine whom I had known in the south for
some years as the most masterly of mail- 10
coachmen. He was the man in all Europe
that could (if any could) have driven six-m-
hand full gallop over J/ Si rat2— that dread-
ful bndge of Mahomet, with no side battle-
ments, and of extra room not enough for a H
razor's edge— leading right across the bot-
tomless gulf. Under this eminent man,
whom in Greek I cog-nominated Cyclops
Diphrelates (Cyclops the Charioteer), I,
and others known to me, studied the diph- 20
relatic an Excuse, reader, a word too
elegant ttf' »e pedantic. As a pupil, though
I paid extra fees, it is to be lamented that
I did not stand high in hib esteem. It
sho\\ed his dogged honesty (though, observe, 25
not his discernment) that be could not see
my merits Let us excuse his absurdity in
this particular by remembering his want of
an eye. Doubtless that made him blind to my
meiits. In the art of conversation, however, 30
he admitted that I had the whip-hand of
him. On the present occasion great joy was
at our meeting. But what was Cyclops
doing heiet Had the medical men recom-
mended northern air, or howt I collected, 3=>
from such explanations as he volunteered,
that he had an interest at stake in some
suit -at- law now pending at Lancaster, so
that probably he had got himself trans-
fen ed to this station for the purpose of 40
connecting with his professional pursuits an
instant readiness for the calls of his law-
suit.
Meantime, what are we stopping forf
Surely we have now waited long enough *&
Oh, this piocrastinating mail, and this pro-
crastinating post-office' Can't they take a
lesson upon that subject from mef Some
people have called me procrastinating. Yet
you are witness, reader, that I was here w
kept waiting for the post-office. Will the
post-office lay its hand on its heart, in its
moments of sobriety, and assert that ever
it waited for mef What are they about f
The guard tells me that there is a large 55
*A calendar Is a member of a mendicant order
of frlarii In Turkey and Persia
•The hrldge which leada over Hade* to Para
dine It \* a Hword'a eflge In width.
extra accumulation of foreign mails this
night, owing to irregularities caused by war,
by wind, by weather, in the packet service,
which as yet does not benefit at all by steam.
For an extra hour, it seems, the post-office
has been engaged in threshing out the pure
wheaten correspondence of Glasgow, and
winnowing it from the chaff of all baser
intermediate towns. But at last all is fin-
ibhed. Sound your horn, guard! Man-
chester, good-bye! we've lost an hour by
your criminal conduct at the post-office:
which, however, though I do not mean to
part with a serviceable ground of complaint,
and one which really w such for the horses,
to me secretly is an advantage, since it com-
pels us to look sharply for this lost hour
amongst the next eight or nine, and to re-
cover it (if we can) at the rate of one
mile extra per hour. Off we are at last, and
at ele\en miles an hour, and for the moment
I detect no changes m the energy or in the
skill of Cyclops
From Manchester to Kendal, which vii-
tually (though not in law) ib {he capital of
Westmoreland, there were at this time seven
stages of eleven miles each. The fiiat five
of these, counting from Manchester, termi-
nate in Lancaster; which is therefore flfty-
five miles north of Manchestei, and the
same distance exactly fiom Lnerpool The
first three stages terminate in Preston
(called, by way of distinction from other
towns of that name, Ptoud Preston), at
which place it is that the sepaiate roads
from Liverpool and from Manchester to
the north become confluent l Within these
first three stages lay the foundation, the
progress, and termination of our night's
adventure. During the first stage, I found
out that Cyclops was mortal : he was liable
to the shocking affection of sleep-— a thing
which previously I had never suspected. If
a man indulges in the vicious habit of sleep-
ing, all the skill in aungation2 of Apollo
himself, with the horses of Aurora to exe-
cute his notions, avails bun nothing. "Oh,
Cyclops!" I exclaimed, "thou art mortal.
My friend, thou snorest. ' ' Through the first
eleven miles, however, this infirmity— which
i" 'Confluent' —Suppose a capital T (the Pytha-
gorean letter) Lancafrter la at the foot of thin
letter, Liverpool at the top of the right
brunch -.Manchester at the top of the If ft,
Proud Preston at the centre, where the two
branchea unite. It la thirty-three mllea along
either of the two branchea ; It la twenty-two
mile* along the stem.—**, from Proton in
the middle to Lancaster at the root. There'*
a lesson in geography for the reader"— lie
Qnincey.
* The act of driving a chariot or a carriage.
THOMAS BE QUINCEY
1121
I grieve to say that he shared with the whole
Pagan Pantheon1— betrayed itself only by
brief snatches. On waking up, he made
an apology for himself which, instead of
mending matters, laid open a gloomy vista
of coining disasters. The summer assizes,
he reminded me, were now going on at Lan-
caster: in consequence of which for three
nights and three days he had not lain down
on a bed. During the day he was waiting
for his own summons as a witness on the
trial in which he was interested, or else,
lest he should be missing at the critical
moment, was drinking with the other wit-
nesses under the pasto^l surveillance2 of
the attorneys. During the night, or that
part of it which at pea would form the middle
watch, he was driving. This explanation
certainly accounted for his drowsiness, but
in a way which made it much more alarm-
ing; since now, after several days' resist-
ance to this infirmity, at length he was stead-
ily giving way. Throughout the second stage
he grew more and more drowsy. In the sec-
ond mile of the third stage he surrendered
himself finally and without a struggle to his
perilous temptation. All his past resistance
had but deepened the weight of this final
oppression. Seven atmospheres of sleep
rested upon him; and, to consummate the
case, our worthy guard, after singing Love
Amongst the Roses for perhaps thirty
times, without invitation and without ap-
plause, had in revenge moodily resigned
himself to slumber— not so deep, doubtless,
as the coachman's, but deep enough for mis-
chief. And thus at last, about ten miles
from Preston, it came about that I found
myself left in charge of his Majesty's Lon-
don and Glasgow mail, then running at the
least twelve miles an hour.
What made this negligence less criminal
than else it must have been thought was the
condition of the roads at night during the
assizes. At that time, all the law business
of populous Liverpool, and also of populous
Manchester, with its vast cincture of popu-
lous rural districts, was called up by ancient
usage to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lan-
caster. To break up this old traditional
usage required, 1, a conflict with powerful
established interests; 2, a large system of
new arrangements, and 3, a new parlia-
mentary statute. But as yet this change
was merely in contemplation. As things
• That is. all the «odB nrt together. The Pan-
theon contained atatuei and images of the
_godi and wai dedicated to them,
•That 1m he wan watched an carefully a* a shep-
herd watches bin sheep.
were at present, twice in the year1 so vast
a body of business rolled northwards from
the southern quarter of the county that for
a fortnight at least it occupied the severe
5 exertions of two judges in its despatch.
The consequence of this was that every
horse available for such a service, along
the whole line of road, was exhausted in
carrying down the multitudes of people who
10 were parties to the different suits. By sun-
set, therefore, it usually happened that,
through utter exhaustion amongst men and
horses, the road sank into profound silence.
Except the exhaustion in the vast adjacent
ifi county of York from a contested election,
no such silence succeeding to no such fiery
uproar was ever witnessed in England.
On this occasion the usual silence end
solitude prevailed along the road. Not a
30 hoof nor a wheel was to be heard. And, to
strengthen this false luxurioks confidence
in the noiseless roads, it happf- ied also that
the night was one of peculiar solemnity
and peace. For my own part, though
26 slightly alive to the possibilities of peril,
I had so far yielded to the influence of the
mighty calm as to sink into a profound rev-
erie. The month was August ; in the middle
of which lay my own birthday— a festival
30 to every thoughtful man suggesting solemn
and often sigh-born2 thoughts. The county
was my own native county8— upon which,
in its southern section, more than upon any
equal area known to man past or present,
86 had descended the original curse of labor
in its heaviest form, not mastering the
bodies only of men, as of slaves, or crim-
inals in mines, but working through the fiery
will. Upon no equal space of earth was, or
40 ever had been, the same energy of human
power put forth daily. At this particular
season also of the assizes, that dreadful
hurricane of flight and pursuit, as it might
have seemed to a stranger, which swept to
45 and from Lancaster all day long, hunting
the county up and down, and regularly sub-
siding back into silence about sunset, could
not fail (when united with this permanent
i " 'Tvicr to the year' —There were at that time
SO onlv two mwta«Hi e\en In the moit populous
counties — rte, thp Lent Assiies and the Sum-
mer AaslieB." — I>e Quincey.
»" Waft-bom' — I owe the suggestion of thla
word to an ohncure remembrance of a beauti-
ful phrase in 'Giraldua Cambrenris'— -rte., «««-
cogitations*" — DP Qnlnrey,
• Lancashire, celebrated for Its coal mines, com-
merce, and manufacture* Poor noil and ex-
cesalye taxes made II vim? condition* In thla
county, especially In the vicinity of Manches-
ter, In the southern district, almost unbear-
able. Manchester was the leading renter of
reform agitation concerning labor and trade
conditions In the early nineteenth eentnrv
1122
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIOIST8
distinction of Lancashire as the very metro]
olis and citadel of labor) to point tl
thoughts pathetically upon that counter-
vision of rest, of saintly repose from strife
and sorrow, towards which, as to their secret
haven, the profonnder aspirations of man's
heart are in solitude continually travelling.
Obliquely upon our left we were nearing the
sea; which also must, under the present cir-
cumstances, be repeating the general state of
halcyon1 repose. The sea, the atmosphere,
the light, bore each an orchestral part in
this universal lull. Moonlight and the first
timid tremblings of the dawn were by this
time blending; and the blendings were
brought into a still more exquisite state of
unity by a slight silvery mist, motionless
and dreamy, that covered the woods and
fields, but with a veil of equable transpar-
ency. Except the feet of our own horses,
—which, running on a sandy margin of the
road, made but little disturbance,— there
was no sound abroad. In the clouds and on
the earth prevailed the same majestic peace;
and, in spite of all that the villain of a
schoolmaster has done for the ruin of our
sublimer thoughts, which are the thoughts
of our infancy, we still believe in no such
nonsense as ft limited atmosphere. What-
ever we may swear with our false feigning
lips, in our faithful hearts we still believe,
and must forever believe, in fields of air
traversing the total gulf between earth and
the central heavens. Still, in the confidence
of children that tread without fear even/
chamber in their father's house, and to
whom no door is closed, we, in that Sabbatic
vision9 which sometimes is revealed for an
hour upon nights like this, ascend with easy
steps from the sorrow-stricken fields of
earth upwards to the sandals of God.
Suddenly, from thoughts like these I was
awakened to a sullen sound, as of some mo-
tion on the distant road. It stole upon the
air for a moment; I listened in awe; but
then it died away. Once roused, however, I
could not but observe with alarm the quick-
ened motion of our horses. Ten years 9 expe-
rience had made my eye learned in the
valuing of motion ; and I saw that we were
now running thirteen miles an hour. I pre-
tend to no presence of mind. On the con-
trary, my fear is that I am miserably and
shamefully deficient in that quality as re-
icalm; peaceful (The halcyon, or kingfisher
was fabled to nest at sea about the lime of
the winter solstice, and to calm the wa?ea
during the period of Incubation.)
•That Is, a vision which comet only at rare In-
tervals; perhaps, holy.
garde action. The palsy of doubt and dis-
traction hangs like some guilty weight of
dark uniathomed remembrances upon my
energies when the signal is flying for action.
i But, on the other hand, this accursed rift
I have, as regards thought, that in the first
step towards the possibility of a misfortune
I see its total evolution; in the radix of the
series I see too certainly and too instantly
10 its entire expansion ; in the first syllable of
the dreadful sentence 1 read already the
last. It was not that I feared for ourselves.
Us our bulk and impetus charmed against
peril in any collision. And I had ridden
16 through too many* hundreds of penis that
were frightful to approach, that were mattei
of laughter to look back upon, the first face
of which was horror, the parting face a
jest— for any anxiety to rest upon our
90 interests. The mail was not built, I felt
assured, nor bespoke, that could betray me
who trusted to its protection But any car-
riage that we could meet would be frail
and light in comparison of oursehes. And
25 I remarked this ominous accident of our
situation,— we were on the wrong side of
the road. But then, it may be said, the other
party, if other there was, might also be on
the wrong side; and two wiongs might make
90 a right. That was not likely. The same
motive which had drawn us to the right-
hand side of the road— viz., the luxury of
the soft beaten sand as contrasted with the
paved centre— would prove attractive to
ss others. The two adverse carriages would
therefore, to a certainty, be travelling on
the same side; and fioin this side, as not
being ours in law, the ciossing over to the
other would, of course, be looked for from
40 us.1 Our lamps, still lighted, would give
the impression of vigilance on our part.
And every creature that met us would rely
upon us for quartern!?.8 All this, and if
toe separate links of the anticipation had
46 been a thousand times more, I saw, not
discursively, or by effort, or by succession,
but by one flash of horrid simultaneous
intuition.
Under this steady though rapid anticina-
60 don of the evil which mtght be gathering
*"It is true that, according to the law of the
cate M established by legal precedent*, all car-
riages were required to give way before royal
equipages, ana therefore before the mail as
one of them. Bnt this only Increased the dan-
ger. as being a regulation Tery imperfectly
made known, venr unequally enforced, and
therefore often embarrassing the movements
- • V««nm iv — rnis is me veennieai woro,
and, I presume, derived from the French oar-
toyrr, to evade a rut or any obstacle.'* — De
Qulncey.
THOMA8 ])K QUINCEY
1123
ahead, ah! what a sullen mystery of fear,
what a sigh of woe, was that which stole
upoti the air, as again the far-off sound of a
wheel was heard ! A whisper it was— a whis-
per from, perhaps, four wiles off— secretly
announcing a nun that, being foreseen, was
not the less inevitable, that, being known,
was not therefore healed. What could be
done— who was it that could do it— to check
the storm-flight of these maniacal horses?
Could I not seize Hie reins from the giusp of
the slumbering coachman f You, loader,
think that it would June been in f/otir power
to do so. An'd I quarrel not with your esti-
mate of yourself. But, from the way in
which the coachman's hand was viced be-
tween his upper and lower thigh, this was
impossible. Easy was itf See, then, that
bronze equestnan statue. The cruel rider
has kept I he bit in his horse's mouth for
two een tunes. Unbridle him for a minute,
if you please, and wash his mouth with
watci. Eu««y was it? Unhorse me, then,
that impel lal ridei , knock me those marble
feet from those mm hie stirrups of Charle-
magne.
The sounds ahead strengthened, and were
now too clearly the sounds of wheeK TYho
and what could it bet Was it industry in a
taxed eaitf1 Was it youthful gaiety in a
gigf Was it sorrow that loitered, or joy
that raced? For as yet the snatches of
sound weie too intermitting, from distance,
to decipher the character of the motion.
Whoe* er wei e the travellers, something imi^t
be done to warn them. Upon the other party
rests the active responsibility, but upon us
—and, woe is me ' that us was minced to
my frail opium-shattered self— rests the
lesponsibihty of warning Yet, how should
this be accomplished? Might I not sound
the guard's hoin? Already, on the first
thought, I was making my way over the
roof of the guard's seat But this, from
the accident which I have mentioned, of
the foreign mails being piled upon the roof,
was a difficult and even dangerous attempt
to one cramped bv nearly three hundred
miles of outside travelling. And, fortu-
nately, before T had lost much time in the
attempt, our frantic horses swept round
an angle of the road which opened upon us
that final stage where the collision must be
accomplished and the catastrophe sealed.
All was apparently finished. The court was
sitting, the case was heard; the judge had
*A rrfcronce to tta mccmmlTM taxm Unponed
upon tlio fannopH by thp govprament during
the onrly part of the* nlnptronth century.
finifched; and only the verdict was yet in
arrear.
Before us lay au avenue btraight as an
arrow, six hundred yai ds, peihaps, in length ;
G and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a
regular line from either side, meeting high
overhead, gave to it the character of a cathe-
dral aisle* These trees lent a deeper solem-
nity to the early light ; but there was still
10 light enough to perceive, at the further end
of this Gothic aisle, a frail reedy gig, in
which were seated a young man, and by his
side a young lady. Ah, young sir! what
are you about t If it ib zequiRite that you
16 should whisper your communications to this
young lady—though really I see nobody,
at an hour and on a road so solitary, likely
to overhear you— is it therefore requisite
that vou should carry your lips forward to
20 heiHT The little carnage is creeping on at
one mile an hour, and the parties within it,
being thus tenderly engaged, are naturally
bending down their heads. Between them
and eternity, to all human calculation, there
25 is but a minute and a half. Oh heavens t
what is it that I shall dot Speaking or
acting, what help can I offerf Strange it is,
and to a mere auditor of the tale might seem
laughable, that 1 should need a suggestion
30 from the Iliad to prompt the sole resource
that remained. Yet so it was. Suddenly I
leniembeied the shout of Achilles, and its
effect.1 But could I pretend to shout like
the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas T No:
3"> but then I needed not the shout that should
alarm all Asia militant ; such a shout would
suffice as might carry terror into the hearts
of two thoughtless young people and one
i»i<r-liorse. I shouted— and the young man
40 lionid me not A second time T shouted—
and now he heard me, for now he raised his
head.
Here, then, all had been done that, by me,
could be done; more on mi/ part was not
45 possible* Mine had been the first step; the
second was for the young man; the third
\ias for Ood. If, said I, this stranger is a
brave man, and if indeed he loves the young
«irl at his side— or, loung her not, if he
GO feels the obligation, pressing upon every
man worthy to be called a man, of doing his
utmost for a woman confided to his protec-
tion—he will at least make some effort to
save her. If that fails, he will not perish
K the more, or by a death more cruel, for
h* "boot of Achilla non of Pelem, together
with the cry of Pallas Athene, fipread terror
among the Trojan* during the gleg* of TroY.
and gave the Om*« a chum* to rout from
hattle SPP the /Itoif. 1fl, 217-31.
1124
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
having made it; and he will die as a brave
man should, with his face to the danger,
and with his arm about the woman that he
sought in vain to save. But, if he makes no
effort,— shrinking without a struggle from 5
his duty,— he himself will not the less cer-
tainly perish for this baseness of poltroon-
ery.1 He will die no less: and why not?
Wherefore should we grieve that there is
one craven less in the world? No; let him 10
perish, without a pitying thought of ours
wasted upon him; and, in that case, all our
grief will be reserved for the fate of the
helpless girl who now, upon the least shadow
of failure in him, must by the fiercest of 16
translations— must without time for a prayer
—must within seventy seconds— stand be-
fore the judgment-seat of God
But craven he was not: sudden had been
the call upon him, and sudden was his *>
answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he
comprehended, the ruin that was coining
down : already its gloomy shadow darkened
above him; and already he was measuring
his strength to deal with it. Ah! what a *
vulgar thing does courage seem when we see
nations buying it and selling it for a shilling
a-day •» ah I what a sublime thing does cour-
age seem when some fearful summons on
the great deeps of life carries a man, as if »
running- before a hurricane, up to the giddy
crest of some tumultuous crisis from which
lie two courses, and a voice says to him
audibly, ' ' One way lies hope ; take the other,
and mourn forever'" How grand a 85
triumph if, even then, amidst the raving
of all around him, and the frenzv of the
danger, the man is able to confront hi*
situation— is able to retire for a moment
into solitude with God, and to seek his 40
counsel from HimI
For seven seconds, it might be, of his
seventy, the stranger settled his countenance
steadfastly upon us, as if to search and
value every element in the conflict before 45
him. For five seconds more of his seventy
be sat immovably, like one that mused on
some great purpose. For five more, perhaps,
he sat with eyes upraised, like one that
prayed in sorrow, under some extremity of 60
doubt, for light that should gnide him to the
better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood
upright; and, by a powerful strain upon
the reins, raising his horse's fore-feet from
the ground, he slewed8 him round on the 55
1 cowardice
•The English soldier received a •Mlllnc a dar
Probably, De QuSncey refers to the practice
of employing mercenarlen.
•turned
pivot of his hind-legs, so as to plant the
little equipage in a position nearly at right
angles to ours. Thus far his condition was
not improved; except as a first step had
been taken towards the possibility of a sec-
ond. If no more were done, nothing was
done; for the little carnage still occupied
the very centre of our path, though in an
altered direction. Tet even now it may not
be too late: fifteen of the seventy seconds
may still be unexhausted ; and one almighty
bound may avail to clear the giound.
Hurry, then, hurry I for the flying moments
—they hurry. Oh, hurry, huiry, my brave
young man! for the cruel hoofs of our
horses— they also hurry ! Fast are the flying
moments, faster are the hoofs of our horse*.
But fear not for him, if human energy can
suffice; faithful was he that drove to his
terrific duty; faithful was the horse to his
command. One blow, one impulse given
with voice and hand, by the stranger, one
rush from the horse, one bound as if in
the act of rising to a fence, landed the
docile creature's fore-feet upon the crown
or aiching centre of the road. The larger
half of the little equipage had then cleared
our overtowering shadow : that was evident
even to my own agitated sight But it mat-
tered little that one wreck should float off
in safety if upon the wreck that perished
were embarked the human freightage. The
rear part of the carriage— was that certainly
beyond the line of absolute ruinf What
power could answer the question f Glance
of eye, thought of man, wing of angel,
which of these had speed enough to sweep
between the question land the answer, and
divide the one from the other f Light does
not tread upon the steps of light more
indivisibly than did pur all-conquering ar-
rival upon the escaping efforts of the gig.
That must the young man have felt too
plainly His back was now turned to us;
not by sight could he any longer communi-
cate with the peril; but, by the dreadful
rattle of our harness, too truly had his ear
been instructed that all was finished as re-
garded any effort of his. Already in resig-
nation he had rested from his struggle; and
perhaps in his heart he was whispering,
"Father, which art in heaven, do Thou finish
above what I on earth have attempted."
Faster than ever mill-race we ran past them
in our inexorable flight Oh, raving of hur-
ricanes that must have sounded in their
young ears at the moment of OUT transit!
Even in that moment the thunder of col-
lision spoke aloud. Either with the swingle-
THOMAS DE QUINCET
1125
bar,1 or with the haunch of our near leadei,
we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig,
which stood rather obliquely, and not quite
so far advanced as to be accurately parallel
with the near-wheel The blow, from the
fury of our passage, resounded terrifically.
I rose in horror, to gaze upon the ruins we
might have caused. From my elevated sta-
tion I looked down, and looked back upon
the scene; which in a moment told its own
tale, and wrote all its records on my heart
forever.
Here was the map of the passion2 that
now had finished. The horse was planted im-
movably, with his fore-feet upon the paved
crest of the central road. He of the whole
party might be supposed untouched by the
passion of death. The little cany8 carnage
—partly, perhaps, from the violent torsion
of the wheels in its recent movement, partly
from the thundenng blow we had given to
it— as if it sympathized with human horroi,
was all alive with tremblings and shivennps
The young man trembled not, nor shivered.
He sat like a ro^k But Ins was the steadi-
ness of agitation frozen into lest bv honor
AR yet he dared not to look round ; for he
knew that, if anything remained to do, by
him it could no longer be done And as
vet he knew not for certain if their safety
were accomplished. But the lady
But the lady ! Oh, heavens! will that
spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as
she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and
rose, threw up her amis wildly to heaven,
clutched at some visionary object in the air,
fainting, praying, raunpr, despairing! Fig-
ure to yourself, reader, the elements of the
rase; suffer me to recall before your mind
the oncumstanees of that unparalleled situ-
ation. From the silence and deep peace of
this saintly summer night— from the pathetic
blending of this sweet moonlight, dawn-
light, dreamlight— from the manly tender-
ness of this flattering, whispering, murmur-
ing love— suddenly as from the woods and
fields— suddenly as from the chambers of
the air opening in revelation— suddenly as
from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped
upon her, with the flashing of cataracts,
Death the crowned phantom, with all the
equipage of his terrors, and the tiger roar
of his voice.
The moments were numbered; the strife
was finished; the vision was closed. In the
twinkling of an eye, our flying hones had
carried us to the termination of the urabra-
geous aule, at the right angles we wheeled
into our former direction; the turn of the
road earned the scene put of my eyes in an
instant, and swept it into my dreams for-
ever.
g m-BoAK-Fwoi-
«*««» m ""** * uut«
FOUNDED ON THE PRECEDING TIIZME OF SUDDIN
DZATH
Whence the sound
Their stops and chords was seen , his volant touch
A^SSKS^Z
— Pwradue Lost, Bk. 11 1 6
Passion (if sudden death i that once in
youth I lead and interpreted by the shad-
ows of thy a\erted signs!1— rapture of
H panic taking the shape (which amongst
tombs in churches I have seen) of woman
bursting her sepulchral bonds— of woman's
Ionic form2 bending forward from the ruins
ot her grave with arching foot, with eyes up-
25 laised, with clasped adonng hands— waiting,
watching, trembling, praying for the trum-
pet's call to rise from dust forever1 Ah,
vision too fearful of shuddering humanity on
the brink of almighty abysses!— vision that
*> didst start back, that didst reel away, like a
shrivelling scioll from before the wrath of
fire racing on the wings of the wind! Epi-
lepsy so bnef of horror, wherefore is it that
thou canst not dief Passing so suddenly
35 into darkness, wherefore is it that still thou
sheddest thy Had funeral blights upon the
gorgeous mosaics of dreams! Fragment of
music too passionate, heard once, and heard
no more, what aileth thee, that thy deep
<0 rolling chords come up at intervals through
all the worlds of sleep, and after forty years
have lost no element of horror!
45 Lo, it is summer- almighty summer! The
everlasting gates of lii'e and Mimraer are
tin own open wide,3 and on the ocean, tran-
qml and veidant ns n sa\annali. I he unknown
lady from the dreadful \ won and I myself
» aw floating— she upon a fan v pinnace, and
I upon an English three-decker. Both of us
i«flwr(hr a
changes of
»
read the conn* and
lady's agonr In the succession
"whlppletwf
1 horror , Buffering
"canellke
never once catching the lady's full face, and
.A"fo^^
cue?, qnalitin of Ionic arehifatvre
1 Roo Co* ff Hftfoti* n/ an JfairHfth Opium Jfatfr (p
iMRb, 1222 and 107ft.14Jli.atid 4«to-
biowrpAio Sketches (p. 1092a, 26 ff.).
1126
NINETEENTH GENTUBY BOMANT1C1ST8
are wooing gales of festal happiness within
the domain of our common country, within
that ancient watery park, within the pathless
chase of ocean, where England takes her
pleasuie as a huntress through winter and
trammer, from the rising to the setting sun.
Ah, what a wilderness of floral beauty was
hidden, or was suddenly mealed, upon the
tropic islands through which the pinnace
moved ! And upon her deck what a be\y of
human flowers, young women how lonely,
young men how noble, that were dancing
together, and slowly drifting towards us
amidbt music and incense, amidst blossoms
from foicbts and gorgeous corymbi1 from
vintages amidst natural carolling, and the
echoes of sweet girlibh laughter. Slowly
the pinnace ncars us, gaily she hails us, and
silently she disappears beneath the shadow
of our mighty bows. But then, as at some
Mgnal from heaven, the music, and the
carols, and the sweet echoing of girlish
laughter— all are hushed What evil has
smitten the pinnace, meeting or overtaking
her! Did ruin to our friends conch within
our own dread t'ul shadow f Was our shadow
the shadow of death f I looked o\er the
bow for an answer, and behold I the pinnace
was dismantled ; the revel and the revellers
were found no more ; the glory of the \ intake
was dust; and the forests with their beauty
were left without a witness upon the seas.
"But where,'1 and T turned to our crew—
"where are the lovely women that danced
beneath the awning of flowers and cluster-
1112 corvmbi! Whither have fled the noble
young men that danced with /ft row f " An-
swer there was none But suddenly the man
at ill? mast-head, whose countenance daik-
ened with alarm, cried out, "Sail on the
weather beam! Down she comes upon us:
in seventy seconds die also will founder."
it
T looked to the weather side, and the sum-
mer had departed The sea was rorkinsr,
and shaken with gathering wrath. Upon its
surface sat mighty mists, which grouped
themselves into arches and long cathedral
aisles. Down one of these, with the fiery
pace of a quarrel1 from a cross-bow, ran
a frigate right athwart our course. "Are
they mad! " some voice erelaimed from our
deck. "Do they woo their ruin f" But in
a moment, as she wa0 close upon us, some
impulse of a heady current or local vortex
gave a wheeling bias to her course, and off
> Hiwtprrof fhrtt or flowm.
•An arrow wltb a fonr-fdged head
she forged without a shock. As she ran
the
of the pinnace. The deeps opened
ahead in malice to receive her, towering
5 surges of foam ran after her, the billow &
were tierce to catch her. But far away she
was borne into desert spaces of the sea
whilst still by sight I followed her, as shu
ran before the. howling gale, chased by
10 angry sea-birds and by maddening billows,
still I saw liei, as at the moment when she
ran past us, standing amongst the shrouds,
ninth her white diaj>enes streaming befoie
the wind. There she stood, with han dislie\-
16 elled, one hand clutched amongst the tack-
ling— using, sinking, fluttering, tiembhng,
pia>ing; there for leagues I saw her as she
stood, raising at intervals one hand to
heaven, amidst the flery crests of the pin-
20 suing wa^es and the raving of the storm,
until at last, upon a sound from afar of
malicious laughter and moekerv, all was hid-
den forever in dm in? shower-, and attei-
swards, but when I knew not, nor how.
25
III
Sweet funeral bells from some incalcula-
ble distance, wailing <nei the dead that die
before the dawn, awakened me as I slept in
# a boat moored to some familiar shore. The
morning twilight e\en then was bieakmp,
and, by the duskv mela turns which it
spread, I saw a girl, adoined with a garland
of white roses about her head for some gieat
35 festival, running along the solitary stiantl
in extremity of haste. Her running was the
miming of panic, and often she looked
hack as to some dreadful enemy in the i eai
But, when I leaped ashore, and followed on
40 her steps to wain her of a peril in front,
alas ! from me she fled as from another peril,
and vainly I shouted to her of quicksands
that lay ahead. Faster and faster she ran ;
round a promontory of rocks she wheeled
45 out of sight; in an instant I also wheeled
round it, but only to see the treacherous
sands gathering abme her head Alreadv
her person was buried ; only the fair young
head and the diadem of white rones around
50 it were still visible to the pitying heavens,
anrl, last of all, was visible one white marble
arm. I saw by the early twilight this fair
yonn? head, as it was sinking down to dark-
ness—saw this marble arm, as it rose above
K her head and her treacherous grave, tossing,
faltering, rising, clutching, as at some false
deceiving hand stretched out from the clouds
—saw this marble arm uttering her dying
hope, and then nt ferine: her dying despair.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
1127
The head, the diadem, the arm— these all
had sank; at last over these also the cruel
quicksand had closed; and no memorial of
the fair young girl remained on earth, except
my own solitary tears, and the funeral bells
from the desert seas, that, rising again more
softly, sang a requiem over the grave of the
buried child, and over her blighted dawn.
I sat, and wept in secret the tears that men
have ever given to the memory of those that
died before the dawn, and by the treachery
of earth, our mother. But suddenly the
tears and funeral bells were hushed by a
shout as of many nations, and by a roar as
from some great king's artillery, advancing
rapidly along the valleys, and heard afar by
echoes from the mountains. "Hush!" T
said, as I bent my ear earthwards to listen
—"bush I— this either is the very anarchy
of strife, or else'9— and then I listened more
profoundly, and whispered as I raised my
bead— "or else, oh heavens! it is victory
that is final, victory that swallows up all
strife."
nr
Immediately, in trance, I was carried
over land and sea to some distant kingdom,
and placed upon a triumphal par, amongst
companions crowned with laurel The dark-
ness of gathering midnight, brooding over
all the land, hid from us the mighty crowds
that were weaving restlessly about ourselves
as a centre: we heard them, but saw them
not. Tidings had arrived, within an hour,
of a grandeur that measured itself against
centimes; too full of pathos they were, too
full of joy, to utter themselves by other
language than by tears, by restless anthems,
and Te Deums1 reverberated from the choirs
and orchestras of earth. These tidings we
that sat upon the laurelled car had it for
our privilege to publish amongst all nations.
And already, by signs audible through the
darkness, by snortings and tramplings, our
angry horses, that knew no fear or fleshly
weariness, upbraided us with delay. Where-
fore was it that we delayed t We waited for
a secret word, that should bear witness to
the hope of nations as now accomplished
forever. At midnight the secret word ar-
rived; which word was— Waterloo and Re-
covered Christendom! The dreadful word
Rhone by its own light; before us it went;
high above our leaders9 heads it rode, and
spread a golden light over the paths which
* Hymns of pratae; BO allied from the first words
•if a celebrated Christian hymn. Te Df*m
ZffttrfftNttf* (we pralsr tnee, O Oodl
we, traversed. Every city, at the presence
of the secret word, threw open its gates.
The rivers were conscious as we crossed.
All the forests, as we ran along their mar-
I gins, shivered in homage to the secret word.
And the darkness comprehended it1
Two hours after midnight we approached
a mighty Minster. Its gates, which rose to
the clouds, were closed. But, when the
10 dreadful word that rode before us reached
them with its golden light, silently they
moved back upon their hinges; and at a
aisle of the cathedral. Headlong was our
15 pace ; and at every altar, in the little chapels
and oratories to the right hand and left of
our course, the lamps, dying or sickening,
kindled anew in sympathy with the secret
word that was flying past. Forty leagues
20 we might have run in the cathedral, and as
yet no strength of morning light had reached
us, when before us we saw the aerial galleries
of organ and choir. Every pinnacle of fret-
work, every station of advantage amongst
26 the traceries, was crested by white-robed
choristers that sang deliverance; that wept
no more tears, as once their fathers had
wept; but at intervals that sang together
to the generations, saying,
30 tt chant the deliverer's praise in every tongue,'9
and receiving answers from afar,
"Such an once in heaven and earth were
sung."
85 And of their chanting was no end; of our
headlong pace was neither pause nor slack-
ening.
Thus as we ran like torrents— thus as we
swept with bridal rapture over the Campo
40 Santo2 of the cathedral graves— suddenly
we became aware of a vast necropolis rising
upon the far-off horizon— a city of sep-
ulchres, built within the saintly cathedral
for tlie warnor dead that rested from their
46 feuds on earth. Of purple granite was the
Tempo Jtoitto' —It in probable that most of
my readers will be acquainted with the bin-
tory of the Campo Santo (or cemetery) at
Pisa, composed of earth brought from Jerusn-
lem from a bed of sanctity an the highest
prise which the noble piety of crusaders could
ask or Imagine To readers who are unac-
quainted with England, or who (being Eng-
lish) are yet unacquainted with the cathedral
cities of England, It may be right to mention
that the graves within-side the cathedrals
often form a flat pavement over which car-
rtnges and horses sttyft* ran, and perhaps a
boyish remembrance of one particular cathe-
dral, across which 1 had Been pawengen walk
and burdens carried, as about two centuries
back they were through the middle of Rt.
Paul's In London, may have awtetrd my
dream " — De Qulncey.
1128
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICI8T8
necropolis; yet, in the first minute, it lay
like a purple stain upon the horizon, so
mighty was the distance. In the second
minute it trembled through many changes,
growing into terraces and towers of won-
drous altitude, so mighty was the pace. In
the third minute already, with our dreadful
gallop, we were entering its suburbs. Vast
sarcophagi rose on every side, having towers
and turrets that, upon the limits of the
central aisle, strode forward with haughty
intrusion, that ran back with mighty shadows
into answering recesses. Every sarcopha-
gus showed many bas-relief s— bas-relief s of
battles and of battle-fields; battles from for-
gotten ages, battles from yesterday; battle-
fields that, long since, nature had healed and
reconciled to herself with the sweet oblivion
of flowers; battle-fields that were yet angry
and crimson with carnage. Where the terraces
ran, there did we run; where the towers
curved, there did we curve. With the flight
of swallows our horses swept round every
angle. Like rivers in flood wheeling round
headlands, like hurricanes that ride into the
secrets of forests, faster than ever light
unwove the mazes of darkness, our flying
equipage carried earthly passions, kindled
warrior instincts, amongst the dust that lay
around us— dust oftentimes of our noble
fathers that had slept in God from Crfcy to
Trafalgar.1 And now had we reached the
last sarcophagus, now were we abreast of
the last bas-relief, already had we recovered
the arrow-like flight of the illimitable cen-
tral aisle, when coming np this aisle to meet
us we beheld afar off a female child, that
rode in a carriage as frail as flowers. The
mists which went before her hid the fawns
that drew her, but could not hide the shells
and tropic flowers with which she played-
out could not hide the lovelv smiles by which
she uttered her trust in the mighty cathe-
dral, and in the cherubim that looked down
upon her from the mighty shafts of its pil-
lars. Face to face she was meeting us; face
to face she rode, as if danger there were
none. "Oh, baby!" I exclaimed, "shalt
thou be the ransom for Waterloo T Must we,
that carry tidings of great joy to every
people,2 be messengers of ruin to theel" In
horror I rose at the thought; but then also,
in horror at the thought, rose one that was
sculptured on a bas-relief— a Dying Trum-
peter. Solemnly from the field of battle he
rose to his feet ; and, tmslinging his stony
* The. Battle of Crfcy was fongbt In 1846; Trm-
trumpet, earned it, in his dying anguish, to
his stony lips— sounding once, and yet once
again; proclamation that, in iky ears, oh
baby! spoke from the battlements of death.
5 Immediately deep shadows fell between us,
and aboriginal silence. The choir had
ceased to sing. The hoofs of our horses,
the dreadful rattle of our harness, the groan-
ing of our wheels, alarmed the graves no
10 more. By horror the bas-relief had been
unlocked unto life. By horror we, that were
so full of life, we men and our horses, with
their fiery fore-legs rising in mid air to their
everlasting gallop, were frozen to a bas-
is relief. Then a third time the trumpet
sounded ; the seals were taken off all pulses ;
life, and the frenzy of life, tore into their
channels again ; again the choir burst forth
in sunny grandeur, as from the muffling of
20 storms and darkness; again the thunderings
of our horses earned temptation into the
graves. One cry burst from our lips, as the
clouds, drawing off from the aisle, showed
it empty before us.— "Whither has the iii-
26 fant fled f— is the young child caught up to
Oodf" Lo! afar off, in a vast recess, rose
three mighty windows to the clouds; and on
a level with their summits, at height insuper-
able to mail, rose an altar of purest alabas-
80 ter. On its eastern face was trembling a
crimson glory. A glory was it from the
reddening dawn that now streamed through
the windows? Was it from the crimson
robes of the martyrs painted on the win-
35 dowsf Was it from the bloody bas-reliefs
of earth? There suddenly, within that
crimson radiance, rose the apparition of a
woman's head, and then of a woman's fig-
ure. The child it was— grown up to
40 woman's height Clinging to the horns of
the altar, voiceless she stood— sinking, ris-
ing, raying, despairing; find behind the vol-
ume of incense that, night and day, streamed
upwards from the altar, dimly was seen the
45 fiery font, and the shadow of that dreadful
being who should have baptized her with
the baptism of death. But by her side was
kneeling her better angel, that hid his face
with wings: that wept and pleaded for her;
BO that prayed when she could not; that fought
with Heaven by tears for her deliverance;
which also, as he raised his immortal counte-
nance from his wings, I saw, by the glory in
his eye, that from Heaven he had won at last
85 v
Then was completed the passion of the
mighty fugue, The golden tubes of the
organ, which as yet had but muttered at
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES
1129
intervals— gleaming amongst clouds ami
surges of incense— threw up, as from foun-
tains unfathomable, columns of heart-shat-
tering music. Choir and anti-choir were
5 filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also,
Dying Trumpeter, with thy love that *as
victorious, and thy anguish that was finish-
ing, didst enter the tumult; trumpet and
echo— farewell love, and farewell anguish—
10 rang through the dreadful sanctua1 Oh,
darkness of the grave! that from the crim-
Ron altar and from the fiery font wert vis-
ited and searched by the effulgence in the
angel 's eye— were these indeed thy children T
15 Pomps of life, that, from the burials of
centuries, rose again to the voice of perfect
joy, did ye indeed mingle with the festivals
of Death f Lo I as I looked back for seventy
leagues through the mighty cathedral, I saw
20 the quick and the dead that sang together to
God, together that sang to the generations
of man. All the hosts of jubilation, like
armies that ride in pursuit, moved with one
step Us, that, with laurelled heads, were
25 passing from the cathedral, they overtook,
and, as with a garment, they wrapped us
round with thunders greater than our own
As brothers we moved together; to the dawn
that advanced, to the stars that fled, render-
90 ing thanks to God in the highest'-that,
having hid His face through one generation
behind thick clouds of War, once again was
ascending, from the Campo Santo of Water-
loo was ascending, in the visions of Peace ,
33 rendering thanks for thee, young girl f whom
having overshadowed with His ineffable pas-
Mon of death, suddenly did God relent,
suffered thy angel to turn aside His arm,
and even in thee, sister unknown ! shown to
40 me for a moment only to be hidden forever,
found an occasion to glorify His goodness.
A thousand times, amongst the phantoms of
sleep, have I seen thee entering the gates of
the golden dawn, with the secret word rid-
46 ing before thee, with the armies of the grave
behind thee,— seen thee sinking, rising, Hav-
ing, despairing; a thousand times in the
worlds of sleep have I seen thee followed by
God's angel through storms, through des-
50 crt seas, through the darkness of quick-
sands, through dreams and the dreadful
revelations that are in dreams; only that at
the last, with one sling of His victorious
arm, He might snatch thee back from ruin,
66 and might emblazon in thy deliverance the
endless resurrections of His love!
* A part of the MAM, beginning with the Latin
word* Mmotu, MM***, fonrfuft (holy, holy,
• BeV
SBk.
2*14.
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES
(1803-1849)
LINES
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAP Of THE "PROME-
THEUS UNBOUND"*
18ZZ
Write it in gold— A spirit of the sun,
An intellect ablaze with heavenly thoughts,
A soul with all the dews of pathos shining,
Odorous with love, and sweet to silent woe
6 With the dark glories of concentrate song,
Was sphered in mortal earth. Angelic
sounds
Alive with panting thoughts sunned the
dim world.
The bright creations of an human heart
Wrought magic in the bosoms of mankind.
10 A flooding summer burst on poetry;
Of which the crowning sun, the night of
beauty,
The dancing showers, the birds, whose
anthems wild
Note after note unbind the enchanted
leaves
Of breaking buds, eve, and {he flow of
dawn,
1C Wire centred and condensed in his one
name
As in a providence— and that was Shelley.
From THE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY
I8*t 1822
POOR OLD PILGRIM MISERY
Poor old pilgrim Misery,
Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-hstening to the screech owl's cry,
And the cold wind's goblin prate,
5 Beside him lay his staff of yew
With withered willow2 twined,
His scant gray hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybnned ,
And his cry it was ever, alack!
10 Alack, and woe is me'
Anon a wanton imp astray
His piteous moaning hears,
And from his bosom steals away
His rosary of tears:
15 With his plunder fled that urchin elf.
And hid it in your eyes,
Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Oive up the lawless prize;
Or your cry shall be ever, alack!
Alack, and woe is me!
» Written by Sheller. Bee p 662.
•The yew and the willcw nro emblem* of
mourning
1130
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
A Ho* A Ho!
A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
His shafts are b^ht as beauty's sighs,
6 And bright as midnight's brightest eye
And round his starry way
The swan-winged horses of the skies,
With summer's music in their manes.
Curve their fair necks to zephyr's reins,
10 And urge their graceful play.
A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
The sparrows1 flutter round his wrist
15 The feathery thieves that Venus kissed
And taught their morning song,
The linnets seek the airy list,
And swallows too, small pets of Spring,
Beat back the gale with swifter wing,
20 And dart and wheel along.
A ho! Abo*
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
Now woe to every gnat that skips
V> To filch the fruit of ladies9 lips,
His felon blood is shed;
And woe to flies, whose airy ships
On beauty cast their anchoring bite,
And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,9
*° Whose sting is slaughter-red.
From THE SECOND BBOTHER
18*5 1801
STREW Nor EARTH WITH EMPTY STARS
Strew not earth with empty stars,
Strew it not with roses,
Nor feathers from the crest of Mars,
Nor summer's idle posies.
5 'Tin not the primrose-sandalled moon,
Nor cold and silent morn,
Nor he that climbs the dusty noon,
Nor mower war with scythe that drops,
Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops
10 Of enemies new shorn.
' Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know,
Pour your music, let it flow,
'Tis Bacchus 'son who walks below.
* flparrowfl ww Mcred to Venirt
1 creature
From TOBRISMOND
18*5 1851
How MANY TIKES Do I Low THEE,
How many times do I love thee, dear?
Tell me how many thoughts theie be
In the atmosphere
Of a new-fall 'n year,
5 Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity •
So many times do I love thee, dcai.
How many times do I love again T
Tell me how many beads thei-e aie
19 In a siher chain
Of evening rain,
Vnravelled from the tumbling mam,
And threading the eye of a yellow star
So many times do I love again.
From DEATH'S JEST BOOK
J8*5-5« I860
To SEA, To SEA!
To sea, to sea I The calm is o'er;
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore;
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cow snorts
5 And unseen mermaids' pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oni
To sea, to sea ! the calm is o'er.
To aea, to sea ! our wide-winged bark
10 Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,
Break the caved Tritons' azure day,
Like mighty eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.
16 The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea !
THE SWALLOW LEAVES HER NEST
The swallow leaves her nest,
The soul my weary breast;
But therefore let the rain
On my grave
6 Fall pure; for why complaint
Since both will come again
O'er the wave.
The wind dead leaves and snow
Doth hurry to and fro;
10 And, once, a day shall break
O'er the wave,
When a storm of ghosts shall shake
The dead, until they wake
In thegraM-
THOMAR LOVELL REDDOE8
1131
IF Tiiou WILT EASE THINK
Tf thon wilt ease thine heart
Of Imp and all its smart.
Then sleep, dear, sleep,
And not a borrow
6 Hani? any tear on youi eyelashes ,
Lie still and deep,
Sad soul, until the sea-wave \\ashes
The inn o' the sun tomorrow,
fn cartel n sky
10 But uilt thou cine thine heait
Of lo\e and all its smart,
Then die, dear, die,
'Tis deeper, sweeter,
Than on a rose bank1 to lie dreaming
IB With folded eye,
And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love's stars, thon 'It meet her
Tn eastern sky
LADY, WAS IT FAIR OF THEF
Lady, was it fair of thee
To sooni so pacing fair to met
Not e\ery stai to every eye
Is fan , and why
6 Ait thou another's share t
Did thine eyes shed brighter glances,
TIi me unkissed luteom heave more fair,
To his than to my fanciest
But I'll forgive thee still ,
™ Thon 'i t fair without thy will.
So be • but never know,
That 'tis the hue of woe.
Idich, was it fair of thee
To he so ijentle still to met
ir> Not every lip to e\ery eye
Should let smiles fly
Whv didst thou nover frown,
To frighten from my pillow
Lome's head, round which Hope wove a
crown,
20 And saw not 'h\as oi willow*-1
But T'llforpne thee still,
Thou knew'M not smiles could kill.
Smile on but never know,
T die, nor of what woe
A CYPRESS-BOUGH,* AND A ROSK-WRIATH 1
8WKBT
A cypress-bough, and a rose-wreath sweet,
A wedding-iobe, and a winding-sheet,
A bridal bed and a bier.
1 Tlio we 1* nn omhlom of love and marriage
* The willow In an emblem of mourning.
• The rvpreufi In an emblem of mourning , it haa
Inng noon nwwirintod with funeral*.
20
Thine be the kisses, maid,
5 And smiling Love's alarms,
And thou, pale youth, be laid
In the grave's cold arm*
Each in his own charms,
Death and Hymen both are here ;
10 So up with scythe and torch.
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring cleai •
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.
15 Now tremble dimples on your cheek.
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak,
* For he who kisses is near :
By her the bride-god1 fair,
In youthful power and force;
By him the grizard2 bare.
Pale knight3 on a pale hoi so,
To woo him to a corse
Death and Hymen both aie here,
So up with scythe and toich,
25 And to the old church porch,
While all the belh ring: clear-
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.
OLD ADAM, THE OARRION CROW
Old Adam, the carrion crow,
The old crow of Cairo;
He sat in the shower, and let it flow
Fnder his tail and o\er his crest;
5 And through every feathei
Leaked the wet weathei ;
And the bough swung under his nest ;
For his beak it was heavy with nmrrow.
Is that the wind dvmgf 0 no ,
10 It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones to and
fro,
Tn the ghosts' moonshine
Ho ! Eve, my gray carrion wife,
When we have supped on kings' marrow,
15 Where shall we drink and make merry our
lifef
Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull,
'Tis cloven and cracked,
And battered and hacked,
But with tears of blue eyes it is full :
20 Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo
Ts that the wind dying? 0 no ;
It 's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and
fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
* Hymen. • irra v-neadod person
• Death Ree ftrrrtof fo*. 6 -ft
1132
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
WE Do Lix BENEATH THE GRASS
We do he beneath the grass
In the moonlight, in the bhade
Of the yew-tree.1 They that pat*
Hear us not. We are afraid
6 They would envy our delight,
In our graves by glow-worm night.
Come follow us, and smile as we.
We sail to the rock in the ancient wa\es
Where the snow falls by thousands into the
sea,
10 And the drowned and the shipwrecked
June happy gra\es.
THE BODING DREAMS
1851
In lover's ear a wild voice cried
"Sleeper, awake and rise!"
A pale form stood at hib bedside,
With heavy tears in her sad eyes
5 " A beckoning hand, a moaning sound,
A new-dug grave in weedy giound
For her who sleeps in dreams of thee.
Awake ! Let not the murder be f "
Unheard the faithful dream did pray,
10 And sadly sighed itself away.
"Sleep on," sung Sleep, "tomorrow
'Tis time to know thy sorrow."
"Sleep on," sung Death, "tomorrow
From me thy sleep thou'lt borrow "
Sleep on, lover, sleep on,
The tedious dream is gone;
The bell tolls one.
50
Blood on the sheets, blood on the floor,
40 The murderer btealmg through the door.
"Now," said the voice, with comfort deep,
"She sleeps indeed, and thou may'&t
sleep."
The scornful dream then turned away
To the first, weeping cloud of day.
45 ' ' Sleep on, ' ' sung Sleep, ' ' tomorrow
'Tis time to know thy sorrow."
4 ' Sleep on, ' ' sung Death, ' ' tomorrow
From me thy sleep thou'lt borrow "
Sleep on, lover, sleep on,
The tedious dream is gone ,
The murder's done.
DREAM-PEDLARY
1851
If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buyT
Some cost a passing bell ,
Some a light sigh,
That shakes fiom Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the cner rang the bell,
What would you buyl
10
15
Another hour, another dream :
< ' Awake ' awake « " it wailed,
20 "Arise, ere with the moon's last beam
Her dearest life hath paled."
A hidden light, a muffled tread,
A daggered hand beside the bed
Of her who sleeps in dreams of thee.
*6 Thou wak'st not . let the murder be.
In vain the faithful dream did pray,
And sadly sighed itself away.
"Sleep on," sung Sleep, "tomorrow
'Tis Time to know thy sorrow."
80 « « Sleep on, ' ' sung Death, ' ' tomorrow
From me thy sleep thou It borrow ' '
Sleep on, lover, sleep on,
The tedious dream is gone ;
Soon comes the sun
U Another hour, another dream •
A red wound on a snowy breast,
A rude hand stifling the last scream,
On rosy lips a death-kiss pressed.
26
30
yew !• an emblem of moanioff; It
tree in fttft v
common
veytrds.
to *
A cottage lone and still,
With bowers, nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die
Such pearls from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.
But there were dreams to sell
111 didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one would It
If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call,
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pall f
Raise my loved long-lost boy,
To lead me to his joy —
There are no ghosts'to raise:
Out of death lead no ways ;
Vain is the call.
JOHN KEBLE
1133
40
45
10
Know 'at thou not ghosts to sue,
No love thou hast.
Else he. as I will do,
And breathe thy last
So out of Life's fiesh ciown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus aie the ghosts to woo ,
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last !
LET DEW THE FLOWERS FILL
1851
Let dew the flowers fill,
No need of fell despair,
Though to the grave you beai
One still of soul— but now too still,
One fair— but now too fair
For, beneath your feet, the mound,
And the waves, that play around,
Ha\e meaning in their grassy, and then
watery, smiles ,
And, with a thousand sunny wiles,
Each says, as he reproves.
Death 'b anow oft is Love's
JOHN KEBLB (1792-1866)
From THE CHRISTIAN YEAR
1827
FIRST SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY
So Joshua Hmote all the country and all their
klngfi, he left none remaining — Jothua 10 40
Where is the land with milk and honey
flowing,1
The pionuse of our God, oui fancy's
theme 1
Here over shattei 'd walls dank weeds ai e
glowing,
And blood and fire ha\e run in mingled
stream ;
5 Like oaks and cedais all around
The piant corses strew the ground,
And haughty Jericho's cloud-piercing wall
Lies where it sank at Joshua's trumpet call 2
These aie not wenes for pastoral dance at
even,
10 For moonlight rovings in the fraginnt
glades,
Soft lumbers in the open eye nf heaxen,
And all the listless joy of summer shades
We in the midst of rums h\e.
Which every hour dread warning give,
H Nor mav our household vine or fig-tiee
hide" .
The broken arches of old Canaan 's pride
Hee Bmodma, 8 8
Hee Deuteronomy, 8 H
Where is the sweet repose of hearts re-
penting,
The deep calm sky, the sunbhme of the
faoul,
Now heaven and earth aie to oui blibs con-
ben ting,
20 And all the Godhead joins to make us
whole?
The tuple cioun oi meicy1 no\\
Ib leady for the suppliant 'b blow,
By the Almighty Three ioievei plann'd,
And f loiu behind the cloud held out by
Jesus' hand
25 "Now, Chustians, hold your own— the
land before ye
N open— win youi way, and take youi
i eat."-'
So sounds oui \vai-note, but our path of
glory
By many a cloud is darken 'd and un-
blest
And daily us we dowuwaid glide,
30 Life 's ebbing stream on either side
Shows at each turn some mould'inig hope
or joy,
The Man seems following still the funeial
of the Boy
Open our eves, Then Sun of life and glad-
ness,
That we may sec that gloiious world of
Thine '
35 Jt slimes for us in vain, while dioopm<r
sadness
Enfolds us here like mist come, Powei
benign,
Touch our chill 'd hearts with venial
smile.
Our wintry course do Thou beguile,
Nor by the wavside nuns let us mourn,
40 Who have th' eternal towers for our ap- .
pointed bourn
TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTFR TRINITY
Hoar ye, O mountains, the Lord's rontro-
\ernv, ana ye Atrong foundations *»f the earth
—Ml tab 0 t
Wheie is Thy favor M haunt, eternal Voice,
The region of Thy choice,
Whoie. nndisturb'd by sin and eaith, the
soul
Owns Thy entne control 1—
5 'Tis on the mountain's summit dark and
high,
When storms are hurrying by
» A reference to the Trinity.
•See Deuteronomy, 1 8; alto Joshua, 1 11-16.
1134
NINETEENTH CENTUBY HOMANTICI8TS
TRs 'mid the strong foundations of the
earth.
Where torrents have their birth.
No sounds of worldly toil, ascending: theie,
10 Mar the full hurst of prayer;
Lone Nature feels that she may freely
breathe,
And round us and beneath
Are heard her sari ed toneb . the fitful sweep
Of winds across the steep,
16 Through withered bents1— romantic nnte
and clear.
U UU vlCttl ,
Meet for a hermit
's ear—
The wheeling: kite's wild solitary cry,
And, scarcely heaid so high,
The dashing wateis when the air ib still
20 Fioni many a torrent rill
That Minds unseen beneath the
fell,2
Track M by the blue mist well :
Such bounds as make deep silence in the
heart
For Thought to do her pait
25 TIB then we hear the voice of God within,
Pleading- with care and sin :
"Child of My love! how have I wearied
theef
Why wilt thou err8 from Met
Have I not brought thee from the house of
slaves,
3° Parted the drowning; waves,
And set My saints before thee in the way,
Lest thou shouldst faint or stray t
"What' was the promise made to thee
alone f
Art thou thf excepted onel—
*B An heir of glory without grief or pain ?
0 vision false and vain !
There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly
bow;
It fits thy btature now :
Who scornful pass it with averted eye,
40 'Twill crush them by-and-by.
"liaise thy repining eyes, and take true
measure
Of thine eternal treasure;
The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee
naught.
The world for thee was bought,
46 And as this landscape broad— earth, sea,
and sky—
All centres in thine eye,
So all Ood does, if rightly understood.
Shall work thy final good."
UNITED STATES
1836
IJ?*??"6 t£at.TTni! h»th Mid agalniit Jpnwa-
Jjm, Aha. she Is broken that was tbt> gate* of
the iMKiule; ghe IH turned unto me; 1 ttlialJ be
ii>I>lenl«h«»d, now ahe IH laid warte Therefore
tbua smith the Lord God ; Uphold. I am against
iheo, 0 Tyrufe— Ecekiel, 20 .2-3.
Tyre of the farther^ West! be thou too
warn'd,
Whose eagle wings thine own green
world overspread,
Touching two Oceans : wherefore hast thou
bcom'd
Thy fathers' God, 0 proud and full of
bread f *
6 Why lies the Cross unbonorM on thy
ground
While in mid air thy stars and arrow*
flaunt f
That sheaf of darts« will it not fall un-
bound,
Except, disrob'd of thy vain enithly
vaunt,
Thou brine: it to be bless'd wheie Saints
and Angels haunt f
10 The holy seed, by Heaven's peculiar #iaeef
Is rooted here and there in thy daik
woods;
But many a rank weed round it giows
apace,
And Mammon builds beside thy mighty
floods,
O'ei topping Nature, braving Natme's
God;
16 O while tlion yet hast room, fair fruitful
land,
Ere war and want have stain'd thy virgin
sod,
Mark thee a place on high, a glorious
stand,
Whence Tmth her sign may make o'er
forest, lake, and btrand.
Eastward, this hour, perchance thou turn 'st
thine ear,
20 Listening if haply with the surging
•wander
'Thli expreaalon refew to John Henry New-
man'K poem to England* beginning "Tyre of
the Went," which WededKebl?! poem In
Lyra ApottoUea. Tyre was the great trad-
Ing center of ancient Phoenicia" and was
noted for Its worldllneiw and commercial
'. ^[fi^ft; •" ; «too fftmtot, HI. 8. go
•A reference to tb* iheaf of arroW held in
the claw of the eagle on the Ameilean coat-
or arniH
THOMAS HOOD
1185
Blend sounds of Rain from a land once
dear
To thee and Heaven. 0 trying hour for
thee!
Tyre mock'd when Salem1 fell; wbeie
now is Tyre!
Hea\en was against her. Nations thick
as waves,
26 Buist o'er her walls, to Ocean doom'd and
fire:
And now the tideless water idly laves
Her towers, and lone Bands heap her
crowned merchants9 graves.
THOMAS HOOD (1799-1845)
SONG
1S24
O lady, leave thy silken thread
And flcweiy tapeMne,
There's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree,
6 Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.
Tis like the birthday of the world,
1° When eaith mas born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There's crimson buds, and white and blue—
The very rainbow show'rs
16 Have tnrn'd to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flow 'is.
There's fairy tulips in the East,
The garden of the sun ;
The very streams reflect the hues,
20 And blossom as they run :
While morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers;
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twined into flow'rs1
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY
A PATHETIC BALLAD
1820
Ben Battle was a soldier bold.
And used to war's alarms :
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms !
B Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot I"
> Jerusalem.
The army-surgeons made bun limbs:
10 Said he,—' ' They 're only pegs :
But there's as wooden members1 quite
As represent my legs!"
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray ;
13 So he went to pay her his devours2
When he'd devoured bis pay !
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made bun quite a scoff;
And when she saw hi* wooden legs,
20 Began to take them off!
"0 Nelly Gray ! O, Nelly Gray!
Is this your love so wannf
The love that loves a scarlet coat
Should be more uniform !"
25 Said she, "I loved a soldier once,
For he was blythe and bia>e;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the giave'
"Before you had those timbei toes,
80 Your love I did allow,
But then, you know, you stand upon
Another footing no\i f "
' ' 0, Nelly Gray ! 0, Nelly Gray !
For all your jeering speeches.
At
t duty's call, I left my legs
Tn Badajos's breaches!"
"Why, then," said she,/ 'you 'A e l»Qt
feet
Of legs in wai 's alaims,
And now you eannot weai yuui shoes
Upon your feats of arms f ' '
, false and fickle Nelly Gray;
I know why you refuse :—
Though I 've no feet— some othei man
Ts standing in my shoes f
46 "I wish I ne'er had seen your faee;
But, now, a long farewell !
For yon will be my death ;— alas '
You will not be my NeW"
Now when he went from Nelly Gray,
*° His heart so heavy got—
And life was such a burthen grown,
It made him take a knot !
» A thrust at the Members of Parliament.
•respects
1136
NINETEENTH OENTUBY BOMANTIC18TB
So round his melancholy neck,
A rope he did entwine,
65 And, for his second tune in life,
Enlisted m the Line !
One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs,
And, as his legs were off,— of course,
60 He soon was off his legs 1
And there he hung, till lie was dead
Ab any nail in town,—
For though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down I
66 A dozen men sat on1 his corpse,
To find out why he died—
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
With a stake in his inside f2
FA1K INES
1827
0 saw ye not fair Inesf
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when tbe sun is down,
And rob the woi Id of rest •
5 She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
0 turn again, fair Ines,
10 Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivall'd bright ,
And blessed will the lover be
That walks t>eneath their light,
15 And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write !
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavaber,
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
20 And whisper M thee so near!—
Were there no bonny dames at home
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear!
26 T saw thee, lovely Ines,
Debcend along the shore!
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners wav'd before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
80 And snowy plumes they wore,—
It would have been a beauteous dream,
—If it had been no more !
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with sung,
36 With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng,
But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Faiewell,
40 To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel nevei boie
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danc'd so light beloie,—
46 Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore f
The smile that blest one Imer's heart
Has broken many more !
RUTH
1627
She stood breast high amid the corn,1
Clasp 'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the *>weetheait of the mm,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
6 On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened ;— such a blush
In the midst of brown was bom.
Like red poppies grown with com.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veil 'd a light,
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ,—
16 Thus bhe stood amid the stooksj
Praising Qod with sweete&t looks:-
Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
20 Share my harvest and my home.
10
i held a session on
•It was tbe custom to bury suicides in some
public place, usually at tbe intersection of
four road*. a stake being driven through the
body. This custom, which wan discontinued
In 1823, grew out of tbe practice of erecting
a cross at cross-roads. A person who wan
excluded from holy rites was buried at the
foot of tbe cross aa tbe place next in sanc-
tity to consecrated ground. Bee Martiaeau s
The History of England, 2, 888.
I BEMEMBEB, I BEMEMBEB
1827
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn ;
» wheat
1 shocks of train
THOMAB HOOD
1137
5 He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day.
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away !
I remember, I remember,
10 The roses, red and white,
The vi 'lets, and the lily-cups.
Those flowers made of light v
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
16 The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet I
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
20 To swallows on the wing ;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow I
*" I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky •
It was a childish ignorance,
30 But now His little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.
THE STABS ABB WITH THE VOYAGER
1827
The rtars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail ;
The moon is constant to bei tune;
The sun will never fail ;
5 But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea ;
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be.
Wherever he may be, the stars
10 Must daily lose their light ,
The moon will veil her in the shade ,
The sun will set at night.
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away ,
18 So that dull night is never night,
And day is brightei day.
SILENCE
1827
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be.
In the cold grave— under the deep, deep
sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
5 Which hath been mute, and btill must bleep
profound ;
No voice is hush'd— no life treads bik'iitly,
But clouds and cloudy shadows waiulei
free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
10 Of antique palaces, where man hath been.
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,
And owls, that flit contiiiuall} between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,
There the true Silence i»», self -conscious
and alone
FALSE POETS AND TRUE
TO WORDSWORTH
Look how the laik soars upward and is
gone,
Turning a spirit as he nears (he sky1
His voice is heard, but body there is none
To fix the vague excursions of the eye.
6 So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die
Obscur'd, and hid by death's oblivion*.
shroud,
And Earth inherits the licli melody
Like raining music fiotn the moimnp:
cloud.
Tet, few there be who pipe so sweet and
loud
10 Their voices reach us through the lapse ot
space:
The noisy day is deafen 'd by a crowd
Of undistinguished birds, a twittenng
race;
But only lark and nightingale foiloin
Fill up the silences of night and mom.
SONG
There is dew for the flow 'ret
And honey for the bee,
And bowers for the wild bird,
And love for yon and me.
5 There are tears for the many
And pleasures for the few ,
But let the world pass on, dear,
There's love for me and you.
AUTUMN
1827
The autumn is old,
The sei e leaves are flying;
He bath gathered up gold,
And now he is dying;
Old age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;
1188
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTICIST8
But some that have sowed
Have no riches for reaping,
10 Poor wretch, fall a-weepiug !
The year's in the wane,
There ih nothing adorning,
The night has no eve.
And the day has no morning ,
16 Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking.
80 Here'b enow foi sad thinking!
BALLAD
1827
It was not in the winter
Our loving lot wab cast !
It was the time of roses,
We plucked them as we paused I
6 That chnrlfch season never frowned
On early lovers yet !—
Oh no— the world was newl> n owned
With flowers, when fin»t we met.
Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
10 But still you held me iW ,—
It was the time of roses,—
We plucked them as we passed!
What else could peer1 my glowing cheek
That tears began to stud?—
16 And when I asked the like of Lo\e,
You snatched a damask bud,—
And oped it to the dainty core
Still glowing to the last-—
It was the time of roses,
20 \ve plucked them as we passed f
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM, THE
MURDERER^
1329
'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school .
6 There were some that ran and some that
leapt,
Like trontlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds.
And souls untouched by sin ,
1 equal ; match
•This Is a story of fact. Bee J. A ah ton's "TO*
True Btory of Bonnie Aram," Kit'
Centum jril/« (isrfb ; al*o Bulwer-
f tram, a DOTP! pnbllehtd In 1
To a level mead they came, and there
10 They drave the wickets in :
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they ooursM about,
And shouted as they ran,—
is Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can ;
But the Usher1 sat remote from all,
A melancholy man I
His hat was off, his vest apart,
20 To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his biou ,
And his bosom ill at ease •
So he lean'd his head on his hands, and
lead
The book between his knees !
2* Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanc'd aside,
For the j>eace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide :
Much study had made him very lean,
80 And pale, and leaden-ey 'd.8
At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fei vent gi asp
He strain 'd the dusky covers clow.
And fix 'd the brazen ha«p •
35 ''Oh God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp'1'
Then leaping on his feet npiight,
Some moody turns he took,—
Now up the mead, then do\ui the mead,
40 And past a shady nook,—
And, lo ! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book !
"My gentle lad, what is't you read—
Romance or fairy f ablet
45 Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and ciowns unstable V
The young boy gave an upward glance,—
"It is The Death of Abel"
The Usher took six hasty strides,
50 As emit with sudden pain,—
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again ;
And down he sat beside the lad.
And talk'd with him of Cam :
** And9 long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
i a school.
THOMAB HOOD
1139
Of loucly lulk cut off uiibeen,
And bid in sudden giave*,
Of hoi rid stabs in gi<nt"» loilorn,
60 And muiders done in ca\eb;
And how the pprites of in jur'd men
Shnek upuaid iiom the bod,—
Aye, how the ghostly band will ]>oint
To show Ihejjiinal clod,
1(5 And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are been m dreams fioin God '
He fold bow murdereis walk the eartb
Beneath the euise of Cam,—
With ('unison clouds before their ejcs,
70 And flames about their biain *
Foi blood has loft upon their souls
lib e\ei lasting stain !
"And well/' quoth be, "I know, for truth,
Then pangs must be extieme,—
75 Woe, \\oc, unutieiable woe,—
Who spill life's sari eel Mi earn1
r«n nhv* Methou"ht, hist nmht.T wioimbt
A uiuulei, m a dieam !
"One tbat had nexei done me wronsr—
so A feeble man. and old ,
I led him to a lonely field,—
The moon shone clear and cold
Now heie, snul T, this man shall die,
And I will ha\c bib gold f
s~' "Two sudden blows A\ith a iimged stick,
\nd one with a hca\> stone,
One Inn i led aash \\ith a hasty knife.—
And then the deed was done;
Theie was nothing lying at mv font
90 But lifeless flesh and bone '
"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill ;
And vet I fear'd him all the inoie,
For lyiiur there so still'
95 Theie uas a manhood in his look,
Tbat murder could not kill !
"And, In1 the unnersal air
Sceni'd lit with ghastly flame,—
Ten thousand thousand di cad till
100 Were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by his hand,
And cali'd upon his name !
"Oh, Godf it made me quake to see
Such M?nse within the slam f
But when I touch M the hfele*s C!HV,
The blood gushed out amain '
For every clot, a buinmg &po(,
Wab scorching in iny brain !
"My head was like an ardent coal,
110 My heait as solid ice;
My w i etched, wi etched soul, 1 knew,
Was at the Devil's puce*
A dozen times 1 gioan'd; the dead
Had ne\er gioan'd but twice.
115 "And now, fiom foith the frowning sky
From the bea\en's topmost height,
I heaid a voice— the a\\ ful voice
Of the blood-aieiium!' sprite*—
'Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead,
120 And i1M]e ^ from niy sight ! '
"I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stieam,—
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extieme —
126 M\ gentle boy. lemember this
Ib nothing but a dream !
' ' Down went the coi »»e with a hollow plunge
And vanish 'd in the pool ;
Anon I cleans M mv bloody bands,
130 And \\ ash M mv foi cheat! cool,
And sat among the urchins youni?
That evening in the school
"Oh, TTen\en, to think of their white «onls,
And mine so black and gimiT
135 i could not dune in childish
Nor join in evening hymn •
Like a de> il of the pit, 1 seem'd,
'Mid holy cherubim n
"And Peace went with them, one and all,
140 And each calm pillow spiead ,
But Guilt was my giim chambeilain
That lighted nic to bed ,
And drew mv midnight cm tains lound
With fingers bloody red '
"5 "All niulit T lay in aaony,
In anguish daik nnd deep.
My fe\ei fd e\es I daied not close,
But staied aghast at Sleep-
For Sin had rendei M unto her
iso The keys of bell to keep!
"All night I lay in agony,
From \ieary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid bint.
That rackM me all the time,—
1155 A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime!
i Member* of the celestial hierarchy.
1140
NINETEENTH CENTUBY EOMANTIC1WTO
"One stern tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its sla\e,
Stronger and stronger every pulse
160 Did that temptation cia\e,—
Still urging me to go and bee
The dead man in his grave !
"Heavily I lose up, a* MMUI
As light was in the &ky,
165 Anj sought the black accui'bed pool
With a wild inibgiving eye,
And I saw the dead in the inei heel.
For the faithlesb stieaui wab diy f
"Merrily rose the laik, and shook
170 The dew-diop lioui itb wni£> ,
But I ue\ei mark'd its moimng flight,
I ne\ei heaid it sing:
For I was stooping once again
Undei the horrid thing.
176 "With breathless speed, like a soul in
cbabe,
I took him up and ran ,-—
Thei e was no time to dig a gi a\ e
Befoie the day began :
In a lonesome wood, with heaps ot leave-,
180 I hid the murder 'd man f
"And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where,
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In seciet 1 was theie
183 And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare!
"Then down I cast me on my face,
And flist began to weep,
Poi I knew my freciet then was one
l 90 That eai Ui i ef used to keep .
Or land, or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.
"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atone*'
W6 Ay, though he's buned in a cau*,
And trodden down with stones
And years have rotted off his flesh,—
The woi Id shall see bib boneb '
"Oh, God ! that horrid, horrid dream
200 Be*etb me now awake '
Again— again, with a diuy biain,
The human life I take,
And my red right hand prow* raging hot,
Like Crammer's at the stake
•OB "And still no peace for the restless clay/
Will \\a\e or mould allow,
The horrid thing pursues niy wnil,—
It standb before me now I "
The feaiful boy look'd up, and baw
210 Huge drops upon nib Luow.
i
That \eiy night, while gentle sleep
The uichin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stein-faced men set out from Lynn,
Tin ough the cold and heavy mist ;
215 And Eugene Aiani walked between,
With gy\eb upon his wrist.
THE DEATH-BEDi
1881
We watch 'd her breathing thro9 the night,
Her biea thing soft and low,
As in hei biea*t the wa\e oi hie
Kept heaving to and fio!
5 So bilenlly we seemed to speak-
So slowly moved about f
As we had lent hei halt out poweib
To eke bei living out v
Oui very hopes belied oui fears,
10 Oui tears our hopeb belied—
We thought hei dying when she blepl,
And sleeping when die died f
For when the morn came dim and sad—
And chill with eaily showeia,
16 Hei quiet evelids closed— she had
Another mom than oms'
SALLY SIMPKIN'B LAMENT
OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTBOPIIE
Fin left bin body to the SMI,
\ucl made a shark bis legatee
— Bryan and I'ennne
"Oh I what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling habtet
It ih the pictuie of my Jones,
And painted to the waist
B "It is not painted to the life,
For wheie'fl the tioubers bluet
Ob Joneb, my dear1— 0 dear! my Jones,
What is become of you f ' '
"Oh ! Sally dear, it is too true,
10 The half that you remark
Is come to bay my other half
Is bit off by a shark!
"Oh I Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Tet most completely do !
1 This poem !• supposed to have been written on
the iletth of Hood'i slater
THOMAS HOOD
1141
16 A bite in one place seems enough,
But I've been bit in two.
"You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share !
But let that pass— for now to you
20 I 'm neither here nor there,
" Alas ! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from mel
W "Don't fear my ghost will walk of nights
To haunt as people say;
My ghost can't walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away !
"Lord ' think when I am swimming round,
30 And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half,
Without "a qnatter's notice lf|
' ' One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
K Oh ! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.
1 ' But now, adieu— a long adieu !
I 've solved death 9s awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
40 To break off in the middle. ' '
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
1843
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
B Stitch! stitch! stitch |
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of doloious pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt »"
"Work! work! work!
10 While the cock is crowing aloof !
And work— work— work,
Till the stars shine through the roof
Tt'sO! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
15 Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
" Work— work— work
Till the brain begins to swim :
Work— work— work
« A notice to vacate given a quarter In advance.
20 Till the ores are heavy and dun !
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
** "0! men with sisters dear I
0 ! men with mothers and wives,
Tt is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives !
Si itch -stitch -stitch,
80 In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.
"But why do I talk of Death!
That phantom of grisly bone,
16 I hardly fear his terrible shape,
Tt seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,
Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear,
40 And flesh and blood so cheap !
"Work- work- work!
My labor never flags;
And what aie its wages T A bed of straw,
A crust of bread— and rags.
45 That shatter 'd roof,— and thn naked
floor—
A table— a broken chair—
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there !
"Work- work-work!
r>0 From weary chime to chime,
Work— work— work-
As prisoners work for crime ?
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
** Till the heart is sick, and the brain
benumb 'd,
As well as the weary hand.
"Work— work— work,
In the dull December light,
And work— work— work,
60 When the weather is warm and bright—
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
'* "Oh ! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
70 To feel as I used to feel,
1142
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOA1ANTICISTS
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal I
"Oh but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
75 NO blessed leisure for love or hope.
But only time for grief I
A little weeping would ease my heait.
But in their briny bed
My tears must slop, for every drop
80 Hinders needle and thread I
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Baud, and gusset, and seam,
Work, work, work,
Like the engine that works by steam T
85 A mere machine of iron and wood
That toils for Mammon's sake —
Without a brain to ponder and craze,
Or a heart to feel— and break I
With fingers weary and worn,
90 With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sate in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
96 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the rich !-
She sang this "Sons of the Shirt I"
THE BBTDGE OP SIGHS
1844
Drown'd ! drown'd '_ Hamlet.*
One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Hashly importunate,
Gone to her death 1
5 Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Fashion 'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
10 Clinging like cerements;9
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.—
1* Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
20 Now is pure womanly.
* waxed 'cloth* "uiM»d for wrapping dead bodlen
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiiul •
Past all dishonor
26 Death has left on hei
Only the beautiful
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
30 Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses ;
Whilst wonderment p nesses
86 Where was her home 7
Who was her father!
Who was her mothei T
Had she a sister T
Had she a brother?
40 Or was there a deorei one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other t
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian chaiity
45 Under the sun !
Oh! it was pitiful !
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none 1
Sisterly, brotherly,
60 Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed •
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thiown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
65 Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
*° From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement.
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shnoi ;
65 But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river •
Mad from life's history,
Olad to death fs myRtery,
Swift to be hurl 'd-~
70 Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world '
THOMAS HOOD
1143
In she plunged boldl> ,
No matter bow coldly
The rough river rail,—
w Over the brink of it,
Picture it— think of it.
Dissolute man !
Lave in it, drink of it.
Then, if you can !
80 Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with caie,
Fashion 'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
85 Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,— kindly,—
Smoothe and compose them •
And her eyes, close them.
Staring *o blindly f
90 Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the dating
Last look of despairing,
Fix 'don futurity
96 Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity.
Burning insanity,
Into her rest —
100 Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dnmbh .
Over her breast !
Owning her weakness
Her evil behaviour,
10B And leaving, with meekness
Her «ins to her Savior!
THE LAY OP THE LABORER
1S44
A spade! a rake! a hoe'
A pickaxe, or a bill I1
A book to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
B And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill 'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labor's nigged school.
To hedge, or dig the ditch,
10 To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
i A kind of priming tool.
30
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
15 And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.1
To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam ;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
20 Is on the hearth of home ;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
26 A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard V blaze!
To Him who sends a drought
To parch the fields forloin,
The rain to flood the meadows with mud,
The lights to blast the corn,8
To Him I leave to guide
The bolt in its crooked path.
To strike the miser's rick, and rfiow
The skies blood-ied with wrath
85 A spade! a rake! a hoe'
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
The corn to thrash, or tlio hedge to plash,4
40 The market-team to drive,
Or mend the fence bv the cover side,5
And leave the game alive.
Ay, only give me work,
And then you need not fear
45 That 1 «hall snare his worship's hare,
Or kill his grace's deer,
ftieak into his lordship's house,
To steal the plate so rich ;
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
50 To welter in a ditch.
Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labor calls,
No job I'll shnk of the haidest work,
To shun the woikhouse walK,
"»s Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow 's life.
Before her partner's death.
1 A reference to the rlck-burnlng dtaordera In
the agricultural counties of northern Eng-
land In 1880 ff Bee Martin ran'* The JF/t«-
m torv of K»ffl<i*4, 8, 288-88
• itack-vard's
'wheat
• trim and Intertwine
•That la, along the woods, undergrowth, etc.,
that *enre to shelter wild animal* and game.
Name In not no sacred In America an In Eng-
land.
1144
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
My only claim IB this,
«° With labor stiff and stark,
By lawful turn, my living to earn.
Between the light and dark ;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer-
is But all from the hand that holds the land,
And none from the overseer '
No parish money, or loaf,
No pauper badge? for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
TO Entitled to my fee *
No alms 1 ask, give me my task •
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a man,
To work, and not to beg.
75 Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though ctoom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean
Instead of the fat of the earth ;8
To make such humble meals
80 As honest labor can,
A bone and a mist, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man !
A spade ! a rake ! a hoe !
A pickaxe, or a bill !
85 A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will-
Whatever the tool to ply.
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
90 Who does their pay begrudge f
Who every weekly score
Docks labor's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the tempie door,
But robb'd them over night
96 The very shilling he hoped to sine,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the New Bastille,
The Spital,4 or the Gaol '
STANZAS
184.1
Farewell, life ! My senses swim ;
And the world is growing dim ;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night,—
6 Colder, colder, colder still
Upward steals a vapor chill-
Strong the earthy odor grows—
I smell the mould above the rone*
1 The orerwer of the poor
18.
* hospital
Welcome, life ! the Spirit strives !
10 Strength returns, and hope revive*;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—
Oer the earth there comes a bloom-
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
16 Warm perfume for vapor cold—
I smell the rose above the mould '
QUEEN MAB
A little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,
With silver spots upon her wings,
And from the moon she flutters down.
6 She has a little silver wand,
And when a good child goes to bed
She waves her wand from nght to left,
And makes a circle round its head
And then it dreams of pleasant things,
10 Of fountains filled with fairy fish,
And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And bow their branches at a wish
Of arbors filled with dainty scents
From lovely floweis that ne\er fade;
15 Bnght flies that glitter in the sun,
And glow-worois binning in the shade
And talking birds with gifted tongues,
Foi hinging hones and telling tales,
And pielty dwarfs to show the way
20 Through fairy hills and fairy dales.
But when a bad child goes to bed,
From left to light she weaves hei
rings,
And then it dream& all through the night
Of only ugly horrid things'
25 Then lions come with glaring eyes,
And tigeis giowl, a dreadful noise,
And ogres draw their cruel knives,
To phed the blood of girls and boy*
Then stormy waves rush on to drown,
80 Or raging flames come scorching round,
Fierce dragons hover in the air,
And serpents crawl along the ground.
Then wicked children wake and weep,
And wish the long black gloom away;
86 But good ones love the dark, and find
The night as pleasant as (he day.
"WINTHBOP MACKWORTH PBAED
1145
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
(1802-1839)
From THE TROUBADOUB
1823*24
SPIRITB, THAT WALK AND WAIL TONIGHT
Spirits, that walk and wail tonight,
I feel, I feel that ye are near;
There IB a mist upon my sight,
There is a mnrmur in mine ear,
* And a dark, dark dread
Of the lonely dead
Creeps through the whispering atmos-
phere!
Ye hover o'er the hoary trees,
And the old oaks stand bereft and bate;
10 Te hover o'er the moonlight seas,
And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air ;
Ye gaze on the gate
Of earthly state,
And the bandog1 shivers in silence there.
15 Come hither to me upon your cloud,
And tell me of your bliss or pain,
And let me see your shadowy shroud,
And colorless lip, and bloodless vein ,
Where do ye dwell,
20 In heaven or hell t
And why do ye wander on earth again t
Tell me where and how ye died,
Fell ye in darkness, or fell ye in dav,
On lorn hill-side, or roaring tide,
:>5 In gorgeous feast, or rushing f rav 1
By bowl or blow,
From friend or foe,
Hurried your angry souls away 1
Mute ye come, and mute ye pass,
30 Your tale untold, your shrift unshroen ;
But ye have blighted the pale grass,
And scared the ghastly stars from
heaven;
And guilt hath known
Your voiceless moan,
>* And felt that the blood is unf orgiven !
OH FLY WITH MX! 'TIS PASSION'S HOUB
Oh fly with me ! 'tis Passion 9s hour ;
The world is gone to sleep ;
And nothing wakes in brake2 or bower,
But those who love and weep :
* This is the golden time and weather,
When songs and sighs go out together,
i \ dog kept tied either ti a watch do» or be
cause he In ferockrtu
• thicket
And minstrels pledge the rosy wine
To lutes like this, and lips like thine!
Oh fly with me! my courser's flight
10 Is like the rushing breeze, [night f''
And the kind moon has said "Good
And sunk behind the tree*
The lover's voice— the loved one's ear—
There's nothing else to speak or hear;
1* And we will say, as on we glide,
That nothing lives on earth beside I
Oli fly with me ! and we will wing
Oiu white fekiff o'er the waves,
And hear the Tritons revelling
20 Among their coral caves ;
The envious mermaid, when we pass,
Shall cease her song:, and drop her glass ;
Foi it will break her very heart,
To bee how fair and dear thou art.
2~* Oh fly with me! and we will dwell
Far over the green seas,
Where sadness rings no parting knell
For moments such as these !
Where Italy's unclouded skies
*o Look bnghtly down on brighter eyes,
Or where the wave-wed City1 smiles;
Enthroned upon her hundred isles.
Oh fly with me! by these sweet strings
Swept o'er by Passion's fingers,
>5 By all the rocks, and vales, and springs
Where Memory lives and lingers,
Bv all the tongue can never tell,
By all the heart has told so well,
By all that has been or may be,
40 And by Love's self-Oh fly with me!
TIME'S SONG
1826
O'er the level plains, where mountains greet
me as I go,
O'er the desert waste, where fountains at
my bidding flow,
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud
by night,
I am riding hence away: who will chain
my flight f
6 War his weary watch was keeping,— I have
crushed his spear;
Grief within her bower was weeping,— I
have dried her tear;
Pleasure caught a minute's hold,— then I
hurried by,
• Venice, which according to an old ttory was
wed to the Adriatic Sea Bee Wordsworth'*
On the E ftinction of the ~
ip 286 find n. 2).
Venetian Republic
1146
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her gob-
let dry.
Power had won a throne of glory: where
ifa now his famef
10 Genius said, "I live in story:" who hath
heard his name!
Love beneath a myrtle1 bough whispered
"Why so fastt"
And the roses on his brow withered as I
past.
I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the
wild wave's bed;
I have men the billow flowing where the
cattle fed;
16 Where began my wandering t Memory
will not say!
Where will rest my weary wingsf Science
turns away9
From LETTEBS PROM TETGNMOUTH
1829
I— OUR BALL
Comment ' r>»t liil ? quo Je le rcgarde PUOOPP ?
C'est que vraiment 11 eat blen changl : n'eat-co
pas, mon papa?*— Lea Premier Amomr*.
You'll come to our ball;— since we parted
I've thought of yon more than I'll pay;
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted
For a week, when they took you awn\
* Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers
Our *alks on the Ness and the Den,
And echoed the musical number?
Which yon used to sing to me then.
I know the romance, since it's over,
10 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ;—
T know you're a terrible rover;
But, Clarence, you 11 come to our Ball !
It 's only a year since, at College,
You put on your cap and your gown ;
16 But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowl-
edge,
A nd changed from the spur to the crown ;
The* voice that was best when it faltered.
Ts fuller and firmer in tone:
And the smile that should never have
altered,—
*o Dear Clarence,— it is not your own ;
Your cravat was badly selected,
Your coat don t become yon at all ;
And why is your hair to neglected t
Yon must have it ended for our Ball.
»The myrtle and the roee are emblem* of lorn
•What' la It be? Let me look at Mm again'
HP certainly baa changed considerably;
bimn't be, papa?
3<>
** I've often been out upon Haldon
To look for n covey with Pup ;
I 've often been over to Bhaldon,
To see how your boat is laid up.
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,
1 've ridden the filly you broke ;
And I've studied your sweet little Dante
• In the shade of your favorite oak :
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,
I sat in your love of a shawl ;
86 And I'll wear what you brought me liom
Florence,
Perhaps, if yon 11 come to our Ball.
You'll find us all changed since you \an-
ished;
We've set up a National School;1
And waltzing is utterly banished;
40 And Ellen has married a fool;
The Major is going to travel ;
Miss Hyac'inth threatens a rout;*
The walk is laid down with fret.li giavel ;
Papa is laid up with the gout;
45 And Jane has gone on with her easels,
And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ;
And Fanny is sick with the measles,
And I '11 tell you the rest at the Ball.
You'll meet all your beauties;— the Lily,
50 And the Fairy of Willowhrook Farm,
And Lucy, who made me so silly
At Dawlish, by taking your arm;
Miss Manners, who always abused you,
For talking so much about Hock;*
56 And her sister, who often amused you,
By raving of rebels and Rock :4
And something which surely would answer,
An heiress quite fresh from Bengal :—
So, though you were seldom a dancer,
60 You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.
But out on the world I— from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth;
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
It makes an old age of our youth :
66 And the flow of our feeling, once in it,
Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,
Grows harder by sudden degrees.
Time treads o'er the graves of affection.
70 Sweet honey is turned into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection
That ever you daneed at our BalL
*A school eatabllabod by a national aodety for
educating the poor.
•A large evening party or otber faablonahle
1 Hocbbriraar , a kind of wine.
• A DctitlouK name signed to public notices bj
one of the Irish rebels of 1822.
WINTHBOP MACKWORTH PBAED
1147
You once could be pleased with our bal-
lads-
Today you have critical ears;
75 You once could be charmed with our
salads-
Alas! you've been dining with Peers;
You trifled and flirted with many;
You've forgotten the when and the how;
There was one you liked better than any—
80 Pei haps you 9ve forgotten her now.
But of those you remember most newly.
Of those who delight or enthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball.
85 They tell me you 've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song;
They tell me (and what does it matter!)
You like to be praised by the throng;
They tell me you'ie shadowed with laurel,
90 They tell me you 're loved by a Blue ;l
They tell me you're sadly immoral-
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!
But to me you are still what I found you
Before yon grew clever and tall ;
*5 And you'll think of the spell that once
bound you;
And you'll come. WON'T you comet to
our Ball 1
Prom EVERY-PAY CHARACTERS
1H2930
THJB BELLE OF THE BALL-BOOM:
II faut Juger den femmeH depute la chaussure
Juhqu* a la col ft u re exiluslvemcnt. & peu prta
nrnime on niemire 1c polsson entre queue et
tete.1— LA Bui'ifean
Years— years ago,— ere yet my di earns
Had been of hemp wise or witty,—
Eie 1 had done with writing themes,
Oi yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,—
* Years— years ago, — while all my joy
Was in my fowling-piece and filly,—
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lily.
T saw her at the County Ball •
10 There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the Ribtlest spell by far
Of all that set young heai ts romancing ,
15 She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And then she danced— 0 Heaven, her
dancing!
*A "trine stocking," a woman affecting tn In-
terest in literature and politic*. Bee
Byron'i Don J*an, I. 206, S, and n. 1 (p.
•One ought to Judge women exclusive of their
foot-wear and their head-wear, approxi-
mately as one measures fish between tall and
bead
Dark was her hair, her hand was white,
Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light ;
20 I never saw a waist so slender!
Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score oil arrows,
I thought 'twas Venus from her i«le.
And wondered where she'd left her spar-
rows.1
25 She talked,— of politics or prayers,—
Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's
sonnets,—
Of danglers— or of dancing bears,
Of battles— or the last new bonnets,
By candlelight, at twehe o'clock,
80 To me it mattered not a tittle;
If those bright lips had quoted Locke.
I might have thought they mummied
Little.
Through sunny May, tluough sultry June,
I lo\ed her with a lo\e eteinal,
35 T spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them to The Sunday Journal •
My mother laughed ; T soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling:
My father frowned , but how «lionld gout
40 See any happiness in kneeling f
She was the daughter of a Denn,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ,
She had one brother, just thirteen.
Whose color was extremely hectic ,
45 uer grandmother for many a year
Had fed the parish with her bounty ;
Her second cousin *as a peer.
And Lord Lieutenant of the County.
But titles, and the three per cents,2
r'° And mortgages, and gieat lela lions.
And India bonds, and tithes8 and icnts,
Oh, what are the\ to lo\e's sensations t
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks-
Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses ;
5* He cares as little for the Stocks
As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.
She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from hei pencil '^ **liH<1iiu:
She botanized ; I envied each
60 Young blossom in her boudon fading
She warbled Handel; it was ginml.
She made the Catalam (iealou<»
She touched the organ ; I could stand
For hours and hours to blow th«* hollows.
1 Sparrows were Barred to Venus
•Government bonds yielding three per cent In-
•A ttthVls a tenth part of the yearly Income
paid for the support of the clergy and the
church.
1148
NINETEENTH CENTUBY BOMANTIC1ST8
« She kept an album, too, at home,
Well filled with all an album's glories;
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,
Patterns for trimming*, Persian stones;
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
70 Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter ;
And autographs of Prince Leboo,
And recipes for elder-water.1
And she was flattered, worshipped, bored;
Her steps were watched, her dress was
noted,
76 Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted ;
She laughed, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolished ;
She frowned, and every look was sad,
80 As if the Opeia were demolished.
She smiled on many, just for fun,—
1 knew that there was nothing in it ,
I was the first— the only one
Her heart had thought of for a minute.—
*6 I knew it, for she told me so,
In phiase which was divinely moulded;
She wrote a charming hand,— and oh '
How sweetly all her notes were folded!
Our love was like most other loves ,—
9° A little glow, a little shiver,
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves,
And "Fly not yet "— upon the nver;
Some jealousy of some one's hen,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted;
•5 A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows,— and then we parted.
We parted : months and years rolled by ;
We met again four summers after:
Our parting was all sob and sigh ;
100 Our meeting was all mirth and laughter :
For in my heart 's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball-room's belle,
But only -Mrs. Something Rogers!
TELL HIM I LOVE HIM YET
Tell him I love him yet,
As in that joyous time ;
Tell him I ne'er forget,
Though memory now be crime ;
s Tell him, when sad moonlight
Is over earth and sea,
I dream of him by night,—
He must not dream of me I
» Probably Rome *ort of lotion made from
leaves or berries.
Tell him to go where Fame
1 ° Looks proudly on the brave ;
Tell him to win a name
By deeds on land and wave;
Green— green upon his brow
The laurel wreath shall be;
13 Although the laurel now
May not be shared with me.
Tell him to smile again
In Pleasuie's dazzling throng,
To wear aiiothei 's chain,
20 To praise another's song.
Before the loveliest there
I'd have him bend bib knee,
And breathe to her the prayer
lie used to breaihe to me.
25 And tell him, day by day,
Life looks to me more dim ,
I falter when I pray,
Although I pray for him.
And bid him when I die,
80 Come to our f avonte tree ;
I shall not hear him sigh,—
Then let him sigh for met
FAIRY SONG
He has conn'd the lesson now ,
He has read the book of pain :
There are furrows on his biow;
1 must make it smooth again.
5 Lo ! I knock the spurs away ,
Lo t I loosen belt and brand ;
Hark ! I hear the courser neigh
For his stall in Fairy-land.
Bring the cap, and bung the vest;
10 Buckle on his sandal shoon ;
Fetch his memory from the chest
In the treasury of the moon.
I have taught him to be wine
For a little maiden's sake;—
16 Lo I he opens his glad eyes,
Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake I
STANZAS
O'er yon churchyard the storm may 1<
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there,
A still and trembling flower
6 Unscathed by long revolving years,
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet
With the pale dew of tears.
WINTHBOP MACKWOBTH PBAED
1149
And where thine humble ashes lie,
10 Instead of 'scutcheon or of stone,
It rises o'er thee, lonely one.
Child of obscurity!
Mild was thy voice as Zephyr's breath,
Thy cheek with flowing locks was
shaded!
r> But the voice hath died, the cheek
hath faded
In the cold breeze of death !
Brightly thine eye was smiling, sweet!
But now decay hath stilled its glancing;
Warmly thy little heart was dancing,
20 But it hath ceased to beat!
A f PW short months— and thou wert here '
Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;
And what is thy memorial now 9
A flower— and a Tear.
THE TALENTED MAN
A LETTER FROlff A LADY IN LONDON TO A
LADY AT LAUSANNE
1881
Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know
it,-
Last week, at the Duchess's ball,
I danced with the clever new poet,—
You've heard of him,— Tully St. Paul.
6 MIBS Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne !
It really was very romantic,
He is such a talented man!
He came up from Brazenose College,
1* Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowl-
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can ;
15 Though I am no judge of such matters,
I'm sure he's a talented man.
His stories and jests are delightful;—
Not stories, or jests, dear, for yon ;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
20 The stones not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne ;
Bnt it never would answer,— good gracious 1
Ches now1— in a talented man.
W He sneers,— how my Alice would scold
him'-
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
i with lit
He laughed— only think '—when I told him
How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion ;
30 I broke all the sticks of my fan ;
But sentiment's quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.
Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
85 And apt— which is silly— to quarrel,
And fond— which is sad— of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager's malice;—
40 She does hate a talented man !
He 's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore ;
He's lame,— but Lord Byron was lame,
love,
And dumpy,— but so is Tom Moore.
46 Then his voice,— such a voice! my sweet
creature,
It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan l
But oh ! what's a lone or a feature,
When once one 's a talented man t
My mother, you know, all the season,
™ Has talked of Sir Geoffrey 's estate ;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He has been less homd of late.
But today, when we dnve in the carriage,
I'll tell her to lay down her plan ;—
55 jf ever I venture on marriage
It must be a talented man!
P. 8.— I have found on reflection.
One fault in my friend,— entre nous*
Without it, he'd just be perfection ;—
60 Poor fellow, he has not a so*/
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my unele, Sir Dan,
I've promised mamma to remember
He's only a talented man '
STANZAS
ON SUING THI SPEAKER ASLEEP IN BIB CHAIR
DURING ONI OF THE DEBATES OP THE
FIRST REFORMED PARLIAMENT^
1883 1833
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it's surely fair
If you don't in your bod, that you should
in your chair,
Longer and longer still they grow,
*A brilliantly-colored tropical bird with a
harsh voice.
! IS*"**11 7011 *Bd ne
•The Parliament which met in 1833. the year
following the paMage of the Reform Bill
Mannera Button, a Tory,waH Speaker of the
novae of Common*. Prned wan i ~
member of the Home at that time. 1
been a Whig until 1880.
1150
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Toiy and Radical, Aye and No;
6 Talking by night, and talking by day ;—
Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; sleep, sleep while yon
may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and biief on a Speaker's eyes,
Fielden or Finn, -in a minute or two,
10 Some disouletly thing will do;
Riot will cha*e lepose away,—
Sleep, Mr. Speakci , sleep, sleep while you
may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Cobbett will soon
Move to abolish the sun and moon ;
15 Hume, no doubt, will be taking the sense
Of the House on a saving of thirteen pence ;
Orattan will growl, or Baldwin bray ;—
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you
may'
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; dream of the time
*0 When loyalty was not quite a crime ;
When (Jrant \\as a pupil in Canning
school ,
When Pftlmenton fancied Wood a fool ;
Lord, how principles pass away !
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep, sleep while you
may!
26 Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that eometh but now and then ,
Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in a mill ,
Yon have more need of sleep than they;—
** Sleep, Mr Speakei ; vlecp, sleep uhileyou
may !
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
(1804-1873)
THE 80X6 OF THE WESTERN MEN
18*5 1820
A pood sword and a trusty hand f
A merry heart and true '
King James V men shall undei stand
What Cornish lads can do.
6 And ha\e they fix'd the wheie and whenf
And bball Trelawny diet
Here's twenty thousand Coimsh men
Will know the reason why !
Out spake their captain brave and bold,
10 A merry wight2 was he :
"If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawny free!
i lumen II. King of Bntfland (16SB-B8).
•creature; being
"We'll cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay,
ir» With 'cue and all/ and band in hand,
And who shall bid us nay f
"And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to MCW,
Come forth ! come forth, >e cow aids all,
20 Here 's men as good as you !
"Trelawny he's in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die ,
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!"
CLOVELLY
182J 1832
Oh ' labomm dulcc lenimcn "
fTis eve ! 'tiq glimmering e\ e • how fair the
scene,
Touched by the soil hues <>1 the dieamv
west!
Dim Chills afar, and happy vales between,
With the tal 1 corn V deep i'uirow <nlnil\
blest:
B Beneath, the sea, by e\e's iond pale caiest,
'Mid groves of living green that finite
its side;
Dark sails that gleam on Ocean 's hea\ing
breast
From the glad fisher-barks that home-
ward glide,
To make Clovelly's shores at pleasant
evening-tide.
10 Hearken I (he mingling sounds of earth
and sea,
The pastoral music of the bleating flock,
Blent with the sea-buds' uncouth melody,
The waves1 deep murmur to the unheed-
ing rock,
And ever and anon the impatient shock
11 Of some strong billow on the sounding
shore:
And hark! the roweis' deep and well-
known stroke.
filad heaits are there, and joyful hands
nnce more
Fin tow the whitening wave with their
returning oar.
But turn where Art with votive hand hath
I wined
-f° A In ing wreath for Nature's grateful
brow,
•wheat's
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWK KB
1151
Where the lone wanderer's raptur'd foot-
steps wind
'Mid rock, and glancing stream, and
shadowy bough,
Where scarce the \ alley 'b leafy depths
allow
The intruding sunbeam in their shade to
dwell,
2& There doth the seamaid breathe her human
vow-
So village maidens IP their envy tell—
Won from her dark blue home by that
alluring dell.
A softer beauty floats along the bky ,
The moonbeam dwells upon the voiceless
wave;
3° Far off, the night-winds steal away and die.
Or sleep in music in their ocean-ca^e •
Tall oaks, whose strength the Giant Stonn
might brave,
Bend in rude fondness o'er the sihery
sea;
Nor can yon mountain rann1 foibear to
lave
86 Her blushing clusters where the water*
be,
Murmuring around her home such touch-
ing melody
Thou quaint Clovelly ! in thy shades of iest,
When timid Spring her pleasant ta«k
hath sped,
Or Summer pours from her leclumlant
breast
*° All fruits and flowers along thy \ alley 'v
bed:
Yes! and when Autumn 'b golden glories
spread,
Till we forget near Winter's wilheiinar
rage,
What faner path shall woo the wandeiei '*»
tread,
Soothe wearied hope, and worn regiet
assuage f
46 Lo ! for firm youth a bower— a home for
lapsing age
THE PIB8T FATHERS?
They rear'd their lodges in the wilderness,
Oi built them cells beside the shadowy sea,
And there they dwelt with angels, like a
dream!
So they unroll 'd the Volume of the Book
6 And flll'd the fields of the Evangelist
With thoughts as sweet as flowers.
i Tbe Rcotttsh rowan, or mountain ash
• That is, of the church.
MAWGAN OF MELHUACHt
1882
'Twa* a fierce night when old Mawgan died,
Men shudder 'd to heai the rolling tide •
The wreckers fled fast from the awful
shore,
They had heard strange voices amid the
roar.
5 "Out with the boat there," some one
cried,—
"Will he never comet we shall lot* the
tide:
His berth is trim and his cabin stor'd,
He's a weary long time coming on board "
The old man struggled upon the bed :
10 He knew the words that the voices said,
Wildly he shriek 'd as his eyes grew dim,
"He was dead' he was dead' when T
buried him."
Hark yet again to the devilish roai,
"He was nimbler once with a ship on
slioie,
13 Come! come! old man, 'tis a vain delay.
We must make the offing by break of day *' '
Hard was the struggle, but at the last,
With a stormy pang, old Mawgan past,
And away, away, beneath their snrht,
20 G learn 'd the red sail at pitch of night.
FEATHEBSTONE'S DOOM*
1831 1832
TA\ ist thou and twine, "* in light and gloom
A spell is on thine hand ,
The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
Thy web the shifting sand
5 Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,
On Blackrock's sullen shore,
Till cordage of the sand shall coil
Where crested surges roar.
'Tis for that hour, when, from the wave,
10 Near voices wi Idly cried ,
When thy stem hand no succor
The cable at thy side.
1 Gilbert Mawgan. a noted wrecker on the sea-
shore at fiellhnach, Cornwall, Is said to
have burled alive a sea captain whom he
round exhausted on the shore. It ib re
ported that _RR Mawgan lav dying a vessel
a prominent rock In Itnde
he
e, l (p. 465).
1152
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Twist them and twine! in light and gloom
The spell is on thine hand ;
15 The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
Thy web the shifting sand.
THE SILENT TOWER OP BOTTREAUX
1888
16
Tintadgel bells ring o'er the tide,
The boy leans on his vebsel side ,
He hears that sound, and dreams of home
Soothe the wild orphan of the foam.
"Come to thy God hi time!"
Thus saith their pealing chime .
Youth, manhood, old age past,
"Come to thy God at last."
But why are Bottreaux9 echoes still f
Her tower stands proudly on the hill ,
Tet the strange chough1 that home hath
found,
The lamb lies sleeping on the ground
"Come to thy God in time»"
Should be her answering chime •
"Come to thy God at last!"
Should echo on the blast
The ship rode down with courses free,1
The daughter of a distant sea .
Her sheet was loose, her anchor stor'd,
20 The merry Bottreaux bells on board.
"Come to thy God in time!"
Rung out Tintadgel chime;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
11 Come to thy God at last I"
26 The pilot heard his native bells
Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ,
' ' Thank God, ' ' with reverent brow he cried,
"We make the shore with evening's tide "
' ' Come to thy God in time ! ' '
80 It was his marriage chime •
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell must ring at last.
"Thank God, thou whining knave, on land,
But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand,"
85 The captain 's voice above the gale •
"Thank the good ship and ready sail."
« ' Come to thy God in time ! ' '
Sad grew the boding chime :
"Come to thy God at last!9'
40 Boom 'd heavy on the blast.
Uprose that sea ' as if it heard
The mighty Master's signal-word •
What thrill* the captain's whitening hpt
The death-groans of his sinking ship.
•That ii, with thtMMll? attached to the lower
yards of tbe •flip hanging toon*
« "Come to thy God in time!"
Swung deep the funeral chime :
Grace, mercy, kindness past,
"Come to thy God at last!"
Long did the rescued pilot tell—
60 When gray hairs o'er his forehead fell,
While those around would hear and weep-
That fearful judgment of the deep.
"Come to thy God in time!"
He read his native chime :
66 Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell rung out at last
Still when the storm of Bottreaux' waves
Ib wakening in his weedy eaves,
Those bells, that sullen surges hide,
«° Peal their deep notes beneath the tide •
"Come to thy God in time!"
Thus saith the ocean chime :
Storm, billow, whirlwind past,
"Come to thy God at last!"
"PATEB VESTEB PASCIT ILLA"i
1835 1840
Our bark is on the waters : wide around
The wandering wave ; above, the lonely sky.
Hush! a young sea-bird floats, and that
quick cry
Shrieks to the levell'd weapon's echoing
sound,
5 Grasps its lank wing, and on, with reckless
bound!
Yet, creature of the surf, a sheltering breast
Tonight shall haunt in vain thy far-off no«t,
A call unanswered search the rocky ground.
Lord of Leviathan ! when Ocean heard
10 Thy gathering voice, and sought his nad\e
When whales first plunged with life, and
the proud deep
Felt unborn tempests heave in troubled
sleep;
Thou didst provide, e'en for this nameless
bird,
Home, and a natural love, amid the surging
DEATH BONG
183*
There lies a cold corpse upon the rands
Down by the rolling sea ;
Close up the eyes and straighten
As a Christian man's should be.
Bniv it deep, for the good of my soul,
Biz feet below the ground ;
Let the sexton come and the death-bell toll,
And good men stand around.
' "Tour Father feed* thorn "— Jfatfftrw, 6 -26
JOHN WILSON
1158
Lay it among the churchyard stoneb,
10 Where the pnest hath blessed the clay,
I cannot leave (he unbuned bones,
Ami I fain would go my way
ABE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING
SPIRITS!
1840
We see thorn not— wo cannot hear
The music of then wing—
Yet know we that they sojourn near,
The Angels of the spiingl
B They glide along: this lovely ground,
When the first violet grows,
Their graceful hands have just unbound
The zone of yonder rose!
I gather it for thy dear breast,
1° Fiom stain and shadow fiee,
That which an Angel's touch hath blest
Js meet, my lo\e, for theef
QUEEN GUENNTVAB'S ROUND*
1841
Naiad for Grecian waters'
Nymph lor the tountain-Ridc'
But old Coinwall's bounding daughters
Foi gray Dundagel's tide.
B The wild wind proudly gathers
Hound the ladies oi the Innd,
And the blue wave of their lathers
Jf joyful where they stand.
Naiad for Grecian waters!
"•o Nyuiph toi the iounlam-side'
But old On n wall's bounding daughteis
Fui giuy Duudugcl'b tide.
Yes! when memory rejoices
In hei long beloved theme,
IB Fair forms and thrilling voices
Will mingle with my dieam.
Naiad for Grecian wateis»
Nvmph foi the fountain-side'
But old Cornwall's bounding daughters
20 j?or fjmv Dundagcl's tide
5 Dreams had they, that in fairy bowers
Their living wamor lies,
Or wears a garland of the flowers
That grow in Paradise.
I lead the rune1 with deeper ken,
10 And thus the myth I trace*—
A bard should rise, mid future men,
The mightiest of his race.
He would great Arthui 's deeds rehearse
On giay Dundagel's shore,
16 And so the King in laurell'd verse
Shall live, and die no more!
JOHN WILSON
("Christopher North")
(1785-1854)
Prom NOCTES AMBROSIAN£»
1822-35
No. XLII— APRIL, 1829
SCENE I.— The snuggery*— Time, Eight
o'clock.— The Union-Table* with tea and
Coffee-pots, and the O'Doherty China-set
—Cold Round— Pies— Oysters— Rizzars*
6 —Pickled Salmon, a How-Towdie* whirl-
ing before the fiie over a large basin of
mashed Potatoes —The Boiler on.— A
Bachelor 's Kitchen7 on the small Oval*—
A Dumb Waiter at each end of the Union.
NORTH— SHEPHERD9
JO Sliepherd This I ca ' comfort, sir. Every-
thing within oursell— nae need to ring the
bell the leevelang night— nae openin' o'
eheepinV0 nae *huttm' o' clashm' doors—
nae trampin' o' waitcis across the carpet
IB wi' creakm' shoon11— or stumblm9, clumsy
coofs12— to the great spilhn' o' gravy— but
a' things, eatable and uneatable, either
hushed into a cosy calm, or
TO ALFRED TENNYSON
1859
They told me in their shadowy phrase^
f ausht from a tale gone by,
That Arthur, King of Cornish praise,
Died not, and would not die.
* A Wnfl of song sung - *? two or mow persons,
each taking up a strain in turn.
Noith Now light, James, the lamp of the
20 Bachelor's Kitchen with Tickler's caid, and
in a quaiter of an hour, minus five minutes,
yon shall scent and see such steaks I
'Shepherd. Only look at the towdy, sir,
how she swings sae granly roun' by my
26 gaiters, after the fashion o' a planet. It's
a beautiful example o' centrifugal attrac-
tion. See till the fat dreep-dreepin ' intil the
tools
*A story or poem written in ranee, sym
used In writing by early Germanic peoples
• Ambiwlan Nights • A small room or de
small room or den
ed herring
* Joined table • dried
• whole young hen
TA vessel In which food in prepared, a Dutch
•An elevated stand having an oval shape
•"Christopher North*' Is a pseudonym of John
Wilson . the Shepherd Is James Hogg, known
as "The Rttrick Shepherd fi
» of squeaking " *hoos « blockheads
1154
NINETEENTH CENTUEY EOMANTICISTS
ashet1 o' mashed potawtoes, oilifying the
crusted brown in til a mair delicious richness
o' mixed vegetable and animal maitter! As
she swings slowly twirling roun', I really
canna say, sir, for I dmna ken, whether
bany2 back or fleshy bnest* be the maist
temptm ' ! Sappy baith I*
North. Right, James— baste her— baste
hei— don't spare the flour. Nothing tells
like the dredge-box.0
Shepherd You're a capital man-cook, sir.
North For plain roast and boil, I yield to
no mortal man. Nor am I inconsiderable
shakes at stews. What a beautiful blue mag-
ical light glimmers from the wonder-working
lamp, beneath whose necromancy you al-
ready hear the sweet low bubble and squeak
of the maturing steak! Off with the lid,
James. [The SHEPHERD doffs the lid of
the Bachelor's Kitchen.
Shepherd. What a pabblm'!6 A hotch-
inn like a sea in a squall, or a patfu'8 o'
boilin' parntch!' What a sweet savor'
Is't na like honeysuckle, sir, or sweet-brier,
or broom, or whuns,10 or thyme, or roses, or
carnations f Or rather like the scent o9
these a' conglomerated thegither in the dewy
mom in' air, when, as sune as you open the
window, the haill house is overflowing1 wi'
fragrance, and a body's a maist sick with
the sweet, warm, thick air, that slowly wins
its way, like palpable balm, arm in arm wi'
the hcht that waukens the yellow-billed
blackbird in her nest amang the cottage
creepers, or reopens the watchful een11 o'
her neighbor, the bonny spotted mavis'12
Let 's pree 't 18 [SHEPHERD tastes.
Noith. Ay— I could have told you so
Rash man, to swallow liquid and solid fire!
But no more spluttering. Cool your tongue
with a caulker "
Shepherd. That lamp's no canny." It in-
tensifies hetness intil an atrocity abune16 na-
tur. Is the skin flyped17 aff my tongue, sir!
[SHEPHERD shows hts tongue.
North. Let me put on my spectacles. t A
slight incipient inflammation not worth men-
tioning.
Shepherd. I houp18 &n incipient inflam-
mation's no a dangerous sort!
North. Is that indeed the tongue, my dear
James, that trills so sweetly and so simply
those wild Done19 strains! How deeply,
» dish ; platter
>tKiny
• brant
'Juicy both
• flour-sifter
• bubbling
• shaking
•potful
•porridge
"furae; gor*e
u thrush
» taste it
14 drink of Hqnor
» not trustworthy
"above
"peeled
"hop
hope
"simple; natural
darkly, beautifully red I Just like a rag of
scarlet. No scurf— say rather no haze
aiound the lambent light, A rod of fire1—
an arrow of flame.8 A tongue of ten thou-
5 sand, prophesying an eagle or raven life.
Shepherd. I aye like, sir, to keep a gude
tongue in my head, ever since I wrote The
Chaldee Mannyscnpp?
North. Humph I— no more infallible mark
10 of a man of genius, James, than the shape of
his tongue. It is uniformly long, so that he
can shoot it out, with an easy grace, to the
tip of his nose.
Shepherd. This way.
15 North. Precisely so. Fine all round the
edge, from root to tip— underneath very
veinous— surface in color near as may be to
that of a cnmson curtain shining in setting
sunlight But the tip— James— the tip
20 Shepherd. Like that o' the serpent's that
deceived Eve, sir— curhn9 up and down like
the musical leaf o9 some magical tree
North. It is a singular fact with regard
to the tongue, that if you cut off the half of
25 it, the propnetor of the contingent remain-
der can only mumble— but cut it off wholly,
and he speaks fully better than before.
Shepherd. That's a hang'd lee.
North. As true ft word as ever I spoke,
so James.
Shepherd. Perhaps it may, sir, but it's a
hang'd lee, nevertheless.
North Dish the steaks, my dear James,
and I shall cut down the howtowdie.
86 [Noirra and the SHEPHERD furnish
up the Ambrosial tables, and sit
down to serious devouring
North. Now, James, acknowledge it —
don 't you admire a miscellaneous meal Y
40 Shepherd. I do. Breakfast, noony,4 den-
ner, four-hours,5 and sooper a9 in ane A
material emblem o' that spiritual substance,
Black wood' s Magazine! Can it possibly be,
sir, that we are twa gluttons f
46 North. Gluttons we most assuredly are
not; but each of us is a man of good appe-
tite. What is gluttony f
Shepherd Some mair steaks, sir f
North. Very few, my dear James, very
GO few.
Shepherd. What's glut tony t
North. Some eggs I
1 Ree Jame*, 8 *A • Bee Jer*«»fr»> o •*
•7li0 Chaldee M8. the Joint work
Bon, and Lockhart, '
Mayaginc, October, '
It wan a bitter H ...
language, apalnnt the notable* of Edinburgh;
It gave Huch offence that It Immediately wai
withdrawn
4 ten-o'clock lunch. 'four-o'clock lunch.
JOHN WILSON
1155
Shepherd. Ae1 spoonfu9. What a layer
she wad hae been. 0 but she's a prolific
creature, Mr. North, your howtowdie! It's
necessary to kill heaps o' yearooks,2 or the
hail kintra8 wud be a-cockle frae John o'
Groat's House to St. Michael's Mount.4
North. Sometimes I eat meiely as an
amusement or pastime — sometimes for rec-
reation of my animal spirits— sometimes on
the philosophical principle of sustenance—
sometimes for the meie sensual, but scarcely
sinful, pleasure of eating, or, in common
language, gormandizing— and occasionally,
once a month or so, for all these several pur-
poses united, as at this present blessed mo-
ment; so a few flakes, dear Shepheid, of
that Westmorland ham— lay the knife on
it, and its own weight will sink it down
through the soft sweet sappiness of fat and
lean, nndistinc^iishablv blended as the colois
of the rainbow, and out of all sight incom-
parably moie beautiful.
Shepherd As for me, I care nae mair
about what I eat, than T do what kind o' bed
I sleep upon, sir. I hate onything stmkin'
or mnnldv nt board— or onything damp or
musty in bed But let the yivres* be but
fiosli nnd wholesome— and if it's but scones0
and milk, I shut my em, say a grace, fa' to,
and am thankfii',— let the bed be dry, and
whether saft or hard, feathers, hair, can*,7
shaw, or heather, I'm fast in ten minutes,
and my soul waveim9 awa like a butterfly
mtil the land o' dreams
Noith. Not a more abstemious man than
old Kit North in his Majesty's dominions,
on which the sun never sets I have the most
accommodating of palates.
flhepheid Yes—it's a universal genius.
] ken naething like it, sir, but your stomach
"Sure such a pair were never seen!" Had
ye never the colic?
North Never, James, never. I confess
that I have been guilty of many crimes,
but ne\cr of a capital crime,— never of
colic.
Shepherd. There's muckle8 confusion o'
ideas in the brains of the blockheads who
accuse us o' gluttony, Mr. North. Gluttony
rnav be defined "an immoral and umntellec-
tiial abandonment o' the sowl o' man to his
priistative natnr." T defy a brute animal to
be a glutton. A swine's no a glutton. Nae
lone »hena one Year old 'whole country
4 Tliat K from one end of the country to the
othei John o( Oroat'H Howe IK a locality in
the extreme northeastern part of Scotland
Saint Michael's Mount la a roik off the ooaRt
of Cornwall
• victual* T chaff
• griddle cakes • much ; great
cretur but man can be a glutton. A9 the rest
are prevented by the definition.
North. Is there any test of gluttony,
James f
6 Shepherd. Watch twa men eatm'. As
lang's there's a power or capacity o' smihn '
on their cheeks, and in and about their een, —
as lang's they keep lookin' at you, and
round about the table, attendin' to or join-
10 in' in the tank, or the speakin' cawm,1— as
lang's they every noo an ' than lay doon their
knife and fork, to ca' for yill,2 or ask a
young leddy to tak wine, or tell an anecdote,
—as lang's they keep frequently ca'm' on
is the servant lad or lass for a clean plate— as
lang's they glower on the framed pictures or
prents on the wa9, and askm' if the tane'**
onginals and the tither* proofs,— as lang's
they offer to carve the tongue or turkey—
20 depend on 't they're no in a state o' glut-
tony, but are devounn9 their soup, fish, flesh,
and fowl, like men and Christians But as
sune's their chin gets creeshy5— their cheeks
lank, sallow, and clunk-clunky6— their nos-
26 tills wide— their een fixed— their faces close
to their trencher— and themsel's dumbies7—
then you may see a specimen "o' the im-
moral and umntelleetual abandonment o' the
sowl o9 man to his gurtative natur;" then
SO is the fast, foul, fat feeder a glutton, the
maist disgnstfuest cretur that sits— and far
aneath the level o' them that feed on a9
fowers, out o9 trochs8 on garbage.
North Sensuality is the most shocking of
86 all sins, and its name is Legion.
Shepherd. Ay, there may be as muckle
gluttony on sowens9 as on turtle soup. A
ploughman may be as greedy and as gutsy10
as an alderman The sin lies not in the sense
40 but in the sowl Sir— a red-herring f
North Thank ye, James
Shepherd. Are you diinkm9 coffee t Let
me toast you a shave o9 bread, and butter it
for you on baith sides, sir?
46 [The SHEPHERD kneels on the Tiger,11
and stretches out the Indent1- to
Vulcan "1
North. Heaven will reward ye, James, for
your piety to the old man.
60 Shepherd. Pinna think, sir, that I care
about your last wuil aiid testament. I'm
• flahhy
T dummlea
9 troughs
• porridge
10 gluttonoua
11 hearthrug into which la woven the Image of
a tiger
"fork (The Trident wa« a three-pronged apear
carried by Neptune, god of the pea )
"the flre (Vulcan wa§ the blacksmith of the
god*)
'calm
•ale.
•one'§
4 other
1156
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
nae legacy-hunter— nae Post-obit.1 But hae
ye added the codicil f
N 01 tli. The man who has not made his
will at forty is worse than a fool— almost a
knave.
Shepherd. I ken nae better test o' wis-
dom—wisdom in its highest sense— than a
just last wull and testament. It blesseth
generations yet unborn. It guardeth and
strengthnelh domestic peace— and maketh
brethren to dwell together in unity z Being
dead, the wise testator yet livehV— his spirit
abideth invisible, but felt ower the roof -tree,
and dehghteth, morning and evening, in the
thanksgiving Psalm.
North. One would think it were easy to
act well in that matter.
Shepherd One would think it were easy
to act weel, sir, in a' matters Yet boo diffi-
cult f The Rowl seems, somehow or ither, to
lose her simplicity, to keep restlessly glour-
in' round and round about wiy a thousan'
artificial ogles up a* the cro*»s and by-paths
leadm ' nae single body kens whither, unless
it be into biukcs, and thickets, and quag-
mires, and wildci nesses o' moss— where one
may wander wearily and drearily up and
doon for years, and never recover the ncht
road again, till death touches him on the
shouther, and doon he fa's amang them that
were, leaMn' a' that lucked up to him for
his efferks in doubt and dismay and deso-
lation, \u' sore and bitter hearts, uncci-
tain whether to gie vent to their feelings
in blessings or in curses, in execration or
prayer
North. Of all the vices of old age, may
gracious Heaven, my dearest James, iore\er
shield me from avarice !
Shepheid. Nae fear o' that. There's
either just ae enjoyment o' siller,4 or five
hunder thousan' million. The nch maun
either spend it thick and fast, as a nightin-
gale scatters her notes on the happy air—
or sit upon his guineas, like a clockm' hen
on a heap o' yellow addled epgs amang the
nettles
North Picturesquely true
Shepherd Oh, sir f what dehcht to a wise
rich man in being lavish— in being prodigal '
Tor these two words only carry blame alanej
wi' them according to the character o' the
giver or the receiver. Wha mair lavish—
wha mair prodigal than the Sunf Yet let
him shower his beams forever and ever all
*A post-obit Is a bond glren to Mcure a loan,
and pavahle utter death
•Re* P*a7m«, 138 1.
1 ^oo Hfhrfvn, 11 *4.
4 itiie enjoyment of small change
10
ower the Planetary System, frae Venus wi1
her cestus1 to Saturn wif his ring, and nane
the poorer, either in hcht or in heat, is he—-
and nane the poorer will he ever be, till the
5 hand that hung him on high shall cut the
golden cord2 by which he liveth in the sky,
and he falls, his duty done, into the bosom
of Chaos and Old Night Is
North. My dear Shepherd!
Shepheid. But the Sun he shmeth wi'
unborrowed bcht There 's the bonnie moon,
(Jod bless her mildest face, that lovelh still
to cheer the penu\e nicht wi' a lustre lent
her by the joyful day— to give to earth a'
15 she receives frae heaven Pun, senseless,
ungratef u' creturs we f Eyeing hei liae our
am narrow vales, we ca' her ehangeiu' and
inconstant ! But is na she, sweet satellite,
forever journeying on hei gracious round,
20 and why will we grud«e her smiles to them
tar fiae us, seem1 we are a* chilclien to ae
Maker, and according to his perfect laws, a*
paitakcrb in the same impaitial bomit>f
Here's a nice blown sha\e ioi you, su
23 [The SlIFPHEHD list's fiom Jils Ann1'
on the tug, taket> the bread fiom
the ji9on<7s of the Trident, and fiesh
bntU'is it on both sides foi Mil
NORTH, ulio receives it with a be-
*> ntgn bow.]
North Uncommonly yellow this butter,
James, for the season The giass must be
growing
Shepherd Ay, you may hear 't growin '
33 What yeais for vegetation the last beaut if uf
and gloi urns Tin ee ' The ongoings o ' tint in
are in the lane: urn legulai and steady,—
but noo and then the mmhty inolhei seems
to obey some unrunli tillable impulse fai
40 within her fair laige biisniii, and "wantons
as in her prime,"4 outdoing her very self
in beneficence to eaith, and that mysterious
concave we ca' heaven
North. In spite of gont, rheumatism,
<B hmihaqo, corns, and chilblains, into the
Forest shall I wend my wav, James, befoio
midsummer
Shepheid And young and nuld will IK»
but ower happy to see you, sir, froo HIP
60 lanely Douglas Tower to those of Newnik
Would ye believe 't, an old ash stullion"1 PI
the garden hedge of Mount Bcnger shot out
six scions last year, the langest o' them nine,
and the shortest seven feet langf That was
K growin' for you, sir
'girdle
' Hw Ecclrrttute*, 12 «
•See Pnrndine Lout. 1, B43; 2, 1016.
« Poradine Lo*t. 5, 2<K
•tree
JOHN WILSON
1157
North. There has been much planting of
trees lately, in the Forest, James f
tihepheid. To my taste, to tell the truth,
rather ower muckle1 — especially o' nurses.8
North. Nurses ! wet or dry nurses, James f
Shepherd. Baith. Larches and Scotch
firs; or you may ca ' them schoolmasters, that
teach the young: idea how to shoot.8 But
thinmns4 in the Forest iieu-r can pay, I sus-
peck; and except on bleaky knows,6 the
linul wood wad grow better, in my opinion,
left to therasells, without cither nurses or
schoolmasteis. The nurses are apt to over-
lav the weans,0 and the schoolmasters to
forget, or what's waur,T to flog their
pupils; and thus the rising is a stunted
generation.
Noith Forty-five years ago. niv dear
James, when you were too young to lemera-
bei much, I loved the Forest for its solitary
mngle trees, ancient yew or sycamore, black
in the distance, but when near, how glo-
riously green. Tall, delicately-feathered ash,
whose 1 1 nibs were still visible in latest sum-
mer's leafiness — birch, in early sprinsr,
Keeping and whispering in its pensive hap-
piness by the pei petual dm of its own water-
fall—oak, vollow in the suns of June
Shephetd —
The grace of forest wood decayed,
And pastoral mclaiicholyfs
North What lovely lines! WIio writes
likoWoidsworth!
tihrpherd Tnts' Me ower young to re-
nieinbei muckle forty-five years ago1 You're
spoakin' havers0 I was then twal— and T
lememher eveiything 1 ever heanl or saw
since 1 ft as thiee year auld. 1 tecolleck the
mornm' I was pitten intil breeks10 as dis-
tinckly as if it was this veira day. ^They
hurt me sair atween the fork and the inside
o' the knees— but oh! I was a prood man —
and the Iamb that I chased all the way fiae
niv father's hut to Ettuck Manse, round
about the kirk, till I caught it on a gowany11
i>iave, and lay doon wi't m my arms on the
sunny heap, had nne need to be ashamed o'
ifsel', fix I hunted it like a colley— although
when I 1*1 uppcd it at last, I held it to mv
beat in ' bosom as tenderly as ever I hae since
done uee Jamie, when pitten the deal cietur
i over much
•trees planted to protect other trees while
• Thomson, The Reasons, Spring, 1153.
• traniiplanteri tree* • knolla
• the VOUDK ODOR 7 worne
• Wordsworth. Yarrow VMted, 47-48 (p. 309).
• nonnenae
» put Into breeches " daisy-covered
intil the crib that stauns at the bide o' his
mither's bed, after e'enm ' prayers.
North. I feel not undehghtfully, my dear
James, that I must be waxing old— very old
6 —for of the last ten years of my life I re-
member almost nothing except by an effort—
whereas the first ten — commencing with that
bright, clear, undying light that borders the
edge of the oblivion of infancy—June been
10 lately becoming more intensely distinct— so
that often the past is with me as it were the
piesent— and the sad gray-ban ed ancient is
again u blest golden-headed boy, singing a
choius with the biecze, and the birds and the
16 streams. Alas' and alack a day!
Shepherd. 'Tis only sae that we ever re-
new our youth. Oh, sir' 1 linina1 f 01 gotten
the color o' the plumage o' ae single dove
that ever sat cooin' oi' old on the growin'
20 turf-nggin'2 o' mv father's hut ' Ae great
muckle, hig, beautifu' ane in particular,
blue as if it had dropt doon frae the sky—
I sec the noo,8 a' neck and bosom, room'
and cooin' deep as distant thunder, round
25 arid round his mate, wha i&as whiter than
the white sae-faem, rnnkin ' love to the snawy
creture— wha cowered doon in fear afoio
her imperious and impassioned lord — yet
in love stronger than ICMI— showing hoo in
30 a' leevm'4 natur passions seemmcly the
maist remote frae ane anither, coalesce into
mysterious union by means o1 ae pervading
and interfusing speerit, that quickens the
pulses o' that inscrutable secret— life!
36 North. All linnets have died, James—
that race of loveliest hlters5 is extinct
Shepherd. No thae.8 Broom and bracken
are tenanted by the glad, meek creturs still-
but the chords o' music in our hearts aic
40 sair unstrung— the harp of our heart has
lost its melody. But come out to the Forest,
my dear, my honored sir, and fear not then
when we twa are walking thegither without
speakin' among the hills, you
46 Will feel the airs that from them blow
A momentary bliss bestow f
and the wild, uncertain, waverin* music o*
the Eohan harp that natur plays upon in
50 the solitude, will again echo far, iar awa9
atnang the recesses o' your heart, and the
linty8 will sing as sweetly as e\cr amang
the blossoms o9 the milk-white thorn. Or,
if yon canna be brocht to feel sae, you'll
1 have not * all living
• earthen roof • alngerg
• now • thone
'Gray, Ode on a Mutant Prospect of Eton Col-
lew, 15-16 (p. 67).
•linnet
1158
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
hae but to look in my wee Jamie's face, and
his glistening- een will convince you that
Scotia's nightingale1 still angeth as sweetly
as of yore ! But let us sit into the fire, sir.
North. Thank you, Shepherd — thank
you, James
Shepherd (wheeling his father's chair
to the ingle-corner, and singing the while)
"There's Christopher North, that wons* in
von glen,
He's the king o' gude fallows and wale* o'
auld men!"
North I cannot bear, James, to receive
such attention paid to my bodily weakness
—I had almost said, my decrepitude— by
any living soul but yourself. How is that,
my dear Shepherd f
Shepherd. Because I treat you wi' ten-
derness, but no wi' pity— wi' sympathy,
but no wi' compassion—
North. My dear James, ye must give us
a book on synonyms. What delicacy of dis-
tinction !
Shepherd. I suspeck, sir, that mother
wut4 and mother feelin' hae mair to do wi'
the truth o' metaphysical etymology and
grammar, than either lair5 or labor. Ken
the ineamn', by self-experience, o' a' the
nicest shades o' thoughts and feelings, and
devil the fears but you'll ken the meamn's
o' the nicest shades o' syllables and words.
North. Good, James. Language flows
fiom two great sources — the head and the
heart Each feeds ten thousand nils6—
Shepherd. Reflectin ' different imagery—
but no sae very different either— for— you
af*n
BCC^^
North. I see nothing, James, little or
nothing, till you blow away the intervening
mist by the breath of genius, and then the
whole world outshines, like a panorama with
a central sun.
Shepherd. Ah ! sir, you had seen the hale
world afore ever I kent you— a perfect
wandering Ulysses.
N( t th Yes, James, I have circumnavi-
gated the globe, and intersected it through
all its zones, and, by Jupiter, there is not a
climate comparable to that of Scotland.
Shepherd. I believ't. Blest be Provi-
dence for having saved my life frae the
curse o' stagnant sky— a monotonous heaven.
On flat land, and aneath an ever blue lift/
I should soon hae been a perfeck idiwit *
•pick; choice
Pray, 8-4 (p.
i The linnet
« wit
•Bee Gray's
01).
'•ky 'Idiot
The
•dwells
• learning
Proyrc** of
North. What a comical chap, James, you
would have been, had you been born a
negro!
Shepherd. Aye— I think I see you, sir,
5 wi ' great blubber lips, a mouthf u ' of muckle
white horse's teeth, and a head o' hair like
the woo1 atween a ram's horns when he's
grown ancient amang the mountains. What
Desdemona could hae stood out against sic2
10 an Othello t
North. Are negroes, gentlemen, to sit in
both Houses of Paihnment?8
Shepheid. Nne politics the nicht— nae
politics. I'm sick o' politics Let'b speak
15 about the weather. This hafe been a fine day,
sirs.
North. A first-rate day, indeed, James
Commend me to a Day who does not stand
shilly-shallying during the whole morning
20 and forenoon, with hands in his breeches'
pockets, or bit in' his nails, and scratching
his head, unable to make up his mind in what
fancy character he is to appear from merid-
ian to sunset —but who—
25 Shepherd Breaks out o' the arms o9 the
dark-haired bncht-eed night, with the powci
and pomp o' a Titan, and fnghtnin' that
bit puir timid lassie the Dawn out o' her
seven senses, in thunder and lightning a ' at
30 nnce storms the sky, till creation is drenched
in flood, bathed in fhe, and rocked by eailh-
(fiiake That's the day for a poet, sirs—
thaf 's a pictuie for the ee, and that's music
for the lug4 o' imagination, sirs, till ane's
as verra speent cums to cieawte the war it
tuunmlcs* at, and to be composed o' the
self-same yelements, gloomin' and bonmin',
blackemn' and brightenm ', pourin' and
roaiin'. and awsomely confnsin' and con-
40 foundin ' heaven and earth, and this life and
the life that is to come, and a' the passions
that loiip up at sichts and souns, joy, hope,
feai, teiror, exultation, and that mysterious
up-iibiu' and downfa'in'6 o' our mortal
45 hearts, connected some hop or ither wi ' the
fleein' cluds, and the tossin' trees, and the
red rivers in spate,1 and the sullen looks
o' black bits o' sky like faces together wi'
ane and a' o' thae8 restless shows o' uneasy
60 natur appertaining God knows boo, but
maist certain sure it is so, to the region, the
rueful region o' man's entailed inheritance
—the grave!
North James, you are very pair— very
66 white about the gills— are you well enough f
1 wool • racb
•A reference to the growing agitation for the
abolition of negro slavery
• ear • trembles • Bee Psalm*, I 39 -2.
T flood B those
JOHN WILSON
1159
Turn up your little finger. Pale ! nay, now
they are more of the color of my hat— as if
Tn the scowl of heaven, his face
Grew black as he was speaking.
The shadow of the thunder-cloud threaten-
ing the eyes of his imagination, has abso-
lutely darkened his face of clay. He seems
at a funeral, James!
Shepheid. Whare's the moral! What's 10
the use of thunder, except in a free coun-
try t There 9s nae grandeur in the tenor o9
slaves fliugm' themsells doon on their faces
amang the sugar-canes, in a tornawdo. But
the low quick beatin9 at the heait o9 a free- IB
man, a bauld-faced son o9 liberty, when
simultawneous flaMi and crash rends Natur
to her core, why that flutter, sir, that does
homage to a Power aboon us, exalts the
dreadful magnificence o9 the instruments 20
that Power employs to subjugate our sowls
to his sway, and makes thunder and hcht-
nin9, in sic a country as England and Scot-
land, sublime.
Noith. The short and long of the matter 25
seems to be, James, that when it thunders
you funk.1
Shepherd. Tes, sir, thunders frighten me
into my senses.
North. Well said, James— well said. 80
Shepheid. Heaven forgive me, but ten
out o9 the eighteen wakm9 hours, I am an
atheist.
North And I.
Shepherd. And a9 men. Puir, pitifu9, .85
ungratefu9, and meeseiable wi etches that
we are— waur than worms. An atheist 9s
a godless man. Sweep a9 thoughts o9 his
Maker out o9 ony man's heait— and what
better is he, as Iang9s the floor o9 his being 40
continues bare, than an atheist f
Noith. Little better indeed.
Shepherd. I envy— I honor— I veneiate
—I love— I bless the man, who, like the
patnarchs of old, eie sin drowned the world, 46
ever walks with God.
North. James, here we must not get too
solemn—
Shepherd. That 's tiue; and let me hope
that I'm no sae forgetfu' as I fear. In this 60
season o9 the year, especially when the flow-
ers are a9 seen again in lauclnn'2 flocks
ower the braes,8 like children returnin' to
school after a lang snaw, I can wi9 tmth
avoo,4 that the sight of a primrose is to me
like the soun9 o9 a prayer, and that I seldom
1 become frightened
walk alone by myself for half a mile, with-
out thochts sae calm and sae serene, and sac
humble and sae qiatel'ul, that I houp I'm
no deceivin' myself noo when I ventme to
ca' them— religious.
Noith No, James, you aie not self-
deceived. Poetry melts into icJigion.
Shepheid. It is lehgion, sii, for what is
rehepon but a cleai— often a sudden— m-
sicht, accompanied wi' emotion, into the
dependence o' a' beauty and a' gloiy on
the Divine Mmdf A wee bit dew-wat
gowany,1 as it makes a scarcely peiceptible
sound and stir, winch it often does, amang
the grass that loves to shelter but not hide
the bonnie eaith-hoin slni, glintm9 up sae
kindly wi9 its face into mine, while by good
f 01 tune my feet touched it not, has hun-
dieds o' times affected me ns piofoundly as
ever did the Sun lumsell settinir in a' his
glory— as profoundly— and, oh' far mair
tenderly, for a thing that glows and mows,
and becomes CAery hour mair and mair
beautifu', and then han«s fixed for a season
in the peifection o' its loiely dehcht, and
then— wae is me— begins to be a little dim—
and then dimmer and dimmer, till we feel
that it is indeed— in veiy truth, theie's nae
denyin 't- fading- fading— faded— gone —
dead— buried Oh » sir, sic an existence as
that has an oveivhelmm' analocv to our
am life— and that I hae felt— noi doubt I
that you, my dear sir, hae felt it too— when
on souie saf't, sweet, silent incense-breathing
morning2 o9 spring— far awa, peihaps, fiae
the smoke o' ony human d\u»IIin9, and
walkm9 ye cared na, kcnt na thither— sae
eaily that the gionnd-bees weie hut bcgm-
nm9 to hum out o9 their bikes3— A\ hen, 1 say,
some flower suddenly atti acted the licht
within your ee, wi1 a powei like that o9 the
loadstone, and though, pcihaps, the com-
monest o9 the floweis that beautifv the biaes
o9 Scotland— only, as I said, a hit oulmaiy
gowan— vet, what a sudden rush o9 thochts
and feelings ovei flowed your soul at the
simple sicht! while a9 natine becam fen a
moment overspread wi9 n tender haze he-
longm 9 not to hersell, for theie \\a« naethmg
there to bedim her brightness, but existm9
only in your am two silly ecu, sheddm' m
the solitude a few holy tears '
North James, I will tiouble you for the
red-herrings
* dew-wet daisy
i%*S-J?^B!?1" * « <*"""-»
• hives
1160
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
10
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
(1793-1835)
ADIBGE
28«* 1823
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now '
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod
His seal was on thy brow.
5 Dust, to its narrow house beneath !
Soul, to its place on high '
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.
ENGLAND'S DEAD
18M
Son of the Ocean Isle*
Where sleep youi mighty dead!
Show me what high and stately pile
Is reared o'er Glory's bed.
* Go, stranper! track the deep—
Fiee, free the white bail spread r
Wave may not foam, noi wild wind sweep,
Where lest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noonday reigns
And the palm trees yield no shade,—
But let the angry sun
Fiom heaven look fiercely red,
15 Unfelt bv tho«*e whose task is donef—
There slumber England's dead.1
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shoie,
And far by Gauge*' banks at night
20 Is heard the tigei's roar.—
But let the sound roll on !
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from then toils aie gone,—
There slumber England's dead.2
*B Loud rush the torrent-floods
The Western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia 's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung,—
But let the floods rush on !
80 Let the arrow's flight be sped '
Why should They reck whose task is
donef—
There slumber England's dead.8
1 English and French armies fought before Aler-
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyieuees,
86 And tossed the pine-boughs through the
sky
Like roso-leaveb on the breeze,—
But let the storm rage on '
Let the fiesh wieaths be shed !
For the Ronoesvalles' field is won,—
40 Thete slumbei England's dead.1
On the frozen deep's lepose
'Tis a daik and dieadi'ul hour,
When round the ship the see-helds close,
And the northern night-clouds
lower,—
45 But let the ice drift on !
Let the cold blue deseit spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done —
Even there sleep England's dead.2
The warlike of the isles,
50 The men of field and wave1
Are not the rocks then tuneul piles,
The seas and shoies then giavet
Go, stranger* tiack the deep—
Fiee, fiee the white sails spicaoM
C5 Wave may not ioam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD
andrla. Egypt, In 1801
•EnglUh and French am ....
_of ImttlPH In India. 1748-1803
ich araile* fought a nnmbi»i
v»i iniLi.ic-n »u JUtliu. i |Tn-jr«M»
1 Engllflh nrmles fought against the French and
Americans in America at various times,
1758 59, 1775-81. 1812 14.
. They grrew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves aie se\oiecl far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
6 The same fond mofhei bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping blow,
She had each folded Jlouer in sii»ht—
Where aie those di earners nowf
One, midst the forest of the West,
10 By a daik stieam is laid—
The Indian kno\\s Ins place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade
The sea, the bine lone sea, hath one-
He lies wheie peails he deep,
* RoncMvaltau the famous paw In the Pyre-
neen, In which the rt'.u guard of Chaile-
mngno*H arniv was o\erwhplmed bv the
Basques In 778. IB here used figuratively for
Hnufn KngliMi flrmieg ongigcd In numer-
ous Imttlp** In Spain Hgnlnnt the Spnnlsh
and the French, the mnrt noted of which
were fought 170608, 1808-13.
•The most famou* Knjrllah na/al battlea were
fought ngninst the Hpanlah and the French,
1588, 1782 180.1.
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMAN8
1161
15 He was Hie loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps wheie southern vines are drest
Above the noble slam •
He wiapt his eolois round bis bieast
20 On a blood-red field of Spain
And one— o'er Iter the mvrlle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned,
She faded midst Tlalian flowers—
The last of that blight band
25 And parted thus (hey rest, who played
lieneath the same eieen tiee,
Whose ^nces mingled as they piayed
Aiound one pnient knee'
Tliov that willi smiles lit up the hall,
10 And cheered with sonsr the hearth'—
A Ins for Ime' if Uiou wert all,
And nmiiiht bevond, 0 Enith!
TUB LANDTNfl OF THE PILOKIM
FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND
The breaking wnves dashed high
On n stein and i<xk-hoiind (oiisl,1
And tlu1 \\uods nun i list a Mm my sky
Their giant blanches tossed,
r» And the lieaw niirlit hung dark.
The hills .ind unteis <»'ei,
When u band of exiles mooied their baik
On the wild New England shme
Not as the comnieior comes,
10 They, the tuie-luMifed, came,
Not with the toll <>! the Mmm? drums
And the tiumpet that sings of fame
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear,—
11 Thev shook the deptiis of the desert gloom
With then hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the stoim they sang,
And the sluis heaid, and the sea;
And the sounding nicies of the dim woods
rang
20 To the anthem of the free
Tbe ocean eaele soared \
From his neM bv the white wave's foam,
And tlie rocking pines of the forest
roared,—
This was their welcome home.
| This U not rxnt tlv tra* to fart
26 Theie were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim-band:
Why had they come to wither there,
Away fioin their childhood's land!
There was woman's fearless eye,
90 Lit by her deep love's tiutb;
Theie was manhood's biow serenely high,
And the fiery heait of youth.
What sought they thus a fart
Hi light jewels of the nnnet
115 The wealth of seas, the spoils of warl—
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay. call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod ;
Thev have left unstained what there they
found,—
40 Fieednm to worship God
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND
1827 1827
The stntelv Homes of England,
TTmv beautiful they stand'
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land;
6 The deer wmss then gieensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the Minn glides past them with the
sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry Homes of England'
30 Aiound their hearths bv night,
AVhat gladsome looks of household \o\ c
Meet in the ruddy light
Theie woman's \oice flows forth in song,
Or childish tale is told,
I|P| ()i lips nime tunefully along
Some glonous page of old.
The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
20 That breathes fiom Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the chnicb-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, m that still time.
Of breeze and leaf are born.
26 The cottage Homes of England!
B\ thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silveiy biooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
80 Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
1162
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
The free, fair Homes of England !
Long, long m hut and hall,
85 May hearts of native proof be reared
To guaid each hallowed wall!
And gieen forever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child 's glad spirit loves
40 Its country and its God f
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL
(1797-1835)
THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN
RATJDI
1828
*Tis not the gray hawk's flight
O'er mountain and mere,
'Tis not the fleet hound's couise
Tracking the deer,
6 'Tis not the light hoof print
Of black steed or gray,
Though swelteung it gallop
A long suinmei 's day,
Which mete fmth the lordships
10 1 challenge as mine,
Ha r ha ! 'tis the good brand
I clutch in my stioug hand,
That can their broad marches
And numbers define
16 Land Giver! I kiss thee.
Dull builders of houses,
Base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships
I owned at my birth,
2(1 But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,
Shouting, "There am I lord!"
Wold and waste, town and tower,
25 Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway
In the fierce battle fiay,
When the star that rules Fate, is
This falchion's1 red gleam
J0 Mighty Giver. I kiss thee.
I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,1
I've drank the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
85 I've hunted in greenwood,
And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle
And cold jargoning;
The music I love, is
* A kind of sword.
9 The hall wan the public dwelling of the Ten-
tonic chlpftaln; the bower waft the private
apartments, especially of the women.
40 The shout of the brave,
The yell of the dying,
The scream of the flying,
When this arm wields Death's sickle,
And garneis the grave.
45 Joy Giver! I kiss thee.
Far isles of the ocean
Thy lightning have known,
And wide o'er the mam land
Thy horrors have shone.
50 Gieat sword of my father,
Stern joy of his hand,
Thou habt carved his name deep on
The stranger's red stiand,
And won him the glory
65 Of undying song.
Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes,
And scourge of the strong.
60 Fame Givei * I kiss thee.
In a love more abiding
Than that the heart knows,
For maiden moie lovely
Than summer's first rose,
65 My heait's knit to 4hiney
And lives but for thee;
In dreaniings of gladness,
Thou'rt dancing with me,
Bi nve measures of madness
70 In some battle-field,
Where armor is ringing,
And noble blood spnngmg,
And cloven, yawn helmet,
Stout hauberk and shield.
75 Death Giver! I kiss thee
The smile of a maiden 's eye
Soon may depart;
And light is the faith of
Fair woman's heart;
80 Changeful as light clouds,
And wayward as wind,
Be the passions that govern
Weak woman's mind.
But thy metal's as true
85 As its polish is bright;
When ills wax in number,
Thy love will not slumber,
But starlike, burns fiercer.
The darker the night.
90 Heart Gladdener' I kiss thee.
My kindred have perished
By war or by wave—
Now, childless and sinless,
I long for the grave.
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL
1163
95 When the path of our glory
Is shadowed in death,
With me thou wilt slumber
Below the brown heath,
Thou wilt lest on my bosom,
1°° And with it decay-
While limps shall he iinging,
And scalds1 shall be singing
The deeds \\e lime done m
Oui old ieaile^s day
105 Song Givei r I kiss thee.
JEANIE MORRISON
1832
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Thiou»h mony a weaiy way,
Bui iiPM'i, nc\Pi can foiget
The hive o' life's yomij» day f
6 The fiie that's blown on Beltane2 e'en,
May weel be black pin8 Yule ,
But blnckri fa' j waits the heart
Wheie fust loud luve grows cule.
Oh deni, deai Jennie Moirison,
10 The thoi'hts o' bvnane yeais
Still iliiis* then shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi9 tears
They blind mv een wi' saut, saut teais,
And «nir and sick I pine,
15 As nipnmiv idly sinninons up
Tlip blithe blinks o' langsyne
'Twas then WP 1m it ilk ither4 wpel,
then we twa did part ,
time -s,id tune' twa bairns at seule
20 Twa banns, and but ae1* heart »
'Twas thru we sat on ap lamh bmk,e
To leir ilk ither lear,7
And tones and looks, and smiles were shed,
Hemembeied exeimair.
25 T wonder, Jean IP, aften yet
When sitting on that bmk,
Chepk tnncliin' check, loofq lockM in loof,
What our wee heads ponld think
WliPii baith bent donn ower ae biaid paere,
80 Wi1 ae bnik on oui knee,
Thy lips wprp on thy Ipsson, but
My lesson was in thee
Oh. mind ve how we linn? our heads,
IIow cheeks brent red wi9 shame,
35 Whene'er the school-weans laughin' said,
We cleek'd9 thecither hamet
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
1 Norso singers- of heron noomi
•Mav-dnv Mow bench
• by the time of T ten ch each other learning
•each other "linnd
• one 9 wrnt nrm In arm
(The scule then bkail't1 at noon)
When we ran aff to speel the biaesj—
40 The broomy* braes o ' June 1
My head rms round and lound about,
My heart flows like a sea,
Afr ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' pcule-time and o' thee
46 Oh, morn in' life! Oh, raornm' luve I
Oh lichtsome days and lang,
When h inn led4 hopes aiound oui hearts.
Like Dimmer blossoms sprang'
0 mind ye, luve, how aft we left
50 The deavm ', dinsome5 toun,
To wander by the preen burn side,*
And hear its waters croon ,
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The floweis burst louml oui feet,
66 And in the gloainm' o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit7 sweet
The throssil whussht in the wood,
The bum sang to the trees,
And we with Nattne's heait in tune,
60 Concerted harmonies,
And on the knowe abune the burn,8
For hours thecnther sat
In the silentness o' (iuy, till baith
Wi ' very gladness grat I9
65 Aye, aye, dpai Jennie Morrison,
Teais tnnkled down yoni cheek,
Like dew-beads from a incp, ypt nane
Had onv power to speak1
That was a time, a blessed time,
70 When hearts were fiesh and v«mn?,
When freely e^i^hcd all fpelmsrs imth,
Unsyllabled— unsunt* f
T marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin10 T bae been to thee
7' As closelv twnipd \\i' eailicst thochts
As ve hao bppn to nipt
Oh f tell me gin their music fills
Thmp par as it docs mine,
Oh f say Rin o 'er your heart pi ows jsrrit11
80 AVi' dreamings o' langsynef
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot,
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye nevpr were forgot
86 The fount that first burst fiae this heart,
1 scattered • climb the fallli
• covered with broom ihruba
4 honied • knoll above the brook
8 rteafenlnff, nolHv ' wept
• brookaMe " whether ; If
' iiong thrunh whiittled n great
1164
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Still travels on its way;
And channels deepei us it rum,
The luve o' hte'b young day.
0 dear, dear Jeanie Monibon,
90 Since we weie sindeied young,
I've never seen your lace, 1101 heaid
The mufcjc o' youi tongue,
But 1 could hui> all wieleliedness,
And happy could 1 die,
95 Did 1 but ken youi heait still di earned
O' bygane days and mof
MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND,i WILLIE
1SJ15
My heid is like to rend, Willie,
My heart is like to bieak—
I'm weaim' dff my feet. Willie,
I'm dyin' Jui your sake'
6 Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my bnest-bane—
Oh say ye '11 think on me, Willie,
When I am deid And gane '
It's vain to comfoit me, Willie,
10 Sair gnet maun liae2 its will—
But let me rest upon youi buest,
To sab and gieet3 my fill
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by4 your hair,
15 And look into the fnce, Willie,
I never sail see
I'm sit fin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life—
A pun henrt-binken tiling, Willie,
20 A mithei, yet nae wife
Ay, press yoni hund upon inv henit,
And press it mair and mair—
Or it will buist the silken twine
Sae strangn is its despair*
2r> Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we the»ither met —
Oh wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tiyst was set !
Oh wae's me for the loamn'* £iwn
™ Where we weie wont to prae—
And wae's me for the dost in le,
That gart7 me love thee sae!
Oh ! dinna8 mind my words, Willie,
I down a9 seek to blame—
35 But oh ! it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree10 a warld's shame'
1 hunt ° lane
1 sore grief must have 7 made
1 nob and weep * do nut
4 part •cannot
0 so HtronR * endure
Ilet tears aie hailin'1 ower your cheek,
And hailin ' ower youi chiu ,
Why weep ye eae for worth Icssnesb,
40 YOV soiiow and for suit
I'm weary o' this waild, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see—
A canna live as I hae lived,
()i be as 1 should be.
4B But iaulcl unto youi heait, Willie,
The lu-nit that still is thine—
And kiss mice man the white, \\lnlo dieek,
Ye said wus led langsyue
A stoun '* paes through my heid, Willie,
50 A sair stoun' thiough my benit —
Oh ' hand me up and let me kiss
Thy blow etc* we twa punt
Anither, and am! her yet1—
How fast my lilc-stimss mcak'
55 FaieweeM J'aieweeP tlnoimh ^c^n kiik-
yand
Step hchtly Joi m> sukef
The lav 'rock8 in the lift,4 Willie,
That lilts0 lur ower oui heid,
Will sni£ the mom as meriilie
60 Abune6 the clay-cauld deid ,
And this preen ttiif \MjJie sittm' on,
Wi' dew-draps' shimmeiin' sheen,
AVill Imp7 the heart that hmt thee
As waild bus seldom seen
** But oh' reniemb<»r me, Willie,
On lund wheie'ci ye be—
And oh' think on the leal,8 leal heail,
That neVi huit ane bill theef
And olif flunk on th<» <anld, cauld mools,0
70 That file10 my yellow ban —
Thnt ki^s the cheek, nnd kiss the chin,
Ye rioxci sail kiss mair'
THE FORESTEB'S CAHOL
Lnsfv TTeaits' to the wood, to the merry
i»ieen wood.
While the dew with shunj* pea i Is Innds
each blade.
And the first blush of dnwn bright ly
streams o'ei the Inwn,
Like the smile of u losy-cheekedtfuaid.
; Our horns with wild music riner glad
through each shaw,11
And our broad arrows rattle amain ,
1 pouring * cover
'fiunff "loyRl
•mrth
•sing* cheerfully
•a hove
EBENEZER ELLIOTT
1165
For the blout bows we diuw, to the green
woods give law,
And the Might is the Right once again !
Mark yon herds, us they brattle1 and biush
down the glade,
10 Pick the lat, lot the lean lascals go,
Under favor 'tis meet that we tall2 men
should eat,—
Nock3 a shaft and btiike down that
proud doe1
Well delivered, pmfny14 convulsive bhc
leaps,—
OTIC hound nioic1,— then she diops on
her side,
15 Oni steel luith bit smart the liJc-strm»>
of her heart,
Arid (old now IRS the nie.cn ioicsl's
pride
Hea\e her up, and away'— should any
base chiiil
Dare to ask why we lanuc in this wood,
There's a keen arrow vare,rj in cadi broad
belt to spare,
20 That will ans\\er the knave in his blood'
Then forward rn> TTeails' like the bold
reckless brec/e
Our life slinll \\lnrl on in mad glee,
The loner bows we bend, to the world's
latter end,
Shall be boine by the hands of the Fiee1
SONG
Tf to thv heait I were as near
As thou ait near to mine,
I'd hardly care thoiu>h a' the year
Nae sun on eaith suld shine, mv dear,
c Nae sun on earth suld shine1
Twin starnies are thy jrlanem' eMi*—
A \\arl<l they'd licht and man —
And arm7 that ye be my Christine,
Ae blink8 to me ye '11 spare, mv dear,
10 Ae blink to me ye'll spnief
Mv leesome0 May I've wooed too lang—
Aneath the trystm' tree,
I've sunj? till a' the plantin'10 tans;,
Wi' lays o' love for thee, mv dear,
« Wi' lays o' love for thee
» scamper
' hrnve , hold
•fit tn the itrlng
« by mv faith
•ready
9 daubing eyes
8 one glance
•pleasant
10 grove
The dew-di aps glisten on the green,
The laverocks lilt1 on high,
We'll forth and doun the loan,-5 Cluibtine,
And kiss when nane is nigh, m> dear,
20 And kisb when nane is nigh f
EBENEZER ELLIOTT (1781-1849)
SONG
1831
Tune— Holm J.do»r
f!hild, is thy father dead t
Father is gone f
Whv did they la\ ln^. bread*
(iod's will be done1
5 Mother has sold hei bed ,
Better to die than wed f
Where shall slie lav hei head '
Home v\e have uunef
Father clamm 'd3 thrice a week—
10 (Sod 'swill be done »
Lon» tor work did he seek,
Work be found none
Tears on his hollow cheek
Told what no tongue could speak
15 Whv did his master bieakt
God's will tye done1
Doctor said air was best—
Food we had none ,
Father, \\nli pantnm mcast,
20 (Iroan'd to be gone
Now he is with the blest —
Mother savs death is best f
We have no place of rest —
Yes,, we have one'
BATTLK SONG
1SJ1
Dav. like 0111 souls, is fierceh dark;
What then* 'Tis il.u '
We sleep no more, the cock cio\\s-harkT
To a mi*' awayf
5 They come1 they come' the knell is nincr
Of us or them,
Wide o'er their maich the pomp is fluncr
Of srold and gem
What collai 'd hound of lawless sway,
10 To famine dear—
What pension 'd slave of Attila,
Leads in the rear*
Come thev fiom Scythian wilds afar,
Our blood to spill f
15 Wear thev the livery of the Cz^rT
They do his will
Nor ta&sell'd silk, noi epaulette,
i larks sing cheerfully
•lane
8 went without food
1166
NINETEENTH OENTUBY EOMANTICI8T8
Nor plume, nor torse1—
No spleucloi gilds, all sternly met,
20 Oiu loot and boise.
But, daik and still, we inly glow,
Condensed in lie1
Strike, tawdry blaves, and ye shall know
Our gloom is fire.
25 In \am youi pomp, ye evil powers,
Insults the land,
Wiongs, vengeance, and the cause are
ours,
And God's right hand*
Madmen* they ti ample into snakes
80 The n 01 my clod!
Like flic, beneath their feet awakes
The swoid of God*
Behind, beiore, above, below,
They rouse the biave,
35 Whet e 'PI they go, they make a foe,
Or find a t»rave
THE PRESS
WRITTEN FOR TMF PRINTERS OF SHEFFIELD,
ON THL PASSING OF THE REFORM BILL
1832
God said -"Let there be light '"J
Gum daikness felt his might,
And fled awav,
Then Mai lied sens and mountains cold
5 Shone forth, all bnght in blue and gnld,
And cued—" 'Tis day' 'tis day'"
"Hail, holy Jight'" exrlmm'd
The thund'ioiib cloud, that flamed
O'ei daisies white,
10 And, lof the lose, in ciimson dross VI,
Lenn'd sweetly on the lily's brtsast ,
And, blushing, murmur 'd— " Light f>>
Then was the skylark bom,
Then lose th' embattled corn;8
« Then floods of praise
Flow'd O'PI the snimy hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pom 'd f 01 th her pensive lavs
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad*
20 Lo, tiees and floweis all clad
In gloiy, bloom!
And shall the mortal sons of God
Be <>cn«pless ns the hodden clod.
And daiker than the tombt
-5 No, by the mtnd of man!
By the swait aitfcan!
By Gon, our Sne!
Our souls have holy tight within,
And e\eiy foim u£ uiief and sin
30 Shall see nnd feel its fire
By earth, and hell, and heav'n,
1 wreath med to mipport a crest
, 1 I 'wheat
The shioud of soulb ib nven !
Mmd, mind alone
Ib light, and hope, and hie, and powei !
86 Eaith'b deepest night, lioiii thib blest, 'd
houi,
The m«ht ol minds is gone!
"The Piebs»" all landb shall sing,
The Presh, the Pi ess we bung,
All lands to bless;
" O pallid Want' O Labor staik'
Behold, we bung the second arkf
The Piesh» the Pi ess » the Piesb!
PBESTON MILLS
The day was fan, (he cannon roarM,
Cold blew the Inuring noith,
And Preston's Mills, by thousands, pom 'd
Their little captives ioith
5 All in their best they paced the street,
All glad that they wcie fiee,
And Ming a song1 with voices sweet —
They bung of Liberty !
But from their lips the rose had fled,
*o Like "death-m-life"1 they smiled,
And still, as each i>,i«*s'd by, J said,
Alas1 ib that a child Y
Flays \\.i\ed and mm— n crhasflv n<»u —
Maich'd with them, bide by hide:
15 Whilp, hand in hand, and two by two,
They moved— a living tide
Thousands and thousands— all so white1—
With eves so gla/ed and dull f
O God! it was indeed a sight
20 Too sadly beautiful!
And, oh, the pancr thoii voices gave
Kef uses to dcpait f
This is a waihnsr foi the gra\c f
I whibpei 'd to my heai t.
25 It wa9 as if, where roses blush M,
A sudden blasting gale,
O'er fields of bloom had rudely insh'd,
And tuiu'd the io&eb pale.
It was as if, in «?len and trrove,
80 The wild Iwrds sadly sung ,
And everv linnet mourn 'd its love,
And every thrush its young.
Tt was as if, in dungeon gloom,
Wheie chain 'd despair reclined,
85 A sound came from the living tomb,
And hymn'd the passing wind
roloridpoV TJic Rime of fftr Ancient
Mariner, 103 (p. 338).
EBENEZEB feLLIOTT
1167
And while they sang, and though they
smiled,
My soul groan 'd heavily—
O who would be or have a child f
40 A mother who would be!
8PEN8EBIAN
I saw a horrid thing of many names,
And many shapes Some call'd it
wealth, some power,
Some grandeur From its heart it shot
black flames,
That scorch 'd the souls of millions,
hour by hour;
6 And its proud eyes rain 'd Everywhere a
shower
Of hopeless life, and helpless misery;
For, spoused to fraud, destruction was
its dower!
But its cold brightness could not hide
from me
The parent base of crime, the nurse of
poverty !
A POET'S EPITAPH
Stop, mortal1 Here thy brother lies—
The poet of the poor.
His books weie in (MS, woods, and skies,
The meadow, and the moor,
5 His teachers were the loin hen it's wail,
The tyrant, and the slave,
The sheet, the factory, the jail,
The palace— and the grave.
Sin met thy brother everywhere'
And is thy bi other blam'df
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim 'd
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest woim,
He fear'd to scorn or hate;
115 But, honoiing in a peasant's form
The equal of the great,
He bless 'd the steward, whose wealth
makes
The poor man 's little, more ,
Yet loath 'd the haughty wretch that takes
20 From plunder 'd labor's store
A hand to do, a head to plan,
A heart to feel and dare-
Tell man's worst foes, here lien the roan
Who drew them as they aie
SABBATH MOENING
"Rise, young mechanic I Idle darkness
leaves
The dingy town, and cloudless morning
glows:
0 rise and worship Him who spins and
weaves
Into the petals of the hedge-side rose
6 Day's golden beams and all-embracing
air!
Rise! for the morn of Sabbath riseth
fair!
The clouds expect thee— Kisef the stoiie-
chat1 hops
Among the mouses of thy granite chair.
Go tell the plo\cr, on the mountain tops,
10 That 1170 ha\e cherish 'd nests and hidden
wings.
Wings f Ay, like those on which the
seraph flings,
His sun-bnght frpeed from star to star
abroad ,
And we have music, like the whisperings
Of streams in Heav'n— our labor is an
ode
15 Of sweet sad praise to Him who loves the
right.
And cannot He who spins the beauteous
10
And weaves the air into the wild flowers'
hues,
Give to thy soul the mountain toi tent's
might,
Or fill thy \euis with sunbeams, and dif-
fuse
20 0\er thv thoughts the gieenwood's mel-
ody I
Yea, this and moie He can and will foi
thee,
If thou wilt read, emna\en on the skies
And lestless wines, that "sloth is misci v,
And that our woith iiom our necessities
25 Flows, «is tho n\eis fiom his clouds
THE WAY BROAD LEAF*
When Winter bowls along the bill,
We find the hioad-loai'd plantain still;
The way broad-leal, of herbs the chief,
We never imss the way broad-leaf,
6 'Tis common as the poor.
To soothe the cruel scomer's woes,
Beneath the spoinci 's feet it grows;
Neglected, trampled, still it thrives,
A creature of unmimbcr'd lives;
10 How like the trampled poor!
When roses die, it still remains,
Hoof-crush 'd, beneath unpitj'iug rains,
Roll'd o'ei bv miffing raits and wains,8
It suffers still, but ne'er complains;
15 Just like the helpless pooi f
1 A common European Ringing bird,
•the broad-leaf along the roads
•wagons
1168
NINETEENTH CENTURY ROMANTICISTS
Scorn M by the bluebells— or bent o'er
Their graveb beneath the sycamore-
Meek, modest, silent, useful still,
It loves to do the gentle will
20 Of Hun who loves the pooi !
RELIGION
What is religion! "Speak the truth in
love."
Reject no good. Mend, if thou canst, thy
lot.
Doubting, enqune,— nor dictate till thou
prove.
Enjoy thy own— exceed not, tiesspass not.
6 Pity the scomeis of life's meanest thins
If wiong'd, f 01 give— that Hate may lose
his sting
Think, speak, work, get— bestow, 01 wisely
keep.
So live, that thou may 'st smile, and no one
weep
Be bless 'd— like birds, that sing because
they IOA e ,
10 And bless— like nveis, Firming- to the sun,
Giving and taking blessings, as they run ;
Or soft-voiced showers, that cool the an-
sweiing grove,
When cloudy wings are wide in heav'n
display M,
And blessings bughten o'er the fiesheri'd
sod,
15 Till earth is like the countenance of God
This is religion! saith the bnid of trade.1
PLAINT
Dark, deep, and cold the current flows
Unto the sea, wheie no wind blows,
Seeking the land which no one knows.
O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes
5 The mingled wail of fuends and foes,
Borne to the land which no one knows
Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes
With millions, from a world of woes,
Unto the land which no one knows*
10 Though myriads go with him who goes,
Alone he goes where no wind blows,
Unto the land which no one knows.
For all must go where no wind blows,
And none can go for him who goes;
15 None, none return whence no one knows.
» Elliott hlniMlf, who was known an "The Cora-
Law Rhymer" from bin Corn-Law Rhyme*,
written against tbe corn law*.
Yet why should he who shrieking goes
With millions, fiom a world of woes,
Reunion seek with it or those f
Alone with God, wheie no wind blows,
20 And Death, his shadow— doomed, he goes
That God is theie the shadow shows.
Oh, shoieless Dee]), wheie no wind blows!
And, thou, oh, Land which no one knows1
That God is All, 11 is shadow shows
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
("Barry Cornwall")
(1787-1874)
THE SEA
The sea f the sea f the open sea f
The blue, the lieth, the c\ei free'
Without a maik, without a bound,
It iiinneth the earth's wide legions 'round,
5 It plays with the clouds, it mocks the
skies,
Or like a ciadled cieatuic lies.
I'm on the sen f I'm on the sea r
J am wheie I would e\ei he,
With the hlne nhme, and the blue below,
10 And silence \\hei esne'ei 1 go,
Tf a stoi in should come and nwnke the deep,
What mattei t / shall ude and sleep.
T love (oh ' how I love) to ride
On the fieice foaming bin Mini* tide,
l"» When eveiy mad wave diowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how aoeth the woi Id below,
And why the southwest blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore,
20 But 1 lo\'d the #ieat sea moie and mote,
And back wauls fleu to her billouy bienst,
Like a bud that secketh its mothei's ne«*t ,
And a mother she inw, and is to me ,
For I was boin on tbe open sea!
25 The waves were white, and led the morn,
In the noisy hour when T was born ,
And the whale it whistled, the poi poise
lolled,
And the dolphins bared then backs of gold ,
And never was beaid such an outcry wild
80 As welcomed to life the ocean-child f
Fve lived since then, in calm and stufe,
Full fifty summeis a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a powei to range,
But never have sought, nor sighed for
change ;
85 And Death, whenever he come to me,
Shall come on the wide unbounded sea !
BRYAN WALLEB PBOCTEB
1169
THE STORMY PETBEL
A thousand miles from land are we,
Tobsuig about on the loaiing bea ,
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stoimy blast
6 The sails aie scatter 'd abioad, like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering
reeds,
The mighty cables, and iron chains,
The hull, which all eaithly bt length dis-
dains,
They strain and they crack, and hcaitb like
stone
10 Their natural haid, proud st length disown.
V\> and down ' up and down f
From the base of the \\a>e lo the billow's
crown,
And midst the flashing and feathery foam
The stormy petrel finds a home,—
15 A home, if such a place may bo,
For her who In PS on the wide, wide sea,
On the ciagiry ice, m the fWon air,
And only seekcth her rocky lair
To \\aim her young, and to teach them
spiinir
J0 At once o'ci the WHACS on then stoimy
wing.
O Vi the deep ' () 'cr the deep f
Wheie the \\lmle, and the sliaik, and the
sword-fish sleep,
Outflying the blast nnd the dining rain,
The petrel tclleth hci talc— in \am ,
25 Foi the manner curscth the \\aimng bud
Who brmgcth him nous of the stoinm un-
heaidf
Ahf thus docs the piophct, of good 01 ill,
Meet hate fiom the c realities he sen el h
si ill
Yet he ne'ei fnlleis —So, peticP spim&»>
-° Once moie o'ei the waves on thy stormy
wing'
THE HUNTEB'S SONG
1832
Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn :
The dews hang thick on the fringed thoin,
And the iiost shrinks back, like a beaten
hound,
Under the steaming, steaming nioiind
5 Behold, \\heie the billowy clouds flow bv,
And leave us alone in the clenr giuy skyT
Our horses aie ready and steady —So, ho'
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's
bow
Hail, hark '—Who calleth the maiden
Mom
10 Fiom her sleep m the wood* and the
btubble cot nf
The hoin,— the hoin '
The meny, tweet ring of the huntet 's
hoin.
Now, thorough the copse, wheie the fox ia
found,
And o\ei the Mi earn, at a mighty bound,
15 And o^ei the high lands, and mer the low,
O'er fui lows, o'ei meadows, the hunters
go»
Away f — as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So ilieth the hiuitei, away,— away'
Fiom the buist at the co\er till &et of sun,
20 "When the icd iox dies, and— the day is
done f
llaik, hat I, '— What bound on the u ind
t& b f/i tiff
9Tis the tunquenng votcc of the hunt-
er's hoin
The horn,— the hoinf
The mcuy, bold voice of the hunter's
Iwin
J5 Sound T Sound the honi ' To the hunter
good
What's the gulley deep or the Toaung
flood?
Riuht o>ei he bounds, us the wild stag
bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent
hounds
O, what delight can a moital lack,
30 When he once is him on ln«s hoise's back,
With his stumps shoit, and his snafllc1
stioiu;,
And the blast of the hoin for his moining
song ?
7/«;A, hath '—MM IT, home' and dteam
till morn
Of ihc lolrl, vuc(t bound of the hunt-
er'shornt
35 The loin.— the hoin'
O9 the \oitnd of all sounds is the hunt-
t't 's hotnf
LIFE
We «u c born , WP laudi , we weep ;
We lo\ e , A\ c di oop , M e die f
Ah ! uheiefoie do we laugh 01 weept
Why do we Ine, or diet
5 Who knows that seciet deept
Alas, not I!
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eyef
* A kind of bridle
1170
NINETEENTH CENTUBY ROMANTICISTS
Who do the radiant beacons bring
10 Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do out loud heai U» cling
To things that diet
We toil,— tin ough pain and wrong,
We fight,— and fly,
15 We love, we lose, and then, eie long,
Stone-dead we lie.
O life ' is all thy song
"Enduieand— die"?
PEACE! WHAT DO TEABB AVAIL
1832
Peace* what do tears avail f
She lies all dumb and pale,
And from her eye
The spnit oi hnely life is fading,
5 And she must dicf
Why looks the lovei wrolh? the friend up-
braiding ?
Reply, reply !
Hath she not dwelt too long
'Midst pain, and grici, and wrong t
10 Then, why not die?
Why suffei as»ain her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless he?
Why muse the tieiubhng dieam until to-
morrow f
Reply, reply ?
15 Death f Take her to thine arras,
In all hei stainless charms,
And \\ith her fly
To heavenly haunts, where clad in bright-
'Tis a thing of sky and earth,
(lathering all its golden woith
16 From the poet's heart.
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE
How many summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, them dove,
Hast thou been mine?
6 Time, like the winged \\uul
When 't bends the floweis,
Hath loft no niaik behind,
To count the houib!
Some weight of thought, though loath
10 On thee he leaxes,
Some lines of caie lound both
Pei haps he u ea\ e<* ,
Some \ PHIS,— a soft ies»iet
For joys scarce known ,
16 Some looks we half forget ,—
All else is flown
Ah '—With what thankless heart
I inoinn and sing!
Look, when* our children Mint,
Like sudden s}>inii> '
With tongues till sweet find low
Like n plcnsdiit ihyinp,
They tell how much 1 ow
To thee mid time'
20
The Angels he.
20 Wilt bear her there, O Death ! in aH her
whit en ess t
Reply, reply f
A POET'S THOUGHT
1832
Tell me, what is a poet's thought ?
Is it on the sudden born?
Ts it ft om the starlight caught f
Is it by the tempest taught,
5 Or by whispering morn ?
Was it cradled in the brain f
Chain M awhile, or nurs'd in night f
Was it wrought with toil and paint
Did it bloom and fade again,
10 Ere it burst to light?
No more question of its birth :
Rather love its better part !
INSCRIPTION FOB A FOUNTAIN
Rest ' This little fountain runs
Thus for aye . — It ne\ci stays
For the look of sunmiei suns,
Noi the cold of winter days
Whosoe'ei shall wander iieai,
When the Syiian heat is woist,
Lot him hither come, nor fear
Lest he may not blake hib tlnibt:
He will find this little river
Kunmng still, as bright as ever.
Let him drink, and onward hie,
Bearing but in thought, that T,
Erotas, bade the Naiad fall,
And thank the great pod Pan for all !
A PETITION TO TIME
I860
Touch us gently, Time f
Let in glide adown thy stream
Gently,— as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream.
Humble voyagers are we,
Husband, wife, and children three—
(One is lost,— an angel, fled
To the aznre overhead.)
HABTLEY COLERIDGE
1171
Touch us gently, Time f
10 We've not proud nor soaring wings:
Our ambition, our content,
Lies m simple things.
Humble voyageis are we,
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea,
16 Seeking only some calm clime;—
Touch us gently, qentle Time'
HARTLEY COLERIDGE
(1796-1849)
SONG
10 That sweetly nestle in the foxglove bells,
Or lurk and murmur in the rose-hppM
shells
Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent1
pays,
Then mujht our pretty modern Philomels
Sustain our spirits with their roundelays.
NOVEMBEB
She is not fair to outward view
As many maidens be,
Ilei loveliness I never knew
Until she smil 'd on me ,
5 Oh ! then I saw her eye was bnght,
A well of lo\e, a spring of light
Bnl now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold
10 The love-light in her eye
Tier \eiy frowns aie fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.
AN OLD MAN'S WISH
1833
J have lived, and T have loved,
Haxe In c»d and lo\ed in vain,
Some jovs ai|d niany woes have proved,
That may not be again ,
c My heart is cold, my eye is sere,
Joy wins no smile, and grief no tear.
Fmn would I hope, if hope I could,
If sure to be deceived,
Theie's comfort in a thought of good,
10 Tho ' 9i is not quite believed ;
Foi sweet is hope's wild warbled air,
Rut, oh f its echo is despair.
WHITHER TS GONE THE WISDOM AND
THE POWER
1833
Whithei is gone the wisdom and the power
That ancient sages scattered with the notes
Of thought-suggesting lyres f The music
floats
In the void air ; e 'en at this breathing hour,
B Tn every cell and every blooming bower
The sweetness of old lays is hovermer still'
But the strong soul, the self-constraining
will,
The nudged root that bare the winsome
flower
Is weak and wither M. Were we like the
Fays
The mellow year is hasting to its close;
The little buds have almost sung their
last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary
blast-
That shrill-piped haibinger of early snows;
6 The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the Morn 's hoar crystal quaintly
glass M,
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer
past,
And makes a little summer where it grows:
In the chill sunbeam of the faint bnef
day
10 The dusky waters shudder as they shine,
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling
way
Of oozy biooks, which no deep banks de-
fine,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant
an ay,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy
twine
NIGHT
1SJJ
The crackling embers on the hearth are
dead,
The indoor note of industry is still,
The latch is fast , upon the window sill
The small birds wait not for their daily
bread ,
3 The voiceless flowers— how quietly they
shed
Their nightly odors;— and the household
rill
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill
The vacant expectation, and the diead
Of listening nicht And haply now she
sleeps ,
10 For all the garrulous noises of the air
Are hush'd in peace, the soft *tew silent
weeps,
Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair:—
Oh! that T were the happy dream that
creeps
To her soft heart, to find my image there.
1 rent paid in < ommutatlon of service
1172
NINETEENTH CENTUEY ROMANTICISTS
TO SHAKBL'EARE
1833
The soul of man is larger (ban the sky,
Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark
Of the unfathom'd centre Like that Ark,
Which in its sacred hold uphf ted high,
6 O'er the drown 'd hills, the human family,
And stock reserved of every Living kind,1
So, in the compass of the single mind,
The seeds and pregnant forms m essence
he,
That make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas
thy art
10 To know thyself, and in thyself to be
WhateVr love, hate, ambition, destiny,
Or the fiim, fatal purpose of the heart,
Can make of man. Yet thou wett still the
same,
Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own
flame.
MAT, 1840
1850
A lovely morn, so still, so very still,
It haidly seems a growmsr day ot spring,
Though all the odorous buds are blossom-
And the small matin2 birds wctc glad and
shrill
5 Some hours ago , but nnw the woodland rill
Murmurs along, the only vocal thing,
Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy
wing,
And cons by fits and bits her evening trill.
Lovers might sit on such a morn as this
10 An hour together, looking at the sky,
Nor dare to break the silence with a kiss,
Long listening for the signal of a sigh ;
And the sweet Nun, diffused in voiceless
prayer,
Feel her own soul through all the brooding
air.
"MULTUM D1LEX1T'*
18 >,8 1850
She sat and wept beside His feet; the
weight
Of sin oppress 'd her heart; for all the
blame,
And the poor malice of the worldly shame,
To her was past, extinct, and out of date-
B Only the sin remained,— the leprous state;
She would be molted by the heart of love,
Bee Gene***, 7
she loved.** See Lv*c. 1 37-50.
By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove
And puige the silver ore adulterate
She bat and wept, and with her uutress'd
hair
10 Still wip'd the feet she was so bless M to
touch ;
And He wip'd off the soiling of despair
From her sweet soul, because she lov'd so
much.
I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears*
Make me a humble thing of love and tears.
HOMER
1850
Far from the sight of eaith, yet blight
and plain
As the cle.ii noon-day bun, an "nib of
song"
Lo\ely and blight is seen, amid the timing
Of lesser stais, that HM? and wax and wane,
6 The tiansient ruler* of the fickle mam,
Cue constant light gleams through the dark
and Jong
And nni i nw aisle of memory TTow strong,
How fortified with all the luminous li.nn
Of truths wcit them, guvit poet ol man-
kind,
10 Who told'st in veisp cis nimhty as the1 sea,
And vannns as the? \mcos of the* wind,
The strength of passion using in the «lee
Ol battle. Feai was glonfied by thee,
And Death is lovely in thy talc enshrined.
PRAYER
There is an awful quiet in the air,
And the1 sad eaith, \\ith moist, imploring
eye,
Looks wide and \\dkeful at the
Like Patience slow subsiding to D
5 But see, the blue smoke as a voiceless
prayer,
Sole witness of a secret sacrifice,
Unfolds its tatdy wreaths, and multiplies
Its soft chameleon breathings in the raro
Tapacums etliei,— so it fades away,
10 And nought is seen beneath the pendent
blue,
The un distinguishable waste of day
So have I dreamM' — oh, may the dream be
true'-
That praying souls are purged from mortal
hue,
And grow as pure as He to whom they
pray.
APPENDIX
APPENDIX
ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744)
From WINDSOR FOBBKT
2704 1713
Thy forests, Windsor ' and thy green retreats,
\t once the Monarch*! and the Muse's Beats,
Invite my lays Be present, sylvan maids '
Unlock your springs, and open all your shades
Oranvllle commands , your aid, O Muses, bring f 5
What Muse for Granvllle can refuse to sing?
The groves of Kden, vanish'd now so long,
Live In debcrlptlon, and look green In song l
These, were my breast insplr'd with equal flame,
Like thorn In beauty, should be like In fame. 10
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and nuter, tceem to btiivc again.
Not chaos-like together crush'd and bruis'd,
But, as the world, harmoniously confubd,
Where order in variety we see, 15
\nd where, tho' all thlngb differ, all agree
Here waving groves a chequer'd bceue display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day,
As some coy nymph her lover's warm address
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress , 20
There, lutertipcrx'd in lawns and op'nliig glades,
Thin trees arise, that bhun each other s shade*
Here, In full light, the russet plains extend.
There wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend
Bv'xi the wild heath display* her purple dyos, 25
And 'midst the desert fruitful fleldb arise,
That,tro*n d with tufted trees1 and springing corn,
Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
The weeping amber 01 the balmy tree, 30
While by our oaks the precious loads are borne.
And realms commanded which those trees adorn
Nut proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
Tho' gods assembled grace his tow'rlng height,
Than what more humble mountains offer here, 35
Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear
Bee Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd;
Here blushing Flora paints th( enamoll'd ground ;
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,
And, nodding, tempt the Joyful reaper's hand , 40
Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell, a Stuart reigns.1
Not thus the land appear d in ages past,
A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste,
To bavagc beantH and savage lawn a prey, 45
And kings more furious and severe than they ;
Who clalm'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods,
The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods
Titles laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves,
( For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves ) 50
What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd,
And ev'n the elements a tyrant swayed?
In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain,
Soft show'rs dlstlll'd, and suns grew warm in vain ;
The swain with tears his frustrate labor yields, 65
And famiah'd dleu amidst his ripen d fields
What wonder then, a beast or subject slain
Were equal crimes in a despotic reign '•
Both doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled,
But while the subject starv d, the beast wax fed 60
Proud Nlinrod1 first the bloody chase began,
A mighty hunter, and his prey was man
Our haughty Norman boasts that barb'rons name,
And makes his trembling slaves, the royal game
The fields are ravlsh'd from th' industrious swains,*
From men their cities, and from gods their fanes 66
The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er ;
The hollow winds thro* naked temples roar ;
Round broken columns clasping ivy twln'd ,
O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind ,' 70
The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires,
Vnd savage howlingK fill the sacred quires.4
Aw'd by the nobles, by his commons curst,
Th' oppressor rul'd tyrannic whei c he durst,
Btretch'd o'er the poor and church his Iron rod, 75
And serv'd alike his vassals and his God.
Whom ev'n the Saxon spar d and bloody Dane,
The wanton victims of his sport remain.
But see, the man who spacious regions gave
A waste for beasts, himself ilenv'd a gra\e ?B 80
Rtrctch'd on the lu*n his second hope* survey,
At once the chaser, and at once the prey
I o Uufus,7 tugging at the deadly dart.
Bleeds in the Forest like a wounded hart.
Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects' cries, 85
Nor saw displeaVd the i>eaccful cottage rise
Then gath'ring flocks on unkmw n mountains fed,
O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread,
The forests wonder d at th' unusual grain,
And secret transport touclTd the conscious swain
Fair Liberty, Britannia s Goddess, rears 91
Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years
Ye vlg'rous swains* while jouth ferments >oui
blood,
And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,
Now range the hills, the gnmeful woods beset, 93
Wind the shrill born, or spread the waving net
When milder autumn bummer's heat succeeds,
And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds,
Before his lord the read> spaniel bounds, 99
1'autlng with hope, he trios the furrow'd grounds ,
But when the tainted gales the game betray,
Couch'd clone he lies, and meditates the prey
Secure they trust th' unfaithful field beset,
'Till hov'ring o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net
» William I, King of England (1060-87). See
ttenrat*. 10 8-0
•Among his other tyrannies, William I confiscated
land in Hampshire, and made it into New Forest,
a royal game preserve
8 The female of the red deer
4 Parts of churches used by Ringers
'The burial ground for William in Normandy had
to be purchased
Richard, Duke of Bernay, said to have been killed
1 An allusion to Paradise Lost.
•See L' Allegro, 78
• Queen Anne (1702-14).
mt.-llB.AU. J
by a stai
» Wlfilam lT King of England (1 OR 7- 11 00) He was
killed (possibly by accident) by an arrow shot by
one of his own men while hunting in New Forest.
1175
1176
ALEXANDER POPE
Thus (If small things we may with great compare)
When Albion sends her eager sons to war, 106
Home thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest,
Near, and more near, the dosing linos invest ;
Sudden they seise th' amaz'd, defenceless prise,
And high in air Britannia's standard flies.1 110
Sec' from the brake9 the whirring pheasant
spring*,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings 1
Short Is his Joy , he fools the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting, beats the ground
Ah, what avail his glossy, varying dyes, 115
His purple crest and scarlet circled eyes,
The vivid groon his shining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold ?
Nor yet, when moist Arcturns clouds the sky.
The woods and fields their pleasing tolls deify 120
To plains with well-breath'd bonglos we repair,
And trace the maios of the circling hare
(Boasts, urg'd by us, their fellow-boasts pursue,
And learn of men each other to undo) 124
With slaught'rlng guns thf unwearied fowler rovos,
When frosts havo whlten'd all the naked groves,
Whore doves in flocks the leafless trees o'crahade,
And lonel> wood-cocks haunt the wat'rv glade
Ho lifts the tube, and levels with his oyo ,
Straight a short thunder breaks the froxcn sky I'M)
Oft, as in alrv rings the\ hklm tho heath,
The clam'rous lap* Ings feel the leaden death ,
Oft, as tho mounting larks their notes prepare.
They fall, and leave their little lives in air
In genial spring, beneath the quiv*ring shade, 135
Where cooling \apors breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his Client stand,
Intent, his angle trembling In his hand ;
With looks unimn'd, ho hopes the scaly brood.
And eves tho darning cork and bending reed 140
Our plenteous streams a various race supply
The brtght-oy'd perch, with fins of Tvrian dye ,•
The silver col in shining uilumcs4 loll <] ,
Tho yellow carp. In stales bodropp'd with gold ,B
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains , 14R
And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'rv plains.
Now Cancer glows *ith Phophua' fiery car •
The youth rush eager to the syhan war,
Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround.
Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound
Th' Impatient counter pants in e\ery vein, 1R1
And, pawing, seems to beat tho distant plain
Hills, vales, and floods appear alroadv cross*d,
And ore ho starts, a thousand stops are lost 154
See the bold youth strain up the thrcat'nlng steep,
Rush thro* the thickets, down the valleys swoop,
Hang o'er their counters' bonds with eager snood,
And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed
Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
Th* Immortal huntress,7 and her virgin train , 100
» Probably an allusion to the easy capture of
Gibraltar, in 1704.
1 thicket
•A purple dye made by tho natives of ancient
Tyro, Asia Minor, from the juice of shell fish.
4 coils
• Soo Paradise Lost. 7, 406
• Tho sun was In tho sign of Cancer, — i r . It was
tho tlmo of tho summer solstice
• Diana, the goddess of tho chase
-Nor envy, Windsor ' since thy shades have seen
As bright a Goddess and as chaste a Queen ,*
Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign,
The earth's fair light, and Empress of the main.
From AN ESSAT ON CRITICISM
1709 1711
PART I
TlB hard to say, If greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in Judging ill ,
But, of the two, less dangerous is th* offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense
Some few in that, but numbers err in this, 6
Ten censure1 wrong for oiu> who writes amiss ,
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more In prose
'TIs with our Judgments as our watches, none
Go Just alike, vet each believes his own 10
In poets as true genius is but rare,
Truo taste as seldom Is the critic's share ,
Both must alike from fleav n derive their light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel, 16
And censure froelv who havo written well
Vuthors are partial to their wit,8 'tis true,
But are not critics to their Judgment too?
Yet if *e look more closely, we shall find
Most havo tho seeds of Judgment in their mind 20
Nature affords at least a gllmm'ring light ,
Tho lines, tho' touch'd hut faintly, are drawn right
But as the slightest sketch, if Justly trac'd,
Is bv ill coloring but the more dl*grac'd.
So bv false learning is good sense defac'd , 25
Some are hewlldor'd In tho maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn critics in their o*n defence ,
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, $0
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite
All fools havo still an Itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side
If MttvluK scribbled in Apollo's spite,
There are thoso who Judge still worse than he can
write 35
Some have at first for wits, then poets past,
Turned critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
Rome neither can for \\ Its4 nor critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass
Those halMoarn'd witlings, num'rous In our Isle, 40
AH half form'd insects on tho banks of Nile .
Fnflnlsh'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's0 so equivocal •
To tell" 'em, would a hundred tongues require,
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. 45
But you who seek to give and merit fame,
And Justly bear a critic's noble name,
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
JQuoen Anne.
• knowledge ; intellect , genius , creative power
4 persons possessing learning or knowledge of human
nature
"begetting
•count
AN ESSAY ON CBITICISM
1177
How far your genius, taste, and learning go ,
Launch pot beyond your depth, but be discreet, 50
And mark that point where sent* and dnlness meet.
Nature to all things flx'd the limltb fit,
And wisely cuib'd proud man's pretending wit
AB on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it loaves wide sandy plains , 55
Thus in the soul while memory prevails,
The solid pow'r of understanding fails ,
Where beam* of warm imagination play,
The memory's soft figures melt away
One science only will one genius nl , CO
Ho vast is art, so narrow human wit*
Nut only buuiidod to peculiar arts,
Rut oft in those confined to single parts
Like kings we losp the conquests gain'd before,
By vain ambition still to make them more , OR
Kach might his sev'ral province well command,
Would all but htoop to what they understand
First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
By her Just standard, which Is btill the bame
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70
One cleai, uuchangd, and universal light,
Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,
At once the source, and end, and test of Art,
Art from that fund each Just supply provides,
Works without show, and without pomp piesidcs 7f»
In some* fuir Imclv thus th informing1 soul
With spirits feed**, with vigor fills the whole,
Kach motion guides, and e\ iv nerve sustains ,
Itself unseen, but in th effects, remains
Some, to whom Ileav'n In wit bus l>een profuse, SO
Want as much more, to turn it to Its use ,
For wit and judgment often are at strife,
Tho' meant each other s nid, like man and wife
"Us more to guide than spur the Muse s steed ,
Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed , 85
The winged courser,9 like a gen rous1 horse,
Shows most true mettle when vou check his course
Those rules of old dlscoveied, not devis d.
Are Nature still, but Nature methodic d ,
Nature, like liberty Is but restraint 90
Bv the same laws which first herself ordalifd
Hear how Iearn*d Greece her useful rules indites.
When to repress and when indulge our flights ,
High on 1'nrnassus top4 her sons she show'd,
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod , 05
Held from efnr, aloft, th Immortal prlre,
And urged the rest by equal steps to rise
Just precepts thus from great examples glv'n,
She drew from them what they derlv'd from Ileav'n.
The gcn'i ous critic fann d the poet's fire, 100
And taught the world with reason to admire
Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd.
To dress her charms and make her more belov d ,
But following wits from that intention stra\ d.
Who could not win the mlstrens, woo'd the maid ,
Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, 100
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd
So modern 'potbcearies. taught the art
Bv doctor's bills6 to play the doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, 110
i nnimatlng
• Pegasus
•of good stock, thoroughbred, mettlesome
*That is, on the heights of poetic fame
o prescriptions
Ti escribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Home on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
Nor fame noi moths e er spoil'd so much as they
Some drily plain without Invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poems may be made , 115
These leave the sense, their learning to display,
And those explain the meaning quito uway
You then whose judgment the right course would
steer,
Know well each andent's proper character ;
IJ is fable,1 subject, scope in ev ry page , 120
Religion, country, genius of his age ,
Without all these at once before youi eyes,
CaUl vou may, but ne\er criticise
Be Homers works >our studv and delight,
Itead them by day, and meditate by night , 125
Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims
bring,
And tiace the Muses upward to their spring
Still with itself compar'd, bis text peruse ,
And let jour comment to the Mantuan Muse •
When first voung Ma.ro1 In his boundless mind 180
A work f outlast Immortal Home deslgn'd,
I'erhaps he seemed nbo\o the critic a law,
And but from Natuie's fountains scorned to draw,
But when t examine every part lie came,
Nature and Hom< r weie, he found, the same 1*55
Com inc. d, aniaz d, he c herks the bold design ,
And rule's as strict his labor d work confine,
\s if the Stagirlte* oei looked ea< h line
I /earn hence for ancient rules a Just esteem ,
To cop\ Natuie is to copv them 140
Some beauties \et no pieccpts can declare,
lor there s a happiness ns well as care.
MUM i resembles poetn , in ca<h
Are nameless grace s which no methods teach.
And w hich a master hand alone can reach 145
It where the lules not fai enough extend,
(Since rules were made hut to promote their end)
Some luck) licence answer to the full
Th Intent propos d, that licence is a rule
Thus IN K.ISUS, a nearer wav to take, 150
Mav boldly deviate fiom the common track;
Fiom \ulgar bounds with hnuc disorder part,
And snatch a grace hcjond the icach of art,
\Ahich, without passing thro' the Judgment, gains
The heait, and all its end at one e attains 155
In prospects thus, some objects phase our eyes.
Which out of Nature's common order rise,
Ihe shapeless ro< k, or hanging precipice
(Jieat wits sometimes mav gloriously offend,
Vnd rise to faults true critic s dare not mend , 100
But tbo' the ancients thus their rules in\ade ,
( \s kings dispense with laws themselves have made) ,
Moderns beware ' or if \ou must offend
Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end ,
Let it he seldom, and compell'd b> need , 165
And have, at least, their precedent to plead
1 plot storv
•Virgil, who was born near Mantua. Italy
-•The family name of Virgil (Publius Vlrglllus
M.iro)
« Aristotle (384-.122 B 0 ), the famous Greek
philosopher, who was born In Staglra a city in
Macedonia, now A part of Turkey His Poetic*
laid the foundation of literary criticism, and
for centuries, especially in Pope's time, enjoyed
an almost superstitious reverence
1178
ALEXANDEB POPE
The critic else proceed! without remorse,
Seises your fame and puts his lawn In force
I know there are to whoae presumptuous thoughts
Those freer beauties, cv'n In them, seem faults 170
Borne figmes monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,
Conaider'd singly, or beheld too near,
Which, but proportlon'd to their light or place,
Due distance reconciles to form and grace
A prudent chief not always must display 175
His powers In equal ranks, and fair array,
But with th* occasion and the place comply.
Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem,
Nor Is It Ilomer nods, but we that dream * 180
Still green with bays each andent altar stands,
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands ,
Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage,
Destructive war, and all Involving age 184
See, from each clime the learn'd their Incense bring '
Hear, In all tongues, consenting peans ring '
In praise so lust let ev'ry voice be Joined,
And fill the general chorus of mankind
Hall, bards triumphant ' born In happier days ,
Immortal heirs of universal praise ' 190
Whose honors with Increase of age? grow,
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ;
Nations unborn your mightv names shall sound,
And worlds applaud that must1 not vet be found '
Oh, may some spark of vour celestial fire, 195
The Incit, the meanest of your sons inspire,
(That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights ;
Glows while he reads, bqt trembles as he writes)
To teach vain wits a science little known,
T1 admire superior sense, and doubt their own f 200
From AN ER8AT ON MAN
EPISTLE I
Awake, mv Rt John T leave all meaner things
To low ambition and the pride of kings
Let us (M nee life can little more supply
Than just to look about us and to die)
Expatiate free8 o'er all this scene of man , 6
A mighty maze » but not without a plan ;
A wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot,
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit
Together let ns beat* this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield ; 10
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar ,
Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as It files,
And catch the manners living as they rise ,
Laugh where we must, be candid6 where we can , 15
But vindicate the ways of God to man •
I Say first of Ood above, or man below.
What can we reason, but from what we know?
Of man, what see we but his station here
From which to reason or to which refer ? ?'>
Thro* worlds nnnumber'd tho' the God be known,
i Bee Horace's An Poettca, 859-60
* Used here In the original sense of can
•wander at will
« scour, range over
•lenient, charitable
• Bee Porodfee Lo«*, 1, 26
•Tlfl ours to trace bin only la our own.
He, who through vast Immensity can pierce,
See worlds on worlds compose one universe.
Observe how system Into system runs, 25
What other planets circle other suns,
What varTd being peoples every star,
May tell why Heav'n has made us as we are
But of this framei the hearings, and the ties,
The strong connections, nice dependencies, 30
Gradations Just, has thy pervading soul
Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole?
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree.
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?
II Presumptuous man ' the reason wonldst thon
find, 35
Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind?
First, If thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less ?
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the * eeds they shade ? 40
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove.
Of systems possible. If 'tis confest
That Wisdom Infinite must form the best
Where all must full or not coherent be, 45
And all that rises, rise In due degree ,
Then, In the scale of reas'nlng life, 'tis plain,
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man
And all the question (wrangle e'er *o long)
Is only this, If God has plac'd him wrong9 50
Respecting man, whatever wrong we call.
May, must be right, as relative to all
In human works, tho1 labor'd on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain ,
In God's, one single can Its end produce , 55
Yet serves to second too some other use
So man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps arts second to some sphere unknown,
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal ,
'TIs but a part we see, and not a whole. 60
When the proud steed shall know why man re-
strains
His fiery course, or drives Mm o'er the plains ;
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
Ts now a victim, and now EK\ pt's god *
Then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend Ob
His actions', passions', being's, use and end ,
Why doing, suifrlng, check'd. impell'd , and why
This hour a slave, the next a deity
Then say not man's Imperfect, Heav'n in fault ,
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought 70
His knowledge measur'd to his state and place,
His time a moment, and a point bis space
If to be perfect in a certain sphere,
What matter, soon or late, or here or there?
The blest today is as completely so, 75
As who began a thousand years ago
III Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of
Fate,
All but the page prescrlb'd, their present state •
From brutes what men, from men what spirits
know:
'The structure of the universe.
•Apis, the sacred bull of Egypt
AN ESSAY ON MAN
1179
Or who could Buffer being here below ? 80
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Plcas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food.
And licks the hand Just rais'd to shed his blood.
Oh, blindness to the future • kindly given, 85
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n •
Who bees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero polish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or syHtcms into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble bunt, and now a world Of)
Hope humbly then , with trembling pinions soar ,
Wnit the groat teacher Death , and Qod adore
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know.
Hut gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast 95
Man no\or ls( but always to be blest
The soul, uneasy and confln'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come
Lo, the poor Indian ' whose untutor*d mind
Hoes CJod in clouds or hear* him in the wind , 10O
His soul, proud science never taught to stray
Tar as the solar walk, or milkv way ,
A ot simple Nature to his hope has giv'n,
Itchind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler Heav'n ,
Sumo MI for world in depths of woods embrac'd 105
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Whore slaxes once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold
To be. contents his natural desire.
He asks no angel** *lng, no seraph's flre ; 110
Hut thinks, admitted to that equal sky
His faithful dog shall hear hli i company
IV Go, wiser thou ' and. in thy scale of sense
We 1Kb thv opinion against Providence .
Tall imperfection what thou fane y'st such, 115
Kav, "Here he gi\es too little, there ton much ;"
Destroy all cronturos for thy sport or gust,1
Yet <TV, "If man's unhappy. God's unjust :ff
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care,
Alone made perfect here. Immortal there, 120
i .latch from bis hand the balance and the rod,
Re-Judge his Justice, be the Rod of God.
In pride. In reas'nlng pride, our error lies ;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
I'ridr still is aiming at the blent al»odes, 125
Men would he angels, angels would be gods.
\spirinp to he gods, if angels fell,
Aspiring to he angels, men rebel
And who but wishes to Invert the laws
Of ordoi , sins against tlT Eternal Cause 130
V Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine,
Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "Tis for
mine
For me kind Nature wakes her gental pow'r.
Buckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r ;
Annual for mo the grape, the rose renew 185
The |nl re nectnreous, and the balmy dew ;
Foi me, the mine a thousand treasures brings :
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs ;
Sea* mil to waft me, suns to light me rise :
Mt footstool earth, my canopy the skies " 140
But errs not Nature from tffls gracious end.
Prom burning suns when livid deaths descend,
» pleasure of taste
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?
"No ," 'tis reply'd, "the first Almighty Cause 145
Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws ,
Th' exceptions few , some change, since all began
And what created perfect?" — Why then man?
If the great end be human happiness,
Then Nature deviates , and can man do lesh * 150
As much that end a constant course requires
Of show'rs and sunshine, as of man's desires ,
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies,
As men forever temp rate, calm, and wise
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven s design,
Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline' 156
Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms,
Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms ,
Pours fierce ambition in a Cesar's mind, 150
Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind v
From pride, from pride, our very reas'nlng springs
Account for moral, an for nat'ral things
Wh> charge we Heav'n In those. In thete acquit?
In both, to reason right is to submit,
Better for us, perhaps, It might appear, 165
Were there all harmony, all virtue here ,
That never air or ocean felt the wind ;
That ne\er passion dlscompos d the mind.
But all subsists by elemental strife ,
And passions are the elements of life 170
The gen'ral order, since the whole began,
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in man.
VI What would this man? Now upward will
he soar,
And little less than angel, would be more ,
Now looking downwards. Just as grlev'd appears 175
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears
Made for his use all creatures if he call,
Say what their use, had be the pow'rs of all'
Nature to these, without profusion, kind.
The proper organs, proper pom 'rs assigned , 180
Each seeming want compensated of course.
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force ;
All in exact proportion to the state ,
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate
Each beast, each insect happv in its own • 185
Is Heav'n unkind to unn, and man alone?
Shall he alone, whom rational we call.
Be pleas d with nothing, if not hless'd with alP
The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find)
Is not to act or think beyond mankind , 190
No pow rs of hodv or of soul to share.
But what his nature and his state can bear.
Why has not man a microscopic eye ?
For this plain reason, man is not a fly
Say what the use. were finer optics giv'n, 105
T' Inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n*
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er,
To smart and agonlro at e\ery pore'
Or. quick effluvia darting through the brain,
Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200
If Nature thund'red In his op'nlng ears,
And stunned htm with the music of the spheres,1
1 According to the old Ptolemaic astronomy, the
earth was the center of the universe, with the
planets and stars revolving about it in concen-
tric spheres The revolution of these spheres
produced music too fine for mortal ears to hear.
1180
SAMUEL JOHNSON
How would |ie wish that Heav'n had left him still
The whisp'ring Bephyr, and the purling rill*
Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 1*03
Alike in what it gives, and what denies?
VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends,
The ecale of sensual,1 mental pow'ra ascends
Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race,
From the green myriads in the peopled grass 210
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
The mole*s dim curtain, and the lynx's beam
Of smell, the headlong lioness between
And hound sagacious on the tainted green
Of hearing, from the lifo that fills the flood, 218
To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine T
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois' nous herbs extra cts the healing dew ? 220
How instinct vanes in the grov'lling nwlne,
Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine '
Twlxt that and reason, what a nice barrier,
Forever sep'rate, yet forever near »
Remembrance and reflection how ally'd ; 225
What thin partitions sense from thought divide
And middle natures, how they long to Join,
Yet never pass th* insuperable line *
Without this Just gradation, could they be
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee *> 230
The pow'rs of all nubdu'd by thee alone,
Is not thy reason all these pow'rs in one?
VIII See, through this air, this ocean, and thta
earth,
All matter quick,* and bursting into birth.
Above, how high, progressive life may go T 235
Around, how wide ' how deep extend below !
Vast chain of being ' which from God began,
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see,
No glass can reach , from infinite to thee, 240
From thee to nothing — On superior pow'rs
Were we to press, inferior might8 on ours ,
Or in the full creation leave a void,
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd
From Nature's chain whatever link \ ou strike, 215
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike
And, if each system In gradation roll
Alike essential to th' amaring whole,
The least confusion but in one, not all
That system only but the whole must fall 2RO
Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly,
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky ;
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd,
Being on being wreck'd, and world on world ,
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, 255
And Nature tremble to the throne of Ood
AH this dread order break-— for whom9 for thee?
Vile worm ' — Oh, madness » pride ' impiety '
IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dnst to tread,
Or, hand, to toll, asplr'd to be the head ? 260
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind?
Just at absurd for any part to claim
1 pertaining to the senses
•alive
•That is, Inferior persons might pren.
To be another, in this gen'ral frame,1
Just as absurd, to mourn the 4asks or palm, 265
The great directing Mind of all otdains
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature IH, and God the soul ,
That chang'd through all, and \ct in all the same ,
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame ; 270
Warms in the sun, refreshen in the breeise,
OlowH in the stars, and blossoms In the trees,
Lives thro' nil life, extends thro' all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, Informs our mortal part, 275
As full, as pei feet, in a hair as heart ;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt Hcraph that ndnres and burns *
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all 280
X Cease then, nor order Imperfection name •
Oui proper bliss depends on what we blame
Know thy own point this kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Ileav'n bestows on thee
Submit — In this, or any other sphere, 2S6
Secure to be ns blest as thou cunst bear
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All nature is but Art, unknown to thee;
All chaiice, direction, which thou canst not see , 200
All dis<ord, hnrinon> not understood ,
All partial e\il, universal good
And, spite of pride, In erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, — \Vhnte\er Is, is right
SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784)
From PREFACE TO SHAKSI'EARE
1766
The poet, of whose works T have undertaken
the re\lsinn, tnuy now begin to a SHU me the dig-
nity of an fine lint, arid claim the prhilcgc of
established fume and prescrlplUo \eneratlon
He has long outlhed his cciiturv, the term com-
monly fixed aH the test of II tern iv merit What-
e\er advantages he might once ilerl\e from per-
sonal allusions, locnl customs, or temporary opin-
ions, have for many years been lost, and every
topic nf merriment, or motive of sorrow, which
the modes of artificial life afforded him, now
only obscure the scenes which they once illumi-
nated The effects of favor and competition are
at an end, the tradition of his friendships and
his enmities has perished , his works support no
opinion with arguments, nor supply any faction
with invectives , they can neither indulge vanity,
nor gratify malignity , but are read without any
other reason than the desire of pleasure, and are
therefore praised only as pleasure in obtained;
yet, thus unassisted by interest or passion, they
have passed through variations of taste and
changes of manners, and, as they devolved from
1 universe
•According to .Tewlflh legend, the seraphs were
angels who lived only n day, being consumed by
fire in the ardor of their worship See Long-
fellow's Nandalphon, which is based, in part, on
this legend.
PREFACE TO 8HAK8PEABE
1181
one generation to another, have leceived now
honors at every transmission.
But because human judgment, though it be
gin dim 11} gaining upon certainty, never becomeb
infallible, and approbation, though long con- 6
tinued, may yet be only the approbation of preju-
dice or fobbion, It is proper to inquiie by what
peculiarities of tatelleucc Shukspcnie has gained
and kept the favor of his countrymen
Nothing tan please man}, and please long, but 10
just icpieientullons of general natuie Partltu
1m luimncih cnii lie known to fin, and therefon
ftw onl\ (ii n judge how n»ailv tbev aie copied
The insulin 'ninhlualioiis of funciful I mention
mav cMlght awhile, h> tlmt uoveltv of which the 16
common satiety oi II le sends us all in quest,
but the pleasures of sudden wonder aie noon ex
hiiusted, und the mind can only repose on the
stability of truth
Shnkspene is, nho\e all wilters, at least above 80
all modem write is, the poet of nature, the poet
that holds up to his leadtiH a faithful mirror of
uuimieis and of life Ills diameters are not
modified In the customs of particular places, uu-
pimtued bj the test ot the woild, by the pccu- 25
limit its oi studies or pi of essions, wluih can op
ci.ite hut upon ismall minibus, oi l>\ the ncu
dents of tiansient l.ishifiiis or tempoiai\ opln
ions, MX \ ,ue the genuine progeny of loiiimon
liiiiniiiiit\, sudi us the vvoilcl will always supply 80
di id observation will uhviivs find His pel sons
act and speak In the Inilueucc of those geneial
passions mid pnnnples lu which all minds are
•iKitatid and the \\hole system of life is con
tinned in motion In the writings of othei poets 86
i charictei Is too often on individual; in those
of ShaLspeare it is conmioiilv a species
It N from thN wide extension of design that
so ninth instiuction is deilved It is this \\hidi
fills the plnvs of Sh.ikspeare with prattle ill 40
axioms ,uid doinestK wisdom It was sun] of
Eiulpides tint c\eiv verse was n precept, and it
mav be sahl ol Slmkspiaie that fiorn his woiks
miy IK <olle<ted n s\stem of dMl and economical
pnidimi* ^ et his ical power N not hhown In *46
the splendoi of partlculir passages, but by the
piojiicss of his fable*1 and the tenor of hlH dia-
logue, ind he th it tries to letotnmend him by
select quotations \sill succeed like the pedant in
Illeroc les, w '10, win n he* offei ed his house to Rale, 60
carried a brkk in his pocket as a specimen
It will not enHllv be im iglnecl how much Shnk
spc>aie excels in accommodating hiM sentiments to
reil hie but by (ompaiing him with other an
thois It was ohhcrved of the ancient schools of 66
declamation that the rnoie diligenth they weie
frequented the moie was the student disqualified
for the wttilcl. becnuse he found nothing there
which he should e\er meet in any other place
The same 1'Miiark may be applied to eveiy stage* 60
but that of Shakspeare The theatre when it is
under any other direction IB peopled by such
chara(ten. as weie never seen, conversing in a
language which was never heard, upon topics
which will ne\er arise in the commerce of man- 66
i nlot stcirv
» Johnson means the modern stage only.
kind But the dialogue of thii author IB often
HO evidently determined by the incident which
produces it, and IB pursued with no much ease
and simplicity, that It seems scarcely to claim
the meilt of fiction but to have been gleaned by
diligent selection out of common conversation
and common occurrences
I pon every other stage the universal agent In
love, by whose power all good and evil is dis-
tubuted and every action quickened or retarded
To bilng a lover, a lady, and a rival into the
fable , to entangle them in contradictory obliga-
tions, perplex them with oppositions of interest,
und harass them with violence of desires incon-
sistent with each other, to make them meet in
rapture and pait in agony , to fill their mouths
with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sorrow, to
distiess them as nothing human ever was dis-
tiessed, to deliver them as nothing human ever
>\as delivered , is the business of a modern drama-
tist For this, proliability is violated, life is mis-
represented, and language is depraved. But love
is onlj one of many passions , and an it has no
gieut Influence upon the sum of life, it has little
operation in the dramas of a poet who caught
Ins ideas from the living world and exhibited
only what he saw before him lie knew that
am other passion, us1 it was regular or exorbi-
tant,8 was u cause of happiness or cilamity
Characters thus ample and general were not
easil\ discriminated and preserved, yet perhaps
no poet evei kept his personages more distinct
from each other. I will not saj, with Pope, that
every speech may be assigned to the proper
speaker, because manv speeches there are which
hove nothing characteilstical, but, perhaps,
though some may be equally adapted to every
pel son, It will be difficult to find that any can
be properly transferred from the present pos-
sessor to another claimant The choice is right
when there is reason for choice
Othei dianmtlsts can only gain attention by
hvperbollciil or aggravated characters, by fabulous
and unexampled excellence or depravity, as the
writers of barbarous romances invigorated the
reader by a giant and a dwarf, and he that
should form bis expectations of human affairs
from the play or from the tale would be equally
deceived Shakspeare has no heroes, his scenes
are occupied only by men, who act and speak as
(he nadei thinks that he should himself have
spoken or acted on the same occasion , even
wheie the agency is supernatural, the dialogue is
le\el with life Other writers disguise the most
natural passions and most frequent Incidents,
so that he who contemplates them in the book
will not know them in the world Hhakspeart*
approximates the remote and familiarizes the
wonderful; the event which he represents will
not happen, but if it were possible its effects
would probably be such as he has assigned ; and
it may be sold that he has not only shown hu-
man nature an it acts in real exigencies but as it
would be found in trials to which It cannot be
ei posed
1 according as
•out of its oi bit , Irregular
1182
SAMUEL JOHNSON
This, therefore, IB the pralie of Bhakspeare,
that his drama i« the mirror of life , that he who
has mated hii Imagination In following the
phantoma which other wrltera raise up before
him may here be cured of his delirious ecstaslea 6
by reading human sentiments In human lan-
guage, by scenes from which a hermit may esti-
mate the transaction!! of the world and a con-
fessor predict the progress of the passions
His adherence to general nature ha* exposed 10
him to the censure of critics who form their
judgments upon narrower principles Dennis and
Rymer think his Romans not sufficiently Roman*
and Voltaire censures his kings as not completely
royal1 Dennis is offended that Menenlus, a sen- 16
ator of Rome, should play the buffoon , and
Voltaire perhaps thinks decency violated when
the DanUh Uburper* ib represented a& a drunkard
Bat Shakspeare always makes nature predomi-
nate over accident , and if he preserves the essen- 20
tial character. Is not very careful of distinctions
superinduced and adventitious His story re-
quires Romans or kings, but he thinks only on
men He knew that Home, like every other city,
had men of all dispositions; and, wanting a 26
buffoon, he went into the senate-bouse for that
which the senate-house would certainly have af-
forded him He *as Inclined to show an usurper
and a murderer not only odious but despicable;
he therefore added drunkenness to his other 80
qualities, knowing that kings love wine, like
other men, and that wine exerts Its natural
powers upon kings These are the petty cavils
of petty minds A poet overlooks the casual dls
Unction of country and condition, as a painter, 86
satisfied with the figure, neglects the drapery
• ••• • ••••
Shakspeare, with his excellences, has likewise
faults, and faults sufficient to obscure and over
whelm any other merit I shall show them In 40
the proportion In which they appear to me, with-
out envious malignity or superstitious veneration
No question can be more innocently discussed
than a dead poet's pretensions to renown, and
little regard Is due to that bigotry which sets 46
candor higher than truth
His first defeat Is that to which may be 1m
puted most of the evil In books or in men lie
sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much
more careful to please than to Instruct that he 60
seems to write without any moral purpose From
his writings, indeed, a system of social duty may
be selected, for he that thinks reasonably must
think morally ; but his precepts and axioms drop
casually from Mm , he makes no just distribution 66
of good or evil, nor is always careful to show
in the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked,
he carries his persons indifferently through right
and wrong, and at the close dismisses them wlth-
*8ee Ttamls's On the Geniu* and Writing* of
Rhaletpcare (1711), and Ryroer's A Bhort
Vieto of Tragedy (1003)
• See Voltaire's "On Tragedy," In his Letters on
the English (1788). and the Preface to
Jfemfamfo, Part 3 (1748) : also "Dramatic
Art,*' in his Philosophical Dictionary (17A4-
60) and the Letter to the French Academy
•aaudlus In ffamlct.
out further care and leaves their examples to
operate by chance. This fault the barbarity of
his age cannot extenuate, for It la always a
writer's duty to make, the world better, and Jus-
tice Is a virtue Independent on time or place
The plots are often so loosely formed that a
very slight consideration may Improve them, and
so carelessly pursued that he seems not always
fully to comprehend his own design He omits op-
portunities of Instructing or delighting, which the
train of Ms story seems to force upon him, and
apparently rejects those exhibitions which would
be more affecting, for the sake of those which
are more easy.
It may be observed that In many of his plays
the latter part is evidently neglected When he
found himself near the end of his work and In
A lew of his reward, he shortened the labor to
snatch the profit He theiefore remits his efforts
where he should most vigorously exert them, and
his catastrophe Is Improbably produced or imper-
fectly represented
He had no regard to distinction of time or
place, but gives to one age or nation, without
scruple, the customs, Institutions, and opinions
of another, at the expense not only of likelihood
but of possibility These faults Pope has en-
deavored, with more teal than judgment, to
transfer to his imagined Interpolators 1 We need
not wonder to find Hector quoting Aristotle,*
when we see the loves of Theseus and Hlppolyta
combined \\ith the gnthlc mythology of failles"
Shakspeare, Indeed, *as not the only violator
of chronology, for In the same age Sidney, who
wanted not the advantages of learning, has, in
his Arcadia, confounded the pastoral with the
feudal times,* the days of innocence, quiet, and
security with those of turbulence, violence, and
adventure
In his comic scenes he Is seldom very success-
ful when he engages his characters in reciproca-
tions of smartness and contents of sarcasm their
Jests are commonly grosa, and their pleasantry
licentious, neither his gentlemen nor his ladles
1m e much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distin-
guished from his clowns by any appearance of
refined manners Whether he represented tho
real conversation of his time Is not easy to de-
termine tho reign of Kllrabeth Is commonly sup-
posed to have been a time of statcllncfts, formal-
ity, and reserve, yet perhaps the relaxations of
that severity were not very elegant There must,
however, have been always some modes of gayety
preferable to others, and a writer ought to choose
the best.
Tn tragedy his performance seems constantly to
* See Pope's Preface to the Works of Shakespeare
< 1 72ft )
•In Trottua and rrr*Wa, II, 2, 103-107 Hector
was the bravest of the Trojan warriors in the
TroJan War, which took place at least right
centuries before the time of Aristotle (384-
.122 B T), the great Greek philosopher.
•In A Midsummer Moht'i Dream. Theseus, an
ancient Greek hero, and Hlppolvta, Queen of
the V masons, are made contemporary with
Oberon, Robin Gooflfellow, and other charac-
ters of English folk-lore
4 The days of ancient Greece with those of the
Middle Ages.
PBEFAGE TO BHAKSPEAEE
1183
be worse as his labor Is more The effailoni of
passion which exigence force* out are for tbe
most part striking and energetic, but whenever
be solicits bis invention or strains his faculties,
the offspring of bis throes is tumor, meanness, 5
tedlousnoss, and obscurity
In narration he affects a disproportionate
pomp of diction and a wearisome train of cir-
cumlocution, and tells the Incident Imperfectly in
many words which might have been more plainly 10
delivered In few. Narration in dramatic poetry
is naturally tedious, as it is unanlmated and in
active and obstruct** the progress of the action ,
It Rhould therefore always be rapid, and enliv-
ened by frequent interruption Shakspeare found 16
it an incnmbrance, and, Instead of lightening it
bv brevity, endeavored to recommend It by dig-
nity and splendor
Ills declamation*, or set speeches, are com-
monly cold and weak, for his power was the 20
power of nature, vthen he endeavored, like other
tragic witters, to catch opportunities of amplifi-
cation, and, in«tefi<] of inquiring what the occa-
sion demanded, to show how much his stores of
knowledge could supply, he seldom escapes with- 26
out the plrv or resentment of his reader.
Tt Is incident to him to be now and then en-
tangled with an unwieldy sentiment, which he
cannot well expiess and 1*111 not reject, he strug-
gles with it a while, and, if it continues stub- 80
horn, comprises it in words such ax occur, and
loaves It to he disentangled and evolved by those
who lune more leisure to bestow upon It
Not that always where the language is intricate
the thought Is Mihtle, or the Image always great SB
where the line is bulkv , the equality of words to
things Is Aer\ often neglected, and trivial senti-
ments and \ulgar ideas disappoint the atten-
tion, to which they are recommended by sonorous
eplthcth and swelling figures 40
Hut the admirers of this groat poet have most
reason to complain when he approaches nearest
to his highest excellence, and seems fullv re-
solved to sink them in dejection and mollify
them with tender emotions by the fall of great- 46
ness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses of
lo\e What he does best he soon ceases to do
He Is not soft and pathetic without some idle
conceit or contemptible equivocation He no
sooner begins to move than he counteracts him- 60
self, and terror and pity, as they are rising in
the mind, arc checked and blasted by sudden
frigidity
A quibble Is to Rhakspeare what luminous
vapors are to the traveller; he follows it at all 65
adventures; it is sure to lead him out of his
way, and sure to engulf him in the mire It has
some malignant power over his mind, and its
fascinations ar» irresistible Whatever be the
dlgnitv or profundity of his disquisition, whether 60
be be enlarging knowledge or exalting affection,
whether he be nmnslng attention with Incidents
or enchaining it in suspense, let but a quibble
spring up before him and he leaves his work un-
finished A quibble is the golden apple for which 66
he will always turn aside from his career or
stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and
barren as it Is, gave him such delight that he
was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of
reason, propriety, and truth. A quibble was to
him the fatal Cleopatra* for which be lost the
world and was content to lose it.
It will be thought strange that in enumerating
the defects of this writer I have not yet men-
tioned bis neglect of the unities/ his violation of
those laws which have been instituted and estab-
lished by the Joint authority of poets and critics
For his other deviations from the art of writ-
ing, I resign him to critical Justice without mak-
ing any other demand In his favor than that
which must be indulged to all human excellence
—that his virtues be rated with his failings,
but from the censure which this irregularity may
bring upon him I shall, with due reverence to
that learning which I must oppose, adventure to
try how I can defend him
HI 4 histories, being neither tragedies nor com-
edies, are not subject to any of their laws noth-
ing more is necessary to all the praise which they
expect than that the changes of action be M pre-
pared as to he understood, that the Incidents be
various and affecting, and the characters con-
sistent, natural, and distinct No other unity Is
Intended, and therefore none is to be sought
In his other works he has well enough preserved
the unltv of action He has not, indeed, an In-
trigue regularlv perplexed and regularly un-
ravelled ; he does not endeavor to hide his design
only to discover it, for this is seldom the order
of real events and Shakspearp IK the poet of
nature hut his plan has commonly, what Aris-
totle requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end ,
one event is concatenated* with another, and the
conclusion follows by easy consequence There
are perhaps some incidents that might be spared,
as in otber poets there is much talk that only
fills up time upon the stage; but the general
lURtcm makes gradual advances, and the end of
the play Is the end of expectation.
To the unities of time and place he has shown
no regard , and perhaps a nearer view of the
principles on which they stand will diminish
their value and withdraw from them the venera-
tion which, from the time of fornellle,* th*»v
have \ery generally recehed, by discovering that
they have glien more trouble to the poet than
pleasure to the auditor
The necessity of observing the unities of time
and place arises from the supposed necessity of
making the drama credible The critics hold It
Impossible that an action of months or years can
1 The beautiful Quern of Egypt for whom Antony
gave up his share in the Roman government
The subtitle of l)r> den's All for Lore, which
deals * 1th the lo\e of Antony and Cleopatra, is
The World Writ Lost
• The law of dramatic unities that in a drama the
action must spring from a single controlling
purpose and he represented as occurring in one
place, that the supposed time within which the
action develops must not exceed the actual time
of performance, and that the scene must not
shift from place to place
8 connected , linked
* Pierre Cornellle (1606-84), a noted French
dramatist, whose late plays conformed rather
closely to the classical rule regarding unities
of place, time, and action.
1184
SAMUEL JOHNSON
be possibly believed to past in three hours, or
that the spectator can suppose himself to sit In
the theatre while ambassadois go and return be-
tween distant kings, while armies are levied and
towns besieged, while an exile wanders and re-
turns, or till he whom they saw courting his
mistress shall lament the untimely fall of his
son The mind revolts from evident falsehood,
and fiction IOHOS its force when it departs from
the resemblance of reality From the narrow
limitation of time necessarily arlnen the contrac-
tion of place The spectator, who knows that he
saw the first act at Alexandria, cannot suppose
that he sees the next at Rome,1 at a distance to
which nut the dragons of Medea* could in so
short a time have transported him , he knows
with certainty that he has not changed his place,
and he knows that place cnnnot change itself —
that what was a house cannot become a plain,
that what wab Thebes can never be Fersepolls.*
Such is the triumphant language with which a
critic exults over the misery of an irregular poet,
and exults commonly without resistance or reply.
It is time, therefore, to toll him, by the author-
ity of Rhakflpeare, that he assumes, as an un-
questionable principle a position which, while
his breath is forming it into * orris, his under
standing pronounces to IM* false It is false that
any representation is mistaken for reality, that
any dramatic fable in Its materiality was ever
credible or for i single moment was ever credited
The objection arising trom the impossibility of
passing the first hour at Alexandria and the next
at Rome, supposes that, when the play opens,
the spectator really imagines himself at Alex-
andria, and believes that his walk to the theatre
has been a vo>age to Kg\pt and that he lives in
the davs of Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he
that imagines this may Imagine more He that
can take the stage at one time for the palace of
the Ptolemies4 may take it In half an hour for
the promontory of Actium Delusion, if delusion
be admitted, has no certain limitation, if the
spectator can be once persuaded that his old ac-
quaintance are Alexander and (Vsnr, that a room
illuminated with candles in the plain of Phor-
salla or the bank of Granicus, he is in a state of
elevation above the reach of reason or of truth,
and from the heights of empyrean poetry may
despise the circumscriptions of terrestrial na-
ture There is no reason why a mind thus wan-
dering in ecstasy should count the clock, or why
an hour should not be a eenturv In that calenture*
of the brain that can make the stage a field
10
1In the first act of Antony and Cleopatra, the
scene shlftn from Alexandria to Rome and
then back to Alexandria
•Medea was an enchantress, the daughter of the
King of Colchis, an ancient province in A Ma.
In Medea, a plav by Euripides (480-400 B C ), 60
the famous Greek tragic poet, she is borne
through the air in a chariot drawn by winged
dragons
•Thebes was the capital of Bo?otia, in Greece :
Persepolls was an ancient capital of Persia
The two places *ere far apart
4 The residence of Cleopatra, the last of the royal
family of the Ptolemies, in Alexandria, Egypt
•passion, ardor
The truth is that the spectators are always in
their senses, and know, from the first act to the
last, that the stage is only a stage and that the
players are only players. ?hey came to hear a
certain number of lines recited with Just gesture
and elegant modulation The lines relate to some
action, and an action must be in some place , but
the different actions that complete a story may
be in places very remote from each other, and
where is the absurdity of allowing that space to
represent first Athens and then Sicily, which was
always known to lie neither Sicily nor Athens
but a modern theatre?
By supposition, as place is introduced, time
may be extended , the time required by the fable
elapses for the most part between the acts, for
of so much of the action as is represented the
real and poetical duration is the same If in the
first act preparations for war against Mlthrldates
are represented to be made in Rome, the event of
the war may without absurdity be represented,
in the catastrophe, as happening in Pontns 1 we
know that there is neither war nor preparation
for uar, we know that \\e are neither in Rome
nor Pontus, that neither Mithrldates nor Lucul-
lus are before us The drama exhibits succes-
sive imitations of successive actions, and why
may not the second imitation represent an action
that happened years after the first, if It be so
connected *ith It that nothing but time can be
supposed to intervene *> Time is, of all modis of
existence1, most obsequious to the imagination , a
lapse of years is as easily conceived as a passage
of hours In contemplation *e easily contract
the time of real actions, and therefore willingly
permit it to be contracted when we only see their
imitation
It will be asked how the drama mcnes* if it
is not credited It is credited with all the credit
due to a drama It Is credited, whenever It
moves, as a just picture of a real original, as
representing to the auditor what he would him-
self feel If he weie to do or suffer what is there
feigned to be suffered or to be done. The reflec-
tion that strikes the heart IH not that the evils
before us arc real evils, but that they are evils
to *hich we ourselves mny be exposed If there
be any fallacy, it IH not that we fancy the play-
ers, but that we fancy ourselves, unhappy for a
moment, but we rather lament the possibility
than suppose the presence of misery, as a mother
weeps over her babe when she remembers that
death may take it from her The delight of trag-
edy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction;
If we thought murders and treasons real, they
would please no more
Voltaire expresses his wonder that our author's
extravagances are endured by a nation which
has seen the tragedy of Cato. Let him be an-
swered that Add! son speaks the language of
poets, and flhakspcarc of men We find In Goto
Innumerable beauties which enamor us of Its au-
thor, but we see nothing that acquaints us with
Racine's \tU1iritate (1673) and Nathaniel
Lee's Mithrldates, King of Pontu* (1078)
•affects the audience
THE LIVES OF THE ENGLISH POETS
1185
humao sentiment* or human actions; we place
it with the fairest and the noblest progeny which
judgment propagates by conjunction with learn-
ing, but Othello is the vigorous and vivacious off-
spring of observation impregnated by genius.
Ua-to affords a splendid exhibition of artificial
and fictitious manners, and delivers just and
noble sentiments, in diction easy, elevated, and
harmonious, but its hopes and fears communicate
no vibration to the heart , the composition refers
us only to the writer , we pronounce the name of
Cato, but we think on Addlson
The work of a correct and regular writer is a
garden accurately formed and diligently planted,
\arlcd with shades, and scented with flowers
the composition of Shakespeare is a forest, in
which onks extend their branches, and pines
tower in the air, interspersed sometimes with
weeds and brambles, and sometimes giving shel-
ter to mjrtlpfl and to roses, filling the eye with
awful pomp, and gratifying the mind with end-
less diversity Other poets display cabinets of
precious rarities, minutely finished, wrought into
shape, aud polished into brightness. Shakspeare
opens a mine which contains gold and diamonds
in uneihaustihle plentv, though clouded by in-
crustations, debased by Impurities, and mingled
with a mass of meaner materials.
THE LIVES OP THE ENGLISH POETS
1777-80 1779-81
From POPE
Of composition there are different methods.
Rome emplov at one e memory and invention and,
*lth little Intermediate use of the pen, form and
polish large masses bv continued meditation, and
write their productions only when, In their cwn
opinion, thev have completed them It is related
of Viiffll that his cuHtom was to pour out a great
number of \eraes in the morning, and pass the
day In retrenching exuberances, and correcting
inaccuracies The method of Pope, as may be
collected from his translation,1 was to write his
first thoughts in bin first words, and gradually to
nmpllf\, decorate, rectify, and refine them.
With such faculties, and such dispositions,8 he
excelled eveiv other writer in poetical prudence
he wrote in such a manner as might expose him
to few harardn He used almost always the same
fabric of verse ," and, Indeed, by those few essays
whlc h he made of any other, he did not enlarge
his reputation Of this uniformity the certain
consequence was readiness and dexterity By
perpetual practice, language had, in bin mind, a
systematical arrangement; having always the
same u«e for words, he bad words so selected and
combined ns to be readv at his call This increase
of facility he confessed himself to have perceived
in the progress of his translation.
1 Pope translated the THad and the (Mywry, and
wiote imitations or translations of Horace and
of several English poets, notably Chaucer
•Eighteenth century writers frequently used the
plural where we use the singular.
• That is, the heroic couplet.
But what was yet of more Importance, his
effusions were always voluntary, and bis subjects
chosen by himself Ills independence secured
him from drudging at a task, and laboring upon
5 a barren topic. He never exchanged praise for
money,1 nor opened a shop of condolence or con-
gratulation His pouns, therefore, were scarcely
ever temporary. He suffered coronations and
royal marriages to pass without a song; and
10 derived no opportunities from recent events, nor
any popularity from the accidental disposition of
his readers. He never was reduced to the neces-
sity of soliciting the sun to shine upon a birth-
day, of calling the graces and vlitues to attend a
16 wedding, or of saying what multitudes have said
before him When he could produce nothing new,
he was at liberty to be silent
Ills publications were foi the same reason
never nasty He Is said to have sent nothing to
20 the press till it had lain two years under his
Inspec tion , it Is at least certain that he ventured
nothing without nice examination He suffered
the tumult of imagination to subside, and the
mneltics of invention to grow familiar He knew
26 that the mind is alwavs enamored of its own
produc tlons, and did not trust his first fondness
He consulted his friends, and listened with great
willingness to criticism , and what was of more
Importance, he consulted himself, and let nothing
80 pass against his own judgment
He professed to have learned his poetry from
Dryden, whom, whenever an opportunity was
presented, he praised through his whole life with
unvaried liberality, and perhaps his character
86 may reeene some illustration if he be compared
with his master
Integrity of understanding and nicety of dis-
cernment were allotted in a less proportion to
Drvden than to Pope The rectitude of Drydon's
40 mind uas sufficiently shown by the dismission of
his poetical prejudices,* and the rejection of
unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers Hut
Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment
that he had He wrote, and profcnstd to write,
45 merely for the people, and when he pleased
others, he contented himself He spent no time
in struggles to rouse latent powers , he never at-
tempted to make that better which was already
good, nor often to mend what he must have
60 known to be faulty He wrote, as he tells us,
with very little consideration, when occasion or
necessity called upon him, he poured out what
the present moment happened to supply, and,
when onee it had passed the press, ejected it
66 from his mind , for when he had no pecuniary
interest, he had no further Kolkitnde
Pope was not content to satinfy, he desired to
excel , and therefore always endeavored to do his
„ l According to Warburton, Pope Is snld to have
w been offered a large sum of money bv the
Duchess of Marlborougb to write a good char-
acter of her husband hut absolutely refused
It SeeJ Spence's Anrrffotcvt, Ofar nations, and
Character*, of Roots and Men, Collected from
the Ctoni rr*ation of Mr Pope and Other Emi-
nent PrrnoHs of Hit* Time (1820).
•Dryden finally abandoned the heroic couplet for
blank verse.
1186
EDMUND
best, he did not court the candor,* bat dared the
Judgment, of hla reader, and expecting no Indul-
gence from others, he showed none to himself
He examined lines and words with minute and
punctilious observation, and retouched every part 6
with Indefatigable diligence till he had left noth-
ing to be forguen.
For thin reason he kept his pieces very long
In bis hands, while he considered and reconsidered
them The only poem* which can be mippoaed to 10
have heen written with sue h regard to the times
as might hasten theh publication, were the two
satires of Thutv-iwht,* of which Dodslev told me
that they were hi ought to him by the author
that they might be fairlv copied "Almost every 16
line,*' he Raid, "was then written twice over, I
gave him a elean transcript, which he spnt some
time afterwards to me for the preRR, with almost
every line written twice over a second time "
IIlR declaration that hln rare for hiR works 80
ceased at their publication was not strictly true
HiR parental attention never abandoned them .
what he found amiss in the first edition, he
Hllently corrected In those that followed He
appearR to have revised the Iliad, and freed it 26
from some of HR Imperfections , anrl the ff«*ay on
Cntirtirm received manv improvements after its
first appearance It will Reldom be found that
he altered without adding clearness, elegance, or
vigor rope had perhaps the judinnrnt of Dry- 80
den , but Dryden certainly wanted the diligence
of Pope.
In acquired knowledge, the RUperlorlty must
be allowed to Drvden, whose education wammore
scholastic, and who, before he became an author, 85
had been allowed more time for study, with bet-
ter menus of Information His mind has a larger
range, and he collects his Images and illustrations!
from a more extenRive circumference of science
Dryilen knew more of man in his general nature, 40
and Pope In his local manners The notions of
Dryden were formed by comprehensive Rpecula-
tlon , and those of Tope by minute attention
There lb more dignity In the knowledge of Dry-
den, and more certainty in that of Pope 45
Poetry \vas not the sole praise of either, for
both excelled likewise In prose ; nut Pope did not
borrow bis prose from hie predecessor. The stylo
of Dryden IK capricious and varied , that of Pope
is cautious and uniform Dryden observes1 the BO
motion! of hiR own mind , Pope constrains his
mind to his own rules of composition Dryden
li sometimes vehement and rapid , Pope Is al
ways smooth, uniform, and gentle Drydcn'R
page la a natural field, rising into Inequalities, 86
and diversified by the varied exulxrance of abun-
dant vegetation ; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven
by the scythe, and levelled by the roller
Of genius, that power which constitutes a
poet; that quality without which Judgment In °°
cold, and knowledge Is Inert; that energy which
collects, combines, ampllfleb, and animates, the
1 Indulgence, kindness
•Now known as llpiloque to the ftatire*. hut first
entitled One ThouHand f*ucn Ilvndrttl and
Thirty-Writ, from the year of publication
'obeys, follows
superiority must, with some hesitation, be al-
lowed to Dryden. It Is not to be inferred that
of thin poetic*! vigor Pope had only a little be-
cause Dryden had \more, for every other writer
since Milton must give place to I 'ope , and even
of Dryden it must be said that, if he has brighter
paragraphs, he has not better pooms Dryden's
performances were always hasty, either excited
by Homo external occasion, or extorted by domes-
tit necessity , he composed without consideration,
and published without cnimtlon What his
mind could supply at call, or gather In one ex-
cursion, was till that he sought, and all that he
gave. The dllatoiy caution of Pope enabled him
to condense his sentiments, to multiply his
Images, and to accumulate all that study might
produce, or chance might supply If th« flights
of Dryden therefore are higher, Pope continues
longer on the wing If of Drvden's nie the blaze
Is brighter, of Pope'H the heat Is more regular
and constant Dryden often MI i posses expecta-
tion, and Pope never falls below it Dnden Is
read with frequent astonishment, and Pope ullh
peipetuul delight
This parallel will, I hope, when It Is well con-
sidered, lie found Just, anil If Ilie lender should
snspcct me, as I snspott mvs<lf, of some imitl.il
fondness for the meiuoi y of Drvdc nf let him not
too hastilj condemn im ioi iy«li till Ion and In-
quiry may, perhaps, show him tne icasonahlcncss
of my determination
EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797)
From REFLECTIONS ON THE INVOLUTION
IN FUAM'K
MO 1700
On the foieuoon of the fourth of November last,
Doctor Richard Prue, u Nozi-Contoimlng minister
of eminence, incaihod at the Dissc'ntmg mcctiiif;-
housc* of the Old Jewry," to his dub or boiU'tjJ
a very cxtraotdlnurj miscellaneous soimon, In
which there arc some good moral und leliglous
sentiments, and not ill c \prcsRcd, mixed up In a
soit of porridge of \atlous political opinions and
reflections, but the Revolution in Fiame is the
grand Ingredient In the caldron • I consider the
address4 tiansmitted by the Revolution Woclcty
to the National Assembly, through Earl Stan-
hope,15 as originating In the prim I pi OR of the
sermon and as a corollary from them It WUH
moved by the preacher of th.it disc out se It was
paRAcd by those who cimie reeking from the effeit
of the sermon, without iny censure or qualifica-
tion, expressed or Implied If, however, any of
the gentlemen concerned shall wish to separate the
sermon from the revolution, they know how to
1 \ street in the center of London, so named from
a svnngoguc whh h formerly stood there
3 1 he Revolution Society formed In commemora-
tion of the EngllHh Revolution of IftHH It
s\mpatblxpd with the French Revolution
•»Sep J/orbrfA. IV, 1, .14
4 A n address of sympathy to the National Assem-
bly of France
* Charles Stanhope, third Karl H tun hone (1751-
1810), was chairman of the Revolution So-
ciety*
BEPLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE
1187
acknowledge the one and to disavow the other
They may do it , I cannot
For my part, I looked on that sermon as the
public declaration of a man muc h connected with
literary caballcro and Intriguing philosophers,
with political theologians and theological politi-
cians, both at home and abroad I know thcj
set him up as a sort of oracle , because, with the
best Intentions In the world, he naturally philip-
pistH,1 and chants his prophetic song In evict
unison with their designs
That sci moii Is in a strain which I believe has
not been hoaid in this kingdom, in ant of the
pulpits which are tolerated or encouraged In it,
since the year 104N, when a predecessor of Dr.
Price, the Reverend Hugh Peters, made the vault
of the klng'b own chapel at 8t James's ring with
the honor and privilege of the saints,* who, with
the "high pialseh of (Sod in their months and a
too-edged sword in their hands, were to execute
Judgment on the heathen, and punishments upon
the propfc, to bind their Auir/<r with chains and
theh nobl<tt with fcttcitt of iron "• Pew harangues
from the pulpit, except in the days of your League*
In France or in the days of our Solemn League
and Covenant" in T nglancl, have over breathed
loss of the spult of luodeiiition than this lecture
in the Old Jewij Supposing, howovei, thit
something like moderation were visible In this
political sermon, vet politics and the pulpit lire
terms that have little agiociiiciit No sound ought
to be heard in the (Church but the healing voice
of Christian fharlty The cause of civil liberty
and civil government gains as little as that of
religion by this confusion of duties Those who
quit then proper character, to assume what does
not belong to them, aio for the greater part, igno-
rant both of the churactoi they leave and of the
c harac tor they assume Wholly unacquamtc d with
the world In which they are so fond of meddling,
and Inc vperlonc od in all its affairs cm which they
pronounce with so much confidence they have
nothing of politics but the passions they excite
Surely the Church is a place whore one clov's
truce ought to bo allowed to the dissensions and
animosities of mankind
Befoio I load that sermon, I really thought
I had lived in a free countiy, and It was an
error I cherished, because* It gave me a greater
liking to the country I lived In I was. Indeed,
aware that a Jealous, ever-waking vigilance, to
guard the treasure of our liberty, not only from
invasion, but from decay and corruption, was
oar best wisdom and our first duty How-
i That is, sponks as the mouth piece of tho poll-
tlclans. 1 teen Use the priestess at Delphi jsavp
oracles favorable to Philip of Macedon ( ISJ-
{{G IS. C.). who was invading (ireecc, Demos-
thenes accused her of • philippizing "
•The Pmltans They executed Charles I in 1049.
a PuttlttlN 140 0-S
'The Holv League (1576-9,3), formed by the
Roman Catholics of France to prevent the suc-
cession of TTonry of Navarre, to suppress the
Huguenot pnrtv, and to enthrone the Catholic
house of dulse The Reflation* were published
in the form of n letter to Mr Dupont, a young
tfontlemin of Piris
•An agreement <1f»41) between the reform
parties of England nnd Scotland in support of
Prosbvterlanlsm and the rights of Parliament
ever, I considered that treasure rather as a
pobbcssion to be secured than as a prize to be
contended for. I did not discern how the pres-
ent time came to be so very favorable to ah
6 crcrtwn*1 in the cause of freedom The present
time differs from any other only by the clrcum-
tstam e of what is doing in France If the example
of that nation is to have an Influence on this, I
can easily cone elvc why some of their proceedings
10 which hove an unpleasant aspect, and are not
quite reconcilable to humanity, generosity, good
faith, and justice, are palliated with so much
milky good-nature towards the actors, and borne
with so much heroic fortitude towards the suf-
16 fereis It IH certainly not prudent to discredit
the authority ot an example we mean to follow
Hut allowing this, we are led to a very natural
question —What if, that cause of liberty, and
what are those exertions in Its favor, to which
20 the example of Franco is so singularly auspicious?
Is our monarchy to be annihilated, with all the
laws, all the tribunals, and all the ancient cor-
poratlous of the kingdom9 In every landmark
of the country to bo done away In favor of a
26 geometrical and ailthmetkal constitution '* Is
the House of Lords to be voted useless? IB Epis-
copacy to bo abohthod / Are the Church lands to
be sold to Jews and Jobbers,1 or given to bribe
now-Imeiitcd municipal republics4 into a partlci-
80 pat Ion in saciilcgr/ Aic all the taxes to be
voted gncvances, and the revenue reduced to a
patriotic contribution or patriotic presents? Are
silver shoe-buckles to be substituted in the place
of the land-tax and the malt-tax, for the sup-
85 port of the naval strength of this kingdom? Are
all oiders, ranks, and distinctions to be con-
founded, that out of universal anirchy, Joined
to national bankruptcy, three or four thousand
democracies5 should be formed into elghtv -three,
40 and that they may all, by some* sort of unknown
attractive power, be orpanlred into one? For this
end Is the army to be seduced from its discipline
and its fidelity, first by every kind of debauchery,
and then b\ the terrible precedent of a donative1
46 in the increase of paj ° Are the curates to be
seduced from their bishops by holding out to
them the delusive hope of a dole out of the spoils
of their own order9 Are the clti/ens of London
to be drawn from their allegiance by feeding them
60 at the expense of their follow-suhjec ts *» Is a com-
pulsory paper currency to be substituted In the
place of the legal coin of this kingdom? Is what
remains of the plundered stock of public revenue
to bo employed In the wild project of maintaining
66 two armies to watch over and to fight with each
other? If these are the ends and means of the
»Dr Price had nskod his hearers to consider
•the laiornbloness of the present times to all
exertions In the cause of liberty'*
•The National Assembly abolished the old prov-
inces of France, and divided the country into
oightv three deiiartmeiits
•brokeis, speculators (.The National Assembly
of France decreed that church property could
he confiscated for the uses of the state )
4 That is, clrv states or republics
•That Is, rnjrllsh municipalities Burke shared
with others the opinion that France would
break up into a number of independent repub-
lics
•gift, present
1188
EDMUND BUEKB
Resolution Society, I admit that they are well
assoited , and France may furnish them for both
with precedents in point
I see that your example is held out to shame us.
I know that we arc supposed a dull, sluggish race, 6
rendered passive by finding our situation toler-
able, and prevented by a mediocrity of freedom
from ever attaining to its full perfection Your
leaders in France began by affecting to admire,
almost to adore, the British Constitution, but 10
as they advanced, they came to look upon it with
a sovereign contempt. The friends of your Na-
tional Assembly amongst us have full as mean an
opinion of what was fonneily thought the glory
of their country The Revolution Society has 16
discovered that the English nation is not free
They are convinced that the inequality in our
representation1 is a "defect In our Constitution
00 gross and palpalle as to make it excellent
chiefly in firm and theory",*-— that a rcpresen- 20
tatlqn in the legislature of a kingdom la not only
the basis of all constitutional liberty in it, but of
"oil legitimate goicrnmcnt, that without it a
government is nothing but an usurpation' ;—
that, "when the lepresentation is partial, the 86
kingdom possesses liberty only pattiallyj and If
extremely paitlnl, It gives only a fieirblance, and
if not only extremely partial, but corruptly chosen,
it becomes a nuisance " Dr Price considers this
Inadequacy of representation as our fundamental 80
grievance, and though, as to the corruption of
this semblance of representation, he hopes it Is
not yet arrived to its full perfection of depravity,
he fears that "nothing will be done towards gain-
Ing for us this essential Messing, until some gieat 86
abuti of pou cr again provokes our resentment, or
some at eat calamity again alarms our fears, or
perhaps till the acquisition of a pure and equal
representation oy othtr count ma, whilst we are
mocked with the tliadow, kindles our shame " To 40
this he subjoins a note in these words —"A rep-
resentation chosen chiefly by the Treasury," and
a few thousands of the dregs of the people, who
are generally paid for their votes "
You will smile here at the consistency of those 46
democmtistfc *ho, when they ate not on their
guard, treat the humbler part of the community
with the greatest contempt, whilst, at the same
time, they pretend to make them the depositories
of all power. It would require a long discourse 60
to point out to you the many fallacies that lurk
in the generality and equivocal nature of the
terms "inadequate representation " I shall only
say here, in Justice to that old-fashioned Consti-
tution under which we have long prospered, that 66
our representation has been found perfectly ade-
quate to all the purposes for which a representa-
tion of the people can be desired or devised I
defy the enemies of our Constitution to show the
contrary To detail the particulars in which it Is 60
found so well to promote its ends would demand
a treatise on our practical Constitution. I state
1 Some boroughs were not represented in Parlia-
ment
•Price, Discourse on the Love of our Country, 45
Nov 4, 1789. trd edition, p .19 The follow-
ing quotations ore from the same source.
•The Treasury Board, consisting of five or more
Lords of the Treasury including the Prime
Minister and the Chancellor of the Eicnequer.
here the doctrine of the revolutionists, only that
you and others may see what an opinion thcsr
gentlemen entertain of the Constitution of their
countiy, and why they stem to think that some
great abu*,e of power, or some groat calamity, as
giving a chance for the blessing of a Constitution
act ordlng to their ideas, would he much pallia tod
to their feelings , you see *?hy they ate so much
enamored of your fair and equal representation,
which being once obtained, the same effects iiiltfit
follow. You see they consider our House of
Commons as only "a semblance," "a form," "a
theory," "a shadow," "a moekeiy," pcihap* "a
nuisance."
These gentlemen value themselves on being
systematic, and not without reason The* must
therefore look on this gross and palimble defect
of representation, this fundamental grievance, (so
they call it) as a thing not only victims In itself,
but as rendering our whole gov eminent absolutely
illegitimate, and not at nil bettet than a down-
right utmtpntion Another i evolution, to get lid
of this Illegitimate and usurped ROV eminent,
*ould of course IK? perfectly Justifiable, if not
absolutely neccssan Indeed, their principle, If
you observe it with nny attention, goes much fui-
ther than to an alteration in the election of the
House of Commons, for, If popular representa-
tion, or choice, is necessary to the Ifi/ttlmacy of
all government, the House of Louis IN, at one
fctroke, iKistaidizod and corrupted in blood That
House is no representative ot the* people at all,
even in "semblance" or in "foim " The case of
the crown is altogether as bud In vain the crown
may endeavor to screen itself against these gentle-
men by the authoilty of the establishment made
on the Revolution1 The lie volution, which is
resorted to for a title, on their system, wants a
title Itself. The Revolution is built, accoidmg
to their theory, upon a basis not uioie nolld than
our present formalities, as it uas made l>i a
House of Lords not reprcwntmg anyone but them-
selves, and by a House of Commons e\ac tly such
as the present, that Is, as they term it, by a more
"shadow and inoc kei j ' of representation.
Something they must destroy, or they *eem to
themselves to exist for no purpose One set is foi
destroying the civil power tluough the vccleslais.
tital, another for demolishing the ccclcxlastlc
through the civil. They are aware that the worst
consequences might happen to the public In accom-
plishing this double luln of Church and State;
but they are so heated with their theories that
they give more than hints that this ruin, with all
the mischiefs that must lead to it and attend It,
and which to themselves appear quite ceitulii,
would not be unacceptable to thc-in, or ven ie-
mote from their wishes. A man amongst tbuu
of great authority, and certainly of great talents,
speaking of a supposed alliance between Church
and State, gays, "Perhaps we must <tait fot the
fall of the oivtl power*, before this most unnatural
alliance be broken Calamitous, no doubt, will
that time be Hut wliat convulsion In the pollt-
leal world ought to IK* a subject of lamentation,
if it be attended with so desirable an effect?"
i At the time of the Revolution of 1888, Wil-
liam and Mary were appointed joint sovereigns
by Parliament
REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE
1189
Ton see with what a steady eye these gentlemen
arc pieparod to view the greatest calamities
whl< h can befall their country '
It IB no wonder, therefore, that, with these
Ideah of eveij thing In their Constitution and 6
government at home, elthei In Church or Btate,
an Illegitimate and usurped, or at bent as a vain
mockery, they look abroad with an eager and
passionate enthusiasm Whilst they are possessed
bv these notions, It Is vain to talk to them of the 10
practice of thoii anccstois, the fundamental Inws
of their country the lived form of a Constitution
whose merit* aie conflimcd by the solid text of
lone? e\ per I erne and nn Increasing public strength
nnd national prosperity They despise experience 1*
as the wisdom of unlettered men , find IIH for the
rest they have wi ought under ground a mine
th.it will blow up, at one grand explosion all
examples of antiquity, nil pieccdents, charters,
nnd nets of raillomcnt Thtj have "the rights B>
of men " Against these there cun be no prescrip-
tion , »i gainst these no argument 1" binding , these
Admit uo temperament and no compromise, any-
thing * I tli hold from their full demand 1* so much
of fraud and Injustice. Against these their rights &
of men let no government look for security In
the length of Its continuance, or In the Justice
nnd lenity of Its administration The object Ion H
of these speruliitlsts, If Its forum do not quadrate1
ulth their theories, me a* MI lid against such an &
old nnd beneficent government as against the
most violent tvranny 01 the greenest usurpation
Thev nre alwnvs at Issue with governments, not
on n question of flbuse but a question of compc-
tenc v nnd n question of title T hnve nothing to *&
snv to the eliniisv subt'ltv of their political meta
phrsics Let them be their amusement In the
s« hcM>ls
IJIa HO Inctct In aula
JKolus, et clauso, ventorum curcere regnet 9 40
Ttut let them not break prison to burst like a
Lc\untci,8 to svuep the cnrtb with their hunl-
L.tue, and to bieuk up the fountain* of the great
deep to overwhelm us f ^
Fai inn I fiom denying In theoiv full as far la
m> boa it from withholding in pnutlce (If I were
of power to gl\e or to withhold), the real rights
of men In denying their false claims of right 1
do not menu to Injuie those which arc real, and M
u»e such as their pretended rlghtH would totally
destroy If chll society be made for the advan-
tage of man, all the advantages for which It Is
i mde become his right It Is an Imitltutlon of
hcncllcmcc , and law Itself Is only beneficence „
.ic ting bv a rule Men have a right to live by
that iuli , they have a right tit do Justice, as
between their follows, whether their fellows are
In public function or In ordinary occupation.
The} have a light to the fruits of their industry ; „
and 1o the mcanx of making their industry fruit-
ful They have a right to the acquisition** of their
parents, to the nourishment and Improvement of
their offspring, to Instruction In life, and to
1 square , agree , coi respond 66
»U»t -Bolus pride hi nine If In that court, and let
him reign In the cloned prison of winds
(Wwrtd. 1,140-41)
• \ strong easterly wind peculiar to the Medi-
terranean
consolation In deujh Whatever each man can
separately do, without trespassing upon others,
he has a right to do for himself , and be has a
right to a fair portion of all which society, with
all Its combinations of skill and force, can do In
hix favor In this partnership all men hnve equal
rights , but not to equal things. He that ha* but
fire shillings In the partnership has as good a
right to It as he that has five bundled pounds
has to his larger pioportlnn but he has not a
right to an equal dividend In the product of the
Joint stock And as to the shai e of power, author-
ity, and direction which each Individual ought
to have In the management of the state, that I
must deny to be amongst the direct original rights
of man In cl\ll soclet) , for I have In my con-
templation the chll Hoclnl man,1 and no other
It Is a thing to be settled by convention
If civil society be the offspring of convention,
that convention must he Its law That convention
must limit and modify all the descriptions of
constitution which aie formed under It Every
sort of legislative, Judicial, or executory power
ore Its creatures They can ha\e no being In any
other state of things, and how can any man
claim, under the comcntlons of civil HOC let v.
rights whit h do not so muc h as suppose Its exist-
ence— rights whuh aie absolutely repugnant to
it? One of the flist motives to civil society, and
which becomes one of Its funclr mental rules, IB,
that wo man should Ic fudqr of 7* Is CJHK cause
By this each pel son has at once divested himself
of the flist fundamental light of unco vena n tod
man, that Is, to Judge for himself, and to assert
hm own cansc He abdicates all light to be his
own governor He Inclusively, In a great measure,
abandon** the right of self defence, the first laxv
of nature Men cannot enjoy the right* of an
uncivil nnd of a civil state together That he
may obtain Justice, he gives up his right of deter-
mining what it Is In points the most essential to
him That he may secure some llueity, he makm
a sui tender In trust of the whole of It
Government Is not made In virtue of natural
rights, which may and do exist In total Independ-
ence of It, — and exist In much gicatcr clearness,
and In a much gi cater degieo ot ab>ttact perfec-
tion , but their abstract perfection IH their prac-
tical defect. By having a right to everything
they want everything Government Is a con-
trivance of human wisdom to provide for human
franf*. Men have a right that these wants should
be provided for bv this wisdom Among these
wants is to lie reckoned the want, out of civil
society, of a sufficient restraint upon their pas-
sions Sue lety requires not onlj that the passions
of Individuals should be subjected, but that even
In the mass and body, as well as In the Individuals,
the Inclinations of men should frequently be
thwarted, their will controlled, and their passions
brought Into subjection This can only be done
&y a power out of themselves, and not, in the
exercise of Its function, subject to that will and
to those passions which It Is its office to bridle
and subdue In this sense the restraints on men,
as well as their liberties, are to be reckoned*
among their rights But as the liberties and the
1 As distinguished from man In his aboriginal
state, before the existence of society.
1190
EDMUND BUBKE
ict.tric tionb vary with times and circumstances,
and adult ot infinite modifications, thry cannot
be settled upon any abstract rulo , and nothing is
HO foolish ah to dibtusb them upon that principle
The moment you abate anything tiom the full 5
rights of men, each to govern himself, and Buffer
any artificial, positive limitation upon those
rights, fiom that moment the whole organisation
of government become*, a consideration of con-
venience This it ib which makes the constitution 10
of a state, aud the duo dlstilhutlon of itb powcrb,
a matter of the most delicate and complicated
skill It icqulics a deep knowledge of human
nature and human necessities, and of the things
which facilitate or obstruct the various ends, 15
which an* to he puiMicd liy the mechanism of
(hil Institutions Ihe stiite Is to haie i ecru its
to its stiougth, mid lemedies to its dlstempoi s
What is the use ol discussing a man's abstiact
right to food or medicine? The question Is upon 20
the method of protuiuig and admlulsteilng them
In that deliberation I shall always achlse to rail
in the aid ol the faimei and the phjsirlnn, lathei
than the piofessoi ol mctaph\sies
The mlente of constructing n e onimonwealth 25
or reiiotatlng It, or reforming it, is, like CACTV
other expciiimnt.il science, not to be taught a
priori. Nor Is it a short experience that c in
Instruct Ub in that pnctlcnl science, because
the renl efteits ot moial < a uses are not aiwajs 3^
immediate , hut that \\hlch in th« fii^t mstantc
lh prejudicial may be excellent in its iPmntfM
operation and Its excellence ma\ ailse e\eu fiom
the ill e-flVets it piuluces in the beginning The
revel he also happens, and vei\ plausible scheme H, jg
with vciy pleasing comment cnients, have often
Hhameiul and lamentable conclusions In Mates
there aie often some obscure and almost latent
causes things which appeal at first view of little
moment, on which a very gieat part of Its pros- ^
perlty or advcrsitv ma> most esseritlallv depend
The science of fioxemment l»elng theiefoie MO
practical m itsell, and intenuccl for suih practical
pin poses, u matter whub requires e-xperleuT, nml
even more experience than in> person can gain ^
in his whole iilo, howexer sagacious and ohspi\
ing he may be, It is with infinite caution that im
man ought to A en tun upon pulling down an
edifice, which had answered In anj tolerable de-
gree for agPH the common purposes of society, or gg
on building it up again, without having
models and patterns of approved utility before
bis eyos
These metaphyslc rights entering Into common
life, like rays of light which pierce into a denKC 55
mpdlum, are, by the IHWH of nature, refracted
fiom their straight line. Indeed, in the gross and
complicated mass of human passions and conceins
the primitive right* of men undergo Kneh a variet\
of refractions and reflections thfft it becomes
absurd to talk of them as if they continued in
the simplicity of their original direction The
nature of man lit intricate , the object* of society
are of the greatest possible complexity and
therefore no simple disposition or direction of
power ran be suitable either to man's nature, or
to the qualltv of his affairs When I hear the
simplicity of contrivance aimed at and boasted of
in any new political constitutions, 1 am at no loss
to decide that the artificers aie groHrily Ignorant
of theli tiade, 01 totally negligent ol theli duty
The simple government** aie fundamentally de-
fee tlve, to say no worse of them If you were to
contemplate society in but one point of view, all
the blmplc modcb of polity,1 are infinitely capti-
vating In effect each would answer Its single
end much moie perfectly than the moie complex
is able to attain all Its complex purposes But
it Ib better that the nhole should be Imperfectly
and anomalously aus\\cicd thun that, while some
parts are provided for with gicat exactness,
others might be totally nrgliftPfl, or pcihaps
materially Injured, by the over-care of a favoilte
member.
The. pretended lights of 1h«-se theoiists are all
extremes, ami in proportion as the^y are meta-
physically true, Ihev are inorallj aud politically
false The lights of men aie in a sort of micMZr,
incapable of definition, but not Impossible to be
discerned The lights of men In gcncmments are
tholr ad\antages, and these aie ottcn In balances
between differences of good, — In compromises
sometime* between good and CM II, and sometimes
between e\tl and evil Political reason Ib a com-
puting principle adding, subtracting, multiply-
ing, and dhidlng, nionlU and not metaphysically,
or niathcinariiam, tiue moial denominations
Th the'se theorists the ii^ht of the people' Is
almost al*a\s sophistical!} confounded with their
power The bocl\ of the community whenever It
can come to ac t, can meet with no effectual resist-
ance, but till power and right are the same, the
wholp body of the»m has no right Inconsistent ulth
virtue, and the first of all virtues, pruele«mc Men
h«\e no right to uhnt Is not reasonable, and to
what Is not for their benefit, for though a pleas-
ant, writer said, <T,,ccat jxnn purlt*."* *he'ii
one of them, in cold blood, Is said to ha\e leaped
into the flames of a volcanic revolution, "(itdrn-
Itn fm/ttlm rtnam itiwhut i I consider such
a finlif rather as an unjustifiable poetic license
thin as one of the fiamhisrs Of I'nrn.issns , ami
whether he ueic poet, or dl\ im>, or politic Ian, that
chose to excise this kind of light, I think that
more *lse, because moie charitable, thoughts
would urge me rather to snvp the man than to
presene his brazen slippers as the monuments of
hix folly
The kind of anniversary sermons to which a
great part of whnt I write refers, if men aie not
shamed out of their piesent course, In commemo-
rating the fact. Hill ctieat many out of the prin-
ciples and eleprhe them of the benefits of tho
Revolution they commemorate I confess to you.
Sir, I never liked this continual talk of resistance
and revolution or the practice of nuking the
extreme medicine of the Constitution Its dally
bread It renders the habit of society danger-
ously valetudinary,* it Is taking periodical doses
of mercury sublimate, and swallowing donn re-
* government
• Poets have the right to die.
'In cold blood ho leaped into glowing JEtnn
Kmnedocles, a <ireek philosopher (nth cent.
B T ), is said to have died thus A slipper,
cast nut in an eruption, was proof of his a(t.
'sickly, Infirm
BKi'LECTlONSON THE REVOLUTION IN FBANCE
1191
peated provocatives of cuutharides1 to our love
of liberty.
This dltttcinpei of lemedy, giowii habitual,
ichutb ami toeai* out, by a vulgar ami piosti-
tuted uses the i.prlng of that spirit which Is to 6
bo exerted on gieal occasions It vtau in the
most patient period of Itoman servitude1 that
tbemcR of tyrannicide made the oidlnary exer-
cise of boys at school, — cum p<rtmit awvo* clatuHs
numcrotta tytannon'* In tho ordinary state of 10
things, It pioducoh in a count ly like ours the
woist effects, even on the en use of that liberty
\\hlch It abuses \iith the dissoluteness of an
extravagant speculation. Almost all the high-
bred lopuUIcans of my lime him1, after a shoit 16
spue, become the most decided, thoiough paced
coui tiers , the v soon left tin* business of a tedious,
model atc^but piaitlc.il reslstanc ep to thime of UH
whom, In the pride and Intoxication of thdi theo-
ries, the^ hme slighted as not much bettei than 20
Tories Ihpocrlsy, ol com so, deliRhts in the most
sublime speculations , for, never Intending to go
beyond speculation, It costs nothing to have it
magnificent But e\ou in cases wherr rather
levltj than fraud wns to be suspecttd In these 26
ranting SIKH ulat Ions, the Issue has been much the
same These* piofesMiis, finding their e\tu-nie
principles not applicable to cases which en 11 oulv
foi a qualified or us 1 nuiv sn>, cull nnd le»iml
resistance, in such cat.cs employ no resistance at 30
all It Is ulth th«-m n war 01 a revolution, or It Is
nothing Finding Ihih schc'iius of politics uol
adapted to the stilt* ol the ivoild In which HIM
live, they often tome to think light h *>f nil public
principle, and aie leiid^, on theh pait to ulmn- 86
don lor a Aery tilvial Interest -what tbev Hid of
\erj trivial ^.ilue Pome, indeed, me of ino <
steady and peisexerlng natures, bat those arc
en per politic Inns out of I'aillaineut, who ha\e
little to tempt them to abandon theh fn \orlte 40
piojcHts Thev lime some change in the Church
or State or both, constantly in then A lew When
that i* the ease, the v aie ah\ms had citizens ami
pe»if«»dl\ unsuie connections For, eonsldeihm
their specula tin* designs as of Infinite \aluc and 45
the adunl anaimement ol the state a-, of no e«-tl-
mitloii, tliev are at best, indifferent about it
Tho> see no meilt in the good, and no fault in
the vicious management of public affairs , the\
rather iejol<i> In thi1 bitter, as more ptopltlous to 50
revolution Thev sec no merit or demerit In anv
man, or any action, or any political principle, any
further than as they may forward or retaid their
design of change , Ibev therefore* take up one
dav, the most Alolent and ntretehed prerogative, 66
nnd another time the wildest democratic Ideas of
freedom, nnd pass from the one to the other with-
out HIIV sort of regard to CHUHO, to person, 01 to
partv
In France vou are now In the irixls of a revo- 60
lutioii, ami In the transit from one form of govern-
ment to another yon cannot nee that character
1 A preparation of dried blister beetles
•Ourln? tin time of Oulntlliau (c '15— 9H A D )
and Jinenul (c 00—140 A 1» See Fried-
binder H Human Ltfc and Manner* Under the
Karl jf Empire (trans by Froese). 3, pp 14-15
•When the clans In large numbers slaj» the cruel
tyrants (Juvenal, Hatirrn, 7, 1R1).
of men exactly In the baine situation in which we
see* It in this country With us it Is militant, with
you it is triumphant , and you know how it can
att. when ite powei is commensurate to itb will
I would not be supposed to conhno these obsei\a-
tiontt to any debciiptlon of men, or to comprehend
all men of any description within them, — no, far
from It ' I am ah Incapable of that injustice as 1
dm of keeping terms *ith thoHc who piofess piln-
dpleh of extremes, and who, undei the name of
religion, teach little else tlmii wild and danncious
politics The woibt of thise politics of revolution
IH this they temper and harden the bieast in
older to prepaic it for thi desperate strokes which
aie some tunes unetl In < \tnme occasions But as
these occasions ma\ re\ei .inive, the inmd rc>-
ul\eb a giatuitous tali^l , nnd the moral senti-
ments suffer not a little, when no political pur-
pose ts seived by the declaration This sort of
people aie HO taken up with their thcoiles about
the rights of man that thoj have totally foigot
his nature Without »i>enlng one new avenue to
the understanding, they have succeeded in stop-
ping up those that lead to the heart They have
per\ cited In thcinscl\es, and In those tout attend
to them, all the well placed sympathies of the
human In east
This famous sermon of the Old Jewiy bieathes
nothing but this spirit tbro.igh all the political
pHit riots, massacres assassinations, seem to
sonu people a til vial puce foi obtaining n rc>o-
lutiun A dicap bloodless uloriiuillon, a guilt lew,
libcit\, appuu Hat and \apid 1o their tast". There
must be a great change of stnie, then* must be
a magnificent stage effect , the re must be a giand
S|M< tade to rouse the imagination grown toii.ld
with the IJIA\ enjovuient of sixty ycais* sedulity,
a ad the at ill unnnlmatlug leposo of public plot
IK ilt\ The pi i achei found them all In the Ficnch
Kc»volut1on Qhis Inspires a Jutcnlle warmth
through his whole frame Ills enthusiasm kindles
as he ad\uucc*s. and uhcn he nrrivi* at his
peioiutlon, It is in a full blaze Then U owing,
from tli» PUcab1 of bis pulpit, the fieo, moral,
luippA, flouiishing, und glonoiis state of Frame
.is In a Mid-eje lanilscujie of n promised land, he
breaks out into the following lapture —
"Wh.it an exentful peilod Is this ' I am thank-
ful that I have li\ed to it , I could almost 8113,
Loid, now htltut thou tJiy net rant dtpart in
peace', for mine e'r/rs 7ieirr sffn tint satiation1 —
I 1m c lived to Hee a diffusion of knowledge which
has undermined superstition and en or — I have
Ihed to see the Hqlitn of men better understood
than ever, and nations panting foi liberty which
seemed to have lout the Idea of It — I lunc lived
to see thirty million* of proptY, Indignant and
resolute spuming at sbnerx and demanding
HbcMty with an Irresistible \ohe, tfatr liny led
IH triumph, and tin a tin trail/ monarch ttuncuder-
INC/ him*<lf to //rv fffrb/frf/r' *
Before I proceed further, I have to remark that
Dr. Price seems rather to ovei value tho great
i The mountain, east of the Dead Sea, from
which Moses \iewed the rromfeed Land lust
before his death See Deuteronomy, .14 1-4
•See Lulr, 2 28-30
•Seep I104a. liff
1192
EDMUND BUBKE
acquisitions of light which he hai obtained and
diffused In this age The last century appears to
me to have been quite as much enlightened It
had, though In a different place, a triumph as
memorable as that of Dr Price , and some of the
great preachers of that period partook of it as
eagerly as he has done In the triumph of France
On the trial of the Reverend Hugh Peters for
high treason,1 It wan deposed that, when King
Charles was brought to London for his trial, the
Apostle of Liberty In that day conducted the
trtumpfc "I baw," says the witness, "his Majesty
In the coach with six horse* and Peters riding
before the king triumphing." Dr Price, when he
talks as if he had made a discovery, only follows
a precedent , for, after the commencement of the
kings trial, this precursor, the same Dr Peters,
concluding a long prayer at the rojal chapel at
Whitehall (he had very triumphantly chosen his
place), said, "I have prayed and preached these
twenty years, and now I may say with old
Simoon, "Lord, now letteat thou thy servant de-
part in peace, for mine cyet have teen thy salva-
tion," Peters had not the fruits of his prayer;
for he neither departed so soon as he wished, nor
in peace He became (what I heartily hope none
of his followers may be in this country) himself
a sacrifice to the triumph which he led as pontiff
They dealt at the Restoration, perhaps, too hardly
with this poor good man But we owe It to bis
memory and hit sufferings, that he had as much
illumination and as much zeal, and had as effec-
tually undermined all the superstition and error
which might impede the great bublness he was
engaged in, as any who follow and repeat after
him in this age, which would assume to itself
an exclusive title to the knowledge of the rights
of men, and all the glorious consequences of that
knowledge.
After this sally of the preacher of the Old
Jewry, which differs only In place and time, but
agrees petfeotly with the spirit and letter of the
lapture of 1648, the Revolution Society, the fabri-
cators of governments, the heroic band of cash-
urrn of monanli*,2 electors of sovereigns, and
leaders of kings in triumph, strutting with a proud
conwiousnew* of the diffusion of knowledge, of
which every member had obtained so large a share
in the donative, were in haute to make a generous
diffusion of the knowledge they had thus gra-
tuitously received To make this bountiful com-
munication, they adjourned from the church in
the Old Jewry to the London Tavern, where the
aarne Dr Price, in whom the fumes of his oraculai
tripod were not entirely evaporated, moved and
carried the resolution, or addrem of congrat-
ulation, transmitted by Lord Stanhope to the
National Assembly of France.
I find a preacher of the Gospel profaning the
beautiful and prophetic ejaculation, commonly
1 Peters was found guilty of treason on Oct IS,
1060, on the ground that he was an accomplice
In the death of Charles I (1625-49)
•Dr Price asserted that by the principles of the
Revolution the people of England bad acquired
three fundamental rights To choose their
own governors, to cashier them for miscon-
duct, and to frame a government for them-
selves
called "None dlmltUs,"* made on the first pres-
entation of our Savior In the temple, and apply-
ing It, with an Inhuman and unnatural rapture, to
the most horrid, atrocious, and afflicting spectacle
6 that perhaps ever was exhibited to the pity and
indignation of mankind. This "leading to tri-
umph/' a thing in its best form unmanly and
Irreligious, which fills our preacher with such
unhallowed transports, must shock, I believe, the
10, moral taste of every wellborn mind. Several
English were the stupefied and indlgant spectators
of that triumph It was (unless we have been
strangely deceived) a spectacle more resembling
a procession of American savages entering into
IB Onondaga after some of their murders called
victories, and leading into hovels hung round
with scalps their captives overpowered with the
scoffs and buffets of women as ferocious as them-
selves, mych more than it resembled the triumphal
90 pomp of a civilized martial nation ,— if a civilized
nation, or any men who had a sense of generosity,
were capable of a personal triumph over tho fallen
and afflicted.
This, my dear Sir, was not the triumph of
26 France I must believe that, as a nation, it
overwhelmed you with shame and horror. I must
believe that the National Assembly find them-
selves in a state of the greatest humiliation In
not being able to punish the authors of this
80 triumph or the actors in It, and that they arc In
a situation in which any Inquiry they may make
upon the subject must be destitute even of the
appearance of liberty or Impartiality The apology
of that assembly Is found in their situation , but
86 when we appiove what they must bear, It Is in us
the degenerate choice of a vitiated mind
With a compelled appearance of deliberation,
they vote under the dominion of a stern neces-
sity. They sit in the heart, as it were, of a foreign
10 republic they have their residence In a city whose
constitution has emanated neither from the char-
ter of their king nor from their legislative power
There they are surrounded by an army not raised
either by the authority of their crown or by their
46 command, and which, if they should order to dis-
solve Itself, would Instantly dissolve them There
they sit, after a gang of assassins had driven
away some hundreds of the members, whilst
those who held the same moderate principles,
60 with more patience or better hope, continued
every day exposed to outrageous Insults and
murderous threats There a majority, sometimes
real, sometimes pretended, captive itself, compete
a captive king to issue as royal edicts, at third
66 hand, tho polluted nonsense of their most ll<en-
tions and giddy coffee-houses It is notorious
that all their measures are decided before they
are debated. It Is beyond doubt that, under the
terror of the bayonet, and the lamp-post, and the
60 torch of their houses, they are obliged to adopt
all the crude and desperate measures suggested
by clubs composed of a monstrous medley of all
conditions, tongues, and nations. Among these
are f oun4 persons in comparison of whom Catiline
1Thou lettest depart: the first words of the
Vulgate version of the song of Simeon (Luke,
2 29-U2), which Is used as a hymn or canticle
in many churches
REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE
1193
would be thought scrupulous, and Cethegus a van
of sobriety and moderation. Nor IB it In these
clubs alone that the public measure are deformed
Into monsters They undergo a previous distor-
tion In academic*,1 Intended as so many semi-
naries for these clubs, which are set up In all
the places of public retort In these meetings of all
aorta, every counsel, In proportion as It is daring
and violent and perfidious, IH taken for the mark
of superior genlub <f Humanity and compabslon
arc ridiculed as the fruits of superstition and
Ignorance Tenderness to Individuals IR consid-
ered as treason to the public Liberty Is always
to be estimated perfect an property Is rendered
Insecure Amidst assassination, massacre, and
confiscation, perpetrated or meditated, they are
forming plans for the good order of future society.
Embracing In their arms the carcasses of base
criminal^ and promoting their relations on the
title of their offences, they drhe hundreds of
virtuous persons to the same end, by fort Ing them
to subsist by lieggary or by crime
The Ashemblj, their organ, acts before them
the farce of deliberation with as little decency as
liberty They act like the comedians of a fair,
before a riotous audience; they aU amidst the
tumultuous cries of a mixed mob of ferocious men,
a '.d of \iomen lost to shame, who, according to
their Insolent fancies, direct, control, applaud,
cvpUxle them, and sometimes ml*, and take their
tents amongst them, — domineering crver them with
a strange mixture of servile petulance and proud,
presumptuous authority. AH they have Inverted
order in all things, the gallery* Is la the place
of the house Thin Aswmbly, which overthrows
kings and kingdoms, has not even the physiog-
nomy and aspect of a grave legislative body,
we color imperil, nee frvns crat ulla
They have a power given to them, like that of
the Evil Principle, to subvert and destroy, — but
none to construct, except Mich machines as may
be fitted for further subversion and further
destruction
Who is It that admires, and from the heart Is
attached to national representative aRStmblies,
but must turn vt 1th honor and dlagnst from such
a profane burlesque and abominable perversion
of that Mined Institute? Lovers of monarchy,
lovers of republic* must alike abhor it The mem-
bers of your Assembly muHt themselves groan
under the tyranny of which they have all *the
shame, none of the direction, and little of the
profit I am sure many of the members who com-
pose eve*n the majority of that body must feel as
I do, notwithstanding the applause of the Revo-
lution Society Mlnei-able king T miserable Asuem-
blyf ITow murtt that Assembly be silently mcan-
daliced with those of their members who could
call a day which seemed to blot the sun out of
heaven "un beau Jour I"* How must they be
1 learned societies
• During legislative sessions the galleries are
sometimes occupied by spectators
•There was neither aspect of empire nor sem-
tlante of senate
•Beautiful day (Oct 6, 1789, th« dsv on which
the King and Queen of France were forcibly
taken from Versailles and marched to Paris.
(Bee p 1194a, 1* ff )
Inwardly Indignant at hearing others who thought
fit to declare to them, "that the vessel of the state
would fly forward In her course towards regenera-
tion with more speed than ever," from the stiff
5 gale of treason and murder which preceded our
preacher's triumph f What must they have felt,
whilst, with outward patience and inward Indlg
nation, they heard of the slaughter of Innocent
gentlemen In their houses, that "the blood spilled
10 was not the most pure'" What must they have
felt, when they weic besieged by complaints of
disorders which shook their country to its foun-
dations, at being compelled coolly to tell the com-
plainants that they wore under the protection of
16 the law, and that they would address the king
(the captive king) to cause the laws to be en-
forced for their protection, when the enslaved
ministers of that captive king had formally notl
fled to them that there were neither law nor
20 authority nor power left to protect ' What must
they have felt at being obliged, as a felicitation
on the present new year, to request their captive
king to forget the stormy period of the last, on
account of the great good which he was likely to
26 produce to his people, — to the complete attain
ment of which good they adjourned the practical
demonstrations of their loyalty, assuring him of
their obedience when he should no longer possess
any authority to command '
80 Thib address was made with much good-nature
and affection, to be* sure But among the revo-
lutions in France must be reckoned a considerable
revolution in their ideas of politeness In England
we are said to learn manners at second-hand from
86 your side of the water, and that we dresb our
behavior In the frippery of France If so, we
are still In the old cut, and have not so far con-
formed to the new Parisian mode of good breeding
as to think it quite in the most refined strain of
40 delicate compliment (u bother In condolence or
congratulation) to wiy, to the most humiliated
creature that crawls upon the earth, that great
public benefits are dcilved from the murder of his
servants, the attempted aRWXbhinatlon of himself
46 and of his wife, and the mortification, disgrace,
and degradation that he has personally suffered
It Is a topic of consolation which our ordinary
of Newgate1 would be too humane to use to n
criminal at the foot of the gallows. I should have
60 thought that the hangman of Faris, now that he
Is liberalized by the vote of the National Assembly,
and is allowed his rank and arms In the Heralds'
College of the rights of men, would be too gener-
ous, too gallant a man. too full of the sense of his
66 new dignity, to employ that cutting consolation
to any of the persons whom the l?ze-itation* might
bring under the administration of his executive
power*
A man Is fallen Indeed, when be Is thus flat-
60 tered. The anodyne8 draught of oblivion, thus
drugged, Is well calculated to preserve a galling
wakefulness, and to feed the living nicer of a
corroding memory. Thus to administer the opiate
potion of amnesty, powdered with all the Ingre-
66 dlcnts of scorn and contempt, Is to hold to his
1 The Chaplain of Newgate prison.
5 high treason against the nation
•soothing
1194
EDMUND BUBKE
x HIM, Instead of "the balm of hurt minds,"1 the
rap of human misery full to the brim, and to
force him to drink it to the dregs
Yielding to reasons at least an forcible as those
wnich were M> delicately urged in the compliment 5
on the new year, the king of France will probably
endeavor to forget these event* and that compli-
ment. But nifctory, who keeps a durable record
of all our acts, nnd exercises h«r awful consul o8
over the proceedings of all sorts of bovcicigns, 10
will not forget cither those events, or the era of
this libeul refinement in the Intercourse of man-
kind History will record that, on the morning
of the sixth of October, 1780, the king and queen
of France,8 after a day of confusion, alarm, dls- 15
, may, and slaughter, lay do*n, under the pledged
security of public faith, to Indulge nature in a
few bourn of respite, and troubled, melancholy
repose Fipm this sleep the queen was first
startled by the voice of the sentinel at her door, 20
who cued out to her to sa\e hoi self bv flight —
that this nas the last proof of fidelity he could
g|VOi — that they were upon him, and he wan dead
Instantly ho was nit down A band of cruel
ruffians and assassins, reeking with his blood, 25
rushed into the chamber of the queen, and pierced
with a hundred strokes of bayonets and poniardb
the bed from whence this persecuted woman had
bufrjust time to fly almost naked, and, through
ways unknown to the murderers, hod escaped to 80
seek refuge at the feet of a king and husband not
secure of his own life for a moment
This king, to say no more of him, and this
queen, and thcli infant children (who once would
have been the pride and hope of a great and 85
generous people), wore then forced to abandon
the sanctuitiv of the most splendid palaco in the
world, which they left swimming in blood, pol
luted by massacre, and strewed with scattered
llmbb and mutilated carcasses Thence they were 40
ronduc ted into the capital of their kingdom Two
had been selected from the unprovoked, unreslstod,
promiscuous slaughter which wan made of the
gentlemen of birth and family who composed the
king's iKxly-guaid These two gentlemen, with all 45
the parade of an execution of Justice, were- cruelly
and publicly dragged to the block, and behended
in the great court of the palace Their heads
were stuck upon spears, and led the procession ,
» whilst the royal captives who followed in the 00
train were flowing moved along, amidst the hor-
rid yells, and shrilling screams, and frantic
dances, and Infamous contumelies, and all the
unutterable abominations of the fuiiea of hell, In
the abused shape of the vilest of women After 55
they had been made to taste, drop by drop, more
than the bitterness of death, in the slow torture
of a Journey of twelve miles, protracted to six
hours, they wore, under a guard composed of
those verv soldiers who had thus conducted them *°
through this famous triumph, lodged in one of
the old palaces of Paris, now converted into a
Bastlle for kings
Is this a triumph to he consecrated at altars,
to be commemorated with grateful thanksgiving, 68
iJTarftrfft. II, 2, 39.
• ludgment
' Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.
to be offered to the Divine Humanity with fer-
vent prayer and enthusiastic ejaculation? — These
Theban and Ihintclan orgies,1 acted In France,
and applauded only in the Old Jewiy, I astral e
you, kindle prophetic enthusiasm in the znlndn
bat of very few people in this kingdom although
a saint and apostle, who may ha\e revelations of
his own, and who has so completely vanquished
ull the mean superstitions of the heart, may in-
cline to think It pious and decorous to compare
it with the entrance into the woild of the Prince
of Peac e, proclaimed In an holy tomplo by a vener-
able sage, and not long before not worse an-
nounced by the voice of angclb to the quiet
Innocence of shepherds
At nist I was at a loss to account for this fit
of unguarded transport I knew, indeed, that
the sufferings of monarchs make a delicious repast
to some jiort of palate* Thuc> \tcie leflectlons
which might serve to keep this appetite within
some bounds of temperance Hut when I took
one circumstance Into in\ con*- (dotation, I was
obliged to confess that much allowance ouuht 1o
be made foi the soclotv, nud In a I the temptation
was too Ktiong foi (ouinioii dUuetlon I tnouu,
the circumstance of the lo Pa?uii- ol the triumph,
the animating cry which called for "all the
BISHOPS to be hanged on the lamp posts, *
might well have brought forth a burst of enthu-
siasm on the foicsccu c onsoquenccs of this happy
day I allow to so much enthusiasm MWIC little
deviation fiom prudent o I allow this prophet to
break forth into hymn* of Joy and thanksgiving on
an event which appears like the precursor of the
Milhnmum, nnd the projected Fifth Monarch},4
in the destruction of all Chuich establishments
There was. however, (an In all human affairs then*
is), In the midst of this Joy, something to exerctae
the patience, ol thcno woithy gontlfiiion, and to try
the loug suffer Ing of their Jnlth The actual mur-
der of tho king nnd quoin, and their child, was
wanting to tho other auspicious circumstances of
this "It autiful dav" The actual murder of the
bishopsi though called foi by so many holy ejacu-
lations, was also wanting A group of regicide
and sacrilegious slaughter was, indeed, boldly
sketched, but it was only sketched It unhappily
was left unfinished In this great- history-piece of
the massacre oi Innocents What hardy pencil of
a great master, from the school of the rights of
men, will finish It, is to be seen hereafter. The
age has not vet tho complote benefit of that diffu-
sion of knowledge thut has undermined supor-
stltlon and error , and the king of France wants
another object or two to consign to oblivion, in
* A reference to the secret rights and ceremo-
nies practiced in the woiship of am lent Creek
and Roman deities, especially those ceremo
nles connected with the festival of Bacchus,
which was celebrated with much extravagance
and license •
• A song of Joy or exultation lo IB a Greek and
Latin exclamation of Joy or triumph
'This was an actual cry of the Revolutionists
-The kingdom which a sect of religions fanatics
during the time of Cromwell attempted to es-
tablish In England They maintained that
Christ was coming to assume authority. This
kingdom was to he the fifth and last In the
series of which the kingdoms of Assyria, Per
sla, Greece, and Rome were the preceding four.
BEFLECTIONS ON THE KBVOLUTION IN FRANCE
1195
consldeiatlon of All the good which IB to arise
from his own huffcilngs, and the patriotic crimes
of an enlightened age
Although thlH woik of our now light and knowl-
edge did not go to the length that In all piobubillty 6
It was Intended It should lx> carried, yet I most
think that Mich treatment of any human creatures
niiifit he shoe king to any but thobo who are made
for accomplishing revolutions But I cannot
stop h<ie Influenced by the Inborn feelings 10
of my nature, and not being Illuminated by a
Muglp my of thin new-sprung modern light, I
confess to you, Sir, that the exalted rank of the
persons suffering, and particularly the sex, the
beauty, and the amiable qualities of the descend- 16
ant of so many kings and emperors, with the
tendei age of roval Infants, Insensible only
thiough Infancy and innoceme of the ciuel out
luges to which the ir paients were exposed, Instead
of being H subject of exultation, adds not i little 20
to my senxihllity cm that most melancholv
occasion
I hoar that the nugust person who wis the
principal object ol our pieachei s triumph, though
ho supported himself felt much on that shameful 26
occasion. As 11 man, It bee time him to f<el for
his wife and his children, and the laithful guards
of hlh pel son that were mnssmred In cold blood
about him , as a prime, It become him to feel toi
the stiangc and frightful tiunsformatlou of his 80
c mined subjects, and to be inoic grieved lor
them than solicitous for himself It derogates
little f i om bib foititude, while It adds liifimtelv
to the honor of his humault}. 1 am very sorry
to S«IA it, \ny sotry Indeed, that sueh personages 86
ate In a situitmii in \\hlch It Is not unbecoming
In us to piaise the viitues of the gieat
I hear, ami I lejoice to hcai, thut the gre»it
lady, the otln i object of the tiliimpli, has home
that day (on« is lnt«ic steel lhat beings niiide lor 40
suffeilntf should suflei well), nnd Ihit she beais
all (he succeeding davs, that she heats the 1m
prison m< nt ol hei husband, and her own uiptivit\,
and the e\ih of her li lends and the liiMiltmg
adulation of addie-sses, and the whole weight of 46
her accumulated wiongs, with a sere-ne patience,
In a muumi suited to her rank and race, and
becoming the offspung of a so\eielgu distin-
guished foi bei piety and her eouiise,1 that,
like he-r, she has lofty sentiments, thut she feels 60
with the dignity of a Roman matron , that In the
last extremitv she will save herself from the lust
disgrace , nnd that, If *he must fall, she will fall
by no Ignoble' hand
It In now sixteen or seventeen years since I 66
snw the que«en eif Prune e, then tlie« Duuphlness,1
at Vei sui lies, and Mirc-lv never lighted on this
e>rb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more
delightful vision I saw her Just nbote the horl-
ron, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere 60
she Just began to move In — glittering like the
morning-star, full of life and splendor and Joy
Oh ' what a revolution * and what an heart must
I have, to contemplate without emotion that
t Maria Theresa Empress of NuHtrla and Queen of
Hunguiv nnd 1 to hernia (1740-80).
"wife of the erown -prince
elevation and that fall ' Little did I dream, when
she added title's of veneration to those of enthu-
siastic, distant, respectful love, that she should
ever l»e obliged to cany the sharp antidote against
disgrace concealed In that bosom! Little did I
dream that I should have lived to see such dis-
asters fallen upon hci in a nation of gallant men,
In a nation of men of Lonoi, and of cavaliers ' I
thought ten thousand nwords must have leaped
from their scabbards to avenge even a look that
threatened her with Insult Hut the age of chiv-
alry IR gone1 That of sophlsters, economists,
and calculator has succeeded , and the glory of
Europe Is extinguished foiever. Never, never
more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to
tank and sex, that proud submission, that digni-
fied obediences that subordination of the heart,
which kept alive, even in seivitude Itself, the
spirit of an exalted freedom ' The uu bought grace
of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of
manly Kcntlment and heroic enterprise, Is gone*
It Is gone, that sensibility of pilnciplo, that chas-
tity of honoi, which felt n stain like u wound,
uhlc'h In splied eouinge whilst It mitigated feio
ut>, which ennobled whitevci it touched, and
under w hie h vu e Itself lost half Its evil by losing
all Its gloss ness T
This mixed system of opinion and sentiment
had Its origin In the ancient chivalry, and the
principle, though vailed in Its appctuance by the
varying state of human affairs, subsisted and
Influenced through a long succession of genera-
tions, even to the time we lite In If It should
e»\er be totallv extinguished, the loss, I foar, will
be great It is this which ha« given Its character
to modem Kuiope It Is this which has distin-
guished It under all its forms of govimme>nt anel
distinguished it to its advantage, fiom the states
of Asia and posslbl\ fiom those* states which
flourished in the most, billllnnt pciiods of the*
antique woild It u, is 'this, which, without cou-
fcniucllrig ranks, had produced a noble equality,
and handed it down through all the gradations of
social lite It was this opinion which mitigated
kings Into companions, and raised private men to
be fellows with kings Without force or opposi-
tion, It subdued the fierceness of pride and power ,
it obliged sovereigns to submit to the soft collar
of social esteem, compelled stern authority to
submit to elegance, nnd gave a domination, van-
quisher of laws, to be subdual by manners
But now all is to he changed All the pleasing
Illusions which made power gentle and obedience
llbeial, which hainiomred the different shades of
life, and which by a bland assimilation Incorpo-
rated into politics the sentiments which beautify
and soften private soclctj, are* to be dissolved by
this new conquering empire of light and reason.
All the decent drapery of life Is to be rudely torn
off All the auporadded ideas, furnished from the
wardrobe of a moial Imagination, which the heart
owns and the understanding ratifies, as necessary
to cover the defects of our naked, shivering nature,
and to lalse It to dignity In our own estimation,
1The phrasing of the following passage Is ad-
mirable, but Burkes tcr\cut Imagination car-
ries him somewhat bexond the bounds of strict
truth.
1196
EDMUND BUBKE
ore to be exploded ai a ridiculous, absurd, and
antiquated fashion.
On this scheme of things, a king is but a man, a
queen Is but a woman, a woman Is but an animal,
— and an animal not of the highest order. All C
homage paid to the sex In general as such, and
without distinct viewb, la to be regarded as ro-
mance and folly. Regicide, and parricide, and
sacrilege, arc but fictions of buperbtltlon, corrupt-
ing Jurisprudence by debttoylng Its simplicity. 10
The murder of a king, or a queen, or a bishop,
or a father, are only common homicide, — and if
the people are by any chance or in any waj gain-
ers by It, a sort of homicide much the most
pardonable and Into which wt» ought not to make 15
too severe a scrutiny
On the scheme of this barbarous phllobophy,
which is the offspilug of cold hearth and muddy
understandings, and which Is ah void of solid
wisdom as It Is destitute of all taste and elegance, 20
laws are to l>e supported only by their own terrors,
and by the concern which each Individual may
find in them from his own private speculations,
or can spaie to them from his own private inter-
ests In the gnnes of thnr acaderaj,1 at the end 26
of every vista, you see nothing but the gallows.
Nothing is loft which engages the affections on the
part of the commonwealth. On the principles of
this mechanic philosophy, our institutions can
never be embodied If I may use the expression, SO
In persons, — so an to create in UH love, venera-
tion, admhatlon, or attachment Bat that sort
of reason which banlhbes the affectlonb Is inca-
pable of filling their place These public affec-
tions, combined with manners are required some- 86
times as supplements, sometimes as correctives,
always as aids to law The precept given by a
wise man, ah well as a groat critic, for the con-
struction of poems, lb equally true a*» to btates —
"Won satis cat pulcJira rs*e pormata, dulcia 40
nunto "* There ought to be a system of manners
In every nation which a well formed mind would
be disposed to relish To make us love our country,
our country ought to be lovely.
But power, of some kind or other, will survive 45
the shock in which manners and opinions perish ,
and it will find other and worse means for its
support The usurpation, which, In order to sub-
vert ancient Institutions, has destroyed ancient
principles, will hold power by arts similar to those 50
by which it has acquired It When the old feudal
and chivalrous spirit of fealty, which, by freeing
kings from fear, freed both kings and subject!
from the precautions of tvrannv/' Hhall be ex-
tinct In the julndfi of men, plots and assassinations 55
will be anticipated by preventive murder and pre-
ventive confiscation, and that long roll of grim
and bloody maxima which form the political code
of all power not standing on its own honor and
the honor of those who are to obev it Kings will GO
be tyrants from policy, when subjects are rebels
from principle
1 A reference to the Academy, or garden, la
which Plato taught
•It la not enough for poems to be beautiful; 66
they must appeal to the heart (Horace, Art
Poftica, 99)
•An a matter of fact, the opposite of this IB
nearer the tiuth
When ancient opinion! and rule* of life are
taken away, the loss cannot possibly be estimated.
From that moment we have no compass to govern
us, nor can we know dibtlnctly to what port we
steer. Europe, undoubtedly, taken in a uuuw, was
in a flourishing condition the day on which your
Revolution was completed, liow much of that
prosperous state was owing to the spirit of our
old manners and opinions Id not easy to say , but
as such causeb cannot be indifferent in their opera-
tion, we must presume that, on the whole, their
operation was beneficial
Wti are but too apt to coneidei things in the
state in which we find them, without sufficiently
adverting to the causes by which tht»> huve been
produced, and pobblbly may be upheld Nothing
is more certain than that our manners, our civil-
isation, and all the good thlngb which are con-
nected with manners and with civilization, have,
In thlb European world of ours, depended for ages
upon two principles, and were, Indeed, the result
of both combined I mean the splilt ol a gentle-
man, and the spirit of religion. The nobility and
the clergy, thu one by profession, the other by
patronage, kept learning in cxlstenc e, even In the
midst of arms and contusions, and whilst govern-
ments were rather In their causes than formed
Learning paid back what it mehed to nobility
and to priesthood, and paid It with usury, by en-
larging their ideas, and by fuiniahing their mlnclH
Happy, If they had all continued to know their
Indissoluble union, and their pioper place ' liuppy,
if learning, not debouched by ambition, bad been
satisfied to continue the Instructor, and not
aspired to bo the master T Along with its natural
protectors and guardians. leainlug will be cast
into the* nilro and tiodden down under the hoofs
of a swinish multitude
If, as I suspect, modern letters owe moie than
they are always willing to own to ancient man-
ners, so do other Interests which we value full
as much as1 they are worth Even comnieue, and
{rade, and manufacture, the gods of our economi-
cal politicians, are themselves perhaps but crea-
tures, are themselves but effects, which, HK first
causes, we choose to worship They certainly
grew under the same shade in which learning
flourtflhed. They, too, may decay with theii natu-
ral protecting principles With you, for the pres-
ent at least, they all threaten to disappear to-
gether. Where trade and manufactures are want
Ing to a people ami the uplrlt of nobility and re-
ligion remains, sentiment supplier and not alwajR
HI supplies, their place; but If commerce and the
arts fthould be lout In an experiment to trv how
well a state may stand without these old funda-
mental principles, what sort of a thing must be n
nation of gross, stupid, ferorlouR, and at the
same time poor and sordid barbarians, destitute
of religion, honor, or manly pride, possessing
nothing at present, and hoping for nothing here-
after?
I wish you may not be going fast, and by the
shortest cut, to that horrible and disgustful
situation. Already there appears a poverty of
conception, a eoaraenesfl and vulgarity, in all the
proceedings of the Assembly and of all their In-
structor*. Their liberty Is not liberal. Their
BEF1.ISCT1ONB ON THE REVOLUTION IN FBANUE
1197
•clcnce IB presuniptuoun ignorance Their hu-
manity is Ravage and brutal
It in Dot clear whether In England wo learned
those grand and deioioiis print ipieH and mannera,
of which considerable traces yet remain, from you,
or whether you look them from UH But to you,
I think we tiaee them bert You seem to me to
be {/rnffv uiiunalmlti tioHtru ' France has always
more or IPRH influenced manner* in England , and
whou vour fountain is choked up and polluted
the stieara will not run long or not run clear
with us, or perhaps with anv nation This given
all Europe. In my opinion, but too clone and con-
1 the cradle of our race
10
nevted a concern in what is done in France.
EXCUBC me, therefoxe, if I have dwelt too long on
the atrociouH spectacle of the blith of Ottobci,
1789, 01 have given too much scope to the re-
flections which have arisen in m> mind on oc-
canlon of the most Important of all revolutions,
*hich may be dated from that daj I mean a
revolution in Rcntlmentu, manner*, and moral
opinions \s thlngn now stand, with everything
respectable destroyed without UR, and an attempt
to destroy within UH every principle of reaper t,
one i«* almost forced to apologiie for harboring
th<J common feelings of men.
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND CRITICAL NOTES
The folluwini; Inblloffiuphies nreNneant to hoivr as <on\inienl lefereme lists foi n stuilv of the
literature of the kngliuh Uoniuutic Movement Hooks containing cnJicul dlstusbiuiiH oi the Move-
ment 01 1'iniMl in ueneiul ot ol npeulal phUHfs ol Kouiuntltlfcin ait lihtid in the Geuirul lllblloKinphy
Memoirs of n rally all the written an found in vanous editions of th< li woikb, and bucf biograph-
ical accounts ol ea< h appear In The Eniuclojxidia B tit an nit a and in the Dictl'jnaty of National Jtwy-
ttiithy Ciitlcal material, bupplomentary to the special critical refeientes, lb found In practically all
of the blogniphlefl Uhted
The editions of ruth writ* r's woiks aro arranged usmilU In rhiei groups — eoniplete woike, aelec
tlnns. Important single vnnls ( ompleto work, ami selcctlonM an anaugcd thmnolo^knlh , single
works, alphabetical!* Vnhih otberwlse Rpetlfled, editions ate in one -volume* The biographies and
the criticisms me nrran^ofl nlpli ibHIc-allv bv out1 ois riltlcnl «»SMS b>ijrlng *»lmpl\ numos of
\\il1<is us titlos ire listed onl> \t\ tlio Anliinit In vhUli tbc% iro found otber ossn\M nro listed by
title tm \\cll n« bv \olumo Moro extended blbllnprnphles tbnn thosi> given here in.n be found In
IJtf ('(tHibnrttK llivfrtut of Enfjh*J> LtlitatHu
Tin. authors lepusintfd in this t* \t in bcti an insul In alphabetical t.nlci
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY
HISTORY AND SOCIAL CONDITIONS
Cumin id t/t
M/ f>f Ln</lnnd in tlir
\i»N (London l,imi;-
of /Inr/ttiinl ft t nil tin
AO|S (London mid
}fofitni Hi^totft, Tin 11 \ols ml 1
Piothtio ,ind Ixathes, Vols d and
mi Miiciiullaii 1002)
L«.k\, W 1C H 4 //
rnf1it< «tf//f CintHitf
nuns IslSOO \i u \oik Vpple«oii ISS^OO) r<imhmlff(
Mm iubi\ I i: 'I In
Am** ton of Inmtv II
Mnititienii Jin nut 7tn l/i*toi i/ of KiH/ltrnff fi»tn ('ouithopr
tlit Comment * w* ut nf tin \f\th Ci utm » to
flit riuttfMfl M fii -1 \<>K (Lnndon, Hell, 1S40-
H1 , Phllndclphia, Pott«i 1M)4)
M(<aithv, I , and Mi(iuth\, J II 1 IIMoiv of
tlit 7'oiu fl<o)(K^ tind of \\il1iftm 71, 1 \<ils
(London Thatto 1SS4 10O1 , Ni w * oik II n-
p< i, 1SOO 1Onl ) li 4'h
PulitH til lli*>toiii of Jut/laud Tin 12 Mils ed bv
W Hunt MM. I It L Poob \<>ls 0 11
don and V* toik, I
Itiadlet \ C Orfottf Lirlnrt* on Pottty
doi*. Mainullan. 10OO J'lll)
Iti uiiUh, Cj Main ftifM/fts in Atnttctnth Ocn-
huif Littttituir. d \oN (Txnidon, Ilelneuuiun,
V I'Mll-O^i , .Now Vnk MHcmillnn, lOOli)
8 Hi a nd I, A framufl lui/lot Colo dt/t uud die
f /rr;ffnc/r< Romanlil (Uiiliu 1SSG) , Fiifflish
li inslntitm bv I^idv Kastlake (Ixindon Mui-
of
b\ Wjnl n nd
e Tun T'tess
I'MIs
uir. llu t 14
Vols Oil
Nrw "ioik.
W J A ffi^toiy of /'tiftli^h Porhy,
0 \o1s Vols 3 r» (Loii don und X( w ^oik, Mnc-
nnllnn 100*01)
tho|M( W T The Ltlitiftl MonmtHt In JSna-
li^lt LitLratuit (London, Murray, issl,
of
nnbi is
<otl 1001»-01)
ili>n- l>i*s,ui \\ I The
(\«\\ ^ mk nml I^i
Litetntute, ? vol«t , rrt bv
ed , I'hiludcliJhia, Lippin-
jv of
KIM!!
sonri7 1'iiffland 0 \ols ed bv II 1> Trnlll nnd T S. I) t \\soii \\ T 7/ir JI/nAf i v nj I'mi
Mann Vols r» nml f» (lotulnn Cissell 1^'MU ^ oik nntl Lrmdim K«\ell 1900)
<)T \<\\ \oik Viitnaiti. lOOK) Dennis 1
Witlpob S 1 Hiifnry of f'n</1nn<l from tin Con-
Poetm
^ti Protie (Ne\\
111,1 ns 1SDO)
HISTORY OF LITERATURE
Th< \<f »f Pop, (London. Bell, 1S<U,
1 no<» , Xew Yoi k Mm null in)
of tin dtutt War in 7W/7, fi ^ols (n«w Duttontitj/ of A«/iom»/ liiowaittii/ 22 vols , cd by
and r<MHod <d . London and New Yoik, I^HIEJ- L Steph( n and S 1* p (London, Smith, 1885-
1001 . Mufmillnn)
l)n\\den, K Tlit Frrnth Rciolutmn and Enyliih
Litirnfuic (New Yoik and T^ondon, S< rllmcr,
1S07)
H V A TIt*totv of Kn'flttJi Itonmntit i**m Iiowibn, K Ntudii* tn JAIoatuic, fTM-ltm (Lon-
don T'ault1sTK)
l»«iwdon, K TtattHotpt*. nnd NfNtfiri (I^omlon,
J'nnl, 19SS)
Ifmrtra of EnvliNh Ports, J7~7 /*W7. eil by
T L TInnev (Philadelphia Kjrorton PreuR,
l')04)
in tltr iff of V otttnv>ni1h (Manthev Eatly R<rl<toi of fit tat Wrltrt*, J7W 18S\ ed by BL
ter, Bheirnt, 1000) Stevenson (London, Scott, 1906).
iii t/tr llir/litti utli CtHtuut (Ntu A ork Holt,
s«»s, 1010)
HA A HMoty of Unolult Ititmantlt ISM.
in tJir \mt1trntfi Ctnlwy (New Yoik, Ilolt,
1001 1010)
Bnull»> A r KnalMt Poetry and Hrtman Phi-
1190
1200
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
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Eyrc-Todd, U btvttiKh Poetry of the Eighteenth tory of England in the End of the Eighteenth
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Farley F E ftcandtnanan Influence on the Ena- vote. (London, MacMlllan, 1883)
litf/i Rwnantu Alonmcnt (Studies and Note* In Omond, T 8 The Romantic Triumph (Edinburgh,
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Literature In the Eailv I*ait of the Nineteenth New York Mncmillan, 1H07)
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Garnet t. R and <IOMKO E
lUwti att'd Rtcotd, 4 vols, Vols
(London, Mainnllan 1903-04)
Gaten, L E Kludic* and Appreciation* (New York,
Miunullan, 1000)
Gautler, T Hmtotrc <Iu RomantiHint (Paris. 1884).
(iilfillan, (! GaUmc* of Literary Pot trait H, 8 Perry. T Enqlith Literature in the Eighteenth
vols (.London, Groombndgo, 1K45 r>4 New Crntuty, 2 \o\* (New York, Harpei, Issi)
York Appletnn, 1850-5?, E\ en man's Llbraiv Plielps. W L The B<g\nmnan ttf tin En</link
ed , Dutton) Rumantic Morenunt (liohton. Gluu 1893)
English Literature, an Pnter W Appreciation* (London nnd New York,
8 and 4
Mafinlllnn. 1880, 1M»5)
The JAterory Mounttnt in France
during the Nineteenth Cintnry Knellhh trans-
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Richardson. C F I X«/l«'t<d Attpirt of tht
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MABK AKEN8IDE
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1004, Now York Putnam)
Stephen, L History of English Thought in
the Mohttcnth Ccnturjft 2 vols (London,
Smith, 1876, 1KHO , New York, Putnam, 1870,
1002).
Mophon, L Hours in a Library, 3 vols (Ix>ndon,
Smith, 187470, New York and London, Put-
nam. 1NOO) , 4 vols (1007)
St«»ph<*n, L Mudi's of a Rinqraphir, 4 VO!R.
(London, l)u<kwoith, 18081002, Now York,
Putnam)
Sunonh, A The Romantic Motemint in English
Pwhy (London, Conntable, 1000, New York,
Dutton)
Talno, II A Histolrc dc la Littfrature Anglaise,
2 \O!H (Paris, 1863) , English translation by
II Van Laun (Edinburgh, The Academy, 1871 ;
Now York, Holt. 1N72, 1806)
Texte, J J J ROUHSCOM et Ics origines du cos-
ntnpoUhsme Ittteraire (ParlK, 1805) , Engllfth
translation by J W. Matthew* (London, Duck-
worth, 1800, New York, Macmillan)
Vaughan, C E • The Romantic Revolt (Edinburgh.
Ttlackwood, 1000, New York, Rerlbner, 1007).
Veltc h, J The History and Poetry of the Scottish
Harder ((Hangow, MscLehose, 1878).
Walker, H The English Essay and Essayists
(London, Dent, 1015, New York, Dutton).
Walker, H. The Literature of the Victorian Era
(Cambridge Univ. Press, 1010; New York,
Putnam).
Walker, H. : Three Centuries of Scottish litera-
ture, 9 voli. (Glasgow, MacLetae, 1898s New
York, MacmiUan),
Wernaer, B. M. . Ro
ticism and the Romantic
School in (Germany (New York, Appleton,
1000).
Whlpple, B. P. • Essays and Reviews, 2 Tola, (Bos-
ton, Osgood, 1840, Ticknor, 1861)
Wilson, J G The Poets and Poetry of Scotland,
2 volH. (Glasgow, Blackie, 1876, 1877; New
York, Harper)
Woodberry, 6 E Makers of Literature (London
and New York, Macmillan, 1001) . first pub-
tinned an Studies in Letters and Life (Boston,
Houghton, 1800)
Wright, C H C. A History of French Literature
(London and New York, Oxford Univ. Press,
1012).
MARK AKENSIDE (1721-1770), p. 44
EDITIONS
Poctieal Works, ed , with a Life, by A Dyce (Aldine
ed Edinburgh, Bell, 1835, New York, Mac-
millan)
Poetical Work*, with Boat tip, Text and Life by
Dyce (British Poets ed Boaton, Houghton,
1854, 1880).
Poetical Works, with Dyer, ed. by B A. Wlllmott
(1855)
Poetital Works, ed , with a Life, by O. Gilflllan
(Edinburgh, 1857)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Bucke, C On the Life, Writings, and Onius of
A ken Hide, with some iccount of tns Fucnfa
(1S32).
Dowdcn, E in Ward's The English Poets, Vol 3
(London and New York, Mar mil Ian, 1880.
1000).
Johnson, Samuel • The Lives of the English Ports
(London, 1770-81) , 8 volh . ed by G. B. Hill
(London, Clarendon Fret*, 1005)
CRITICAL NOTES
44. THE PLBASLBES OF THE IMAGINATION
The title and much of the thought of this
poem were huggested h\ Addixon R esMt>s
on the Ramp subject (Spectator, 411 421). The
helrctionh here printed are taken from the en-
larged version of the porai published in three
Books (and a fragment of a fourth) In 1757
The poem originally was publlxhed anonv- '
mourty in three Books In 1744 It wan the
pn rent of a number of similarly nameft poems,
among which are Warton's The Pleasures of
Melancholy (p 75), Campbell's The Pleasures
of Hope (p 417), and Bogera's The Pleasures
of Memory (p 207)
45*. 227ff. — This passage should be compared
with Addlson's Spectator, 412
47. ODD TO THE ETCHING STAR
This poem is lometlmei entitled Tta MgMin*
gale and Ode to ffetperu*.
1202
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA 474.
(See WINCHILSEA) *
JOANNA BAILLIE (1762-1851), p. 474
EDITIONS
Dramatu and Poetical Worlx (London, Longman*,
1851)
Till BEACpN
In the Kub^ltle, this play in characterised
as "a serious tousic al drama" , it contains a
number of songs The onp printed here, found
In Act II, HC 1, is sung at night by a fisher-
man to his mate as they keep a beacon burning
on the cliff to guide an expec ted boat to shore
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Hamilton, Catharine J Womtn Wrtttt*, 2 yols.
(London, \Vtird and Lock. 1M)2)
Jeffrey, F. "Alibb Balllie's Plays -on tlie rations,"
77i< Kduiltttit/h K<tieu, Julv, ISO1* (2 2G'>)
Mitfoid, Maiv It Ku ollt t tionv of a Ltfttum Life,
.< Mils (London Bentlej, 1hW 1SSS)
1'lari, U "Walter Scott and Joanna Baillie,'
Tht Ldinuutyh tfcncii, Oct , 1<)1^, Jan., 1913
(21<i Vi5 217 170)
Wilson, J <; Tli < J'<><t^ <ind I'o<1ty of Gotland,
2 vols (Glasgow, Blacklr, 1S7(>, New Yoikv
Harper).
CRITICAL NOTES
"In rending Joanna Hail lie's poetry we find her
to possess u quickness of observntlou that numly
supplies the pluc e of Insight , a strongly moralized
temperauii nt delighting in natural things, a Mgor-
ous, simple st\le Those me not espe< billy dm inn tic
qualities, and although she won her reputation
through her p1a\s, the poetiv l>v \\hlch she is re-
ineiiibcied is chiefly of n pastoral kind
Her country songs written In the language of her
early home, ha\e the lx>st qualities of Hcottlsh na-
tional poetiv, their simplicity, their millions
humor, cndcaied them nt once to the national hi ail,
they have the shrewdness and the freshness of the
morning aits, the homellnesK of unsophisticated
feeling Such songs as Hood and Man it d and \'
The Weary Pvnd o1 Tour Jft; Nanny O, and the
lovely trvstlng song beginning The Rouan glitters
on the swaid,' arc uni^ng the treasures of Hcottiflh
minMtreisy " — A Alary F Robinson, in Ward's The
English /'o<K 4
"Or, If to touch siuh chonl be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And enuilnte the notes that wrung
From the wild baip, \vhidi silent bung
By silver Avoiis holy shore,
Till twice an bundled year* roll'd o*erv
When she, the bold EmhanrrcHs, eame
With fearless hand and heart on flame r
From the pule willow siiatcb d the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred men sure,
Till Avon'n swans while rung the grove
With Montfort s bate and Hanil's love,
Awakening at the insnired stiain,
Dteiiid tbeir own Shakspearc liv'd again "
— Scott, In Introduction to Canto 8 of Marmion.
These lines are quoted an if they were spoken
to Hcott by his chief literary counsellor, Wil-
liam Brsklne, Ksq , to whom the Introduction
is addresHcd Mont fort and Basil are charac-
ters In Joanna BoUHe'ci drama* Ba*\l and 7)0
Montfurt, respectively. In contemporary critt-
clBm Mlfifl Ballllc was frequently declared equal
to Rhaksnere
JAMES BEATTIE (1735-1803), p. 119
EDITIONS
Poetical Wot*8, ed , with a Life, by A Dyco <A1-
dme ed , Edinburgh, Bell, 1831, Mew York,
MacmllUm, 1ST1)
1'ortual Wmli, with Collins, ed , with a Memoir
by T Miller (1S46)
I'txtual llwA*, viilb Akensidi (British 1'oets ed
Boston, HniiKhtou, iS.'i-l, IS SO)
\\otii T\ltli Blair and Faliotjer, ed with
laves, h\ <l Cllflllan (l'>llnbuigh, 18R4 , Lon-
don, Tassell 1871M
by A Mackie (Aberdeen, 1008)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
i
Bower, A An \ctovnt of th< Life of Jamm Rcat-
ti<> (1S04)
Forbes, Maigan't Jltattu and Inn Fncndn (Lon-
don, C'imstable, 1004)
Forbes, W An Anount of tht Lift <tnd VnlintjH
of ./flfttrv It((ittu, tndudim/ many of nt* OIK/I
nal Ldtnv, 1! vols (Rdmliuigb nnd I-ondon,
1SOH) , 3 \ols (1S07) , 12 vols (London,
Hoper, 1SJ4)
Crabani, II (J K<utn*lt M<n of L<tt<m in tin
Eiahltmth rnituiy (London, Black, 1001 , New
lork, Mac in 11 Inn)
Jeffrey, F "Sii \\lllinni Feu ben's Life of I>r
Benttle" Tht Edtnbun/h Rctitw, April, 1807
(10 171)
Me Tosh, J Tin KcottiKli Philosophy (Ixindon,
Miifinlllan, 1X74, New York, Carter, 187C)
Terry, T S "(Jrav, Collins, and Brattle." The
\Unntw AlonthJi/. Dec , 1880 (HI 810)
Walker, II 7'hm Ct»tnnt<> of Stottitth Lit era
tare, 2 vols ((» bisgow, Mac Lehose, 1893 , New
York, Maiznlllau)
CRITICAL NOTES
"I thanked you in m> last for Johnson , I now
thank you, with more emphnMii, for Brattle, the
moHt agreeable and amiable writer I ever met with ,
the only author 1 have setn whose critical and
philosophical researches are diveisifled and embel-
lished by a poetical imagination, that makes even
the driiHt subject, and the leanest, a feant for an
epicure* In books lie IH HO much at his ca*e too,
that hln own character appeurs in every page, and
which in very rare, we sec not onlv the writer but
the man and that man so gentle, so well-tempered,
no hnppy In hit* religion and HO humane in MB
philosophy, that it is necessary to love him, If one
ban the leant tienac of what to lovely If you have
not his poem called The Miiwtrel, and cannot bor-
row it, I mast beg you to buy It for me , for though
WILLIAM BECKPORD
1203
I cannot afford to deal largely In BO expcnidye a
commodity as hooks, I must afford to punham» at
leant the poetical works of Seattle" — fowper, in
letter to the Key William Unwln, April 5, 17K4
190.
THl MIN8TRHL
"The design was to tra<o tho progress of a
poetical genius, l>orn In a rude age fiom the
first dawning of fancy and reason, till that
period at whl< h he may be nuppofied capable of
appearing in the world ah a mlnsticl, that Is,
an an itinerant poet and musician , a character
which, according to the notions of our fore-
father*, was not only respectable, but *acred
"I have endeavored to imitate Spenser in
the meaMure of his verso, and tn the harmony,
simplicity, and variety of his competition An-
tique e \presH ions I ha\«> a \oided, admitting
houever Mime old words, where they seemed
to suit the suhjcrt . but I ho]»e none will IN-
found that are now obsolete, or In any degree
not Intelligible to a reader of English poctrj
"To thoHC who may he disposed to ask what
could induce me to write In so difficult a mcas-
uie, I can only nnnwer that it pleases my car,
and seems from its fiothlc ntructure and oilgl-
nal, to bear some relation to the subject and
spirit °f th'1 poem It admits both simplicity
and magnificence of sound and of language,
beyond any other stanza T am a«iunmtcd with
It allots the sententiousness of the couplet, as
well as Hie more complex moduli Mon of blank
verse What some critics ha\e remarked of
its uniformity growing at last tiresome to the
ear, will be found to hold true only when the
poetry is faulty In other respects "— Heattie M
Prefac e
121. no. Eighteenth century writers Idea 1 1 rod
America as a land of gold and precious atones
WILLIAM BECKFORD (1759-1844), p. 134
EDITIONS
Thr lfi*tt»tr <>f the fWi/i/i \ath<l, with fin Intro-
durticm by H Moiley (London and New \oik,
CasseJI 1KS7)
The History vj the Caliph Vathtl, and Luioptan
Trwicfv, ed , with a Itlogrnphical IntrodiKtioii,
by'(i T llettnuy (London and New York,
Ward and Lock, 1S01)
1 athcl . an Atabtan Tnl< , eel , with an Introduction
b\ H Carnctt (London, Lawrence, 1893, 1000.
Philadelphia, LIpplncott, 1001)
Tk9 ft toffy «/ the VaUjh VttthfJf, printed with the
original Prefaces and Notes by Henley ((icm
Classic sed New York, Pott TWO)
T*f W*tory of the Caliph r erf Ac*, eel , with an
Introduction by K D ROHS (London, Metbueu,
1001)
The EpttiodCH of Vathik. French texts with English
trannlctlon by F T Mn relate, and with an
Introduction bv L Melville (London, Swift,
1912, Philadelphia, LIpplncott)
BIOGRAPHY
Benjamin, L R ("L Mehllle") Tlic Lift and
Lttltt* of Wtlltuw, flcU/«»eJ of FonthiU (New
York, Dnfflrld, 1910)
(irogory, W The lieilford Family (llath, Slmi»-
klo, 1H9K)
Iteldlng, ( JI/rwioiM nf V itlwm link ford of
Fontlull, 2 \ols (London, Kkeet, 1859)
CRITICISM
Henjamln, L S ("L Mthlllo") "William Deck-
fold of Fonthill Abbey," The Fottmt/htly Jt<-
itew, Nov. I'M 10 (S(> 1011)
Ila^lltt, W "Fonthill Abbey," fJttnayt on the Fine
bfs (London, 1S3S) , Collected Wo/A,s, id by
\\.iller <md (ilover (T^ondon, Dent, DOJOd ,
\e\\ Yoik McChiK ) i) 'MS
More P K Tli< Jhtft of KuinaHtttivm (Sh«l
Luine Kssa}b, Eighth hiriuh lloston, Hough-
ton, 101 M)
A<IP V <m tli It? AIuiKizim , Ttit ' C(»ii \eisat ions \\i\\i
the late W Heckford, I0sf| " ls4.r» (72 IS)
l'(M>le, K L "The Author of Vatliek," 7/ic VHW-
trrlu Rfmrw. Oct, 1<)10 (4J18 377)
Ueddlng C1 "Hecollec tions of the \uthor of
Vnthek," The Nttr Monthly J/cic/fKiitr, Tune,
July, 1844 (71 143 302)
Tiffany, () Tht Yo*r7i Imnuan Itimto, April,
1M50 (00 2<>7)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
nenjnmln, L S ("L Mehllle') In his 7he L\1<
nnd Lfttu* of Willuim /fccA/orcJ of routlull
CRITICAL NOTES
VATHEK
This story originally uas written in Fien<h
A suireptitious Knglisb translation b\ H Hen-
le\, one of Keckford's Iriends \vas published
in 17S<), in the Pieface Henli \ stati^l thnt the
stcuy WHS translited from the Aiabic Ile< k
ford pul»llsh<d the ongliuil Fi<mh text, in
Iwkth Pans and Lausuimc in 17s"
"T do not knoni fiom what souice the author
of thut singulai \ohiine nn\ h»ne dmi\n his
matt tin Is some of the im Idents die to In
found in the Jttbliotli(qu< Onentult , but for
c 01 rec tness ot lostume, be,iut\ of dcscilplion,
nijd po^ei of Imtigl nut Ion, it far surpasses nil
Kuiopeun imitations and bears such maiks of
oilglnality that those \\ho hn\e visited the
Kiist will find some difficulty in believing it to
be more than a translation As an Eastern
tale, ex on /frivw/rrs must INIW before It his
'Happy VallcV ^ill not bear a comparison with
the 'Hall of KblIsiff--lWroni In note on The
Uuwur, 1 13L»S (1S13)
"Kuiopenn literntuie bus no Oriental fiction
which impresses the Imagination HO powerfully
and permanently as T alhel I'ortionn of the
stoiy ma* be tedious or repulsive but the
whole combines two things most difficult of
alliance — the fantastic and the sublime" —
Garnett. in Dictionary of Notional Biography
(1885)
1204
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
1M5«. IM. "in thin heaven the paradise of Ma-
homet 1« supposed to be placed contiguous to
the throne of Alia Hagi Khalfah relates that
Ben latmaiah, a celebrated Doctor of Hamas
tug, had the temerity to assert that, when the
Moht High erected bitt throne, he reserved a
vacant place for Mahomet upon It " — Henley's
note in flint ed
ISRa. 37. "This Is an apparent anachronism, but
fcuch frequently occur in reading the Arabian
writer*, Though the origin of spec
tarles tan be traced back with certainty no
higher than the thirteenth century, yet the
art of staining glass is sufficiently an-
cient to have suggested In the days of Vathek
the use of green as a protection to the eye
from a glare of light " — Henley
188b. 14. "A phial of a similar potion Is ordered
to be instantaneously drank off in one of the
Tales of Inatulla 'These brewed enchantments'
have been used In the East from the day* of
Homer Milton In his Com** d esc rites one of
them, which greatly resembles tho Indian's
And first behold this cordial julep here,
That flames and din«* In his crystal bounds.
With spirits of balm, and fragrant hyrup*
mlx'd
Not that Nepenthes, which the wife of Thonc
In Kgvpt ga\e to Jove born Helena,
Ik of such now'r to i-tlr up Jov UK this ,
To life HO friendly, or w> cool to thirst"
[11 072-7H] — Henley
56. In the portion omitted, the Indian,
kicked from the palace because of his insolence,
forms himself Into a ball, rolls through the
streets of tho city find across the valley,
and plunges over the precipice into the gulf be-
neath After many days and nights he re-
appears to Vathek, who has been waiting on
the precipice, and promises to lead him to the
palace of subterranean fire if he will abjure
Mahomet The promise IB given, but before the
Journey cnn be begun, tho Indian's thirst must
I* satlfltled with the blood of fifty of tbe most
beautiful sons nf prominent men Vathek
treacherously makoH the sacrifice, but the
Indian immediately disappears Endangered
by the hostile attitude of the distracted par-
ents of the sacrificed children, Vathek is ad-
vised by his mother to set out with a magnlfi
cent train in search of the region of wonders
and delight After numerous adventures, in
which many of his company are lost, he comes
to the happy valley of the Emir Fakreddln and
is royally entertained In bis beautiful palace
Vathek at once becomes enamored of Nouronl-
har the Emir's daughter, and, contrary to the
wishes of her father, induces her to accompany
him to the subterranean kingdom. Various
beneficent Genii warn Vathek, on the way, to
abandon his purpose, with the result that
nearly all of his attendants desert htm (At
this point the concluding selection begins )
148b. 41. In the third French edition of Vathek,
Beckford inserted here the titles of three of
these stories. They have been published u
Th9 Jpfeotfet o/ Fat*** (1918).
48. 'The expedition of the Afrit in fetching
Carathis Js characteristic of this order of
dives. We read in the Koran that another of
the fraternity offered to bring the Queen of
flaba's throne to Solomon before he could rise
from bis place, ch 27 " — Henley.
THOMAS LOVELL BBDDOBS
(1803-1849), p. 1129
EDITIONS
Poetical Work*, 2 vols , ed . with a Memoir, by "B
HosHe (London, Dent, 1800, New York, Mac-
mlllan) , reprinted in Temple Library ed
Forms, ed by K Colles (MuiieH' Library ed Lon
don, Dent. 1906, New York. Ihitton, 1007)
Litter*, ed bj E UOSM» (London, Mathews, JM)4)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Gossc, E Critical KH-Kat* (New York, Dodd,
1003) a reprint with slight addition*,, of the
Memoir in Pottical Work* (1800)
Hills rd, Kate "A Strayed Singer," Lippincott'*
Magazine, Nov., 1873 (12 551)
Btoddard, R U Under the Evening Lamp (New
York, ftc ribner, 1802 , London, Gas )
Kvmons. A "Tbe Poetical Works of Thomas
Lovell Bcddoeh," The Acadimy, 1801 (40 128)
Wood, II • "T L Beddoes, a Hurvhal in Style,"
The American Journal of Philoloyy, 1883
(4 445)
CRITICAL NOTES
"Reddoes hns unmet lme<< boon treated as a nslnh
bookish poet deriving from the KHzahethann and
Shollej I cannot agree with this Ills very eui
Heat work, written when he could not know rau<h
cither of Hhellev or Keats, HHOWH, an they do,
technique caught from Leigh Hunt Hut this is
quite dropped lat<r, and his KlisabcthanlRm is
not Imitation but Inspiration. In this inspiration
he does not follow but shares with his greater
contemporaries He Is n younger and traffic coun-
terpart to Charles Lamb In the Intensity with
which he has imbibed the Elizabethan spirit,
rather from the night-shade of Webster and Tour-
neur than from the vine of Rhakespeare As
wholes, his works are naught or naught but night-
shade But they contain passages, espe-
cially lyrics, of tbe most exquisite fancy and
music, such as since the seventeenth century none
but Blake and Coleridge had given " — Halntshurv,
In A HMory of Nineteenth Century Literature
(1886)
1199.
POOR OLD PILGRIM MIflIRT
This song is found In Act I, sc 1, of The
Brides Tragedy. Hesperus Rings it to his bride
Floribel, after she has related a dream in
which she wai told to beware "of lore, of
fickleness, and woe, and mad despair."
WILLIAM BLAKE
1205
1130.
A H0f A HO'
This song Is found In Act IT, RC 1, of The
Rndc'tt Tragedy It 1* Hung by a Uoy In re-
sponse to hiH master's request for a song It
IK sometime** entitled Love Got* A-
STREW MOT EARTH WITH EMPTY STARS
This song is found 1n Act T t.e 1, of The
Netond Brother It in sung by female attend-
ants to Oraxlo, a self -proclaimed son of
Bacchus, god of wine
HOW MANY TIMES DO I LOVE THEE, DEAR9
This song In found In Act I, BC 1. of Torri*-
mou*l It Is sung b\ female nttendnnts, nt
nlglit In n garden to tlielr mistress VerrniUn,
to Induce her to sleep
TO SEA ? TO 81A f
Thlw song is found In Act I, HO l,otDcath'9
Jtnl Jiook It is sung on a ship by Bailors
nboiit to depart on a voyage to rescue their
duke from captivity In a foreign country
'JTJF HUAILOHl LEUES HER NEST
This song is found In Act I, RC 4, of Death's
Jtttt Hook It Is heard from the wateis alter
Hlbtlla has thrown herself upon the dead
Itodv of her lover. Wolfram, who hah Ju^t
been killed by the duke, his rival Wolfram
had learned that the duke had tried to poison
him, and wns killed bee a u HP of thin kiiowl
edge
11 SI. . IF THOI WILT E\8E THINE HEART
This song Is found In Act IT, sc 1, of
IHatli't* Jtttt Hook It Is a dirge sung »1 the
funeral of Wolfram In the present e of the
duk< SIhillu, and otheis
LAD\, *AS IT FAIR OF THEE
This and the next Rong rrc found In Act IV,
M a, of Dtath'i Jtttt Hook The niht Is Rung
by Siegfried, a dejected courtier, beneath the
window of hit* lady love, Amala The Hecond
IN sung to Amala by Athulf, another lover,
who has taken poison because his brother his
mnirlefl hei
OLD IDltf, THL CARRION CROW
This and the ne\t song are found In Act V,
M a of iHath i Jatt Hook The Urst IH snug
bv the ghost of Wolfram. disguised aR a fool,
nfter he has listened to a drinking song by
Siegfried The Rccond IB a dirge Hung by a
funeral procesRlon bearing Hlbylla to her
giave
The Grave, illustrated by Schlavonettl, from the
original Inventions of William Blake, 180S,
1818 (London, Methuen, 1908, New York,
\ppleton)
The Urnve, ed , with a Preface, by F W Farrar
(Philadelphia, Lippincott, 1860)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Graham, n G AooffteA Mm of Letter* in the
Kiyhtrenth Ginlvty (Ixindon, Iliac k 1901,
New lork, Ma cm Ulan)
Wilson, J G The Ports and Poetry of K rot land,
2 ^ols (Glasgow, ttuukie, 1K70, New York.
Harper)
CRITICAL NOTES
ROBERT BLAIR (1699-1746), p. 37
EDITIONS
Poetical Work*, with Beattle and Falconer, ed ,
with Liven, by G Gllflllan (Edinburgh, 1SB4 ;
London and New York, Camell. 1879)
37. THF (2RAA F
"The Grave was the flint and best of a
whole series of mortuary poems In spite of
the epigrams of conflicting partisans. Night
Thout/htii must be considered an contempo-
laneous with it, and neither preceding nor
following It There can be no doubt, however,
that the sutwss of Blair encouraged Young
to pci severe In hia far longer and more laboil-
ous undertaking Blairs verec Is ICSA rhe-
torical, more exquisite, than Young's, and. In-
deed, his relation to that writer, though too
striking to be overlooked, in fmperficial lie
forms a connecting link between Otway and
Crabbe, who are his nearest poetical kinsmen
Hlb one poem, Tin Oraie, contains se\<n
hundred and sixty -seven llnra of blank verse
It is very unequal in merit but supports the
examination of modern criticism far bettei
than most productions of the second quarter
of the eighteenth century AR philosophical
literature it Is quite without value, nnd it
adds nothing to theology , it rests Kolelv upon
Its merit as romantic poetry " — GOSBC, 1n JJic
fioiifiry of National Rwuraphy (1SXO)
Bryant wiote Th<i*atop*i* soon niter read-
Ing this poem Tf Bryants poem *lth lino*
28-07 of The Grate
WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827), p. 166
EDITIONS
Poetical Worfrft, ed . with a Memoir, by W M
Kossettl (A hi I ue ed London, Bell. 1S74,
1890, New York. Maimillan)
WorJK Pop/ir, Symbolic, and Critical, 8 vols , ed ,
with a Memoir and Interpretation, hy K J
Kills and W B Yeats (London, Quarltch,
1893)
Poetical V orks, cd by J. Sampson (Oxford Univ
Preafl, 1005)
Poetical Worls. 2 vols . ed by E J Ellis (London,
Ohatto, 1900) The only edition containing
the Prophetic Books
Poet teal Works, including Minor Prophetic Books,
ed by J Sampson (Oxford Univ. Press, 1913).
PotiHH and ftnerimeits from the Pro** "Writing*, ed.
by T Kklpsey (Canterbury Poeta ed. : London,
Rcott, 1885).
1206
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Poem*, ed by W B Yeats (Maker*' Library ed
London, Lawrence, 1898, New York, Ncrlb-
ner, London, Koutledge, 1905, Now York,
Dutton)
Lyrical Poem*, ed f with an Introduction by W
Raleigh, by J Hampton (Oxford Clarendon
i'l ess, IflO(L)
ft»m the Kirmltoltc Poem**, ed l»\ F K
Pierce (Talo Fniv Pres* IBID)
«/ iHnoienu ami Kjttciun« (Chicago,
Pouhlednv, 1910)
aiiangcd M W R Scott (Ixnidon,
Chatto, 190<i)
Lrttrr*, cd , with a Life by F Tnthom. by A (!
II Russell (London Methuen llMMi, New
York. Hcilhuei)
BIOGRAPHY
Kills, E J Tfcp Real Wale. a Portrait Bio<;)aj)lij/
(London, rimtto, 1907, New *oik, Douhlc-
d.i\)
f.lMnlst \ Life uf \\tlluiw /JfflAr. 2 \oN
(Lundou. M uniill.ni 1MiS),cd b\ \\ C Koh-
ortson (London and New York, Lane. 1900)
Rcllmourt Il.isll de TTrffiflHi JffrrAr (London.
Duckuoith, 1909, New ^oik HiilliDei)
Stoiv, A T William Hhike his Lit*', Chnnc-
tor, and <ieiiius (I^mdon, Sonneriscbciu, 1S93)
CRITICISM
Ilccching IT C 77<f«<ii/ff atid Rindus b//
o/ th( Knylitfi Animation, Vol .i, 1D1J
V (1 /:IHU;/H (Lunduii,
1S95 New Ik oik, Dutton)
Hi*mi <t /'or<m (Pniis, 19O7) ,
Knplish translation by 1) II Couni'i, William
»nd Myvlir (>s<'W \oik, I tut ton.
TtriN»k<> S A HtmliCK in I'mltf! (Tjondon, iMitk-
woith, 1907 New ^oik Putnam)
Clicslcitoii, li K y//«Ar (New lork, 1 Mil ion,
Gainott R "William Blnkr Palntor and I'oot."
/•oif/ofio. No 22, 1S9.J
Hewlett, 11 (i "JnipcrfcU Coulus \MI11 m
IMake* 77*r Contiftiporaij/ Jfriifj/, Oct. 1S7«
(2H 705)
Hunekcr, J (i Ego tit* (Now York, Hcrlbnci,
1909)
Ij*npr1d?o, I William Rlato (New York, Mar-
millrin, 10(»4)
Mooro, T K "William Itlak«» and hU ^Chthotlc."
>4rf onrl 7v//r (LoiMlon. Mothuon, 1010)
Moore, T K "WMIInin Itlako, Toot and I'alntoi/*
77ir Quartern Jtdittc. Jan , 10 OH (20S :24)
Moio, P E Midlwnf KwiyH, Fouith Horlcs
(Now York and Ix>ndon. I*ntuain, 1000)
Morris, L R "William Blake the Flrot of the
Modern^" The Foram, Juno, 1914 (51 982)
RusMcll, A O T?ir EnfjraHnfj* of William ttlttlte
(Tendon, Rlf hards, 1912, lloston, Houffhton)
Hcudclor, H K "William lilake. Painter and
Poet," 8<r1l>n<v>M Monthly Maqasine. June,
1880 (20 2.14)
Btoddanl. R II Vndtr the Kvmitiff Lamp (New
York, Heribner 1H92, London, day)
Swinburne, A C William Blake, a Critical E»-
*ay (London, Chatto, 1808 , New York, Dutton,
1000)
Simons, A The Romanlie Movement in English
Pot try (London, Constable, 190U , New \oik,
Dutton)
FUnions. A Wrtham Hla\e (New York, Dutton,
1907)
Thomson J Hlw/niphlenl und rnttenl Htudii *
(London, Reeves, I SOU)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
KM iics, CJ. L (In preparation)
CRITICAL NOTES
"To define the poetry of Hlake one ntuftt find
new dennitions foi poetry , but, these definitions
oii«' found, he will seem to be the only poet who
is a poet in esHcmc, the only poet \\ho could, in
his own words, 'entei Into Noahs lalnhow, and
make n filend and i ompaiiiori of one of thcs<
linages of wonder \\huh always entie.it him to
le,i\e mortal things' In this \eise theie is, it it
is to be found in am veisi the 'lyifitil ei\', and
jel, \\hut voice In it that dies in this disembodied
etstany? The voice* of desire Is not in tt, nor the
totce ol passion, not the <n of the heart not
the cry of the slnnei to dod, nor of the lover of
nature to nature It neither seeks uoi applies
nor laments nor questions It Is like the volte of
wisdom in a child, \tho has not yet foi gotten the
world out of which the soul came It Is as upon
tniicous as the note of a blid, it is an affirmation
ol life, in Its song whuh seems nun music, it is
the mind which sings. It Is Uilc thought What
i> It tint ti.mstixcs one In un\ <ouplef such as
4lf 1h< sun and moon should donhl
They d immediately K<» out *
Tt Is no more than a nnraery statement, there is
not even nn image in It, and yet it ulngs to the
brain, it cuts Into the \eiy flesh of the mind as
if there were a tfreut Height behind It Is it that
it Is nn airow and thnt it comes from MI far,
find with an impetus gathered from Its speed out
of the sky?
"The poetrj of Hlake Is a poetn of the mind,
n I »fc tract in substance, concrete in form, its pas
ftlon is the passion of the Imagination, its emotion
Is the emotion of thought, its beauty In the beunt\
of Idea When it is simplest. Its simplicity is
that of some 'Infant Joy* too young to ha\e a
name, or of «ome 'Infant sorrow brought aged on I
of eternity into the dangerouH world, and there,
'TTclplem, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid In a < loud '
Theie are no men and women In the world 'of
lilake'H poetry, onlv primal ItiHtinctH and the en
orgies of the Imagination" — Hymons, In The 7?o
man lie Movement in Rnglwh Pot fry (1009).
1OO. TO rnr MFSKS
For the name* and offices of the Muses, wee
(Jlosnnrj under Jf«<»r
WILLIAM BLAKE
1207
INTRODUCTION TO BONGS OF INNOCENCE
This was the InlHal poem In n volume of
veise entitled Nonyy of Ittuwcntt , published in
17 NO The following interns thiough A 7); ram
(p. 1<W) were included In the volume.
ION. THI ROOK OP TIIIL
This Is one of lllakc'R HO (allot! Prophetic
or Svmholu Hooks, 11 scilos of *n tings in whith
he picscntb bis ideas on etliUH, moiallt>, le-
llglon, et(. The names in the poem me of
Illakt H toinigc
<>rlhe legultulty ol Its iiui lined foul teenei s,
the Idyllic gentleness ot its imagi'iv, und thu
not unpleasant blending ol siniplidfv uud loi
inallsin In the dutlon, piodiiuu the mood of
*ofif/<* uf JHHMUUI It ticuts oi the same all-
p« i vading spnlt oi inuliml love find self-uarrl
htc In icspouse to the 141 title lamentations'
ol tin MI MII Thel to \\honi lilt stuns \ain,
and diath ultii annihilation, tin lil> oi tin
\alli\ tin < loud tin v\«uin mid ttu fltNl list
li|» to ttsiiiv |o lUi» ait 1 1 tU|u inli lit i ol all
foi ins tit IK nis iindii tht JIIIIIM 1 ma fie, and to
slum that diath is not /mal r\tin< lion lull the
supieiiii inaniieslatloii of this linpulst to 'will-
ing san ibt i ot silt Illaki s original toudu
Rioii to this aigiiincnt Is lust foi the last
seitlon has not am piHcptihlr tonne dion in
Its context In it the \vhole tontcphon of
Hie K (handed This woild Is a daik piisou,
and the plnsltnl stnsis me naiiovv windows
daikcniiiK tin* mlmit< soul t>t man hv exdud-
hit; the wisdom and |ov of ctciultv, the con-
dition ol \\hidi Is liMdom The suiiiti of
this clfuiadation is th( Uiatinv ol ahstimt
nioial l.i\\, the mind foiirtd nian.it les* upon
itatuial and Ihucloic, iniiiMciit desiies, Its
'\mhols ate tin* sllvei tod of nulhoiltv nnd
the Kolden ho\\l of n lesttlttixt ethn that
would mete out the Imnieasuiahle splilt of
love Ileie llhike Is death enough In the
Kiip of the foi mal antlnoimanisin that pio-
duied tht» later 'piophetics — T P ft \\il-
lls hi Ttu fV/»«7>Mrf(/f IliHtotv of f7/»f//?s7i Lit-
I HlfNIf . Vol 11, dl J>
I ^f /f//*//n/t - hi the llrst (Million of the
poem this line re id "The dtiiKhtcis of Mne
Sciaphmi ' In HI ikes svstini 'Mm tin" \\ua
the n.i me iJvcn to the Mother of Ml
170. THE (1011 AM) THH I'BBDI B
The following poems thioimh 4 Ctadlc ftonq
(p 1TJ) \vere intlutled In a \oliime of verse
eutitliMl halm* of VJiHiiam, puhllhhed In
1704 Some of the poems In this volume weio
simply ncift visions of potms In tfonu\ of
171. Tnn TTCBR
A POIHON TUBB
This poem lh sometimes ontitlod ClniKtian
Foi be at ant. ft
172 AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE
The Hut N ait pilntrtl IIH leatianKed hy Hos-
F<»i thi 01 dei In whldi tho («iini In
m inus( il|>1, seo 111 ikes J'tuhttil MuiA*,
ed h> Sampson (140").
1-4. With fiese lines rompaie Tennvson'a
Flout i iu tin ( luiinud H till, «ib JolluwB
Flower In the <iannled mall,
I pluck \ ou out til the u aunivs ,
Hold jou here, loot und all, in my hand,
Little llowci — but i/ I tould uudei stand
What \tui aief loot and all, and all in all,
1 should know what (iod and man is
173. THE MENTAL TIIA\EL1EU
"Tlir Vinlal TninHo induates an pxploier
ol mental phenomena '1 he mental phenome-
non hue svmlioli/id seems to he the caieci of
am ueat idea oi nit 11« tual movement — as,
lot Instance. ( hi 1st I lint \ dm Ui> nit, e1( —
itpnsintid as UOIIIK thmuKh tlu stages of —
1, huth, J, udversitv and peiseiutioii . 3, tri-
umph and unit ui it \ 4 decadence thiouKh
ovei-ilpeness , ,"i, uiadual tiausluiuiatlou. un-
der ntvv conditions, into auothei ituovated
Itha. vvhith apiin has to pass thioujih all the
same1 stage's In othri Avoids the pw m lepii1-
sents the ad ion and n id ion rf Ithas upon
so<i(»f\,aiid of soiietv upon M«MIS'— Rossetti s
note in I'tufmit TT«/As (Is74) "The hnhe
1 tike to signift hum i ti p'tihis or
intellcd \\lndi none (in tondi ind not he
i oiiMimcd except the '\vomin old faith oi
Inn all \\tako thiiif;^ piln tnd ]iliasuie
hat nil and love flj \\ith sluiekini; t\(>itetl
fa(es fiom hefoie it rl he «'«n and ciuel
nuise, custom or i dl^lon, ciudhes and tor-
ments the t hild, li (MlliiK hi ist If u]»r>u his agony
to false fiesh vouth Cnwn oldei
he weds hei , custom, the dnih life
of men, once iniiiliMl to the fiesh intellett.
IxHim fin It to him of piofit and pleasuip.
hut thioiifih si,di union he KIIW*< old
the Mionei, soon tun hut uaudci round ind
look oxci his imishtMl work and gathcied tieas-
uie the tiau'ic passions and splendid achieve-
ments oi his spirit kept fiesh in terse or
color Thv Temnli ha IM ' sprung from
the flie that burns al^vavs cm his hearth Is the
Issue or lesult of K«>uiiis which, being too
strong foi the father, flews into new channels
and follows after fiesh wavfl . The out-
cast intellett can then be vivified onlv by a
new love Then follow the Rtagen of
love, and the phases of action nnd passion
bred fiom either stage" — Swinburne, In Wil-
liam Itltikr (1MJS)
After lentllng this IXKMH, Lamb declared the 171- MILTON
author to bi> 'one ot the most oxti a ordinary Milton is one nf Rlnke'R late Prophetic
persons of the age* " Books. Bee note on 7Vi«» RtMl of ThcJ, above,
1208
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
In Milton, Blake gives a mythical account of
the progress of poetry. The poet Milton trans-
migrates Into the body of Blake and through
him Rived assurance of the reign of the Im-
agination anil of the renewal of the human
spirit In poetry.
TO THl QU1IN
This poem, addressed to Queen Charlotte,
wife of George III, King of England (1760-
1820), WEH written as the Dedication of
Blake'H designs for Blair's The Grove (p 87).
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES
(1762-1850), p. 164
EDITIONS
Poetical Work*, 2 vols , ed , with a Memoir and
critical Dissertation, by G Gllflllan (Ed In-
burgh, 1855)
Poetical Work* (London, ras&ell, 1879)
Poetical Work*, with Lamb and II Coleridge, ed.
by W Tlrebuck (Canterbury Poets ed Lon-
don, Scott, 1887).
CRITICISM
Beers, H A "Coleridge, Bowles, and the Pope
Controversy," A History of English Roman-
tit wm m tht Vtntteenth Century (New York,
Holt, 1901, 1910)
Casson, T E Eighteenth Century Literature;
aifOoJord Miscellany (London, Frowde, 1909)
Coleridge, 8 T Biographia Litcrana, ch 1 (Lon-
don, 1817, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1907).
Haclltt, W. "Pope, Lord Byron, and Mr Bowles,"
The London Magazine, 1821 , Collected Work*,
ed Waller and ttlover (London, Dent, 1902-
06, New York, MoClure), 11, 486
Quarttrly Rtview, The, Nor, 1809 (2 281)
Salntsbury, G A History of Critioitm (Kdln-
burgh and London. Blackwooil, 1900-04,
1908 , New York, Dodd)
CRITICAL NOTES
"I had just entered on my seventeenth year,
when the sonnets of Mr Bowles, twenty In num-
ber, and Just then published In a quarto pamphlet,
were first made known and presented to me, by
a school-fellow who had quitted us for the Uni-
versity, and who, during the whole time that he
was In our first form (or la our school language a
(•KBCIAN), had been my patron and protector I
refer to Dr Mlddleton, the truly learned, and
every way excellent Bishop of Calcutta It
was a double pleasure to me, and still remain* a
tendpr recollection, that I should have received
from a friend so revered the first knowledge of a
poet by whose works, year after year, I was so
enthusiastically delighted and Inspired. My earli-
est acquaintances will not have forgotten the un-
disciplined eagerness and Impetuous seal, with
which I labored to make proselytes, not only of
my companions, but of all with whom I conversed,
of whatever rank, and In whatever place As
my school finances did not permit me to purchase
copied, I made, wtthln less than a year and a half,
more than forty transcriptions, as the best pres-
ents I could offer to those who bad In any way
won my regard. And with almobt equal delight
did I receive the three or four following publica-
tions of the same author My obligations to
Mr Bowles were Indeed Important, and foi radical
good At a very premature age, evcin befoie my
fifteenth year, I had bewildered myself In meta-
physics, and In theological controversy . This
preposterous pursuit was, lieyond doubt Injurious
both to my natural powers, and to the progiesH of
my education It would perhaps have Iron de-
structive, had It been continued , but from thin
I was auspiciously withdrawn, partly Indeed by
an accidental introduction to an amiable family,
chiefly, however, by the genial Influence of a st>le
of poetry* no tender and yet so manly, HO natural,
and real, and yet so dignified and harmonious, as
the sonnets, etc., of Mr Bowies'" — Coleridge, lii
Btouraplna Literaria, ch 1 (1817)
See Coleridge's To the Reverend W L Bon leu
(P 329)
"As the English romantic poets went forth to
combat the classic school with Its snper-senso ami
pride of strict rules and to endow the poetr\ of
the fairy tale with new life, their first halt vtas
under the shadow of Bowles Compared with Hudi
a poet of the Intellect as Pope, who hud main-
tained that, with a clear head and dexterous
style, nothing was too prosaic to bo conveited
Into poetiy, such an elealbt as Bowles, who aimed
at all effect through the heart, was a most re-
freshing contrast ' — A Brandl, In Namvrt Taylor
Coleridge and the Enalith Romantic flrftoor, Ens
llKh Translation by Lady Kastlake (1887)
Bee Byron's Enfflish Bard* and fiootch Rrruw-
m, 827-K4 (p 490)
184. AT TlNBlfOUTII PBIOB7
Tynemouth Priory Is a noted ruins of an
ancient church In Tjnemouth, a city at the
mouth of the RJver Tyne, In Northumherlaml-
shlre, England The city IH noted a* a
waterlng-placi! , also for ItH picturesque cliffs.
THE BILLS, OSTBND
Ostend Is a famous sea-side resort In Bel-
gium
BAMBOKOUGH CABTIJD
Bamborough Castle Is an ancient castle
In Itamltorough, a village on the <oust of
NorthumberlandHhlre, England
EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797), p. 1186
EDITIONS
Work*, 9 vols. (Boston, 1889) , revised, 12 vois.
Boston, Little, 1865-67, 1694)
"Work* and Correspondence, 8 vols (London, Rlv-
Ington, 1852)
Works, 8 vote (London, Bohn, 1854-56, Mac-
millan).
EDMUND BURKE
1209
Complete Works, 6 vols^ with an Introduction
and Piefaccn bj F II. Willis and F W Haf-
fety ( World 'H Classics ed . Oxford Unlr.
Press, 1906-08).
Selection*, 8 vote f od by E J Payne (Oxford,
Clarendon Pram, 1874, 1892-G8)
American Speeches and Letters, ed by H Law
(Everyman1* Llbr ed New York, Button,
1908).
Correspondence, 4 voln , ed by B Fitiwllllam and
B Rourki' (Louilon. Rlvlngton, 1844)
R<fltction* on the Revolution in France, ed by
F G Helby (London, Macmillan, 1890)
UperchcH on America, ed by F G Belby (London,
Marmlllan 1896)
Hpttihe* on Irwh Affair*, ed by M Arnold (Lon-
don, Macmillan, 1881).
BIOGRAPHY
Crolv G { Mrmoh nf the Political Life, of the
Iff linn K Huike (London, Black wood, 1840)
MHC'Rnlffht, T HMory of the Life and Time it of
Kdmwid Burke, 3 vols. (London, Chapman,
ISDN)
Morlfv, J Edmund Burke (English Men of Let-
ton* Rcrles London, Macmillan, 1879 , Now
York TTarper)
Prior, Sir James Memoir of the Life and Char-
acter of Edmund Burke, with ftneeimen* of
fciff Poetry and Letters (1824, London, Bell,
1878, New York, Macmillan)
CRITICISM
Blrrell A Obiter Dleta, Second Series (London,
Stock, 1H80, 188h. Now York, Rcribner)
Itowson, W J The Makers of English Pi Me
(New York and London, Kevell, 1900)
Dowilen, E "Anti Revolution Edmund Burke,"
Tht French Rfiolution and English Literature
(New York and London, Scribncr, 1897)
Ilazlitt, W "Character of Mr Burke" Political
£*H0yA (London, 1819, Collected Works,
(Ml Waller and Glover (London. Dent, 1902-
Ofl, New York Mctture), 8 2RO, 825
Howard, W G "Burke among the Forerunners
of Lessing," Publication* of the Modem Lau-
qvage 4**nctation, 1007 (n H 15 608)
MacCnnn, J Thr Political Philosophy of Burle
(London, Arnold, 1913; New York, Lnng-
mann).
Maurice. F I> The Friendship of /Tool:* (Lon-
don and New York, Macmillan, 1S74)
Mousel, F Edmund Burle und die Fransbsische
Revolution (Berlin, Weidmann. 1918)
Mlnto, W A Manual of English Prone Literatute
(Edinburgh, Blackwood. 1872, 1886, Boston,
Glnn, 1901}
Morley, J Edmund Burke, an Historical Study
(London. Macmlllan, 1867, 1898).
Napier. Sir J Lecture*, Essays, and Letters
(London, Longmans, 1888)
miaou, T D • Edmund Burke, Apostle of Jutttre
and Liberty (London, Watt*, 1905)
Roger*, A K "Rurkc'H aortal PhlloHOphy^ The
American Journal of Sociology, July, 1912
(18 51)
Stephen, Sir J F Horn Sabbatic*, 3 aeries
(London, Macmillan, 1891-92)
Stephen, L History of English Thought in the
Eighteenth Century, 2 vote (London. Smith,
1876, 1902, New York. Putnam)
Wilson, W Merc Literature (BoHton, lloughton,
1896)
CRITICAL NOTES
1186. BIFL1CTION8 ON THB REVOLUTION IN
FBANCI
"Thli extraordinary book was pnbllHhed
near the outbreak of the French Revolution
and Justly taker* rank ah one of the master-
piece* of English literature It J* at once a
eondemnatlon tit the Revolution, and a proph-
ecy of the evils the Revolution would produce
As a flpecimen of denunciatory writing. It Is
probably one of the most remarkable ever
produced In any language it pour* out tor
rent after torrent, Niagara after Niagara
But though It IB lepetltloufl and therefore
*omewhat monotonous It abounds in Khrewd
Judgments, In brilliant picture*, and In
prophecies that hecm Inspired At tlmeh It If*
so unfair and BO unjust that some have at-
tempted to explain Its excesses by the pre-
sumption that Burke bad lout bin reabon
There Is no need, however, of resorting to this
violent hypothesis. Burkc't* mind was always
essentially denunciatory In Ita nature , and
he was never able to be quite Junt either to
men or to political methods he disliked More-
over, though he was a pastilonate friend of
liberty, he never believed liberty was to be
secured or preserved by submitting political ,
affairs to the control of ma -wen of ignorant
men These characteristics of hlx mind and
of his political doctrines are quite sufficient
to account for the peculiarities of what, with
all Its drawbacks, must probably be connldered
the greatest work of the greatest writer of
English prose"— C K Adams, in A Manual
of Historical Literature (1882)
During the period 1789-92, the French Revo-
lution found manv supporter* In England
among poets, political philosophers, and
clergymen Most prominent among these
groups were Wordsworth, Coleridge., and
Southey, Godwin, POT, and Wllkes, and
Priestly and Price All of the*e openly and
fervently glorified everything that was being
done in the name of Liberty With these en-
thusiasts, Burke was entirely at variance To
him the Revolution meant only the overthrow
of an established civilisation, and he -vigor-
ously protected For the contrasting view,
see the selections from Ocdwin's An Enquiry
concerning Political Justice (pp 218 ff )
The style of Burke'B prose, so far as form
goes, IB neither Classic nor Romantic.
The Reflections opens with a statement of
Burke's attitude toward the Constitution So-
ciety and the Revolution Society, English clubs
which approved of the proceedings in France
1210
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
USTa. 4<J. In the portion omitted, Buiko dis-
cusses tho style of Price* sermon and his
abHeitions that tho people of England have
the right to choose their own go\oiuois, to
iiishli i them for misconduct, and to frame a
government foi themselves
HSNb. ffS. A man fimonr/sf tlicm. — A reference
protably to Fox, (lodwln, or Wilkes, all of
Tthom vigorously supported tho French Revo
lutlon
1191m 141-17 Thorough paced tourttem — WonN-
worth, Coloiidgp, and Southov v*oro nt Hrsl
01 dent Republicans but the e\i esses and tlie
failures of tho Kieneh Revolution led them
finnlh to become Tt tries
llO.'tn. nn-:i4 In\<r1«l utihr — ('I vJth theHton
of th'e EnKllshmnn who omo sntuleallv re-
marked that French infanttv ronld not IM
good — it \\oio blue, u colot meant by <Jod
fo
ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796), p 175
EDITIONS
Lift and TToiXs 4 -\ols, ed bv R riiambor* (lS.r»l-
52) revisiHl lit W Wallace (Kdlnbui/Ji,
Chambers lMi»(>-«»7 , Ne\\ ^oik Longmans i
Po(HtH, /sa»fr/s, nnd IstllitH, ed M h Smith ((Jlobe
«1 Louilon mid New Yoik, Mai inllliin. IMi*- >.
Uo»A«, 6 IO/A , «1 b\ W S Domais (Kdmlmi^h.
Simkm 1877-7'). I'aterMiii, 1WI)
P<odi«i1 TVutl*, A \ols, nl with a Mcmon bv
(1 A Altken ( M line oil London, Hell, l^f)J.
f)R , New Voik, Mat mill, in)
Identical UniXn ft vols , ed bv J L Roberison
(Oxford TTniv Piesn, 1K90)
P vet 1 1/, 4 Aids, <Hl, Tilth an KSS.IV on Burns s
Life, (Jcnlus and Achievement, M W K HPII-
le\ and T F Henderstm (Centenan od
I']ditibiiiKh Jink, 180(1 n7, Boston, Hoimhton).
Cf*nit>Ict( I'ortmrt Wftrk<i, eil , with llenlei s I^-JM
fiom tin (Vntinmy td, b\ W K Ilenli «
(r.imblldKe eil llosfon, HoiiKhron, 1SD7)
J'wttcal ITo/Ax, ed \\ith » Life, bv W W.ill i«
nnd Kdliilnn^b rbanibers, 1902)
Pochral WorKv. <n1 , with nn Appteni-
tion by Loid Roveberrv (Ijoudon, Ne1soiit
1002)
Complete Ponitft, ed bv J L Robertson (O\to d
Unlv Press, 1006)
Cormpondr nc< , 2 iols, id bv W Wa11a<e (Now
York, Dodd, 180^)
H, seleitlons, ed with an Irifrodni tion bv
J L Roliortson (('ainolot eil London, S<olt,
from tli< Ptttm*, ed b\ T <i 1>"W
ro«s od Iloston ninn 1«WS)
Pong* now Vint Prlntrtl wit* thr Mrtntiw f«r
Whuli Tlint Wrrt Written, ed hy J C Di<k
(Oxford Unlv Press 1907)
BIOGRAPHY
Angelller, A • Ifoltnt 7/wrnv La nc it Utt unites,
2 \oJb (Fans, Ila<hrttev 1803).
lUackie, J, H Life o/ Hobett Hum* (Oreat Wrlt-
us Series \London, Scott, 1SSS)
iHiue.ill, 1' S Tht, UUIHH Countty (London an<l
New \oik, Macmillnu, 1011)
llaliburton. II In tfcottiuh Field* (Kdlubuigh,
Patersoii. 1890)
Ilendtison, T F . Robert Bum* (London, Meth-
uen, 10(>4)
Lockhnrt, J (J Life of Hubert Hunt* (1828) ,
enlarged ed by W S IHmglah (London, liohn,
1S82)
Ketoun, (i Hubert Hut tin (FtimouH Kiots Hones
Kdlnbuiph and London, Anderson, isw,)
Mialrp J (1 Jfobot Hunt ft (Kimli^h Mi u ol Let-
tus Seiles Ijfindou, Mncmllhui, 187(), New
Yoik, IJaipei)
CFVT C £-1
\inoM, M "The Mud if I'oitiv, 7^ssrf//« in
CntutHHi, Se<ond Sdles (l^>n»I«»n, Alaiiaillau,
1S8S)
Ifiouko, S A Thcolm/ir iti tin I'nrflith I'<nt*
(London, King, 1S74, IsSO, Ne\. \oik,
Itiowu, (i 1» lilaeLti uod N Aim/mint, AUK.
(Km 1S4)
faiUlc, T ' E>sa\ on limns," Tin llduiltnnjh
/ffiiftr. Dot 1S2N (4S 'J7) Cut, (tit- a ml Ufs
t'llnnrau* /;ss«//s, 4 \<>K (I'.o^tun HoiiKhton,
ISSO)
Caihle, T "'I he lleio as ^1 in oi L< tleis O/i
7/oorv. I(fntVo)*,1ni>t(Di<1 f/K irinm m //is
/o/v (1SU New ^oik nnd London, l.oiitf
mans 1«M)(> 1<J()9)
rnllvor. R r/««r On« (Ilostou, Ameiitan Uni
tii nan Assn , 11M3)
rinlvlo W A 1 7';/mf/ of Itutns (Kdinbuiffh,
Jdtk. IhOfl)
Cuitls, « W Oiatwn* and A<1<ln«^H, «{ \oN
(New ioik, I I.ii IMF. IS'U)
D.nxsou, W T 7ftr l/«Ar/f o/ J'twli^li Pwtiy
(New loik and London Ri»\ell, 1<MH>)
Itowden, K "M,uh Re\olution.m (iiouji nn<l
\ntnicoiiJsts, ' 7A( rrtiuh /(imlutinn ami Hn<i
//s/t Lit'intutt CNrw Yoik and London. Sirlb-
n« i, 1,4')7)
Kmer on, 1C W f1Kr»0) MimdlutHovv (Tloston,
IIouKhton, 187S. 1011)
Uiddts, p "Homes of Hums/* Litttir* Linny
\net O«t, 1013 (270 MMJ)
(iialidm, II (i Ktnttlrt Mm of L<tt<i* in the
Kit/lit<wtli <'<ntuty (London, Itla<kt 1001,
New Yoik, Maiinlllaii)
Hidden, J (' "I ton rile Annie Liuiile with New
Reionifhes (on« riling the Rubje< t and the
\ufhor of the Famous Soiitf, ' 77ic. Ciittut]/
Mwyint Mniih, 1014 (S7 7SH)
IInil>erv (• M "Robert liurns s Tountn " tienb-
n<i « AfarjagiiK, De< , 10OS (44 041)
Hawthorne, N "Home of the Ilnunts of Hums,"
The Atlantic MontMy. Oet , 1SOO (fl 10fi) ,
Out Old Home (1803) , Complete TPorlU, 13
\ols (Host on Uouffhton 1803)
HaKlltr. W "On Hums and the Old English Hal-
lads," fsetunH on th< Kiu/llHh Podn (London,
1818) , Collected Work*, 18 voln , e<l by A. R.
ROBERT BURNS
1211
Waller and A Glover (London, Dent, 1902 00,
New York, McClure) 0 123
Jack, A A ' "Burnt! (Natural or hpoutaneoua
Portly)," Poetry and Prone (London, (-'on-
stable, 1911)
Jeffrey, F "Kellques of Burns," The JSduibvryh
Rcvi<v>tlau, 1S09 (13 249) , Contribution* to
the Kdmbwglt Attirii (Modern British Kssav-
IstH Philadelphia, Caiey, 1S49).
Kellow, II A Uutn* and ht» Poetry (New Yoik,
IHxlge, 1B12)
Lang A Letter* to Dtad \uthot* (Ixmdon Hiid
New lork, Longmanb, 18HC, 1S')J , Siribuer,
1K93)
Nf>llsou, W A "Burns lii English." hit tu dye
Ann i MM ry Papeta (Boston, (.Inn, 1918)
Qulller-Couch, A T Adrtntun* tn Crthrttm
(Now York, Scilbner. 1H9<.)
Rldclng, W II "The Land o' Bums," Jlmpo s
\rw Monthly Managing Jnlv, Ih7» (50 ISO)
Scott, Sir Walter "Iii»Iic|Urs of Kohdt BuniH,"
The Qvrirti'tly Ktntw. Feb. ISO') (1 10)
Rhalrp. J r "Nature in Collins, (iray, Gold-
hnilth rowpiT. nnd Burns," ON tn< Poitio
Jntftptttntion of \nlutc (Edinbuigh, l>oug-
Ins. 1K77, New Aoik, Huid, 1S7S , Boston,
Iloughton, issfl)
Khairp. J r "Scottish Song imd Burns" At-
/ifffs of I'otttH (Oxloid riaicntlon 1'iess,
ISM , Bostou, Iloughton issj)
Npmhm und FIMIVN un /firm* (Washington, Joan
Ai mom Burns Hub 1DOM
Stc\cnMon It L "Some Aspects of Itobcrt
Burns,' Familtar MvdHH nf Attn tnid /fool*
(1SK2) , Troll*. 10 AO]H (Now York, Scrllmei,
\ell<h J Tltr F«*ltmi /o» Natun in toottmh
/Jw/i0. 2 \c»ls (Hilinhurgh, Blnrkwood, 1SS7)
Wnlkcr, II Thut ('<ntun<* of *<otti*h Litaa-
tiin, 2 \ols ((JhisRow, MatT^hoM' 1S03 , Now
^oik. Mncinillan).
Watson John ("Inn Maclarcn") ' Roliei t Bui us
the Volio of the He cits Peoplo (*mi«nini</
Hook* and ItttoliniH (Tendon. Nisl»i>t, 11)1 J,
No\\ ^riik, Doran)
WUson, J "Ceiihis and Charartei of Bunm,"
fj'MVfijiM Critical and Imatjinatir*', 4 \olh, ed
by J P Ferrler (RdlnlmrKh. Blackwood, 18H5-
00)
CONCORDANCE
Reid, J B Completr Concordance to 1nr Poetry
and /*oiif/« of Bum* (Glasgow, Kerr, 1HHO).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
\uders4in J P In BUckle's //!/< of Itobttt
Jlutti* (IKhh)
Angus W <" Th< Printed Work* of Roorrt
Hums (Ulahtfcw, HcNlxe, 1899)
Bwlng, J C H Heeled List of the Works of Rob-
trt Hunt*, and of JtooJett upon MA Life and
WrMnq* (1H09)
Kwlnjt, J T MoHography of Roltrrt Burns to
me (1909)
M'Kle. J J Blblwflrapliv of Burn* (Kllmarnock,
1881).
CRITICAL NOTE8
"One Bonq of Burns'H IH of more worth to you
than all I could think for a whole year In his
native country Ills nilbcry Is a diud weight upon
the nlmbleness of one'h quill — L tried to forget
It- to drink toddy without tiny <»rc — to wtlte a
merry Honuet — it uont do — he talkcsl with bitches
— he drank with blatkuunnlh ho was mi^enil/lo —
We can f.ee hoirlbly th-ai, lu th<> woiks of such a
man hlh whole lite as it we weie (iod's spies" —
Rents, in Lettn to It< yiiolds, July l.l, Ihlh. "Art
if we were God's spies," is a phidse in Kiny L«ir,
>, A, 17
"Ml that lemains of Bums, the writing* be hub
left, seem to us, us we hirit«l .ibove no nioie than
a poor mutiLitiMl fiactlon ol vliHt \\as in him,
biief, broken jflimpscs of a genius that could nrvci
show itM'll coniplc>tf . that wanted all things foi
completeness cultuie leisure, true t»ffoit, nay,
e\en length of life Ills poeiiiH arc, with maiccly
any evtfptlon. meic> occ isicmnl effusions , ponied
foith with littli» pifinedltHlion , expressing Ivv surh
miMiis ns oflTcicnl, the pn^siou, opinion, 01 hunioi of
the houi \ovor in one instance was it penult ted
him to gi apple \\Ilh tun subject with the full
collection of his stiength to fuse nnd mould it
in the coiiciMitnited fire of bis minus 'Io trv by
the strict niles of ut sin h imperfect fragments,
would be <it on« nnpionfubli nnd uuhiir \e\ei-
th« lc«ss theie is sometlnng in tbes< poems m.irriHl
nncl iletectl\e as th< \ nn \\hicb foibids the most
fastidnuis student of ]xietr\ to puss thrni IIA
Scmie sent of c>nrlunng qualit\ the\ must have
foi lifter II1U \enis ol the wildest A ic issitudc»s in
poetlr taste, tiny still continue to be rewcl , nny
are tend moie and inoie eagerly, moic and more
<>\tenshi>Ij , and this not oulj bj llteran \irtuostis,
and that class upon whom transitory muses oper-
ute most stiongU but bv all classes down to the
most ha id, imletteied and ttuh natuial class,
who rend lirtb and csp«lnll\ no pcN»tM, e\cc>pt
because thev Inn I pi en MI ie in it The giounds ol
so singiihu nnci wide a populant\, whidi e>tends
in n liteial wnse liom the palace to the hut and
o\c»t all regions wheie the Knglish tongue Is
spoken, aie well worth Inquiring into Aftci e\eiy
Just deduction, It scims to Imph some nue ex-
cellence in these woiks ^\hat is that excellence*
"To answer this question will not lc»ad us far
The excellence of Bums is. Indeed among the
in rest, whether In poetry or prose but at the
same time It is plain and euslh iiMoirnixed his
jmirmfi/, his indisputable air of tiuth Here are
no fabulous woes or JOAS no hollow fantastic sen-
timentalities no w lie-drawn leflmngs cither in
thought or feeling the passion that Is tiaced be
fore us has glowed In a ll\ing hcait, the opinion
he utters has risen In his own undei standing, and
been a light to his own steps Tie does not write
fiom hearsay, but fiom sight and experience. It Is
the scenes that he nan lived and labored amidst,
that he dencribes those scenes, rude and humble
an they aie, have kindled beautiful emotions in his
soul, noble thoughts, and definite resolves, and he
RpeakB forth what IK In him, not from any out-
ward call of vanity or Interest, but been use his
1212
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
heait is too fall to be silent He speaks It with
Huch melody and modulation an ho can, 'in homely
rustic Jingle* , but it lh his own, and genuine " —
Carlyle, in Essay on Bums (1828)
See WordHWorth'i At the Grave of Burns (p.
291)
176 O, ONCB I LOV'D A BON IB LABS
"For my own part, I never had the least
thought or inclination of turning poet till I
got once heartily in lo\e, and then rhyme and
song were in a mannoi thr spontaneous lan-
guage of my heart The following composition
was the flint of my peiformam OH and done at
an early period of life, when my heait glowed
with honest, warm Blmpliclty, unacquainted
and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked
world The performance in. indeed, very
puerile and Billy, lint I am always pleased
with it, as it recalls to nn mind those happy
dayn when my heart was yet honest and my
tongue wan sincere The subject of it was a
young girl who really deserved all the praise*
I have l»estowed on her The seventh
stanra has several minute faults , but I re-
member I composed it in a wild enthusiasm
of passion, and to this hour I nevei recollect
it but my heart melts and my blood sallies
at the remembrance" — Burns, Oomnumplace
Book. 17R3H5
MART MOBZ80N
According to Gilbert Burns, Mary Morlson
was the subject of Burns's \nd I'll Ki** Thee
Trt, Yet, the heroine of which has been
thought to be either Maiy Campbell or Ellson
Rrgblc. Ilenjoy and Henderson state (77ie
/•ortry of Robert Hums) that a Mary Mori-
son lived at Mauchllne from 1784, "said to
have been as beautiful as amiable " She died
In 1791
117 I. AN II, 0
"As T have been all along a miserable dupe
to love, and have l>een led into a thousand
weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason
I put the more confidence in my critical skill
in distinguishing foppery and conceit from
real passion and nature Whether the fol-
lowing song will stand the test, I will not
pretend to say, because it is my own , only I
can say It was. at the time, real" — Burns,
Commonplace Book, 1784
tion of Burns Falling to get literary work
in fiknnbnrgh, he returned to Irvine, where he
took up teaching again. He had considerable
skill as a fiddler and as a poet
BPIBTLal TO J. LAPRAIK
John Lapratk (1727-1807) was an Ayrshire
poet Burns add reused two subsequent Epistles
to him, both written in 1785
ITRa. 13-17. The song referred to Is Lapralk's
When I Upon Thy Bottom Lean
179. BTISTLB TO TUB BBV JOHN M'MATH
John M'Math (1781 1825) was a convivial
preacher, and a ft lend of Burns
Holy Willie'** Prayer
And send tho godly in a pet* to pray— Pope*
Argument
Holy Willie wih a ratter oldish bachelor rider In I ho parbh
of Maurhlln* and much and Justly ftmwl tor that poleraU.I
chattering uhlch aidt in tlpplliif orthodoxy and for that bpir
itualiwd bawdry which refines to liquorish divolion In a m.
alonal pruceui with a mitltmaii in Maiuhllnr — a Hi UaUn
Hamilton- Holy Willie ami his prunl >ath<i Auld, afttr full
bcanni in the JTeabytery ot Ayr came off hut we mid butt
ovluf partly to the matorkal powiri of Mr Hnl*rt Alken Mr
llamT'loni touiwel but chicflv to Ur Hamilton M iMliif oni of
the nwit irrrpioac liable and truly rmpet table character* In tlie
------ - ovuheard him at bii
170.
POOR MAILltfa ELECT
The fltania-form of this poem had been used
for elegies by Semplll, Ramsay, and Fergusson,
Scottish poets before Burns
177. TO DAYIB
This poem was addressed to David SHlar
(1700-1830), son of a farmer near Tarbolton.
Ho was a teacher in the parish school at Tar-
bolton, and a grocer In Irvine, before ho pub-
lished, in 1789, a volume of poems in imlta-
country OIL knlnf hla procebM the
devotlona aa followa-
0 Thou that in the heavens does dwrfl,
Wha, as it pleases In-st Thvsel,
bendb ane to Heaven an ten to Hell
A1 for Thy glorv,
And no for onle guid or 111 5
They've done befute Thee f
1 bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That 1 am here before Thy sight,
For gifts an' KI in i 10
A burning and a shining light
To a1 this place
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get Hie exaltation?
I, wha deserv d most Just damnation 15
For broken laws
Has thousand yeai* ere my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause '
When from my mither's womb I fell
Thou might hae pluiig'd me deep in Hell, M
To gnash mv gnoms, and weep, and wall
In burning lakes,
WJiarc dnmned devils roar and yell,
Cbain'd to their stakes
Y*t T am here, a chosen sample, 16
To show Thy grate IH great and ample •
I'm here a pillar o* Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example
To a* Thv flock 30
But vet, O Lord ' confess I must
At times I'm fasb'd4 wl1 flenhlv lust ,
An* sometimes, too, in warldly trust.
Vile self gets in ,
But Thou remembers we are dust, 36
Defiled wl' gin
'Holy Wllftc was William Fisher (1787-1809), a
strict elder in the parish church at Mauchllne
1 fit of peevishness
• The Rape of the Lock. 4, 64
EOBBBT BURNS
1213
O Lord v yestreen, Thou kenit wi* Meg —
Thy pardon I sincerely beg —
O, may 't ne'er be a living plague
To my dishonor ' 40
An* I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun1 avow —
Wi' Leede's lass, three times, I trow —
But, Lord, that Friday I wan fou,1 «
When I cam near her,
Or elRO. Thou kona. Thy servant true
Wad never steer* her.
Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn, BO
Lest he owrc proud and high should turn
That hp's me glftprt
If nae. Thy bun' maun e en be borne
Until Thou lift It
Lord, bless Thy chosen In thin place, 65
For litre Thou ban a chcwen rat P '
But God confound their stubborn face
An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy el del s to disgrace
An* open sbame T M
Lord, mind Cau'n Hamilton's dPRerts •
lie drlnkH, an* swears, an' plays at cartes/
Yet has sap inoule takin arts
W1T gipat and una',
Frap (iod B uln Priest thp people's heaita 65
lie steals uwa.
And when we chnsten'd him therefore,
Thou kpim how he l>red R!O a splorc,6
And set the warld In a roar
()' laugh In ii feus TO
Curse Thou hix basket and bin store,
Kail an* ]M>tatops *
Lord, hear my earnest crv and pray'r,
Against that Prosbvt'rv of Ayrr
Tin strong right hand, Lord, mak It hare T5
Dpo* their heads »
Lord, vlHlt them, and dlnna spare,
For thplr mlHdeectfi '
O Loid my Ood ' that gllb-tongu'd Alken,
M^ \era heait and flesh are quuMn, 80
To think how we stotxl nweatln, shakln,
An* plsh'd wl* dread,
"\Vlnlp IIP, wi hlnglu lip an* snakln,6
Held up his head
Lord In Thv day o' vengeance try him ' 85
Ixnil, ilsit him wha did employ him '
And paw not In Thv merry ny them,
Nor hear their pray'r.
But for Thy people'* Hake deHtroy them.
An* dlnna spare ' §0
But, Lord, leraember me and mine
A\ r mercies temporal and divine.
That 1 f«r grace an' gearT may shine
Kxcell'd by nanp.
And a* thp glory shall he Thine— 95
Amen, Amen*
R. The gown and band were worn by clergy-
men , the black bonnet was worn by elder*
180.
Till JOLLY BIGGABB
. "The BurnR of thlR 'puissant and splendid
production,' as Matthew Arnold calls It— this
Irresistible presentation of humanity caught In
the act and summarlred forever In the terms
of art — eomefl Into line with divers pcwts of
x repute, from our own Dekker and John Fletcher
to the singer of tor Ou<rux (1818) and lo
Vieuto Vagabond (1880) [The Beggars and
The Old Vagabond, written by the French
pact, Jean dc Blranger (17HO-1857)] and ap-
proves himself their master In the matter of
huch qualities as humor, vision, lyrical po-
tency, descriptive style, and the faculty of
swift, dramatic pi Plantation, to a purpose that
may not be gainsaid. It was suggested by a
chance visit (In company with Richmond and
Smith) to the MoMS-housc' of 1'ooale Nannie,
as Agnes OlbRon was nicknamed. In The Cow-
gate, Mauthllne," — Ilculcy and Henderson
For Arnold's comment set- "The Study of
Poetry," JSttnays in Criticism, Second Series
(188ft).
"ppthaps we may venture to say, that the
most strictly poetical of all his poema 1**
cine which does not appear In Currle'n Edition ;
but has been often pi luted before and since,
undir the humble title of The Jolly Beggats
The subject truly Is among the lowest In
Nature , but It only the mate shows our
poet's gift in raising It Into the domain of
art To our minds, this plp<p seems thor-
oughly conipac ted , me Ited together, refined ;
and inured forth in one flood of true liquid
harmony It Is light, airy, soft of movement ,
yet sharp and pmlse In Its details, every
face Is a portrait that tcivrfc carlin, that wee
Apollo, that Son of Marx, ate Scottish, jet
Ideal, thp scene Is at once a dream, and the
\ery liagcastle of 'Poosle-Nansle ' Farther,
It seem* in a considerable degree complete,
a real self-supporting whole, which IH the
highest merit tn a poem The blanket of the
night ib drawn asunder for a moment. In
full, ruddy, flaming light, these rough tattei-
demallons arc seen In their boisterous re\el,
fur the httonc pulse of life vindicates its
right to gladness even here, and mhen the
(iii tain closes, *c prolong the action, with-
out effort , the ne*t day as the last, our Cainl
and our Ualladmunger arc singing and soldier-
Ing, their 'brutR and tallets' me hawking,
hpgglng, cheating, and some other night, In
new combinations^ they will urlng fiom Fate
another hour of wassail and good eheer.
Apart from the universal Rvmpath> with man
whlih this again bespeaks In Bums, a genuine
Inspiration and no Inconsldeinble tethnknl
talent are manifested hero Theie IN the
fidelity, humor, warm life and accurate paint-
ing and grouping of some Tenters,1 for whom
hosiers and carousing peasants are not with-
out Hlffnlflcance It would l>e strange, doubt*
lew, to call thlH the best of Burns's writings
wo mean to iav only that It seems to us the
moRt perfect of UR kind as a piece of poetl<-al
composition, strictly HO called In The Beg-
gar's Oprro,8 In The Beggar** Ruvh? aR other
crltlcfl4 have already remarked, there Is noth-
ing which. In real poetle vigor equals this
'mast
4 cards
• full : drank
• such a fuss
•znolPst, meddle* 1th
0 sneezing 7 wealth
1 David Tenlprn (101090), a Flemlflh painter of
common scenes and characters.
•Bv John ttav (1085-1732)
• Dy John Fletcher (1579-1625)
* Particularly Lockhart, In bis Life of Bum*.
1214
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Cantata, nothing, as we think, whl<h comes
within many degrees of It " — Gailyle, in jfrmiy
on Bums (1828)
9. The epithet />oo«ie la of doubtful mean-
Ing A similar word, povtie, IB a nickname for
oat ; and rat and poM«fr are both slang for low
ttomon. Po*e is Scotch for putac or momj/
PonffffT means putting, aa in the word powutc-
raff, a glnss of various llquortc taken 1m me
dlHtely after coffee In eighteenth cnntuiy
slang, a punhlng-school Is a brothel
1ft 5. TUB T10J1 FUU
"The ftutire Is chiefly concerned with the
'tent preaching outwide the thuiih while the
communion services weiiQ on within In
Mauchlme the preaching tent was pitched in
the churc'hyaicl, whence a bark entrance gave
accesfl to Nan so Tinnock'H tavern, and the
sacrament wn» ol)served once a year, on the
second Sunday in August " — ITenley and Hen-
derson The ht.m/a is an old one in Hcotth
poetrv
IKTa 1HM. See Uumltt. I n 1R 141
I could n tale unfold \\hnsr lightest word
Would haiiow up thj soul
138. PHI coiTEii s sin Kb n MOIIT
Robert Aiken (1730-1807), to whom the
poem is Inscribed, ^HS an old friend of the
Burns family ile f rcquc ntly read liurns'M
poems in public As Hums had not read
Kpenscr when he wrote this potm, he mtint
have borrowed the stanza -form from the
Sp<nseilan Jml tutors - Shenstone, Thomson,
niid He.it tie — with whom he \vns familiar At-
c ending to Ituruss brother, <!illN»rt. the plau
and title* of the poem wen* suggested by Fer-
gusson s Tin1 Farmer** In nlc, the first t^o
. of mnlch follow
Whan gloamln* in'nv out c»wro the welkin keeks,1
Whan Itawtic*1 cas his owsen to the b>ic ,
Whan Thiusher John salr dung,4 hh» bum door
stocks. •
And hlslv* IUSM>S at the di^htln*7 the .
What UaiitfH lu' lealb the e'enlng's cumin' cauld,
Aud gars' snaw-tupptt winter freeze in vain ,
OR is dowle10 mortals look Imlth blithe and Imuld.
Nor Hev'd11 wl' a the poortlth" c»* the plain ,
liegln, my Mnsc»t and chant in namely stiain
Fne the big «it«pkt weel wlnnow't on the hill.
Wr dlvntM thoeklt*1 frae the wei»t and ill 1ft
Rod«, poatM. and hcntherr turfM the ihlmley flll
\n<l gar their thlck'nlng «"ieek Halute the lift1*
Tho gudemnn new cc»me hamo J« hi I the to find.
Whnn he out owre the hallnn" flings hU een,
That Ilka" turn Is handled to hi- nun d,
That a1 hl« honhie look« sae eonh" and clean .
For cleanly houue lo'es he, though e cr sae mean.
» porpH , lookn 8 overr omes full loyally
» A pet name for a dog. "make*, compela
IfM). TO A 1COU8I
Burna'g brother Gilbert saye thnt the poem
was compobcd while .Burnt* wa» plowing,
after he had turncvl up a monso'R negt and
had saved the little creature from the "mur-
dering pattlc" of the boy who writ* leading
the horses
101. ADDKMS TO Till DHL
><plhe Addrenq In, In pnit, a good Matured
burlesque of the Mlltonlc Ideal of Satan , aud
this ih effected Miy the intioductlon,' to use
the woids cjf (Hlbeit Burns, of ludkiouo n<-
couutH and irpresentatlonri,' from various
quuiteis,' of that 'august pertonage f Hums
In his despairing moodh was accuhtomed to
feign the htrongent admiration for Milton K
Arch-Fiend and his dauntless superiority of
hm desperate elicumsriinccs and hiH fare
well apostrophe, although it takes the form
of an exclamation of pity — and WUH accepted
merely as such by the too too Hontliuenral vet
auBtere Carlyle — IH la reality a satiric thnist
tit the old Hatimlc dogma " — Henley aud lien
derson, in Thr Poetry of Rnlmt Huini
1A4 TO A MOl* \T\IV DA1S\
MI have here likewise enclosed a amul] ple<»ef
the \ery latest of uiv pioductlonn I niu a
good deal pimscd with some scotlnunth my
self, as they lire Just the native queiulmis feel
ings of a heart which, as the elegantly melt
Ing <iray says, •niflnnc holy has marked for
her own ' " — Iturns. In a h'ttor to John
Kenedy, April 20, 1780 The poem was first
entitled The Gmoan \Tlit Dainff]
Ct Wordsworth's poems on the same sub-
ject (pp 28800)
1. The led tips on the white petals of the
daisy are 4ild to be the gift of Mars Cf
< liHuror s 7'rofw/nr to Thr Lrqrntir of Good
II omen (A, II') 22)
In remembrance of hlr and In honour,
Clhella made the davetiv and the tloui
Y-ccnoned nl with «h\t, UH men mii\ Hee ,
And Mars \af to hh coroun reed, par dee,
In stedc of ruble**, act among the whyte
1DR. OP A* THK AIRTfl
This snng, wiltten us .1 compliment to Mr*
Iturns shortly after the poet's arrival In Kill*
land, while his \\lfe \\ns still In \\rshlre
Additional stnnras, appealing in Mime verslonn
of the poem, were the work of John Hamil-
ton, nn Edinburgh music Heller
u every , i«a« h
thatched
the d«c and the flre-plare
19O. MY TTIMtT'B IK THE
"The first half stanra of this song IH old ;
the rest Is mine " — Burns, In Intel leaved Copy.
JOBV A \DERHON If T JO
Thin fumg In derived from a broad ditty
current in the 18th century The line "John
Andemon. My Jo. John ' N found in a
composed as early an 15X10.
ROBKRT BURNS
1215
SW11T AFTON
In a letter sect with the poem to Mrs Dun-
lop Feb. 5, 17bl), Dumb Htatva that the poem
was written as a compliment .to the "amall
river Afton that flows into Nlth, near New
Cummock, which has home charming, wild, ro-
mantic scenery on its bank*" Probably no
Rpctial heroine was in the poet'R mind
107.
WILLIF BUFfl 'D A I>1 CK OF MAITT
Is Mastcrton's , the song mine The
occasion of It was this — Mi >\in Nhol of
the High Hthool, Kdinbuigh, duilug the
autumn viuatloii being at Moffat, honest Allan
(who wus at that time on a visit to Iiulsvtin-
ton) and I went to pay Nicol a \islt We. had
such n Joyous meeting that Mi Mastciton
and I UKieed, eu<h In our own \va\. that we
should celebiute the business" — Ituins In In-
tcilca\cd Copy All in Masterton was a
teacher In the Kdinbuigh High Sihool Iroin
17H9 to his dmtli. hi 17'IM
TVM (1 FN
21 Tf wn* n custom for ^onng men ond
ni.iiduis lo JMII off b\ diii\\lng slips of paper
with names wiittcu on thorn
108.
1ITOT
STAR
This poem Is sometimes entitled To J/Vrrr/
{n lit art n The subje<t of the song was MIIIV
Campbell, daughtci of H willor .it Clyde She
is lomiuenioiated in several othoi i»oeiiis i»y
Hums "Mv 'Highland Laside* was .1 wimn-
heinted, chimmnu young trcntnre us e\er
blessed u man witu geneiouh tone 'Aftei a
prett\ long tiact of the most ardent ictlpioinl
attachment me met by appoint men! on Hie
MM mid Sun dm ol MIM, in 11 seeimsteied spot
by tht I winks of \M\ wheie we spent the d iv
In taking faiewoll, IN fnit* she should cmbaik
foi the West Highlands to nnangc mutters
for our piojected change of life \t the close
ol the autumn following she dossed the se-i
to meet me at Urecnoe k, «heie slit hatt suitte
Innded when Rht* was solne<l with u malignant
fever, whleh hurried my dear gill to the
grn\e In a tew da\s, before I <ould even henr
of hei IllneKs" — Itinns's Note to My UifiMttnd
Lfivsif O In Interleaxed Topy
TAM 0' SIT VNTFR
Thl«» poem IB Iwised upon legend^ eurrent In
the nelghboi hood ol Hums s blitb pliue \vlu<h
Is within a mile of \llowny Kirk and thi old
bridge* over the River Doou. The following
legend, Kent by Huron to Francis Grose, Is one
of the many wlteh~storleH relating to All o way
Kirk
"On n marfcer-duv In the town of Avr, a
farmer from Cairltk, nnd consetiueutlv whoMp
way Iny by the very gate of Alloway Klrkyarrl,
In 01 del to eroBs the River I>«Km at the old
bridge, whleh Is about two or three hundred
yards further nn than the wild gate, had been
detained by hlH buslneMH till by the time ho
reached Alloway it wan the wizard hour be-
tween night and morning. Though he wan
terrified with a blaze Htreaming from the Kirk,
yet, an It Is a well-known tact, that to turn
back on these occasions is lunuing by far the
greatert risk of misthlel, he prudently ad-
vanced on his road When he had reached
the gate of the Kirkyaid, he was Hurprlned and
entertained, through the ilbs and arches ol
an old (iotnh window, which still taws the
highway, to see a dunie of witches meinl>
footing it around their old nooty blackguard
master, *ho was keeping them all olive with
the power of his bugpipe The fanner, stoo-
ping his noise to nbstrve them a little, could
plainly descry the facet* of many old women
ol his in qmilnt.i me and nelghboihood flow
tht* gentleintin *HS dressed, tradition does not
say, but that the ladleH were all In their
hinot ks , nnd one ot them happening unlm kily
to have H smock which was considerably too
short to anroer all the purpose of that piece
of diess, our farmer was HO tickled that he
involuntarily burst out with a loud laugh,
'Weel luppeu. Muggy wi* the short sark '* and
recollecting himself, Instantly npurred hta
horse to the top of his speed I need not men-
tion the unl\i»rsiillv known fact, that no dia-
liohfiil powei tan pursue vou beyond the mid-
dle of *i lunning stieam Lucky 11 was for the
poor l.miiu that the Rl\er Doon was BO near,
foi notwithstanding the spec>d of the horse,
which WHS n good one when he reached the
middle ol the inch of the bridge1, and consc-
queuth the middle of the stic.un, the pin su-
ing t'ligelul lia^s wtic so close Ht his heels
that one of them actually spuing to sei/e
him but It \\iis too late nothing \vas on her
side of the stieam but the horu's IHI!, which
immc»dLitc>lY ga^e way at hei infernal grip,
as it blasted bv n stroke ol lightning, but
the farmer wa«< beyond her reach However,
the unsightlv tailless condition of the vigor-
ous steed was, to the last hour of the noble
creature's life, an awful watning to the Car-
nek fnmeis not to stay too late* in Ayr
markets.*'
The poem was n favorite with Hums. MT
look on Turn o* Xha»t<r to be my standaid per-
formance In the i»octl<al line Tis true Itoth
the one |hls ne\s-boin son] and the other
dis<o\er a spue ol loguish \\.iggery thit might
perhai>s IH> as Mc»ll sjiared , but then they
also show in my opinion, a force of genius
nnd a finishing polish that I despair of ever
excelling* — liuinn, in Letter to Mrs Dunlop,
April 11, 17CU
"Pi nimbly Burns dre* the suggestion of hlB
hero, Tnm o* Shan tor, from the ilia ratter and
adventiues of Douglas draham (17S9-1K11),
MOII of Rc»beit (1 1,1 ham, fnuner of Donglan-
town, tenant of the farm of Khnnter on the
I'nnlck Shore nnd owner of a boat which ho
had named Taw o* H1mn1<r Ciaham wan
noted for his convhlal liabltR, which bin
wile's ritmg tendctl inther to confirm than to
cradle ate Tiadition i elates thnt once, when his
long tailed gray mnre had waltoel even longer
thun usual foi her master nt the tavern door,
certain liuinoiistM plucked her tall to fluch an
extent as to leave It little better than a
stump, and thnt («rnhiim, on bin attention
being called to Its state next morning, swore
that It had been depilated by the witches at
Allowav Kiik"— Jlftf tfofr* bv I> Auld of Ayr
In Kdlnbuigh University Library, quoted by
TTonley nnd Henderson
1OO. CMMMI. if Khcllcy** Line*, 6-10 (p 748).
1216
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
9O1.
vi raowB&r BANK*
Burns wrote three Tendons of this song;
the others are entitled Sweet ore the Banks
and The Bank* o* Doon
"I do not know whether anybody, Including
the editor himself, has ever noticed a peculiar
coincidence which may be found In the ar-
rangement of the lyrics In Sir Frauds Pal-
grave's Golden Treasury. However that may
be, two poems, each of th°m extremely well
known, are placed side by side, and their
Juxtaposition represents one vast revolution
In the poetlral manner of looking at things.
The flwt ib Goldsmith's almont too well known
When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray.
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away ?
"Immediately afterwards comes, with a
sudden and thrilling change of note, the voice
of Burns
?e banks and braes o* bonle Doon
How can ye blume sac fair?
How can ye chant, ye little bird*,
And.l fcae fu' o* care?
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonle bird
That sings upon the bough ,
Thou minds me of the happy day*,
When my fause Love was true.
"A man might read those two poems a
great many time* without happening to realise
that they are two poems on exactly the same
subject — the subject of a trotting woman
deserted by a man And the whole differ-
ence— the difference struck by the very flint
note of the voice of anyone who reads them —
IH this fundamental difference that Goldsmith's
words are spoken alxrat a certain situation,
and Bnrns'H words are spoken In that situa-
tion In the transition from one of these
IvrlcH to the other, we have a vital change In
the conception of the functions of the poet;
a change of which Burns was In many wavs
the beginning "— Chesterton In Robert Brwcn-
ing (1903)
AB POND KI8S
This poem was sent to a Mrs Haclehose, of
Edinburgh, with whom Burns had a love af-
fair Just before his marriage with Jean Ar-
mour Scott once remarked that the first four
lines of the poem were worth a thousand
romanced
Of Burns'a poem with the following opening
fttansa from The Parting Kim by Robert
Dodhley (170364)
One fond kiss before we part,
Drop a tear and bid adieu ;
Tho' we never, my fond heart
Till we meet shall pant for yon.
k SAW YB BONIl LMLBT
"Bonle Lesley" was M!HS Leslie Balllle, of
Mayfield, Ayrshire. "Mr B, with his two
daughters, . . . panning through Dum-
fries a few days ago on their way to England,
did me the honor of calling on me , on which
I took mv horse — though God knows I could
111 upare the time — and accompanied them
fourteen dr fifteen miles, and dined and spent
the day with them 'Twas about nine, I
think, that I left them, and riding home I
composed the following ballad "—Hums, In
Letter to Mrs Dunlop, Aug 22, 1792
HIGHLAND MART
The subject of this song was Mary Camp-
bell. See note to Thou Lwy'mg Star, p. IL'Ki.
"The foregoing song pleases me; I think it is
In my happiest manner . . The subject
of the song is one of the most Interesting
passages of my youthful dayn, and I own
that I would be much flattered to free the
verses set to an air which would enmire
celebrity Perhapn, after all, 'tis the still
glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a
borrowed lustre over the merits of the roni-
posltlon " — Burns, In Letter to Thomson. Nov
14, 1792
908. SCOTS, WHA HA1
In a Letter to Thomson, Sept , 1793, after '
remarking on the tradition that the old uli
Hey Tuttt Taittt was Robert Bruce'* man h at
the Battle of Bannockburn, BurnH 8n\s
"This thought. In my solitary wandeilugs,
roUHed me to a pitch of enthuHiasin on the
theme of liberty and independence, which I
threw Into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the
air, that one might suppose to be the gallant
royal Scot's address to his heroic follower*
on that eventful morning" That the French
Revolution was partly responsible for the
poem Is clear from the Postscript In which
Burns says "The accidental recollection of
that glorious struggle for freedom, aHHorlated
with the glowing ideas of some other Btrug-
glen of the same nature, not quite so ancient,
roused my rhyming mania"
Robert Bruce and the Scots won a decisive
victory over the KngllKb at Bannoikhurn,
June 24, 1814, and made Scotland independent
until the kingdoms were united in 1603
A BID, RID BOSI
The way In which BurnH built up none of
his poem*, from old KongM anil lialladH is ad
mlrably shown bv comparing thin famouH song
with the following stanzas, taken from the
Bongs indicated
Her cheeks are like the roses
That blossom frenb in June,
O, Jibe's like a new-strung instiument
That's newly put in tune
—The Wanton Wift of Cattle Gate
Now fare thee well, my dearest dear,
And fare thee well awhile ;
Altho' I go, I'll come again
If I go ten thousand mile,
Dear love.
If I go ten tbouHanrl mile
—The Unkind Parent*.
GEORGE GORDON BYRON
1217
The day shall turn to night, dear love,
And the rocks melt with the ran.
Before that I prove false to thee,
Before mv life be gone, dear love,
Before my life be gone
"The Loyal Lover's Faithful Promise.
The Beas they shall run dry,
And rocks melt into sands ,
Then I'll lovo you still, my dear,
When all those things are done
— The Young Man's Farewell to His Love.
Fare yon well, my own true love,
And fare you well for a while,
And I will be sure to return back again,
If I go ten thousand mile
— The True Lover's Farewell
204. CONTBNTBD Wl' LITTLB
"I have some thoughts of suggesting to yon
to prepare a vignette . . to my song
Contented wi* Little and Cantic iu> Mair, in
order the portrait of my face and the picture
of my mind may go down the stream of Time
together " — Burnsv in Letter to Thomson, May,
1796
LABBIB Wl' TKB LINT-WHIT! LOCKS
For a' that and a' that
And twice as muckle's a' that,
"c's far beyond the seas the night,
Yet he'll be here for a' that.
See Bums's The JoUy Beggars, 256-82 (p.
184)
Ot WBBT THOU IN THB CADLD BLAST
This poem was written during Burns's last
illness, in honor of Jessie Lewars, who was
of great service to the Burns household at
that time Burns composed the verses to a
favorite melody of Miss Lewars, after she
had played it on the piano. She is com-
memorated also in other songs by Burns
PBBFACI TO THB FIRST, OR KILMARNOCK
EDITION OF BDBNB'B POBM8
10. See Songs of Solomon, 4 12— -A gar-
den inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring
shut up, a fountain sealed," also Isaiah,
29 11— -"And the vision of all is become unto
you as the words of a book that is sealed "
GEORGE GORDON BYRON
(1788-1824) p. 484
EDITIONS
"The piece has at least the merit of being
a regular pastoral , the vernal morn, the sum-
mer noon, the autumnal evening, the winter
night, an? regularly rounded "—Burns, in Let- ****** Works (Oiford University Press, 1890).
ter to Thomson, Nov , 1704 The subject of «**«* Works, ed , with a Memoir, by E H
the poem was the daughter of William Lori- Coleridge (London, Murray, 1906, New Torn,
mer, a farmer near Dumfries, she is com- Rcribner)
memorated in a number of BuiWs songs. "I For** Poptfy. 7 vols, ed by K H Coleridge,
assure you that to my lovely friend you aie
indebted for many of your best songs of mine
I)o you think that the sober gin horse routine
of existence could inspire a man with life, and
love, and Joy— could fire him with enthusiasm
or melt him with pathos equal to the genius
letters and Journals, 6 \ols , ed by R E
Prothero (London, Murray, 1898-1904, New
York' ScrHmer)
Poitical Works, ed , with a Biographical
Sketch, by P B More (Cambridge ed , Bos-
ton» Houghton, 1906)
of your Book? No, No' Whenever I want ic»«r«» 1*0*1813, ed by W E Henley (Vol 1 of
to lie more than ordinary in song— to be in Works", no more published London, Mac-
mlllan. 1897)
<"«* Journals, selection*, ed with an In-
troductlon, by Mathilde Blind (Camelot ed
London, Scott, 1880)
BIOGRAPHY
some degree equal to your diviner alrh— do
you Imagine I fast and pray for the celestial
emanatlon? Tout au contraire' fall to the
contrary] I have a glorious recipe, the very
one that for his own use was invented to the
Divinity of Healing and Poesy, when erst he
piped to the flocks of Admetus I put my- Ackermann, R Lord Byron. sein Leben, seine
self In the regimen of admiring a fine woman , Werke, scin Kinflutis auf die dfutsohe Littera-
and In proportion to the adorablllty of her tur (Heidelberg, 1901)
charms, In proportion you are delighted with Boynton, P. H. "The London of Lamb and
my verses "—Letter to Thomson Byron," London in English Literature (Univ.
The "Divinity of Healing and Poesy" is of Chicago Press, 1918)
Apollo For slaying the Cvclopes, Apollo was Castelar, E Vtda de Lord Byron (Havana,
forced to serve as a shepherd to Admetns, 1878) , English Translation by Mrs A. Arnold
King of Thessaly See Lowell's The Shepherd (London. 1875 , New York, Harper, 1870)
of Kino Admetus Dallas, ARC Recollections of the Life of Lord
Byron, from the Tear 1806 to the Knd of 1814
IB THBBB FOB HONIBT POVBBTT • (^°don, C Knight, 1824)
Else, K Lord Byron (Berlin, 1870) , English
The meter and the phrase 'for a' that- Translation (London, Murray, 1872).
Burns borrowed from older songs A Jacobite Gait, J The lAJe of Lord Byron (London Col-
song. published in 1760, has the following burn, 1880, Blsley, 1908, New York CanelL
chorus 1911). f
1218 BtBUOCRAPHlES AND NOTKS
Gamba, P. A Narrative of Lord Byron 8 Last Brandon, U. Nhclley und Lord Byron (Leipzig,
Journey to Greece (London, Murraj, Barbdorf, 1808)
1825) Brougham, II "Houra of Idleness." The Edin-
Graham, W Last Links with Byton, Mulley, burgh Raw, Jan, 1608 (11 285)
and Kcatti (Ixmdon, Hmithers, 1800) Cainc, T Hall Cooucbs of Criticism (London,
Grlbble, F. U The Lone Affair* of Lord Byron Htotk, 1882, 1885)
(New York, Scribner, 1010) Chesterton, G K "The Optimism of Byron,"
Gulccioll, Teresa Lord By nut jugC par !<« tt mount Twelve Type* (London, Humphreys, 1002,
dc na vu (ParlH, 1S08) , English TianiUtion 1010) , Varied Typts (New York, Dodd, 1003,
by II. B II. Jernlngham, My Recollection* of 1000)
Byron and thote of Eyt-Witncxsca of hut Life Chew, 8 C The Dramas of Lord Byton (Haiti
(London, 1860) more, Johns Hopkins Press, 1015)
Ilayman, II Harper'* New Monthly Magazine, Collins, J C "The Collected Works of Byron,"
Feb, 1804 (88 3(>5). Htu<li<n tn Poetry and Cntuuttn (London, Boll.
Ilobhoust', J C (Lord Broughton) RtcoWotwns 1005, New Yoik, Macmlllan, 1000), printed
of a Long Life, 0 \ols (London, Munu>, In Tin Quarteily Rim ID, April 1005
1000-11) (202 420).
Hunt, Leigh Lotd Byton and ttomc of Inn Von- Paws on, W J The Makers of Knglnh Poetry
ttmpoiant*,, uith Ruollfetions of the Iti- (New York and London, Rexell, 1<)06)
thor>8 Ltfc, and of hw Vtott to Italy, 3 vols Dowden, K "Renewed Revolutionary Ad\anee,"
(ParlH, 1828, London, Colburn) The F tenth Revolution and Knalwh Literatuti
Jeaffrewn, J C The Real Lord Byron, 2 vols. (\ew lork nnd London, Scrlbner, 1H07)
(London, Hurst, 18S3) E'keimann, J I* Conn motion* uith (Jocthr
Koeppri, K Lord Byton (Berlin. 1003) (Leip/Ig. 1S37) . English Transition l>v S
Maync, Ethel C By ton, 2 vols (New York, M Fullei (Boston, Muiiioe, 18 IU) , by J. U\en
Scnbncr, 1013) fold 2 vols (London 1S50)
Medwln, T Conicrsation* of Lord Byton (Lon- Edgrumbe, It Byron tht Last Pha*( (New York
don, Colburn, 1824) Kcilbner, 1000)
Mondot, A Historic de la vie et des tents de Kdtnbutyh R<\nw. Th< Ree Brougham, Jeffn>>
Lord Byron (Paris, Durand, 1S(,0) and Wilson
Moore, T Tht Ltfe of Lord Byton with MM Let- Esti^e, E B fit on tt It tomantlvnr fran^al*
tern and Journal* and Illuvttatuc Wotta (Lon- (Pans, Huchette, 1»07)
don, Murray, 1830) Puess, (• M Lmd Union ax a hatinxt in Verai
Nlehol, J Byron (Knglisli Men of Letter He- (Columbia UnUoisitv Tn'ss. 1012)
rles Ixmdon, Ma<mlllun, 1SSO, New Yoik, Hancock, A K Tin Fnmh Rnolution and tin
Harper) Knglitth Port* (New Yoik, Holt, 1800)
Noel, R Life of Byron (Great Wilters Series. Henley, W E I HW* and Rnuw*> (Ixmdon
London, Scott, IfcOO. New York, Seiibnei ; Nutt, 1800 , Now * oik, S(rlbuei)
Simmons) Ilutton, R II Littrary Kway* (London, Mac-
Trelawny, E" J Rtcolhetton* of the La*t Dayi nnllan, 1S71, 1008)
of Bh<llcy and Byron (London, Moxon, ISIS) ; jack, A A "Bvron (Ora tin leal Poetrv)," Poetty
Record* of Fthrlley. ftprofi, and the Author, una\ proitr (Ixmdon, Constable, 1011)
2 vols (London, Phkeilng, 1878, Prowde, Jeffrey, F Cntu Kins in Tin E<9tnbu>uh Rinew
1006, New York. Dutton, 1005, Oxford Univ. ••Beppo," Feb. 181 S (20 302) , "Cain," Feb,
Prebs, 1000). 1822 (Ml 413) , "Chllde Ilnrold's Pllgrlmag* ,"
CRiTiCifiM Cantos I and II, Feb, 1812 (10 400), Canto
CRITICISM m I)|>( ^ lslfi (27 277) ..H(involl anf|
Arnold, M K**ay* in Ctltieim. Second Series Earth," Feb, 1823 (38 27), 'Manfred," Aug,
(London, Madinllan, 1888) 1H17 <2R 418> • "Mnnni Fuliero " July, 1821
Austin, A "Wordhwoith and Byion," Tho (35271). "Sardimapnlun," tMi , 1822
Bridling of Pit/a*u* (London and New Yoik, <3C 413> J "Th(1 Brldo «' Abydos," April, 1814
Macmlllan, 1010) <23 198> • 44Tho CoiHali," April, 1814
Blaotoood'8 Mayazmc "Lord Byron," Feb. 1825 <23 10S> • "Th(l fltaonr," July, 1813 (21 200) ,
(17 131) ; "Chllde Ilarold'fc Pilgrimage. Canto "Tbe Prisoner of Chlllon and Other I»oemB,M
IV," May, 1818 (3 210), "Don Juan," Augf I)ec • 181fl <27 277) . "The Prophecy of
1810 (C 512), Julv, 1823 (14 88), "Heaven Dante," July, 1R21 (35 271), "The Two
and Earth," Jan., 1823 (13 72) , "Manfred." Foscari," Feb, 1822 (30 413)
June, 1817 (1 280) , "Mazeppa," July, 1819 Lan*. A Lettetg to Dead \uthora (London and
5 420) , "The Doge of Venice," April, New York, Longmanu, 1886, 1802 f Berliner,
1821 (9 08) , "The Lament of TasHo," 1803)
Nov , 1R17 (2 142 ; "Werner," Dec., 1822 Leonard, W . Byron and Byroni*m m America,
(12 710) ' (New York, Lemckp. 1007)
Brandes, G "Byron, The Paimlonate Personal- Macaulay, T B "Moore's Life of Byron," The
Ity," Main CHI rent t in Nineteenth Century Edinburgh Review, June, 1880 (58.544),
ZAttraturt, 4 VO!H (London, Heinemann, 1001- Critieal and Historical Essays. 2 vola (Lon-
05, New York, Macmillan, 1006) don and New York, Longman*, 1808).
GEORGE GORDON BYRON
12'19
Miller, Sarncttc Leiffh Hunt's Relations with
Byron, Nhcllcy, and Keats (Columbia Univ
Press, 1910)
More, P E "The Wholesome Revival of Bv-
ron," The Atlantic Monthly Dec, 189H
(82 801)
More, P E "A Note on Byron's Don Juan."
Xhelburne Essay*, Third Series (New *urk,
and London, Putnam, 1006)
Morley, J Critical Miscellanies First Series
(London, Marmlllan, 1871)
Payne, W M The Greater English Poets of tha
Jfinitetnth Century (New York, Holt, 1907,
1909)
Pyre, J P A "Byron in our Day," The Atlantic
Monthly, April, 1907 (99 542)
Quarhrly Rent ID f The "Cam," July, 1822
(27 470) , "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage,"
Cantos I and II, Manh. 1812 (7 180). Canto
III. Get, 1810 (10 172). Canto IV, April,
1818 (19 215) , "Lara," July, 1814 (11 428) ,
"Marino Faliero," July, 1822 (27 470) . "Sar-
danapnlus," July, 1822 (27 476) , "The Bride
of Abydfw," Jan, 1814 (10 381) , "The Cor-
snlr," Jul>, 1814 (11 428) , "The Giaour,"
Jan. 1814 (10 331) , "The Prisoner of Chll-
lon," Oct , 1S10 (10 172) , "The Two Fostaii,"
Tulv, 1822 (27 470)
Reid, W Amt t ican and Knylitth Ntudus, 2 vols
(New lork, Scrlbner, 1913)
Salnte Beme. C1 A Chateaubriand et son (Jtounr
littiraire, Vol 1, ch 15 (Paris, Gamier.
1848)
Schmidt, G B O Rousseau und Byron (1890)
Sibnildt, J Portrait* aus dcm ntunfffhntin
Jahihunddt Lonl Byron (Berlin, Hcrt/,
1878)
Michel, W "Byron as War Poet" The Fott-
nightly Rentw, Jan, 1910 (105 127)
Swinburne, A C E*nays and Studies (Tendon,
mat to, 1875)
Sulnburne, A C "Wordsworth and B\ron," Mts-
«1tant<H (London. Chatto, 1S80, 1911, New
York, Scrlbncr).
Svmonds, J A In Ward*s The English Poets,
Vol 4 (London and New York, Macmillan,
1880, 1911)
Kymons, A The Romantic Motement in Eitgltnh
Poetry (London, Constable, 1909, New Yoik,
Dutton)
Trent, W P "The Byron Revival," The Author-
ity of Cntieivm (New York, Seribner. 1899)
Watts-Dun ton, T In Chamber's Cyetopffdia of
Knulwh Literature, Vol 3 (Philadelphia Llp-
plncntt 1904)
Woodberrv, G R "Byron's Centenary." 8tudt<*
in Lt tters and Life (Boston, Houghton, 1890) ,
Makers of Literature (London and New York,
Mncmlllan, 1001)
Woodherry, G E The Inspiration of Poetty
(New York, Macmillan, 1910)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Anderson, J P In Noel's Life of Byron (1890)
Coleridge, E II In Wot In of Lord Byron, Poetry.
Vol 7 (1898-1904)
CRITICAL NOTES
"The great thing In Byron IB nenius, that quality
no perilous to define, fao evanescent in its aroma,
so Impossible to mistake If ever a man breathed
whom we lecognlce (athwart much poor and use-
lesH work, when Htrlctly tested) as emphatically
the genius, that man wab Byron , and, If ever
genius made poetry ltt» mouthpiece, cohering with
its tranbccndent utterances a multitude of sins
whether against art or against the full statuie of
pei feet manhood, Byron's Is that poetry" — W M.
Rossetti, In Liica of Famous Poets (1878)
"Few poets excel him in the inntantaneouR sym-
pathy he creates, pven among mlndn having no
mental affinity with his own He IB eminently
the poet of pabhlon In almost all the changes of
his mood, the rame energy of feeling glows in his
verse The thought or emotion uppermost In his
mind at any one time, whether it be bad or good,
set ins to sway, for the moment, all the faculties
of his nature He has a passionate love for evil,
a passionate love for nature, for goodness, for
b(.iuty, and, we may add, a passionate love for
hinihplf When he bits In the place of the scoffer,
his *onlM betray the same Inspiration from Im-
pulse,— the same passion, though condensed into
bitterness and moekerv " — E P Whipple, in
Essays and Reviews, 1845)
See Keats'R To Byron (p 752) , also Jeffrey's
ciltlrlsm on H\ron (pp 904 ff )
Bvron is caricatured In Mr Cypress in Thomas
Lrfue Peacock's Nightman Ahbey
4K4.
LACHIN T GAXB
One of the poems In Hours of Idleness
"Ldchln y tialr, or, as it Is pronounced in tbe
Krse, Loth na Garr, towers proudly pre-
eminent in the Northern Highlands One of
our modei n ti turiHts mention** it as the highest
mountnln, i»erhaps, in Great Britain Be that
as it maj, it is certain] v one of the most
sublime and picturesque amongst our 'Cale-
donian Alps* Its appearance is of a dusky
hue, but the summit is the seat of etetnal
snows Near Lachln y Galr I spent some
of the early part of my life, the recollection
of which has given birth to tbe following
stanzas ' — Byron's Preface
17-18 1 25-20. The two quotations In this
poem have not been Identified In phrasing
they hear striking simllarttv to expressions in
Macpheri*nn*s Ottian, of Tvhkh Bvron was a
great admirer. Note the following, which occur
frequently In Ossian "ghosts of the dead,"
"night fame rolling down " "sweet as breath-
ing gale " Numerous rhythmic sentences like
the following also are found "Her voice
was like the harp, when the distant sound
comes, In the evening, on the soft rustling
breeze of the vale'" — (The War of In1§~
Thona)
BNGLISn BAUDS AND SCOTCH RBVIIWIBB
A hostile criticism of Byron's Hours of
^Idleness In The Edinburgh JTertetD. Jan , 1808,
1220
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
inspired Byron to write thin satire, which
was first published anonymously. The follow-
ing selection from the review of Hours of
Idleness shows the tenor of that criticism
"The poesy of this young lord belongs to
the class which neither godb nor men are said
to permit Indeed we do not recollect to have
seen a auantity of veroe with so few devla-
tlons in either direction from that exact stand-
ard. His effuKions are spread over a dead
flat, and can no more get above or below the
level than if they were so much stagnant
water ... We must beg leave seriously to
assure him that the mere rhyming of the final
syllable, even when accompanied by the pres-
ence of a certain number of feet,— nay, al-
though (which does not always happen) those
feet should scan regularly, and have been all
counted accurately upon the fingers,— is not
the whole art of poetry We could entreat
him to believe that a certain portion of liveli-
ness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to con-
stitute a poem, and that a poem in the
present day, to be road, must contain at least
one thought either in a little degree different
from the ideas of former writers or differently
expressed ... But whatever Judgment may
be passed on the poems of this noble mlnoi,
it seems we muHt take them as we find them,
and be content , for they are the last we shall
ever have from him. lie Is at best, he sajs,
but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus ,
be never lived in a garret, like thoroughbred
poets , and 'though he once roved a careless
mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland/ he
has not of late enjojed this advantage Moie-
over, he expects no profit from his publica-
tion , and whether It succeeds or not, *lt is
hlghly improbable, from his situation and
pursuits hereafter,' that he should again con-
descend to be an author Therefore let us
take what we get and be thankful. What
right have we poor devils to be nice? We are
well off to have got so much from a man
of this lord's station, who does not live in a
garret, but 'has the sway' of Newstead Ab-
bey Again we say, let us be thankful , and,
with honefit Bancho, bid God bless the giver,
nor look the gift-horse in the mouth— Th*
Edinburgh Review, January, 1808 (The ar-
tide, formerly attributed to Francis Jeffrey,
was written by Henrv Brougham, one of tho
founders of The Edinburgh Review, and Lonl
Chancellor of England, 1830-84 )
are freq. . I am the more confirmed In this
by having lately gone over some of our
classics, particularly Pope, whom I tried in
this way— I took Moore's poems and my own
and TOM others, and went over them side by
. "ldc wlth Pope's, and I was rally astonitdied
<* ou*nt not to nave b«*n b°) and mortified
at the Ineffable distance in point of sense, har-
mony, effect, and even imagination, passion,
and ^vcntion, between the little Queen Anne's
man ftnd UB °* the Lower Empire " Byron
shortly came to disapprove of his Englwh
*«*« «»* Scotch Rn Icwer* In 1816. he
wrote ln the niargin, "Tho groator part of this
•att« l niowt sincerely wish had nevor been
written— not only on account of tho injustice
of much of the critical and some of the per-
*°**l Part of It, but the tono and temper are
•«<* as I cannot approve "
48°- «*• "This was not Junt Neither the heart
nor the head of these gentlemen are at all
what they are here reprinted At the time
this was written, I was porsonally unac-
quainted with either f —Byron, in ed of 181B
488- aaa- Southey's Madoc Is in two parts , tho
flrst ls "Madoc in Wales" , tho second is
"Madoc In Aitlan" (Mexico, from a tribe of
Indians living there)
4*49- 28Blf- In the annotated copy of the fourth
edition Byron has written "Unjust1 opposite
the criticism, on Wordswoith and Coleridge,
llnes 235-48 and 255-58
4O°* a81- In 1807» Bowles issued an edition of
P«P^f» Works In which ho doctored that Pope
was only a second-clans poet A heated con
troveray followed, in which Byron and Bowles
were the chief opponent For a summary
of the dispute sec Byron's Lctttr* and Jour-
»•*• <«* by **• E. Prothoro), Vol 5, p 522,
also Saintsbury's A History of Ct tticum, 3,
279-82
*91* 8&1* Byron first wrote Helicon instead of
Hippoerene He made tho correction in tho
edition of 1816
4O°- "Mr- Cottle, Amos, Josoph, I doii t know
which, but one or both, once sellers of
books they did not write, and now writers of
books thoy do uot noil, have published a pair of
epic*— Alfred (poor Alfred ' Pye ban boon at
Wm too')— Alfred and The Fall of Cambria"
—Byron, in ed of 1816
432-B8. "Too ferocious— this is mere in-
"nlty "—Byron, in ed of 1816 Byron
thought that Jeffrey wroto the review of Hours
in general. I am convinced, the more I think of
It, that he and all of us— Bcott, Bonthey.
Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I— are all in
the wronR on. .. mncb « another: that we
are upon a wrong revolutionary poetical sys-
tern, or systems, not worth a damn in itself.
and from which none but Rogers and C/abbe
l ' }
(As far as rhyme and rritlrlrai combine
A2**
Ape
GEORGE GORDON BYRON
1221
I do not know yon, and may never know
Tour face — bnt you have acted on the whole
Most nobly, and I own It from my sooL
"All thin IB bad, because personal.'*— Byron,
In ed, of 1816.
493. 539. In the portions omitted, Byron paya
hit respectb to a number of minor writers
Including the dramatists of the period
404. 857. "I consider Crabbe and Coleridge aa
the first of these times, in point of power and
genius " — Byron, in ed of 1816.
THB BBIDB <MP ABYDOB
This was flrbt entitled Zulcika. Byron says
that he wrote It in four nights "Whether it
succeeds or not is no fault of the public,
against whom 1 have no complaint. But I
am much more Indebted to the tale than I
can ever UP to the most partial reader, as it
wrung my thoughts from reality to imagina-
tion— from selflbh regrets to vivid recollec-
tions— and recalled me to a country replete
with the brightest and darkest, bnt always
most liirly colons of my memory " — Byron, In
Journal, Dec 5, 1813
Byron had fallen in love with Lady Frances,
wife of hU friend Jame* Weddcrburn Webster,
whom he had been viblting at Ashton Hall,
Rotherhfim From Byron*s letters it is to be
inferred that he sought safety In flight The
poem was written to allay the dlhtrebs of the
love affair A by dob Is a town In Asia Minor
on the Hellespont, the scene of the romance
of Hero and Leander
"The undoubted fact that The Bride of
Abydoa, as well an The Giaour, embodies recol-
lections of actual scenes and incidents which
had burnt themselves into the memory of an
eye wltnew*, ac counts not only for the fervent
heat at which these Turkish tales were writ-
ten, but fur the extraordinary glamor which
they threw over contemporary readers, to
whom the local coloring was new and attrac-
tive, and who were not out of conceit with
•good Monsieur Melancholy '"—E II Cole-
ridge, in Introduction to The Bride of
Abydo*
1. This line was probably suggested by
Goethe's "Rennet du das Land wo die Cltronen
blflhn'"
5OB. 7O. The Koorbee text, or verse of the throne
(Sura II, "Chapter of the Heifer,'* 257), is as
followH "God, there is no God but He, the
living, the sclf-subslstcnt Slumber takes Him
not, nor sleep His is what is in the heavens
and what is In the earth Who is it that In-
tercedes with Him save by Ills permtadon?
He knows what is before them and what be-
hind them, and they comprehend not aught
of Hi* knowledge but of what lie pleases Ilia
throne Extends over the heavens and the
earth, and It tiro* Him not to guard them
both, for He is high and grand "—The Our***,
translated by B H Palmer, Sacred Book* of
the Boat (1880), 6, 40
506.888. Ooeon-Palrlorcfc— Noah.
51O. ODB 10 NAFOLBOM BUONAFARTB
"I don't know— but I think 7, even / (an
Insect compared with this creature), have set
my life on casts not a millionth part of this
man's But, after all, a crown may not be
worth dying for Yet, to outlive Lodfr for
this"' Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could
rise from the dead ' 'Expende — qnot llbras in
dnce summo invenles?'* I knew they were
light in the balance of mortality, but I
thought their living dust weighed more
carats Alas' this imperial diamond hath a
flaw in It, and is now hardly fit to stick in a
glasler's pencil , —the pen of the historian
won't rate it worth a ducat PshaT 'some
thing too much of this * But I won't give
him up even now, though all his admirers
have, 'like the thanes, fallen from him ' "*—
Byron, in Journal, April 9, 1814
611. SHI WALKS 121 BBAUTT
The following six poems were Included in
Byron's Hebrew Melodies The fint two are
not Hebrew melodies, but genuine love-songa,
512. MY 80DL IB DARK
Bee Macpherson's Oina-Morul (p 02a, 82
88).
HBBOD'B LAMBNT POE MARIAMNB
Herod, surnamed "The Great," was King
of Judea (40-4, B C ) In a fit of Jealousy
he executed his beautiful wife Mariamne The
story is the theme of Stephen Philllps's Herod,
A Tragrdy (1900).
518. THB OBSTRUCTION OF BBMtACHBRIB
Sennacherib was a king of Assyria who
Invaded Palestine in the 7th century B C
See £ Kings, 18 13.
515. THB PRISONER OF CHILLON
This poem was written in two days at a
small inn, *here Byron and Shelley were de-
tained by bad weather during a tour of Lake
Geneva. Francois Bonlvard (1493-cl570) was
prior of a Mnall monastery outside Geneva
Being a lover of independence, he joined the
patriots who were trying to make Geneva a
republic, free from the control of Charles III,
Duke of Savoy Charles, therefore, removed
Bonlvard from office and Imprisoned him In
the Castle of Chlllon, from 1580 to 1586
When Chlllon was captured by the Bernese In
1586, he was released, made a member of the
Council of Geneva, and awarded a house and
a pension of 200 crowns a year.
< Macbeth, V, 8, 49.
1222
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
516. 1O7-111. In respect of accuracy and In-
accuracy of detail, Ruskln states that these
lines fulfill the conditions of poetry in contra-
distinction to history. "Instead of finding,
as we expected, the poetry dlKtingulshed from
the history by the omission of details, we find
it consisting entirely in the addition of de-
tails, and instead of its being characterised
by regard only of the invariable, we find Its
whole power to consist in the clear ex-
pression of what is singular and particular f"
— Ruskin, Modem Painters, Part IV, ch 1,
sec. 9.
519. 1PI8TL1 TO AUGUSTA
The Quarterly Review for Jan, 1881
(44 202) says that there is nothing in the
whole body of Byron's poetry "more mourn-
fully and desolately beautiful" than these
521. DARK NIBS
This poem should be compared with Camp-
bell's The Last Man (p 423). See note
on The Last Man, p 1229.
582. PROMlTHltTS
Byron was always a lover and a worbhlpppr
of Prometheus and frequently alludes to him
in hlH poems "The conception of an Im-
mortal sufferer at once beneficent and defiant,
appealed alike to his passions and his convic-
tions and awoke a peculiar enthusiasm " — B.
H Coleridge, Note to Prometheus in his edi-
tion of Byron's Poetical Works
SONNBT TO LAKB L1M AN
Lake Leman IK Lake Geneva, situated be-
tween Switzerland and France.
528. CBILDB HAROLD'S PI LORI MAGI
"The following poem was written, for the
most part, amidst the scenes which it at-
tempts to describe. It was begun in Albania ;
and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal
were composed from the author's observa-
tions in those countries. Thus much it may
be necessary to state for the correctness of
the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be
sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Eplrus,
Acarnania, and Greece There, for the present,
the poem stop*, Its reception will determine
whether the author may venture to conduit
hts readers to the capital of the Bart, through
Ionia and Phrygia these two cantos are
merely experimental.
"A fictitious character Is introduced for the
sake of giving some connection to the piece*
which, however, makes no pretension to regu-
larity It has been suggested to me by friends
on whose opinions I set a high value, that In
this fictitious character, Chllde Harold, I may
incur the suspicion of having intended some
real personage this I beg leave, once for all,
• to disclaim— Harold is the child of Imagina-
tion, for the purpose I have stated. In some
very trivial particulars, and those merely lo-
cal, there might be grounds for such a notion ;
but in the main points, I should hope, none
whatever" . . — From Preface to the First
and Second Cantos
"What helps It now. that Byron bore.
With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart,
Through Europe to the ^Stollan shore
The pageant of his bleeding beart?
That thousands counted every groan.
And Europe made his woe her own ?"
— Arnold, in Mamas from the Orando
Chartreuse
CJiflde IK used by Byron as in the old balladn
and romance*, signifying a youth of noble
birth, usually one awaiting knighthood
528. 82, 8. "Have you never seen a stick broken
In the middle, and yet cohering by the rind?
The fibres, half of them actually broken and
the rest uprained, and, though tough, un-
sustainlng? Oh, many, many are the broken-
hearted for those who know what the moral
and practical heart of the man is " — Coleridge,
AnimaPoctcp (ed K II Coleridge, 1805), 803
537. 00. See Shellev'b Idonais, 54 (p YS7)
Shelley's Idealistic pantheism evidently Influ-
enced Byron here , the two were frequently to-
gether during the week when this Canto was
written
f»l."It is to be recollected that the most
beautiful and Impressive dextrine* of the di
vine Founder of Christianity were delivered,
not in the Timplc. but on the Mount Wen*
the early and rapid progress of what is called
MothodlMm to be attributed to any cause be-
yond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement
faith and doctrines (the Iruth or error of
which I presume neither to canvass nor to
question), I should venture to ascribe It to
the praotlt e of preac hlug in the field*, and the
unstudied and extemporaneouti effusions of Its
teachers The MuHMilmaiiN, whowe erroneous
devotion (at leant in tbe lower orders) is
most sincere, and therefore ImpreHslve are
accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons
and prayers, wherever they may be, at the
stated hours— of course, frequently in tbe
open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which
they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion
as requlied) , the ceremony lasts some mlnuteH,
during which they are totally absorbed, anil
only living In their supplication nothing ran
disturb them On me the simple and entire
sincerity of thexe men, nnd the spirit which
appeared to be within and upon them, made a
far greater impression than any general rite
which was ever performed in places of wor-
ship " — Byron
92. "The thunder-storm to which these
lines refer occurred on the 13th of June,
1816, at midnight I have seen, among tbe
Acroceraunlan mountains of Chtmarl, several
more terrible, but none more beautiful " —
Byron.
94, 1.9. The similarity between these lines
and Coleridge's probably is due to the fact
that Byron had seen Ohristabel in manuscript.
GEORGE GORDON BYRON
1223
MO. 111. Cf this stanza with Barak s Epistle
to UK Kvv John M'Matk, 43 4b (p 180)
Ml. 117, 1. "Ills alluuon* to me in CMIde Har-
old are cruel and cold, but with such a bcui-
blance as to mak< tnr appeal so, and to at
tract sympathy to himself It Is bald In this
poem that hatred ot him will bo taught us H
lesson to bis child I might appeal to all
who have over heaid mo speak of him, and
HtHl more to my oun heart, to witness that
there hah beon no momon t when I have re,
mcmbcrcd Injury otherwise than affectionate!}
and Honowfully It Is not my datv to give
way to hopeless and wholly unrequited offoc
tlon, but BO long an I live my chief struggle
will IK* probably not to remember him too
kindly " — Lady Ityion, In Letter to Lady Anne
Lindsay, quoted by K II folondgo In his
edition of Hyron's Pottical Work*
1, 1-8. "The Bridge of Sighs (i et Ponte
drt Nuttpcn) Is that vthltli divides, or rathor
Joins the pahicc of the l>ogo to the prison of
tho state It has two passives the tilmmal
went by the one to Judgment, and returned
by the other to death, being stiauglod in a
< number adjoining, where their \ms a
mochmtcal pine ess for the puipos<»" livrun.
In Letter to Murray (July J, 1H17), in which
was enclosed the first Rtan/ii of C 'nn to III
34R 2B In the stan/im omitted It iron reflects
upon tho possibility of his n lime's being barred
by Oblmon
"from out the temple whore the dead
Are honor'd bv the nations "
B4B, 2R In the stan/ns omitted KM cm reflects
upon the Influence of suffering upon the
human he ait and iniud.
R44. 79m In the stanzas omitted Hucm writes of
various TtaJIiiu cities, temples, castles, et< ,
and of the famous men assoclitul with each —
I*etiarch, Tasso, (InHleo, Michelangelo, Dauto,
Hot cat do, and others
HO. The Goths sacked Homo In 410 and
later Tho Christians destroyed temples to
satisfy loliglous fienzv and to secure building
matt rial
115. In the stan/iib omitted Itiion wiltos of
tho groat conquerors of Rome — S\lla, Pompoy,
and CVsni — , and of the nothingness of man
97, T. Some editors take the "base pageant '
to be the empire and court of Napoleon.
CE4B ON. Tills stanza furnishes un cxiimplo of
Hy row's vigorous optimism and keen political
foresight Ills passion for freedom led him
to believe and to proclaim thnt democracy was
the most powerful force of the time and that
It finally would prevail
1SBH In the stnnras omitted Iltron writes
of several tombs, columns and other objects
and places of note of the persons conceined
with each, ami of the Influence of lo\e on hu-
man life
13O, 8. \\ hen visited by Bvron, and for long
afterwards, the ruins of the Coliseum were cov-
ered with Bhruba and flowers
1.12. The appeal to Nemesis In this stansa
should bo compared with Byron's Fare Thtc
Well (p 513), tttansa to Auyusta (p 016),
Epistle to AuuuHla (p 519), Childc Harold's
Pilgrtmagr, 3. 0075 and 111-18 (pp 63441),
and Manfred, I, 1, 192-201 (p 552)
B47f 17B. In the htanzas omitted Byron writes
of the I *H nth eon, the dungeon of the Church
of Kt Nicholas, tho Mole of Hadrian, the
Chun h of Ht l*eter s, tho art treasure*, In the
Vatican, the death of Primes* Charlotte, and
the \illage of Neml
548 1HO, O liucm made the same error In TJn,
irfiru, 94 "^heie now my head must lay"
This on or wjs more common in Byron's day
than It Is now.
549.
MANFRED
John Wilson suggested in an article In
lilachwood'tt Edinburgh At a wane, July, 1817,
that Alaitfnd Mas bonowid fn»m Marlowe'H
Dt Fauntuv From this opinion Jeffrey dis-
sented in his ic view ol Muni i td published In
Tin Kdtnbuigh Rtiuio, Aug, 1817 (Vol 28,
430 31) lie says 'It is suggested in an
ingenious pdpcr In n late numbir of 7Vi< Edin-
buKjJi Muyazin< that the general conception
of this piece and much of what i*> excellent In
the munner of Its execution have been bor
low eel fiom The Ttaqical Hittoty oj Dr
Fauxtuti ol Mailow, and n \orieU of passages
are (juoted which the authoi c*onsidert> ab simi-
lar and. in many resp<Kts, supoiior to others
in the |ioem lief ore us Wo cannot agree in
the general teims ol this < cm elusion, but there
Is, no doubt, a certain resemblance, both1 In
borne of the topics that are suggested and In
the cast of the diction in which they are c\
presRcd Hut these and man\ other
smooth and fanciful \erses m this curious old
drama pio\c nothing, we think, against the
onginalit} of Monftid, for thcie is nothing
to be found 1 here of the pride, the abstrac tlon,
and the hcurt tooted misery in \\huh that
originality consists Faust us Is a vulgar Ror-
cercr, tempted to soil bis soul to the devil for
the oidlnan price ol sensual pleasure and
earthly power and gloi\ — and who shrinks
and shudders in agnnv when tho forfeit romos
to be exacted Tho st>le, too, of Mario*,
though elegant anil scholar like, is vtcak and
childish compared with the depth and force
of much of *hat we nine quoted from Lord
Byron , and tho disgusting buffoonery and low
farce of which his piece IH principally made
up place It much more In contract, than In
any terms of comnflriHon, with that of his
noble successor In the tone and pitch of
the composition, ns well as in tho character
of tho diction In the mote solemn parts, the
piece before us reminds UK mmh more of the
PiometlHUH of .fischvlus than of any more
modern performance Tho tremendous soli-
tude of the principal person — the supernatural
beings with whom alone ho holds communion
— the guilt — the firmness — the misery — are all
1224
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
point* of resemblance to which the grandeur
of the poetic Imagery only gives a more strik-
Ing effect The chief difference* are that the
subject of the Greek poet was aanctifled and
exalted by the established belief of his coun-
try, and that his terrors are nowhere tem-
pered with the sweetness which breathes from
so many passages of his English rival." Mur-
ray sent this review to Byron, who replied
(Get 12, 1817) as follows .
"Many thanks for The Edinburgh Review,
which Is very kind about Manfred, and defends
Its originality, which I did not know that
anybody had attacked I never read, and do
not know that I ever saw, the Faustus of
Marlow, and had, and have, no dramatic
works by me In English except the recent
things you sent me, but I heard Mr Lewis
translate verbally xsome scenes of Goethe's
Faust (which were aome good, and some bad)
last summer, — which Is all I know of the
history of that magical perHonage, and as to
the germs of Manfred, they may be found In
the Journal which I sent to Mrs Leigh
. shortly before I left Switzerland I
have the whole scene of Manfred before -<ie,
as If it was but yesterday, and could point It
out, spot by spot, torrent and all. Of the
Prometheus of -SJsthylus I was passionately
fond as a boy (it was one of the Greek plays
we read thrice a year at Harrow) . .
As to the Fauttua of Marlow, I never read,
never saw, nor heard of It — at least, thought
of it, except that I think Mr. Glfford men-
tioned in a note of his which you sent me,
something about the catastrophe, but not as
having anything to do with mine, which may
or may not resemble it, for anything I know
The Prometheus, if not exactly in my plan, nan
always been so much in my head that I can
easily conceive Its Influence over all or any-
thing that I have written ,— but I deny Mar-
low and his progeny, and beg that you will do
the
In June, 1820, Goethe published his review
of Manfred "Byron's tragedy, Manfred, was
to me a wonderful phenomenon, and one that
closely touched me This singular Intellectual
poet has taken my Faustus to himself, and
extracted from it the strangest nourishment
for his hypochondriac humor He has made
use of the impelling principles in his own
way, for his own purposes, so that no one of
them remains the same , and it is particularly
on this account that I cannot enough admire
his genius The whole is in this way so com-
pletely formed anew that It would be an
interesting task for the critic to point out.
not only the alterations he has made, but
their degree of resemblance with, or dissimi-
larity to, the original ; in the course of which
I cannot deny that the gloomy heat of an
unbounded and exuberant despair becomes at
last oppressive to us Tet is the dissatisfac-
tion we feel always connected with esteem
and admiration.'' — From Hoppner's Transla-
tion (Moore's Life of Byron, 448) Goethe's
review was first published In Kunst und Al-
terthum, 2, 2, 191. See Goethe's Sammtliohe
Werke (Stuttgart, 1874), 18, 640-42
On June 7, 1820, Byron sent Goethe's com-
ment to Murray, with the following letter
"Unclosed Is something which will Interest
you, to-wlt, the opinion of the Greatest man
of Germany — perhaps of Europe — upon one of
the great men of your advertisements, (all
'famous hands,' as Jacob Tonson used to say
of his ragamuffins,) — in bhort, a critique of
Goethe's upon Manfred There is the origi-
nal, Mr. Hoppner'fl translation, and an Italian
one, keep them all In your archives, — for tbe
opinions of such a man as Goethe, whether
favorable or not, are always interesting, and
this Is, moreover favorable His Faust I
never read, for I don't know German, but
Matthew Monk LewlM. in 1816 at Colljrny,
translated most of it to me viva vocc, and I
was naturally much struck with It , but it was
the Rtaubach and the Junj/frau, and Rome-
thing else, much more than Fount** that
made me write Manfred Tbe first ncono how-
ever, and that of Faustus are very similar "
068. BO WE'LL GO NO If OKI A UOMNG
This poem WEH Rent IP a letter to ThomaH
Moore, dated Feb 28, 1H17, following thlH
statement "At present, I am on the in-
valid regimen myself The Carnival — that
is, the latter part of It, and Hitting up late o*
nlghtH, had knocked me up a little But it
Is over, — and It is now Lent, with all itb
abstinence and nacred muHlc. The mumming
closed with a masked ball at the Fenlce,
where I went, as alw> to most of the rldottoa,
etc, etc , and, though I did not dlRSipate
much upon the whole, vet I find 'the «word
wearing out the scabbard,' though I have but
Just turned the corner of twenty-nine"
The Fenlce IH a theatre In Venice A ridotto
IB a public entertainment consisting of music
and dancing, often in masquerade "The sword
wearing out the scabbard," Is a French saying
MY BOAT 18 ON THB 011 OBI
This poem In sometimes entitled To Thomas
Moore It wan Incorporated In a letter to
Moore, dated July 10, 1817 The first stanza
was written in April, 1816
56ft. BTRAHAN, TON BON, LIN TOT OF THB TIMBB
This poem In sometlmeR entitled To Mr
Murray William Strahan (1710-85), Jacob
TonHcm (cldftO-1786), and Barnaby Llntot
(1675-1780) were prominent publlRher* of
their times
11. Murray bought an interest In Black-
wood's Edinburgh Monthly Magazine in Aug ,
1818, and held It until Blackwood purchased
the magaslne in Dec., 1810.
GEORGE GORDON BYBON
1225
MAUFPA
Thlg poem IH baaed on a passage In Vol-
taire^ Uutottc do CharUtt III, which
Byron printed HH the "Advertisement" to bin
poem
Ivan Btepauovltth Maseppa (1044-1710)
was a Cossack chief, a native of Poland He
made love to the \vlfe (T hernia, line 202) of
Lord Palbowflki (the Palatine, line 155), and
being discovered in the Intrigue was bound to
a horse which was furiously terrorised and
turned loose Maceppa later became a thief
and fought agaliiht Russia on tue side of
Charles XII of Sweden
574. B4D. Cf Chnttabel, 210 17 (p. .346).
577. DON JDAK
This poem IH usually regarded as Byron's
masterpiece. (Joethe described It as "a work
of boundless genlub" (Kunnt und Alterthum,
1821). Alter receiving Cantos 111, IV, and V,
Shelley wrote Byron (Oct. 21, 1821) . "Thin
poem <arrles with It at onie the stamp of
originality and defiance of Imitation Nothing
has ever been written like It In English, nor.
If I may venture to prophesy, will there be,
unless carrying upon It the runrk of a sec-
ondary and borrowed light . You are
building up a dm ma Huch as England has nut
jet neen, and the task Is sufficiently noble
and worthy of you '* In the Introductory note
to the poem In the Cambridge edition of
Byion, Paul Klnier More says, "In one sense
Don Juan Is a wit ire, to many critics the
great etit satire e\er written, but it Is home-
thing Ktlll more than that It Is the epic
of modern life "
The first five cantos of Don Juan were pub-
lished by Murray (1819-21) without name of
author or publisher, but Byron's authorship
was readily recognised The name of the
hero wan taken from a Spanish traditional
storj regai ding the profligacy of one Don
Juan do Tenorlo. With the exception of his
lilMTtinlsni, Byron's hero bears no likeness to
the legendary character For the history of
the legend, see Ticknor's Hi*1ory of Rpanwh
Literature (Boston, J lough ton, 1888), 2,380 HI.
Don Juan figures also In comedies by the
Spaniard Tollei, Mollere, T. Corneille, and
Cioldlni . In an opera by Mozart, and In a
ballet by (Jliick The stanza form of Don
Juan Is the same as Byron had used In Bcppo
In 1K17 In a letter to Murray dated March
2G. 1818, he Kays of Bcppo "Whlstlecraft
was my immediate model . But . .
Bernl is the father of that kind of writing,
which, I think, suite our language, too, very well
—we shall see by the experiment If it does, I
shall send yon a volume In a year or two"
Francesco Bern! was an Italian poet of the
early 10th century "Whlstlecraft" was the
pseudonym of J H Frere In The Monk* and
the Giant* (1817) ; the first two utansas of
his poem are as follows .
I've often wished that I could write a book
Such as all English people might peruse ,
I ne\er should regret the pains it took.
That'll Just the bort of^ame that I should
choose
To sail about the world like Captain Cook,
I'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse,
And we'd take verses out to Demarara,
To New South Wales, and up to Niagara.
Poets consume exciseahle commodities,
They raise the nation's spirit when victori-
ous,
They drive an export trade in whims and
oddities.
Making our commerce and revenue glorious ,
AB an industrious and pains-taking body 't Is
That poets should be reckoned meritorious
And therefore I submissively propose
To erect one Board for verse and one for
Prose.
Captain James Cook (1728-79) was a noted
English navigator. Dcmeraru is a city and
county in British Guiana, South America
Writing to Moore, Sept 19, 1818, Bjron
says "I have finished the first Canto (a long
one, of about 180 octaves) of a poem In the
style and manner of Beppo, encouraged by the
good success of the same It is called Don
Juan, and is meant to be a little quietly
facetious upon everything But I doubt
whether it is not — at least, as far as it has
yet gone — too free for these very modest days
However, I shall try the experiment, anony-
mously. and if it don't take, It will be dis-
continued It Is dedicated to Bouthey in good,
simple, savage verse, upon the Laureate's poli-
tics, and the way he got them " After Cantos
I and II were published on July 15, 1819,
Murray asked Byron for the plan of the
poem Byron wrote him in part as follows
(Aug 12, 1819) "You ask me for the plan of
Donny Johnny I haic no plan — I had no
plan, but I had or have materials. .
You are too earnest and eager about a work
ne\er intended to I* serious. Do you suppose
that I have any intention but to giggle and
make giggle? — a playful satire, with as little
poetry as could be helped was what I meant "
After the completion of Canto V, Byron again
wrote Murray (Feb 10, 1821) "The 5th Is
so far from being the last of D J that it is
hardly the beginning I meant to take him
the tour of Europe, *ith a proper mixture of
siege, battle, and adventure, and to make him
finish as Anacharsl* Cloots in the French
Revolution To how many cantos this may
extend, I know not, nor whether (even if I
live) I shall complete it, but this was my
notion I meant to have him a Cavalier Ser-
vente In Italy, and a cause for a divorce in
England, and a Sentimental 'Werther-faced
man1 in Germany, so as to show the different
ridicules of the society in each of those coun-
tries, and to have displayed him gradually
gatf and blast f spoiled and satiated with
pleasure! as he grew older, as Is natural
But I had not quite fixed whether to make
him end In Hell, or in an unhappy marriage,
not knowing which would be the Reverent. The
Spanish tradition says Hell • but it \M prob-
1226
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
ably only an Allugoiy of the other utato.
You aie now in powesHion of my notions on
the feubjec t " Clontb was condemned to death i>y
Robespleirc and executed In 1704 "Werthei-
facod man** IN a phrase from Moore's The
Fudge Family in Paris, G. OS Wcrthoi IK the
(sentimental hero ol Goethe's The Morrow* of
Wcrtht r
ffTO. S. In the btanzau omitted, Byron enumerates
a number of possible epic heroes ull <>* whom
aie rejected as un suited to his puiponc
RMSt. Silly Cl "I «ould have foignen the dagger <)r
the l>owl, — anything, but the deliberate dcso-
latlon piled upon mef when I stood alone upon
my hearth, uith my household gods sniveled
around me * * * Do you suppose I have
forgotten it? It has compariitUelj swilloued
up In me e\ery other feeling, and I am onh a
spectator upon earth, till a tenfold opportunity
offers " — Byron, In letter to Moore, Sept 10,
1818 See Manmt Falino, III 2, 801 04
584. 44, 7-8. "Fact f Tbere is, or wag, such an
edition, \\ith all tlu obnoxious epigrams of
Martial plated by themsel\es at the end —
IU ron
RNff. 24N>. In the stan/as omitted, Byron tell*
the story of Don Juan s Infatuation for a mar-
ried woman named Donna Julln, which re-
Miltcd in his being sint 11 broad to "mend his
former morals "
687. Canto II, 44 — In the stunzaa omitted, Ju.in
embarks for Leghorn, Itnlv, the home of rela-
tives On the \\.iv the \essel Is wreckiMl in
a prolonged storm, dc^ciihed in the poem in
detail B>ron's indebtcdncstt for the ship-
wreck to G D«l7ellh Mnuwmkv and /JMCIH-
ttrtt at #<a (181L1) was pointed out in an
aitlde in The Monthly Mauasim, Aug, 1S21
In a letter to Murray, dated Aug 23, 1S21,
Byron wrote "\Mtli regard to (ho chaigea
about the shipwreck, T think that I told you
and Mi Ilo'ihmise. jears ago that theie Mas
not a vnyU eiHumntan« of it not taken fioin
fact, not. indeed, fioin any ninf/lt shipwie<k,
but all fiorn actual facts of different wrecks
AlmoHt all Don Juan is r«il life, either mv
own, 01 f loin people I know " J (' I lob-
house, Lord Bioughton (1780-1800), wan an
English statesman and writer, and a liiend
of Byron
RAO. 1O3. Qf the Rurvivors of the wreck only
four are alive as the long boat approaches one
of the Cyc lades, in the *l?g<an Sea
593. 174. The stanzas omitted record Ha Idee a
daily ministrations to Juan, which result in
a love-affair
fffMI. ftft, 4. One of Wordnworth's poems is en-
titled Thi Wuguoncr, It was publiHhed In 1S15
600. Canto XL— In the cantos omitted, Juan re-
covers and In sent as a captive nlave to a
Turkish market, where he Is puichaHed by
the Sultana ITe finally earn pen, and after
numernuR adventure** at the Court of Russia
and elHewhere, he finally arrive* in London,
where he IK well received by penwmH of high
flociety.
01 0. ito, 1. Regarding the hostile attack upon
KeatH, published in Tht Edinburgh Review,
Apill, Ibi8, Keats wrote George and Georglana
Keatb (0<t 14 or 15, 1818) aR follows Rey-
nolda bus retuined trom a six weeks' enjoy-
ment in Devonshire — he is well, and peruuadcH
me to publish my Pot of Uaml as an answer
to the attacks made on me in Klackwood'*
Mnyazint and The Quartnly He mew There
have been two betters in my defence in
The Chronicle and one in Tht Evamintr,
copied from the Alfred Exetei Pa pel, and
written bv RoynoldH I do not know *ho
wiote those In The Chtomch This IH a
mere matter of the moment — 1 think I shall
be among the English Poets alter my death
Even as a matter of piesent Intel est the at-
tempt to crush me in The Quattalij has onl\
brought me moie Into notice, and it is a com-
mon expression among book men 4I wonder
Tht Quarttrty should cut its own thioat '
"It does nit* not tlu least harm in so< lety
to make me appeal little and ridiculous I
know when a mnn IH superloi to me and ghe
him all due re -pee t — he will be the last to
laugh at me and as for the rest I feel that
I make an impression upon them which In-
sures mt peisoual respect while I am In sight
\vhnte\er thev may say when my back is
turned "
J II Reynolds was an intimate friend of
Keats For the letters publiHhed In Tht
Chtoniclr. see Keats's Letter to Ilessey (p
St>4), and note (p. 121)4)
For a full account of the matter of Keats's
suffeilng undei these attacks, see (\il\ins Life
of Arrifv, ch 0, and Kossettl's Lift of htutu,
ch C
O12. Ml The stanzas omitted contain reflections
mi the transItoimesH of worldly fame
€11 5. IM». B>ion conduits his hero through five
moie cnntos without biingiiig him back to
Spain, and leaves the story unfinished
WHEN A MAN HATIT NO FRVCDOM TO FIGHT
FOIt Al HOME
ThlK poem was sent in a letter to Moore,
dated No\ G, 1H20, as a meinorlnl chant for
one who might be killed fighting for the cause
of the Italian Revolution
iron OKFOIID AND FOR WAI DEMI A\ II
ThiH poem is sometimes entitle! To Mr
Muiray It was sent in a lettc i to Murray
dated Aug 23, 1821, icfuHliig an offer of
£2000 for NcfrJanci/xi/ifA, The Two Fortran,
and three1 cantos of Don Juan Murray had
previously puhliflhed works of Horace Wai pole,
Karl of Orfoid (17)7-<)7) and of James Earl
Waldegiave (1085-1741)
THl VISION OF JFDGMINT
Thin poem wan written an a Rat Ire upon
Robert Sou they, the author of A Vwion of
Judgment (nee p. 400), in which George III,
x GEORGE GORDON BYBON
1227
who had Just died (1820), was completely
vindicated. In the Preface to his poem,
Bouthey went oat of bis way to attack the
moral character of Byron Following IB the
Preface to Byron's poem.
"It hath been wisely Mild, that 'Onp fool
makes many ,'1 and It hath been poetically ob-
served—
•That foolH rnsh In where angels fear to
tread ' — Pope.8
'•If Mr. Southey had not nibbed In where
he had no businebs, and where be never was
before, and never will be again, the following
poem would not have been written It lh
not Impossible that It may be as good ah his
own. Mceing that It cannot, by any hpecles
of stupidity, natural or acquired, be woittc
The grosh flatteiy, the dull Impudence, the
renegado intolerance, and impious cant, ol
the poem by the author of Wat Tyler* are
something so stupendous as to form the
sublime of himself— containing the quintes-
sence of his own attributes
"So much for bis norm — a word on his
Preface In thlH Preface It hah pleated the
magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of
a Ruppohed 'Satanic School ,' the which he
doth recommend to the notice of the legisla-
ture, thereby adding to his other laurels the
ambition of those of an informer If there
exists anywhere, except in his imagination,
such a School, Is he not sufficiently armed
against it by his own intense vanity f The
truth ts that there are certain writers whom
Mr S imagines, like S< rub, to have 'talked of
htm , for they laughed ronsumedly *
"I think I know enough of most of the
writers to whom he is supiJosed to allude,
to assert, that they, in their Individual ca-
pacities, have done more good in the charl
ties of life, to their fellow-c reaturen. in any
one \ear than Mr Houthev hah clone harm
to himself by his absurdities in his whole
life, and this is having a great deal Rut
I have a few questions to ask
"Istlv, Is Mr Soutbey the author of Wat
Tyler?
"2ndlv. Was he not refused a remedy at
law by the highest Judge of his beloved Eng-
land, because, it was a blasphemous and sedi-
y. Was he not entitled by William
tlous publication9
"Srdly. Was h<
Smith, in full parliament, 'a rancorous rene-
gaclo* »
444thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his
own lines on Martin the regicide staring him
in the face?6
"And Gthly, letting the four preceding
Items together, with what conscience dare he
call the attention of the lavts to the publica-
tions of others, be thev what they may9
"I say nothing of the cowardice of such a
proceeding its meanness speaks for Itself, but
I wish to touch upon the motive, which is
neither more nor less than that Mr S has
been laughed at a little in M>me recent publi-
cations, as he was of yore in the Ifift Jacobin,*
by his present patrons Hence all this 'sklm-
ble-hcamble stuff1 about 'Satanic,* and so foith.
However, it la worthy of him— 'quaUa ab
inoepto "
"If there is anything obnoxious to the po-
litical opinions of a portion of the public
in the following poem, they may thank Mr.
Southey He might have written hexameter*,
ab he has written everything else, for aught
that thj writer cared— had they been upon
another subject But to attempt to canonize
a monarch, who, whatever were his household
virtues, was neither a successful nor a patiiot
king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign
passed In war with America and Ireland, to
bay nothing of the aggression upon Fiance, —
like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets
opposition In whatever manner he may be
spoken of in this new Yimou, bis public career
will not be more favorably transmitted by his-
tory Of his private virtues (although a lit-
tle expensive to the nation) there can be no
doubt
"With regard to the supernatural personages
treated of, I can only say that I know as
much about them, and (ah an honest man)
have ,a better light to talk of them than
Robert Sou they. I have also treated them
more tolerantly The way In which that poor
Insane creature, the Laureate, deals about
his Judgments In the next world, is like his
own Judgment in this If It was not com-
pletely ludicrous, it would t>e something worse
I don't think that there Is much more to
sav at present RBDIVIVUB „.
617. 34, 1-3. In 1812. John Mason Good had
published an edition of The Book of Job trans-
lated from the original Hebrew He included
In the notes numerous quotations from the
Hebrew and the Arabic versions, and In an
Introduction supported the historical character
of the Book
634. f»4, 1 "Yesterday, at Holland House, I was
introduced to Southey — the best-looking bard
I have seen for some time To have that
poet's head and shoulders, I would almost
have written his Sapphic* He Is certainly a
prepossessing person to look on. and a man
of talent, and all that, and — there is his eu-
logy "—-Byron, In Letter to Moore, Sept 27,
1818
i An old proverb found In many languages
• 4n KHHQU on Cntinttm, 8, 06
•A violent revolutionary epic written by
Houthev in 1794
*Farquhar, The Beaur* Rtratagem, III, 1, 81-84.
B William Smith (17BG-183B), an English poli-
tician, and member of Parliament, attacked Sonthey
in the House of Commons on March .14, 1817 See
Soutbey's reply To William Smith, k*q , M P
T APpaper originated in 1707 with the purpose of
ridiculing the French Revolution and Its supporters
In England
ON TIT1R DAT I COMPLFTE MY THIRTY-
SI XTH YBAR
"This morning Lord Byron came from his
bedroom into the apartment where Colonel
Stanhope and some friends were assembled,
and said with a smile — 'You were complaining,
the other day. that I nc\cr write any poetry
now — this Is my birthday, and I have Just
finished something, which. I think. Is better
than what I usually write ' He then produced
these noble and affecting verses, which were
afterwards found written in his Journals, with
only the following introduction 'Jan 22 . on
this day I complete my 36th year * *' — Gamba,
in 4 Narratii c of Lord Byron'* Lout Journfv
to Greece (1825)
1 Such he has been from the first — Horace, Art
Portico, 127
"Quevedo revived Francis Gomec de Qnevedo
(1R80-104R) was a vigorous Spanish writer of sa-
tire and polemical verw He was called "The Cap-
tain of Combat " He was also noted as a duelist.
1228
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844) p. 417
EDITIONS
Poetical Works, ed by W. M. Bossettl (London,
Moxon, 1871).
Poetical Works, ed , with a Sketch of Campbell R
Life, by W. Alllngham (Aldtne ed.. London,
Bell, 1875).
Complete Poetical Works, ed , with Notes, by J L
Robertson (Oxford University Press, 1907)
Selected Poems, ed , with a Prefatory Notice, by J
Hogben (Canterbury poet* ed London, Scott,
1885)
Poem*, selected by L Campbell (Golden Treasury
Series london, Macmillan, 1904)
BIOGRAPHY
Seattle, W The Life and Letters of Thomas
Campbell, 8 vols (London, Moxon, 1849)
Hidden, J C. Thomas Campbell (Famous Scots
Series Edinburgh, Anderaon, 1899)
CRITICISM
Btackwood's Magazine "Theodoric," Jan., 1826
(17 102)
Haalltt. W. The Spirit of the Age (London,
1825) , Collected Work*, ed Waller and Glover
(London, Dent, 19021906, New York, Mc-
Clure), 4 848
Irving, W Biographies and Miscellaneous Papers
(Bonn Library ed London, Bell, 1867)
Jeffrey, F Criticisms in The Edinburgh Review
"Gertrude of Wyoming,*' April, 1809 (14 1) ,
"Theodorlc, with Other Poems/' Jan, 1825
(41 271)
Quarterly Renew, The "Gertrude of Wyoming,"
May. 1809 (1 241)
Balntebury, G Kutays tn English Literature,
Second Series (London, Dent, 1K96 , New York,
Brribner)
Bymons, A The Romantic iloiement in English
Poetry (London, Constable, 1909, New York,
Dutton)
Tuckerman, H. T "Thomas Campbell, the Popu-
lar Poet," E*says Biographical and Critical
(Boston Phillips, 1857)
Wilson, J. G The Poets and Poetry of Scotland,
Vol 2 (Glasgow, Blarkle, 1876, New York,
Harper)
tltion of Poland, the abolition of negro-slavery
— these had set the passion for freedom burn-
Ing In many breasts, and The Pleasures of
Hope gave at once vigorous and feeling ex
prcsslon to the doctrine of the universal
brotherhood of man . . It IN not easy
at this time of day to approach The Pleasures
Of Hope without a want of sympathy, If not
an absolute prejudice, resulting from a whole
century of poetical development." — J C Had-
den, In Thomas Campbell (1899)
"The very name of this work discovered Its
adhesion to elghteenth-centur> tradition It
was a tame, 'correct* essay, In a mode already
entirely outworn " — Gome, In A Short History
of Modem English Literature (1897)
410.
YB IIABINBKB OF BNGLAKD
CRITICAL NOTES
417. THE PLBA8URBB OF HOP!
Thin poem should be compared as to subject
and title with A ken side's The Pleasures of the
Imagination (p 44), Warton's The Pleasures
of Melancholy (p 75), and Bogers's The Plea*
ures of Memory (p 207)
"Much of the success of the poem was no
doubt due to the circumstance that it touched
with such sympathy on the burning questions
of the hour. If, as Stevenson remarks, the
poet Is to speak efficaciously, he must say
what IB already In bis hearer's mind. This
Campbell did, a* perhaps no English poet had
done before. The French Revolution, the par-
'The Battle of the Baltic and Ye Mariners
of England are without rivals in their own
class, and Campbell deserves recognition as a
true romanticist and revolutionary force in
poetry, although fighting for his own hand,
and never under the flag of Wordswoith and
Coleridge For the time bring, however, Camp-
bell did more than they to break
down In popular esteem the didactic conven-
tion of the c lassie school "— GOBBP, In 4 Short
History of Modtrn English Literature (1897)
15. This poem In said to have been written
In 1799-1800, on the prospect of a war *ith
Russia (11 6-6) , but it must have been re-
vised later, for Nelson foil at Trafalgar In
1805 He was severely wounded at the Battle
of Copenhagen, April 2, 1801
81. Meteor flag — A reference to the color
of the British flag and to the old belief that
meteors portend calamity
42O. HOBIM.INDBN
At the village of Ilohenllnden, Bavaria, the
Austrian army, the "Hun" In thlb poem, was
defeated by the French (the "Frank") In De-
cember, 1800 Campt>ell did not witness the
battle, as wan erroneously believed, but he
was on the continent nt the time and wit-
nessed at least one skirmish Scott wus fond
of this ballad, but Campbell himself spoke
rather contemptuously of UK "drum and trum
pet lines "
"In the genuine success of Hohenlinden every
line IB a separate emphasis, but all the em-
phasis IB required by the subject, Is in Its
place. The thud and brief repeated monotony
of the metre give the very sound of cannon-
ading, each line Is like a crackle of musketry
What Is obvious In it, even, comes well into
a poem which depends on elements so simple
for ItB success; Indeed, its existence" —
Symons, in The Romantic Movement tn English
Poetry (1909)
LOORIBL'B WARNING
Donald Cameron, a Scottish Highland chief,
tain known as "Gentle Lochlel." joined the
Young Pretender, Charles Edward, In the
THOMAS CHATTERTON
1229
Jacobite uprising of 1745 lie was wounded
at Culloden in a battle against the Kngllih
forces under the Duke of Cumberland, and
fled to France, where he died in 174R The
Wlsard in thlh poem forecasts the defeat of
Cameron at Culloden
THB BATTLB OF THB BALTIC
"It IB an attempt to write an English bal-
lad on the Battle of Copenhagen, as much as
possible In that plain, strong style peculiar to
our old ballads which tell UM the when, where,
and how the event happened — without gaud
or ornament but what the hubject essentially
and eahllv affonlh" — Campbell, in Letter to
Dr Currle, April 24, 1805, quoted In Bcattic'H
Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell
The Battle of Copenhagen was fought on
April 2, 1801 Rumia, Prussia, Sweden, and
Denmark formed a neutrality league against
England in December, 1800 England de-
clared war, and a fleet under Parker and Nel-
son was dispatched against the Dan Inn fleet
at Copenhagen Parker held eight ships in
reserve while Nelson led twelve to the attack
The engagement was so fierce that Parker
signaled to "Disc ontlnue the action " In read-
Ing the signal Nelson applied his blind eye to
the telescope, all the time he kept his own
signal flying— "Move in closer" HP finally
won a decisive victory
In lt« first form the poem contained 162
lines Following are the first four stanzas as
originally written
Of Nelson and the North
Sing the day.
When, their haughty powers to vex,
He engaged the mulsh decks.
And with twenty floating wrecks *
Crowned the1 fray
All bright. In April's sun.
Shone the day.
When a British fleet came down,
Through the Island** of the crown 10
And by Copenhagen town
Took their stay
In arms tho Danish shore
Proudly shone ,
By each gun the lighted brand IB
In a bom determined hand ,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on
For Denmark here had drawn
All her might , SO
From her battle-ships so vast
She had hewn away the mast,
And at anchor to the last
Bade them fight
88. "Heart* of oak."— The phrase is quoted
from the old ballad 70 Gentlemen of Eng-
land
THB LAST MAN
"Did you SOP The Lout Man In my last
number? Did It Immediately remind you of
Lord Byron's poem of Darkness f [Be* p.
521 ] I was a little troubled about this ap-
pearance^ of my having been obliged to him
for the idea. The fact is, many years ago I
bad the Idea of this I*st Man In my head,
and distinctly remember speaking of the sub-
ject to Lord B I recognised when 1 read his
poem Darkness, some traits of the picture
which I meant to draw, namely, the ships
floating without living hands to guide them —
the earth being blank — and one or two more
circumstances On soberly considering the
matter, I am entirely disposed to acquit Lord
Byron of having Intentionally taken the
thoughts It is consistent with my own ex-
perience to suppose that an idea, which is
actually one of memory, may start up, appear-
ing to be one of the imagination, in a mind
that has forgot the source from which it bor-
rowed that Idea. I believe this Nevertheless,
to have given the poem to the world with a
note, stating this fact, would have had the
appearance of picking a quarrel with the
noble bard, and this appearance I much dis-
like, from the kindly feeling I have towards
him, in consequence of his always having dealt
kindly by me "—Campbell, in a Letter to Mr.
Gray, Sept. 5, 1828, quoted in Seattle's £4/0
and Letters of Thomas Campbell An article
in The London Magamne and Reiieio, 1825,
suggests as the bonrce of this poem, a former
popular novel entitled The Lout Man, or
Omegaru* and Svderto, a Romance in Futurity
(2 vols , 1806)
424. TITB DBATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND
This poem probably refers to the Jacobites,
who, under the leadership of Charles Edward
Stuart, the Young Pretender, instituted a rebel-
lion in Scotland In 1740 The badge of the
Stuarts was the white rose, the standard of
Charles Edward was white, blue, and red
The reference in line 36 is probably to make it
clear that the faction did not belong to the
Irish revolutionists, whose badge was green.
Heligoland is an Island in the North Sea , It
was ceded by Great Britain to Germany in
1890.
THOMAS CHATTERTON
(1752-1770), p 125
EDITIONS
Bos-
Poetieal Works, 2 vols (British Poets ed
ton, Honghton, 1807)
Poetical Works, 2 vols , cd , with an Essay on the
Rowley Poems, by W. W. Skeat, and a Memoir
by B. Bell (Aldlne ed London, Bell, 1871,
1875, New York, Macmlllan).
Complete Poetical Works, 2 vols, ed., with a
Biographical Introduction, by n. D. Roberts
(Muses' Library ed London, Routledg*.
1906; New York, Dutton).
The Rowley Poems, ed , with an Introduction, by
M B Rare (Oxford University Press, 1911)
Poems, ed , bv J Richmond (Canterbury Poets
ed • London. Scott, 1885).
1230
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
BIOGRAPHY
Mauon, D. • Chatterton (Bdlnborgh. Constable.
1899, New York, Doddt 1901).
Russell, C E Thomas Chatterton, the Marvel-
Ion* Boy (New York. Moffat, 1908. London.
Richards 1909)
Wilson, D Thomas Chatterton (London. Macmil-
lan, 1809)
CRITICISM
Been. H A History of English Romanticism in
the Eighteenth Century (New York, Holt,
1898, 1910)
Blackpool's Magasfine April. 1870 (107 453)
Haslltt, W "On Burns, and the Old English
Ballads," Lectures on the English Poets (Lon-
don, 1818) , Collected Works, ed Waller and
Glover, London, Pent, 1902-00 , New York, Mo-
Clare), 8 123
Ingram, J H "Chatterton and his Assoclatcfe,"
Harper's New Monthly Magasrinc, July, 1883
(07 225).
Ingram, J H The True Chatterton (New York
Hcrlbner, 1910)
MItford, Mary R Recolleetwns of a Literary
Life (London, Bentley. 1855. 1888)
Rlrhter, Helenc Weiner Beitraqe eur engltsohe
Philolowe, 1900
Reott, W "The Works of Thomas Chatter ton "
The Edinburgh Renew. April. 1804 (4 214)
Watts Dun ton, T in Ward's The English Poet*,
Vol 3 (London and New York, Marmlllan,
1880, 1909)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Hare, MB In his edition of Chattel-ton's The
Rowley Poems (1011)
Roberts, II D In bin edition of Chatterton's Com
plete Poetical Works (1900)
CRITICAL NOTES
"I thought of Chatterton. the marvellous Bot
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride"
— Wordsworth, Rf solution and Independence,
43-44 (p 284)
"The pnrebt English, I think — or what ought to
he purest — Is Chatterton's The language had ex-
isted long enough to he entirely uncorrupted of
Chaucer's Gallicisms, and still the old words are
used Chatterton's language is entirely northern
I prefer the native music of It to Milton's, cut by
feet" — Keats, in Letter to George and Georgiana
Keats. Sept 22, 1819 See also Keats's To Chat-
terton (p 752)
The following poems of Chatterton belong to
what are known as the Rowley Poems. Chatterton
Invented a vocabulary, based upon the usage of
the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and em-
ployed It in the composition of a number of poems,
which he palmed off as the work of Thomas Row-
ley, a fictitious priest of fifteenth century Bristol.
For an account of the controversy which was
waged over these poems, see "History of the Row-
ley Controversy," In Poetical Worts (British
Poets ed, 1857). Chatterton's acknowledged
poems are all written in the conventional eighteenth
century manner.
128. BRIBTOWI TRAQBDII
This poem is probably based upon the eze-
(utlon of Sir Baldwin Fnlfoid for treason at
Bristol (Brlbtowe), in 1461 During the Wars
of the Rosos, Fulford opposed the claim of
Edward IV to the English throne
180. mi ACCOUNT! OF W. CANTNOBB FBABT
This poem is ascribed to William Canynge,
whom Chatterton makes a friend and patron
of Rowley William Canynge (c 1400-74)
was a rich and influential citisen of Bristol
lie was mayor of the city, and rebuilt at his
own expense the famous Bristol Chunh of
St Mary He appears as a defender of Ful-
ford In Bristowe Tragedir
O. Rome editors print a comma aftei keepc
and a semi-colon after sty lie, and interpret
heie styllc at. high style Chatterton'* Qlossary
defines hue only as they
a Tragycal Entcrlude. or Tilscoora-
eyngc Tragedle. wrotenn hie Thomas Row
lele, plaledd before Mastre Canyngr, atte hvh
How^e Nempte the Bodde Lodge , alMte IM»
fore the Duke of Norfolck, Tohan Howard " —
rhatterton'« Title I'HKP
132. AN •XCBIENTI BALADE OF ill \11ITIB
"Thomas Rowley, the author, was born at
Norton Main-ward, in Somcrwthhiiv, educated
at the Convent of St Kenna, at Kevnesham,
and died at Wehthury in Gloucestershire"—
Chatterton
134 1PITAPII ON ROBFKT < ANTVOI
Chatterton milrniittcd thlh poem on vellum
ah a fragment of the original manuscript of
Rowley
WILLIAM COBBETT (1763,1835), p. 1002
EDITIONS
Work* of Peter Pore* pine, 12 \ols (London, at
the Crown and Mitre, 1801)
Selections from Political Works, fl *O!H, od , with
a Biographical Preface, by J M and J P
Cobbett (London, Cobhett, IS 36)
Adwoe to Young Men (London, 1820 , Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1906)
English Grammar (London, 1H17) , ed , with a
Memoir, by R Waters (1888) , ed by II L
Stephen (London, Oxford University Press,
1906).
Political Register (1802-35)
Aural Rides, 2 vols (London, Cuillcy, 1910) , 2
vols , ed , with an Introduction, by E Thomas
(Everyman's Library ed New York, Dutton,
1912), selected and ed. by J H Lobban
(Cambridge University Press, 1908).
WILLIAM COBBETT
1281
BIOGRAPHY
Benjamin, L 8 ("L Melville") Life and Littrra
of WMiam Co&bcft'm England and Amtnca,
2 volu (Lomlun and New Voik, Lane, 1013).
Carlyle, E. I. William Cobbctt A Study of htrt
Life ay Mioirn tit Aw Writing* (London, Con-
stable, 1004)
Melville, L See Benjninln, L 8
Selby, J Rioi/mplncH of John Wtlkcs and Wil-
liam Cobbrtt (1870)
Smith, K William Cobbett, 2 vols London,
Low, 187S)
CRITICISM
Ilenjamln, L S ("L Mchlllo") TJit FottiuoliHv
Uotcu, April, 1012 ('U (575)
Edinburgh 2{<n<w, Th< "CobbotU Political Rcg-
Ntei, July, 1807 (10 380)
(iaskell, (' M The AmrfcriifA Gtntuty, Fob ,
ISHd (10 23K)
llQilltt, W "rhttittitei of CoblM-tt," Ta1tl< Talk
(London, IK21) , Th< Kpuif of tin Agt (Lon-
don, 1817) . ro/ffcfccl Ho/ l*t ed Wai lei und
<!lovei (London, Dent, 1002-00, New Yolk,
llrt'ltiii), 0 HO. 4, ,«4
Jeffiov, F 'Tobbttts CotLigc Econom\,v< 3 lie
hdinbun/li ffciiiip, IVli, 1S123 (,*S 105)
L>tton, II Oft i articles «nrf ChaiadttH (Ijondon,
Chapman and Mall, 1M»7)
Mlnto, W X Manual of English Ptom Lit(ta-
1nr< (Kdmbuiffh llKiftaotNl 1S72, ISSb, Hos-
ton, (linn, 1CM)1)
Salntsbuiv (J 7;ss(f//s tu EngltHlt Litnatute,
Second Scries (London, Dent, 1S95, \ew
Yoik, Scnlmei)
Sttintsbun <! Mticwtllan * Jfaf/i/stac, Dec , ls«l|
(Or» «r>)
Rtophon, Sir T F "fobbett n modrl John Hull "
r/orv Kaltbatira, Vol a (Ixmdon,
1S91 02)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Benjninln L S ("L Mcl\llli>") 1
of Fntt Kdiltontt of \\ illiani Cnbbt It In Bon-
liiiniuV Lift and Lt'lltt* of Hilliam Cubbctt
(1013)
CRITICAL NOTES
Fiom El(rjy on William CoVbctt
O benr him where the rain <HH fall,
And where the \iluds am blow,
And let the Min \ieep o'er his INI II
As |o the Riino ye go r
And in home little lone (hurchyaid,
the fi rowing corn,
IJHV gentle Nature's Htem prose ha id,
Her mlKhtloM peasant-boin
YOH, let the wild flower wed his ffra^e,
Thnt bees ma> niuimur near,
When o er bis last home bond the hra\e
And HOV — "A man lies here'"
For Brltonh honor Oobbetfa name,
Though rashlv oft he hpoke.
And none ean M'orn, and few will blame,
The low-laid heait of onk
Se*», o'er his pnmtrate braneheK, see'
Ken faetlouH hate eonnents
To reverenee. In the fallen tree,
His BritlHh lineament*
— Ebeneaer Elliott (1835)
"Peasant-bred, *lth a pabblon for farming, and
a most genuine, If quite unpoctic, love of the opun
country and all that It could offer eye or ear, he
depicted, with Dutch honesty, the lural England
that he knew how to Bee, it» fertility and beauty,
the misery that had defended on many of Its
Inhabitants, the decent prosperity remaining to
others And he wat. master of a style in which to
cxpraiB hlh knowledge. It Is not ono of those
gieat Htylcs which ombalm their autbois* memory ,
but it WHS serviceable He ih vigorous, plain, and
absolutely unuffe<ti>d The aptest words come to
him with most peifect ease Hib eloquence HptingB
fiom il\id Insight into the heart of his them*1, and
from a native iei\or and energy that do not need
art to blow them into flame Apart from hiH ple-
beian vliulcme he shows a natural good taste In
writing The flaccid elegance and pompous rotund
Anrbiago then in ^oguc arc, b> him left on one
side If he cannot frame a period, every sentence
nab its work to do, and e\ery sentence tolls
What mars his faiinei s Odyssp\, ffiual Rid IK, is,
peihaps, the evess of this \ery disugard for fine
writing They *ue notes of what he «a\N, and
notes must often IK» bilef, formless, and discon-
nected Imagination and the charm it gives are,
indeed, absent throughout, but his sympathetic
i oal Ism has an attraction of its own He scans
the look ami manners of the laborers, he calcu-
li tos whetliti th<\ liiiM* baton to t»nt , he descants
on the inpahlhtlcs of the noil, and he Is able to
Impious upon his nation the strength of bin In-
terest In these things and of his enjojment of
held and ^oods nud streams and tbe palatable
salmon that inhabit the latter He MM ins to give
an umonsdous denionstiation how excellent a
tongue English could he for a man, *ho saw and
felt keonh, to c\piess the facts as he s«iw them,
and the emotions \\b!<h possesses! him — T W
I»n«\llc?Ortnn, in The Cambridge Htbtoty of Eng-
Iis7i Lituatnx. 11 ch 1!
lOOTb. 20-.10. "To refute lies IB not, at present,
ui> business, but it is my business to give
MHJ, in as small n compass as possible, one
btuking proof that they arc lies, and thereby
to put \ou \\ell upon \oui guard for the whole
of the iest of vour life The opinion Heuu-
loush inculcated by these 'hwtot tans' Is this,
that, before the Piottntant times came, Eng
laud uas, comparatively an Insignificant coun
tiv, liainiu f€w ptoplc in it, and those few
inclrtmllit JHHH and mi*< table No^v, take
the following undeniable facts All the par-
ishes In England aie now (ovept wheie they
lunc been «w»/<rf, and two, three, or four,
have been made Into one) In point of *ise
what thoj were a thousand 1/earn ago The
countv of Norfolk Is the ne*t cultivated of
any one in England This county has now
731 polishes and the number was formerly
greater Of them* parishes 22 Jiare now no
0/ftfrrftcft at all , 74 contain less than 100
souls each and 208 have no parsonage-
bonne* Now, observe, every parlnh had, in
old times, a church and a parsonage house
The county contains 2002 square mile*, that
1232
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
IB to Bay, something leu than 8 square miles
to each pariah, and that IB 1920 statute acres
of land , and the siae of each parish is, on an
average, that of a piece of ground about one
mile and a half each way , so that the churches
are, even now, on an average, only about a
mile and a half from each other Now, the
questions for you to put to yourself are these
Were churches formerly built and kept up
without being wanted, and especially by a
poor and miserable people? Did them mis-
erable people build 74 churches out of 781,
each of which 74 had not a hundred souls
belonging to it? IH it a sign of an aug-
mented population, that 22 churches out of
781 have tumbled down and been effaced?
Was It a country thinly inhabited by misera-
ble people that could build and keep a church
in every piece of ground a mile and a half
each way, beside* having, in this same county,
77 monastic establishments and 142 free chap-
els? Is It a sign of augmented population,
case, and plenty, that, out of 731 parishes,
268 have suffered thp parsonage-houses to fall
into ruins, and their sites to become patches
of nettle* anil of brambles? Put these quew-
tlonts calmly to yourself common sense will
dictate the answers, and truth will call for
an expression of your indignation against the
lying historians and the still more lying popu-
lation mongcm " — Oobltett, in Advice to Young
Men, Letter I. 52
See note on Ntansas on Seeing the Speaker
Asleep, p I314b
Graham, H. Hplendtd Failures (London and New
York, Longmans, 1013).
Hillard, O S • Littell'8 Living Age, April, 1849
(21 161).
Mtell's Living Age May, 1851 (20 235) , June,
1851 (29 555, 605) ; "Hartley Coleridge ab
Man, Poet, Bssayist," July. 1851 (80 145) ,
Ang, 1851 (80 387).
Macmillan's Magazine "Reminiscences of Hartley
Coleridge," Nov. 1865 (13 81) , same article
in The Eclectic Magazine, Jan, 1806
(66 109) and in Llttcll's Living Age, Dec ,
1865 (87 433)
Rawnsley, II D Literary Associate* of the Eng-
lish Lakis. 2 volg. (GlaHgow, MaoLehnt.e,
1R94, 1006)
Stoddard, It II Under the Rtcning Lamp (New
York, Bcrlbner, 1802, London, Gay)
CRITICAL NOTES
"His poems are full of graceful beauty, but
almobt all fall below the level of high poetry
They are not sufficiently powerful for vivid re
membrancc, and are much too good for oblMon
. . The one species of composition In which
ho IK a master is the sonnet, which precisely
suited both his htrength and his limitation Ills
sonnets are among the most perfect In the lan-
guage" — Ri<hard (inrnott, in Dictionary of Na-
tional Biography (1887)
See Wordsworth's To If C (p 288)
1172
HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1796-1849),
p. 1171
EDITIONS
Poem*, 2 vols , eil , with a Memoir, by D Cole-
ridge (London, Mozon, 1851)
Poem*, ed by W Ballcy-Kempllng (Ul version,
1008)
Complete Poetical Works, ed by B, Colics (New
York, Button, 1008)
Poetical Work*, with Howies and Lamb, ed., with
a Biographical Introduction, by W Tlrebuck
(Canterbnrv Ports ed London, Rcott 1887)
Essays and Marginalia, 2 vols, ed by D Cole-
ridge (London. Mozon, 1R51)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Bagehot, W. The Prospective Review, July, 185,1 ,
Literary Studies, 3 vols , ed by R H Hutton
(London and New York, Longmans, 1878-70,
1805)
Calne, T Hall Oobweos of Criticism (London,
Ktock 1882, 1885).
Dawfcon, J. Jr "Hartley Coleridge and Words-
worth," Macminan's Magannc, Jan, 1866
(18 282)
Dowden, B In Ward's The English Poet*, Vol 4
(London and New York, Macmlllan, 1880.
1910).
An earlier hut Inferior version of this son-
net was printed In 1833
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(1772-1834), p. 328
EDITIONS
Complrtt Works, 7 voln , ed by W CJ T Shedd
(Now York, Harper, 185K. 1884)
Wotks. 8 volH, ed by T Ashe, Poetical WO»*N,
2 vols (Aldlne ed London, Hell. 1885 , New
York, Macmillan) , Ptosc Work*, 6 VO!H
(Bohn Libiary ed London. Bell, 1K85, New
York, Marmillan)
Poetical Works, eil , with a Biographical Introduc-
tion, by J D Campbell (Globe ed London.
Macmillan, 1803. 1906)
Poems and Dramatic Worktt, ed by W Knight
(New York, Rcribncr, 1906).
Poems, ed , with an Introduction, by B H Cole-
ridge (London and New York, Lanet 1907)
Poetical Works (Astor ed Crowell, New York,
1908)
Complete Poetical Works, 2 vols, ed by E H
Coleridge (Oxford Unlv Press, 1912)
Pofms, ed. by H H. Coleridge (Oxford Unlv Press,
1912)
Poetry, ed by R Garnett (Muses' Library ed
London, Lawrence, 1898, New York, Scrib-
ner).
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1233
Seleet Poems, ed., with a Critical Introduction, by CRITICISM
A J. George (Boaton, Heath, 1002)
Anima Poetw, cd by K. II. Coleridge (Boa ton, Bayne, P Essay* in Biography and Criticism,
Houghton, 1805) Second ***•• (Boston, Gould, 1858).
Biogtaphia Epistolari*. 2 vote , cd by A. Turn bull Beera, H A "Coleridge, Ilowlcn and the Pope
(Bohn Library ed. London, Bell, 1011 , New Controversy." A Hittoiy of English /toman,
York, Macmlllan) tici*m in the Nineteenth Century (New York,
Bwgrapnia Mtcraria, 2 vol« , ed by J. Shawcross Holt- 1W)1, lfllo>
(Oxford. Clarendon PreHB, 1007) Blackvood's Magazine "Biographla Lltcraria,"
Letter*, IW-IW, 2 VO!H , ed by R H Coleridge Oct , 1817 (2 8) , "Coleridge K Poetical Works,''
(London, Helnemann, 1895, BoHton, Hough- <**• 1884 (»« 642) , "The Lake Sihool of
ton) Poets," Oct., 1810 (0 8)
Letters Hitherto Vmollcrtcd, ed by W F. Prideaux Branden, O "Naturalistic Romanticism," Main
(1913) Current* of Ninttecnth Century Literature,
Literary Cntieum, ed . with an Introduction, by Vol 4 (London. Helnemann, 1005, New York.
J Mackail (London, Prowde, 1008) n Macinlllan, 1006)
Lyrical Ballad*, ed by K Dowden (London, Nutt, Brooke, B A Theology in the, English Poets
1800. 1808) , ed by T Hutchlnnon (London, (London, King, 1874, New York, Dutton.
Duckworth, 1808. 1007) , ed , with an Intro- 1910>
ductlon, by II Llttledale (London and New Dawfcon, W J The Maters of Lngluh Poetry
York, Oxford Unlv Prew,, 1011) <N*W York «n<* London. Revell 1006)
Table Talk, ed by II Morley (Morley's Universal Do***. K -Early R«-volutlonai v (Sroup ami
Library ed London, Routledge, 1883) Antagonists," The French Itciolutwn and
English Literature (New York and London.
Herlbner, 1807)
BIOGRAPHY Dowden, E "Coleridge as n Poet" tfrir Stud ten
in Litcralutc (London, Paul, 1K05, 1002)
Aynanl, J La Vie d'un Poete Coleridge (Paris Edinburgh Renew, The "Chrlhtabel, Kubla
llaihctte, 10O7) Khan, The Pains of Sleep," Sept, 1H1Q
Itramll A Namuel Taylor Culendgc und die (27 58)
etiglwhe Roman tit (Ilerlln, 1886) , EngllKh Egglehton, A. J "Wordsworth Culerldgp, anil
translation by Lady Eahtlakc (London, Mur- the Spy," The Ninetetnth Century, \ug, 1008
ray, 1H87) (64 800)
C^aine, T II Life of Samuel Taylor Colendge ForHter, J Great TcachorH (London, Redway,
((•reat Writers Serien London, Stott, 1898)
1887). Garnett. R "The P«n»try of (1olerldge ' *}**<iyi
Campbell, J D Namutl Taylor Oolendge (Lon- Of an Bo-Librarian (London, Helnemann
don, Macmlllan, 1804) 1001)
Carlyle, T The Life of John Sterling, ch 8 Hancock, A E The French Knolutlon and the
(London, Chapman, 18B1, 1858) English Poet* (New York, Holt, 1800)
Coleridge, 8 T Ammo, Potto*, Biographia Liter- Hanev, J L The German fnflmnte on ft T
a>ia. Letter*. ColeridtH (Philadelphia, 1903)
Cottle, J Early Rtcollfcttons, Chiefly relating Hazlitt, W "Mr Coleridge," The Spint of the
to the Late K T Colcridgt (London. Houlston, Age (London, 1825) , "On the Living Poots*
1837, 1847). Lecture* on the English Poet s (London, ISIS) ,
De Qulncey, T "Coleridge and Opium Eating," «My First Acquaintance with PoeN " Ihe
Blackwnod'tt Magazine, Jan, 1845 (57 117), Liberal, 1823 — Collected Work*, oil Wallet
Collected Writing*, ed Mashon (Ix>ndon, and Glover (London, Dent, 100200 New
Black, 188800. 1806-07) 5, 170 York, McClure), 4, 212, 15. 143, 1J, 260
Glllman, J The Life of Ramuel Taylor Coleridge Helmholi, A A The Indebted »c** of ft T Cole-
(London. Pickering, 1838; only one volume rufff to A W ftchleacl (Unlv of Wisconsin
published) PreHR, 1907)
Hunt, Leigh Autobiography, ch 16 (London, Jeffrey, F "Biographia Llteiaiia," The Edln~
Smith, 1850, 1006) , 2 vols , od by K Ingpen burgh Renew, Aujr, 1817 (28 4S8)
(London, CoDRtable, 1003, New York, Dutton). Johnson C F : Three Jmrnra/is and Three Eng-
Knight, W A Coleridge and Wordworth in Itahmcn (New York, Whittaker. 1886)
the Wc*t Country (New York. Rcrlhner, Lowell. J R Democracy and Other Addre*»c*
1014) (Boston. Houghton, 1887)
Lamb, C (Thrift'* Hospital Fnc and Thirty Mill, J R Dtwertationa and ni*cu*non*, 4 yoln
Tear* Ago (London, 1820) (London, Longman^ 1850-07. 1R7VTR)
Sandford. Mm H Thomas Poolf and hi* Friend*, Pater, W ApprcrwMon* (Tendon nud Now York,
2 vols (Ix>ndon, Macmlllan 1888) Macmlllan, 1880. 1805)
Traill, II. D Coleridge (English Men of Lettcra Payne, W M • The Greater Engh*h Poet* of the
Rerteic London, Macmlllan, 1884. New York, Nineteenth Century (New York, Holt 1007
Harper). 1000)
Wordsworth, Dorothy • Journals (New York, Mac- Quarterly Review, The "Remorse," April. 1814
millan, 1807). (11 177)
1234
BIBLIOGBAPHIES AND NOTES
Rawnsley, II D. Literary Associations of the
English Lakes, 2 vote (Glasgow, HacLeho*c,
1894. 1906)
Robertson, J M. New Essays Toward a Critical
Method (London, Lane, 1897)
RoydB, Kathleen Coleridge and His Poetry (New
York, Dodge, 1912)
Saintsbury, G "Coleridge and Southey," EH* ay*
in English Literature, Second Series (London,
Dent, 1896 , New York, Scrlbner)
Shairp, J C Studies in Poetry and Philosophy
(Edinburgh, Douglas, 1872, 1886, Boston,
Houghton, 1880, 1887)
Stephen, L Hours in a Library, 8 vole (London,
Smith, 1874-79 , New York and London, Put-
nam, 1899) , 4 vole. (1907)
Btoddard, R H Under the Evening Lamp (New
Yoik, Scrlbner, 1892 , London, (>av)
Stork, C W "The Influence of the Pnpulai Hal
lad on Wordsworth and Coleridge," Publica-
tions of the Modern Language Association,
Sept , 1914 (n 8 22 299)
Swinburne, A C Essays and Studies (London,
Chatto, 1875)
SymonB, A The Romantic Movement in English
Poetry (London, Constable, 1909, New York,
Dntton)
Watson, W "Coleridge's Super-naturalism" Ex
cut won* in (Jritielsm (London, Mathews,
1893, New York, MR cm II Ian)
Whlpple, E P "Coleridge as a Phlloftophic
Critic," Essays and Renews (Boston, Obgood,
1849, Tlcknor, 1801)
Woodhcrry, (Jeorge B "Sir George Beaumont,
Coleildge, and \\ordswoith." tftudici in Letttrs
and Life (Boston, Houghton, 1890) , Uakets of
Literature (New York and London, Macmlllan,
1901)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Anderson, J P Tn Calne's Life of Ftamuel Tay-
lor Ooletidge (1887)
Haney, J. L A Bibliography of B T. Colcndae
(Philadelphia, Egerton Proas, 1903, London,
Gay. 1904)
Jack, A A and Bradley, A C A Short Bibliogta-
phy of Coleridge (1912)
Shepherd, R H The Bibliography of Coleridr/e.
revised by W P Prideaux (London, HolllngM,
1901)
Wise, T J A Bibliography of the Writing in
Prose and Verse of ft T Coleridge (London,
Bibliographical Society, 1918)
CRITICAL NOTES
"His bept work Is but little, but of Its kind It
IB perfect and unique For exquisite munlc of
metrical movement and for an Imaginative phan-
tasy, such as might belong to a world where men
always dreamt, there Is nothing In our language
to he compared with Christabel, 1805, and KuWa
Khan, and to The Antient Mariner published as
one of the Lyrical Ballads, in 1798 The little
poem called Love IB not BO good, but It touches
with great grace that with which all sympathise
All that he did excellently might be bound up In
twenty page*, but It should be bound In puie gold "
—8 A. Brooke, In English Litiratuti (1870)
"You will see Coleridge — he who sits obscure
In the exceeding lustre and the pure
Intense Irradiation of a mind
Which, with Its own Internal lightning blind,
Flag* wearily through darkness and ckspali —
A cloud-encircled meteor >f the air.
A hooded eagle among blinking owls "
— Shelley, In Litter to Mana Guftomt,
11 202-08 (1820)
See Lamb's Christ's Hospital Piie and Thitti/
1 earn J go (p 0,11 ) and note, p 1208a , also llazlltt H
Mil First 4 ( quaint ancc inth Poets (p 102R>
Coleridge Is caricatured In Mr Flosky In Thomas
Love Peacock's Nightmare Abbey
328. TO A YOU NO ABB
Roe Byron's satiric reference to thlh iwem
In English Bards and Kiotch Htiuwts, 261-
04 (p 4K9)
27-8t A referent e to I*ant1socraey Hoe
Colcildgc's Pantisoerucy and n 1 (p 328)
32O. LA FAIBTTE
Marquis de La Fayette (1757-1834) was a
celebrated French geneial and statesman He
left France in 1792 to nvold the lonseciiiciiccs
of his opposition to the Jacobins, and was
Imprisoned as a political suspect by the Prus-
sians and Austrian*, 1792 97 He returueu
to France In 1790
KOSKirSKO
Thaddeus Kosklusko (17401817) was a
famous Polish luitnot and gcncial He was
commander of the Polish Insurrection of 1794.
and was defeated and taken prisoner on O<t
10 of that year He was released In 179t>
HOP Campbell's The P1eanutes of Hope, 349-
418 (pp 418 19)
TO THE RBtBREND W L. BOWLBB
Colerldgp probably Intendod to dedicate the
1797 edition of his Poem* to Bowks On
Nov 14, 1796, Lamb wrote as follows "Cole-
ridge, I love you for dedicating your poetry
to Bowles Genius of the sacred fountain of
tears It was he who led von gontlv bv the
hand thiough all thin valley of weeping,
showed you the dark-green vw trees, and the
willow shades"
See Coleridge's comment on Bowles In Crit-
ical Notes, p 1208
THB BOLTAN BARF
This poem was written Aug 24, 1795, nearly
two months before Coleridge's marriage (Oct
4, 1796). The JEollan harp IH a musical in
strument consisting of a box with strings
stretched across It It Is usually placed at a
window, where the wind striking It produces
music It IB named from JBolus, god of the
winds.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
1235
881.
GDI ON TH1 DEPARTING YBAR
This poem, in a shorter fqnn, was first en-
UUed Ode for the Last Day of the Year TW.
In the early version, the first stanza was
called Strophe I , the second, Strophe II , the
third, Epode , the fourth, Antlbtrophe I , the
fifth, Antlstrophe II , the remaining stanzas,
Epode II In the 1707 edition Coleridge pre-
fixed the following Argument, which in the
1803 edition wag distributed in notes
The Ode commences with an address to the
Divine Providence that regulates into one vast
harmony all the events of time, however
calamitous some of them may appear to mor-
tals The second strophe calls on men to
suspend their private Joys and Borrows, and
de\ote them for a while to the cause of human
nature in general The first epode speak* of
the Empress of Russia, who died of an apo-
plexy on the 17th of November, 1706, having
Just ((included a subsidiary treaty with the
kings combined against France The first and
second antistrophe descrllie the Image of the
Departing Tear , etc . as in n vision The
second ejxxle prophesies. In anguish of spirit,
the downfall of this country
832. 4O. "A subsidiary Treaty had been Just con-
dnded nnd Russia was to have furnished
more effectual aid than that of pious mani-
festoes to the Powers combined against France
I reJuKe — not over the deceased Woman (I
ne\er dared figure the Russian Soveielgn to
my Imagination under the dear and venerable
Character of WOMAN — WOM\\. that complex
term for Mother, Sister, Wife f) I rejoice, as
at the dlsenshrliilng of a Daemon ' I rejoice,
as at the extinction of the evil Pilnelple Im-
personated ' This very day, six years ago,
the massacre of Ismail was perpetrated
TniRTA THOTTB\ND III MAN HBINGB, MBN,
WOMEN, AND CHILDREN, murdered In cold
blood, for no other crime than that their gar-
rison had defended the place with persever-
ance and bravery Why should I recall the
poisoning of her husband, her iniquities in
Poland, or her late un motived attack on Per-
sia, the desolating ambition of her public life,
or the libidinous excesses of her private hours »
I have no wish to qualify myself for the office
of Historiographer to the King of Hell1" —
Coleridge
.1.13. 1.16. Abandon'd of Heaven.— "The poet from
having considered the pccu'iar advantages,
which this country has enjoved, passes In
rapid transition to the uses, which we ha\e
made of these advantages We hove been
preserved by our insular situation, from suf-
fering the actual honors of war oursehes,
and we have shown our gratitude to Provl
dence for this Immunity by our eagerness to
spread those horrors over nations less happily
situated In the midst of plenty and safety
we have raised or Joined the veil for famine
and blood Of the one hundred and seven
last years, fifty have been years of war. Such
wickedness cannot pa*s unpunished. We have
been piond and confident in our alliances and
oar fleets — but God has prepared the canker-
worm, and will smite the gourds of our pride.
'Art thou better than populous No, that was
situate among the riverar that had the waters
round about It, whose rampart was the Sea?
Ethiopia and Egypt were her strength and it
was infinite Put and Lubim were her help-
ers. Yet she was carried away, the went
into captivity and they cast lots for her hon-
orable men, and all her great men were bound
In chains Thou also shult be drunken all
thy strongholds shall be like fig trees with
the first ripe figs . if they be shaken, they
shall even fall Into the mouth of the eater
Thou hast multiplied thy merchants above
the stars of heaven Thy crowned are as the
locusts , nnd thv captains as the great grass-
hoppers which camp In the hedges in the cool-
day , but whcii the sun ariscth they flee away,
anrl their place Is not known where they are
There is no healing of thy bruise , thv wound
is grle\oub all, that hear the report of
thee, shall clap hands over thee- for upon
whom hath not thy wickedness passed con-
tinually r Nahum, chap ill "—Coleridge,
834. THIS LI MI-TRIE BOWER MY PRISON
"In the June of 1707 some long-expected
ft lends paid a visit to the author's cottage,
and on the morning of their arrival, he met
with an accident, which disabled him from
walking during the whole time of their stay
One e\ening, when tbev had left him for a
few hours, ho composed the following lines in
the garden-bower " — Coleridge's prefatory note
The friends referred to were Wordsworth
and his sister Dorothy, and Lamb. Coleridge
wrote Southey In July about the visit, as fol-
lows- "Charles Lamb has been with me for
a week He left me Friday morning The
second day after Wordsworth came to me dear
Sara accidentally emptied a skillet of boiling
milk on my foot, which confined me during
the whole of C Lamb's stay and still pre-
vents me fmm all walks longer than a fur-
long"
8-2O. The spot here described * as a favorite
meeting place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and
their Alfoxdcn friends See Wordsworth's
Lines Written in Early Spring (p 281), and
note, p. noOb.
838. THl HIM! OF THB ANCIENT 1CARINBR
This poem was first printed anonymously
in the first edition of Lytical Ballad* (1798).
Many archaisms Intended to make It resemble
the old popular ballads were removed in the
second edition (1800) It was first published
under the author's name in MbylUnc Leaven
(1817), where It appeared with a marginal
gloss (printed In this text in footnotes) and
a Latin motto from T Burnet's Arcliceolofffa
PMIowpMcv (1692), of which the following Is
a translation:
1286
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
"I readily believe that there are more In-
visible beings In the universe than visible.
But who shall explain to us the nature, the
rank and kinship, the distinguishing marks
and graces of each? What do they do?
Where do they dwell? The human mind has
circled round this knowledge, but never at-
tained to It. Yet there Is profit, I do not
doubt, in sometimes contemplating In the
mind, an In a picture, the Image of a greater
and better world lest the Intellect, habituated
to the petty details of dally life, should In-
con tracted within too narrow limits and set-
tle down wholly on trifles. But, meanwhile,
a watchful eye must be kept on truth, and
proportion observed, that we may distinguish
the certain from the uncertain, day from
night "
For the origin of the poem, see Coleridge's
Bioffraphla Literarto, 14 (pp 872-78), and
Wordsworth's note on We Are Seven (p. 13!>7b).
The following additional statement bv Words-
worth was reported to II N Coleridge by the
Rev. Alexander Dyce "The Inetent Jfnrfmr
was founded on a strange dream, which a
friend of Coleridge had, wbo fancied he saw
a skeleton ship, with figures in it We had
both determined to write some poetry for a
monthly magaxinc, the profits of which were
to defray the expenses of a little excursion
we were to make together The Ancient
Mariner was Intended for this periodical, but
was too long I had very little share in the
composition of it, for I soon found that the
style of Coleridge and mvself would not as-
similate Besides the lines (in the fourth
part):
'And tbou art long, and lank, and brown,
As Is the ribbed sea-sand1- -
I wrote the stanza (in the first part) :
'Be holds him with his glittering eye —
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three-years' child
The Marlntr hath his will'—
and four or five lines more In different parts
of the poem, which I could not now point
out. The Idea of 'shooting an albatross' was
mine, for I had been reading Shehocke'a
Voyages, which probably Coleridge nerer saw
I also suggested the reanlmatlon of the dead
bodies, to work the ship" (Note printed in
Campbell's ed of The 'Works of Coleridge
[1803], 8. T. C. ed. 1852.) See Lamb's com-
ment on Wordsworth's note on the poem,
published in the second edition of Lyrical Bal-
lads (p Ol9a, 40 ff ).
It has been suggested that Coleridge took
some hints for his poem from Capt T James's
Strange and Dangerous Voyage (16.33) and
from The Letter of Saint Paulinu* to MaearlH*
(1618). The letter tells the story of a won-
derful voyage, on which a sole survivor was
aided in the navigation of the ship by Christ
and angels. Borrowings from these sources,
however, are too slight to lessen the glory of
Coleridge's inventive genius.
Regarding the piobabllity of the poem, and
its moral, Coleridge remarked as follows
(Table Talk, May 31, 1800) "Mrs. Barbauld
-once, told me that she admiied The Ancient
Mariner very much, but that there were two
faults in it, — It was Improbable, and had no
moral As for the probability, I owned that
that might admit some question , but as to
the want of a moral, I told her that in my
own Judgment the pocin had too much , and
that the only, or chief fault, if I mlglit say
so, was the obtrusion of the moral sentiment
so openly on the reader as a principle or
cause of action In a work of pure imagina-
tion It ought to have had no more moral
than the Arabian Nights9 tale of the mer-
chant's sitting down to eat dates by the side
of a well and throwing the shells aside, and
lof a genlc starts up and says he must kill
the aforesaid merchant because one of the
date shells had, it seems, put out the eye of
the genie's son " Mrs Barbauld (1748-1825)
was an English poet and ei-sajist
"It IK enough for us here that he has
written some of the most ixietlral poetry in
the language, and one poem, The Amitut
Mariner, not only unparalleled, but unap
proaihiMl iii its kind, and that kinil of the
rarest It is marvellous in its mastery over
that delightfully fortuitous Inconsequence that
is the adamantine logic of dreamland Coler-
idge has taken the old ballad measure and
given to it by an indefinable charm, wholly
his own, all the sweetness, all the melody anil
compass of a symphony And how picturesque
it Is in the proper sense of the word I know
nothing like it There is not a description
in it It is all picture"— J R Lowell, in
"Addiess on Unveiling the Rust of Coleridge
In Westminster Abbcj, 7 Mav, 1S85," Democ-
racy and Other Addresses (1887).
The poem is here printed in the revised
text of 1820.
837. 104. "I took the thought of "grinning /or
joy" from poor Burnett's remark to me, when
we had climbed to the top of Pllnlimmon, and
were nearly dead *lth thirst We could not
speak for the constriction, till we found a
little puddle under a stone lie said to me,
'Yon grinned like an Idiot" He had done the
same "—Coleridge, In Table Talk, May 81,
1830. George Burnett (cl 706-1 811) was a
miscellaneous writer, Interested with Coleridge
and Bonthev in the scheme of Pantlsocracv
Pllnllmmon is a mountain in Wales.
838. 210-11. "It is a common superstition
among sailors that something evil is about
to happen whenever a star dogs the moon " —
Coleridge, in a manuscript note The star
within the nether tip of the horned moon,
however, exists only In Coleridge's imagina-
tion
839. 314. Possibly a reference to the Northern
Lights, or Aurora Borealis.
flAMtJEL TAYLOB COLEB1DGE
1287
848.
CnBIBTABBL
"The first part of the following poem WM
written in the year 1707, at Stowcy, in the
county of Somerset. The second part,
after my return from del-many, in the year
1800, at Keswlck, Cumberland Since the lat-
ter date, my poetic power* have been, till
very lately, in a state of suspended animation
But an, in my very first conception of the
tale, I had the whole present to my mind,
With the wholeness, no Ira than the liveli-
ness of a vlalon, I trust that I shall be able
to embody in verse the three parts yet to
come, in the course of the prebcnt year. It is
probable that If the poem had been finished
at either of the former periods or if even
the first and second part had been published
in the year 1800, the Impression of its origi-
nality would have been much greater than I
dare at present expect Hut for this I have
only my own Indolence to blame The dates
are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of
precluding charges of plagiarism or servile
Imitation from myself For there is amongst
as a set of critic*, who seem to hold, that
every possible thought and image is tradi-
tional , who have no notion that there are
Mich things as fountnins In the world, small
as well as great, and who would therefore
(hailtoblv derive e\erv rill thov behold flow-
Ing, fiom a perforation made in some other
mnn R tank I am confident, however, that as
far as the present poem IN concerned, the tele-
b rated poets whone writings I might be sus-
pected of having imitated, either In particu-
lar paRsagcR, or in the tone and the spirit
of the whole, would IM» among the first to vin-
dicate me from the charges and who, on any
striking coincidence, would permit me to ad-
dress them In this doggerel version of two
monkish Latin hexameters
Tie mine and It 1* likewise yours ;
But an if thlR will not do ,
Let It he mine, good friend ' for I
Am the poorer of the two
"T have only to add that the metre of the
Chnntabcl is not, proi>erly speaking, irregular,
though It may seem so fiom Its being founded
on a new principle namely, that of counting
In each line the accents, not the syllables.
Though the latter may vary from seven to
twelve, yet In each line the accents will be
found to be only four. Nevertheless, this
occasional variation in number of syllables
is not Introduced wantonly, or for the mere
ends of convenience, but in correspondence
with Home transition in the nature of the
Imagery or passion" — Coleridge's original
Preface
The poets referred to above are Scott, who
heard the poem read In 1801, and Byron, who
heard It In 1811
The poem was Intended for publication in
the second edition of Lyrical Ballad (1800) ;
but Coleridge never completed it In Table
Talk, July 6, 1888, Coleridge mid* "I could
write as good verses now as ever I did, If I
were perfectly free from vexations, and wetc I
In the ad libitum hearing of fine music, which
has a sensible effect in harmonising my
thoughts, and in animating and, as it were,
lubricating my inventive faculty The rea-
son of my not finishing Christabcl is not that
I don't know how to do It — for 1 have, a« I
always had, the whole plan entire from be-
ginning to end in my mind , but I fear I could
not carry on with equal success the execu-
tion of the Idea, an extremely subtle and dif-
ficult one " The poem was finally published
by Murray on the recommendation of Byron
Coleridge's plan for the completion of the
story is thui» related by Mr Gillman, who
cared for Coleridge during the last years of
his life "The following relation was to have
occupied a third and fourth canto, and to have
closed the tale Over the mountains, the
Bard, an directed by Sir Leoline, hastes with
his disciple, but in consequence of one of
those inundations supposed to be common to
this country, the spot only where the castle
once stood is discovered — the edifice itself be-
ing washed away lie determines to return.
Oeraldlne, being acquainted with all that is
passing, like the weird sinters in Macbeth,
vanishes Reappearing, however, she awaits
the return of the Bard, exciting In the mean-
time, by her wily arts, all the anger she could
rouse In the Baron's breast, as well as that
Jealousy of which he is described to have
been susceptible The old Hard and the youth
at length arrive, and therefore she can no
longer personate the character of Geralcllne,
the daughter of Lord Roland de Vaux, but
changes her appearance to that of the ac-
cepted though absent lover of Chris tabel Now
ensues a courtship most distressing to Christa-
bel, who feels, *he knows not why, great dis-
gust for her once favored knight. This cold-
ness Is very painful to the Baron, who has no
more conception than herself of the super-
natural transformation She (it last vields
to her father's entreaties, and consents to ap-
proach the altar with this hated suitor. The
real lover, returning, enters at this moment,
and produces the ring which she had once
given him In sign of her betrothment Thus
defeated, the supernatural being Ceraldlne
disappears As predicted, the castle l>ell tolls,
the mother's voice is heard, and, to the ex-
ceeding great Joy of the parties, the rightful
marriage takes place after which follows a
reconciliation and explanation between the
father and daughter " — Quoted from (illlman's
The Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1838).
"For my part, I cannot compare Kubla
Kliatt with Okrtetaoel The magical beauty
of the latter has been so long canonised in
the world's estimate, that to praise it now
would he unseemly It brought into English
poetry an atmosphere of wonder and xnys-
1238
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
tery, of weird beauty and pity combined,
which wag quite new at the time it appeared,
and has never since been approached The
movement of its subtle cadences has a union
of grace with power, which only the finest
lines of Shakespeare can parallel An we read
Chnstabel and a few other of Coleridge'B
pieces, we recall hie own words
'In a half -sleep we dream.
And dreaming heai thee still. O singing lark'
That aingobt like an angel in the clouds ' " —
J C. Bhalrp, in "Poetic Style in Modern Eng-
lish Poetry," Anpett* of Poetry (1881)
The meter of Chrtutabel was Ubed by Scott
in The Lay of the Lattt Minstrel, and by other
poets In imitation or ridicule of Coleridge's
poem. The following poem was wiitten by
James Hogg, and published with other pieces
imitative of his contemporaries in a volume
entitled The Poet's Mirror (1816)
If thoa knewest all. poor talMeM whelp. 55
Well mightest thou tremble, growl, and yelp,
But thou knowebt nothing, hast no part
(Simple and stupid as thou art)
Save gratitude and truth of heart
But they are coming by thib way 60
That have been dead for a year and a day,
Without challenge, without change,
Thev shall have their full revenge"
They have been sent to wander in woe
In the lands of flume and the lands of snow , 65
But those that arc dead
Shall the greensward tread,
And thoHe that are living
Shall boon be dead '
None to pity them none to help , TO
t-talled
Thou mayest quake, my cut-ti
whelp'
T5
Can there be a moon In heaven tonight
That the hill and the gray cloud seem MI light?
The air is whitened by some spell,
For there Is no moon, I know It well ,
On this third day the sages say S
TTls wonderful how well they know)
The moon IH Journeying far away.
Bright somewhere in a heaven below,
It Is a strange and lovely night,
A grayish pale, but not white f 10
Ib it rain, or is it dow,
That falls BO thick I see its hue'
In lays it follows, one, two, three,
Down tho air so merrily.
Said Isabello , so let it be ' iff
Why does tho Lady Isabelle
Bit in the damp and dewy dell.
Counting the racks of dilzzly rain,
And how often tho mil cries oxer a sain?
For Bhe H harping harping In the brake, 20
Craik, cralk Craik, craik—
Ten times nine, and thrice eleven; —
Tho last call was an hundred and seven
Craik, Cralk — the hour is near —
Let it come, I have no fear ' 25
Yet It Is a dreadful work, I wls,
Bach doings in a night like this *
Bounds the river baron and loud?
The stream sounds harsh but not loud
There is a cloud that seems to hover 80
By western hill the churchyard over,
What is it like?— 'Tis like a whale,
TlB like a shark with half tho tall,
Not half, but third and moie,
Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar , ft*
Ita face Is raised — it comoth here ,
Let it come — there IB no fear
There's two for heaven, and ton for hell,
Let it come—'tlB well— 'tis well '
Bald the Lady Isabelle. <°
What alls that little cut-tailed whelp,
That it continues to yelp, yelp?
Telp, yelp, and it tuins fts eye
Up to the tree and half to the sky ,
Half to the sky and full to the cloud. «
And Btill it wTiinea ani barks aloud.
Why I should dread I cannot toll
There IB a spirit , I know it well '
I see it in yon falling beam —
IB it a vision or a dream ? *0
It IB no dream, full well I know
I have a woeful deed to do »
Hush, hush, thou little murmufcr ;
I tell thee, hush— the dead are near '
There are two from the grave
That I fain would save ,
Full hard is tho weird
For the young and the brave '
Perchance they aie wrapt In vision sweet,
While tho passing breezes kiss their feet ,
And they aio dreaming of Joy and love' —
Well, let them go — there H room above
Yot they are coming • and thov are throe f «o
Jean Maria' can it be?
The Conclusion
Bleep on • fair maiden of Borrowdale *
Bleep, O sleep, and do not wake,
Dream of tho dance, till tho foot so pale,
And the l>euutcous anklo shhci and shake , K
Till thou bhalt pious, with feeling bland,
Thine own fair breast for lover's hand
Thy heart is light as sunmiei breeze,
Thy heart is jojous as the d«3
Man never iorm of angol sees, 90
But thou art fair as tho\
So lovers ween, and so thov say,
Bo thine shall ween for many a day
Tho hour's at hand, O woo is me '
For thej are coming, and tho\ are throe BS
34H 4D-S2. Cf these linos with the following
entry in Dorothy Wordsworth's Jnumul
"March 7, 1708 William and I di.ink tea at
Coleridge'B. A cloudy sky. Obscivcd nothing
particularly interesting — the distant prospect
obscured One only leaf upon tho top of a
tree — the sole remaining loaf — darned round
and round like a rag blown by tho wind "
Of these lines, Ruskln savs ("Of the Pa-
thetic Fallacy," Modtrn Patnltrn. Part IV, ch
12, sec 6) 'When i'olcndgc? speaks of
'The one red loaf tho last of its clan,
That dance as often as dance it can,'
he has a morbid, that is to say, a so far
false, Idea about tho loaf ho fancies a life
in it, and will, uhlch there arc not , confuses
its poworlossnoss with choice, its fading death
with merriment, and tho wind that shakos It
with munic. Here, however, there is Home
beauty, ovon in tho morbid passnpe "
84tt. Part II.— The Inspiration for Part II of tho
poem was tho Hymn to Terma by Richard
Crashaw, an English poet of the 16th century
The scenery In Part II Is that of tho Lake
district, England
847. 4O8-26. Coleridge regarded those linos as
"tne best and sweetest passage" ho ovor wrote
Bonthoy may lw» referred to in tho passage
Bee Byron's Childe Harold** Pilgrimage, III,
04 (p 587).
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
1239
Tht Conclusion to Part II. — These lines have
little obvioue relation to the rest of the poem
and probably were not meant originally to be
a part of it. They were Bent to Southey In a
letter of May 6, 1801, and probably were
written about that time J D Campbell, in
his edition of Coleridge's Poetical Work*, nays
that then? UDPH do not occur in any of the
three extant manuscript* of the poem
380.
FBOST AT MIDNIGHT
7. My cradhd iti/ant — Ills Ron Hartley.
94. At Hihool — Colciidgc en to rod Christ's
Hospital in 17HS& and remained theio until he
went to Cambridge University lii 1701 See
Lnnib'K CAiivfVi 1/oitpltal Five and Thirty
Tear ft Ago <p 031)
87. Stem preceptor — Boycr, the famous
master of Christ's Hospital, noted foi his
flogging proclivities. In Table TalK, May 27,
1830, Coleridgp hays "I had one just flogging
When I was about thlitoen, I wont to a shoo
maker, and bogged him to take me an his
apprentice He, being an honest man, ininie
diatoly took mo to Howjer, mho got Into a
groat rag*1, knocked mo down, and won pushed
Crispin rudely out of the room Itowvor
asked mo why I had inndo myself huth a
fool? to whldi I i ins we red, that I had a pi eat
doslro to be a shoemaker, and that I hated
the thought of being a rlergjman 'Why M>*'
said ho — 'Hoc BUMS to toll you tho truth, sir,'
said I, 'I am 1111 Infldel »• For this, without
more ado, Ilow\or flogged mo, — wisely, as I
think — soundh, as I know Any tihinlng or
fcermonlrlng would tune gratified my vanity,
and confirmed me In my absurdity , as it was,
I was laughed at. and got heartily ashamed
of my folh "
48. Nutter — Coleridge was \erv fond of his
sistor Ann, who *an five ^oars his senior, fete
died in 1791
B3 While at school, Coleridge used to Ho
upon the roof and gape at the clouds and stars
R4ff. The prophecy expressed In those line*
was fulfilled In 1800, when Coleridge moved to
Greta Hall, Koswlik, in the Lake district
351. FRANCE AN ODE
This poem was Inspired by tho French In-
vasion of Switzerland (Helvetia) in 179H It
was piloted in The Morning Puttt, April 10,
171»8, with the following Introduction, entitled
Original Pot try
"Tho following excellent ode will bo in uni-
son with the feelings of every friend to liberty
and foe to oppression, of all who, admiring
the French Revolution, detest and deploie tho
conduct of Franco towards Switzerland It is
very satisfactory to find so zealous and steady
an advocate for freedom as Mr Coleridge con-
cur with us In condemning tho conduct of
Franco towards tho Rwlss Cantons Indeed
his concurrence is not singular , wo know of no
friend to liberty who IB not of his opinion.
What we most admire in the avowal of his
sentiment*, and public censure of the un-
principled and atrocious conduct of France.
The poem itself Is written with great energy.
Tho second, thiid, and fourth stanzas contain
some of tho most vigorous Hues *c have ever
read. The lines in the fourth stanza —
To scatter rage and tnalt'rous guilt
Where Peace her Jealous home had built/
to tho end of tho stania are particularly ex-
pressive and beautiful "
The following Argument was prefixed to the
poem in an 1802 edition
"First Mama An Invocation to those ob-
jects In nature the contemplation of which
had inspired the poet with a devotional lo\e
of liberty, tf frond Stanza The exultation
of the poet at the commencement of the
Fiench Revolution, and his unqualified ab-
horrence of tho Alliance against the Republic
Third Stanza The blasphemies and horrors
during the domination of the Terrorists re-
garded by the poet as a transient stoqm, and
a* the natural consequence of the former
despotism and of tho foul superstition of
Popeiy Reason, indeed, began to suggest
many apprehensions, yet still the poet strug-
gled to retain the hope that Fume would
make conquests by no other means than by
presenting to the observation of Europe a
people more happy and tetter Instructed than
under otbor form* of govornment Fourth
Ntanza Switzerland and tho poet's recanta-
tion Fifth Stanea. An address to liberty,
in which the poet expresses his conviction
that those feelings and that grand Ideal of
freedom which tho mind attains In Its con-
templation of its Individual nature, and of tho
sublime surrounding objects (see stansa the
first) do not belong to men, as a society, nor
can possibly be either gratified or realized,
under any form of human government . but
belong to the individual man, so far as he Is
pure, and inflamed with tho love and adoration
of God in nature"
866.
THI KIGHTIKGALB
Tho scenery of this poem Is that of the
Quantock hills about Nethei Stcwey and Alfor-
don, in Somersetshire, Kngland Tho poem was
first published In Lt/mal Jlallad*. In 1798.
858. THB BALLAD OF THE DIRK LAD IE
A manuscript note by Coleridge states that
this poem was Intended originally to contain
190 lines Sec note on Lot c, p 1240b
KUBLA KHAN
This poem was first published with the title
Kubla Khan, or a VMon in a Dream f It waa
prefaced with the following note
1240
BIBLIOGRAPHIES ANIKNOTES
Of The Fragment of Kubla Khan
"The following fragment is here published at
the request of a poet of great and deserved
celebrity [Lord Byron], and, as far as the
author*s own opinions are concerned, rather au
a psychological curiosity, than on the ground
of any supposed poetic merits
"In the jummcr of the year 1797, the author,
then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm'
house between Porlcck and Linton, on the Kx-
moor confines of Somerset and Devonshire In
consequence of a slight Indisposition, an ano-
dyne had l>een prescribed, from the effects of
which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment
that he was reading the following sentence, or
words of the same substance, In Purchase
Pilgrimage 'Here the Khan Kubla com-
manded a palace to be built, and a stately gar-
den thereunto And thus ten miles of fertile
ground were Inclosed with a wall '* The author
continued for about three hours In a profound
sleep, at least of the external senses, during
which time he has the most vl\ld confidence,
that he could not have composed less than from
two to three hundred lines . if that Indeed can
be called composition in which all the images
rose up before him as things, with a parallel
production of the correspondent expressions,
without any sensation or consciousness of
effort On awaking he appeared to himself to
have a distinct recollection of the whole, and
tajclng his pen. ink, and paper, instantly and
eagerly wrote down the lines that are here pre-
served At this moment be was unfortunately
called out by a person on business from Por-
lock, and detained by him above an hour and
on his return to bis room, found, to his no
small surprise and mortification, that though
he Rtlll letalned some vague and dim recollec-
tion of the general purport of the vision, yet,
with the exception of some eight or ten scat-
tered lines and images, all the rest has passed
away like the Images on the surface of a stream
into which a stone has been cast. but. alas*
without the after restoration of the latter '
Then all the charm
Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
Anil each mis-shape ['»] the other Stay
awhllo,
Poor youth ' who scarcely dar'at lift up thine
eyes —
The stream will soon renew its smoothness,
soon
The visions will return * And lo. he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror
[Prom Coleridge's The Picture, or, the
Lover's Resolution, 91-100 ]
"Tot from the still surviving recollections In
his mind, the author has frequently purposed to
finish for himself what had been originally
as it *ere, given to him Atptov aotov &•«,•
but the tomorrow is jet to come "
"Were we compelled to the choice, I for
one would rather preserve Kubla Khan and
Christabcl than any other of Coleridge's poems.
It is more conceivable that another man
should be born capable of writing The Indent
Mariner than one capable of writing these
The former is perhaps the most wonderful of
5 "In Xarodn did Cublal Can bund a stately
Pallace, encompassing sixteene miles of plaice
ground with a wall, wherein are fertile Meddowes,
pleasant Springs, delightful Streamer, and all sorts
of beasts of chase and game, and in the mlddest
thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure" — Purchaa
his Pilgrimage J1626 ed ) 4, 18, 418
• Tomorrow, I shall sing a sweeter song — Theo-
critus, Idyls, 1, 182
all poems In reading It we seem rapt Into
that paradlue revealed to Swedenborg, where
music and color and perfume were one, where
you could hear the hues and see tno har-
monics of heaven. For absolute melody and
splendor it were hardly rash to call It the first
poem in the language." — A. C. Swinburne, In
Essays and Studies (1875).
"In Coleridge's Kubla Khan we have no
wrestling with spiritual questions, no lofty
solution of the problem of conduct found
through brooding on the beauties of nature
Instead, a thousand impressions received from
the senses from recordsi of Oriental travel,
from numberless romajulc tales, have been
taken In by the author, dissolved as In a
crucible by the fierce heat of his imagina-
tion, and are pouted forth a molten stream
of sensuous Imagery, Incalculable in its va-
riety of suggestion, yet homogeneous, unified,
and, despite Its fragmentary character the ul-
timate expression of a whole romantic world "
— Neilaon, In Essentials of Poetry (1912)
14-1B. These are three of the lines referred
to by Kipling In his Wireless "Remember
that In all the millions permitted there are no
more than five— five little lines— of which oue
can say, 'These are the magic These are the
vision. The rest Is only poetrv f " The other
two lines are In Keats's Ode to a Xightinvale.
69-70 (p 832)
LINES
Coleridge sent this poem In a letter to his
wife with the following comment "At the
Inn they brought us an Album, or Stamm-
Buch, requesting that we would write our
names and something or other as a remem-
brance that we had Itecn there I wrote the
following lines which I send to you, not that
they possess a grain of merit as poetry, but
because they contain a true account of my
Journey from the Bracken to Elbinrode"
This poem was first published In The Morn-
ing Post. Dec. 21, 179», under the title Intro-
duction to the Tale of the Dark Ladle, and
with the following Introductory letter, ad-
dressed to the editor of The Morning Post
"Sir,
"The following poem IM the Introduction to a
somewhat longer one, for which I shall solicit
Insertion on your next open dav The use of
the old ballad word Ladie for Lady is the
only piece of obsoleteness In it, and as It is
professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust, that
'the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity*
(as Oamden1 says) will grant me their pardon,
and perhaps may be Induced to admit a force
and propriety in It A heavier objection may
be adduced against the author, that in these
times of fear and expectation, when novelties
eatplode around us In all directions, he should
presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-
fashioned love; and, five vears ago, I own, I
" William Camden (1*151-1623), an English anti-
quary and historian.
SAMUEL TAYLOR OOLEBIDGE
1241
should have allowed and felt the force of this
objection. But, alas ' explosion has succeeded
explosion BO rapidly that novelty Itself cease*
to appear new ; and it IB possible that now,
even a simple story, wholly unsplced with poll-
tics or personality, may find some attention
amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those
who have resided a long time by the falls of
Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes dis-
ttnrilv iindthlA. H T <7nT.minan "
rushes from the melted glaciers, like a giant,
ttnclly audible.
B. T.
O leave the Illy on Its stem ,
O leave the rose upon the spray ,
0 leave the elder-bloom, fair maids '
And listen to my lay
A cypress and a myrtle bough,
This morn around my harp you twln'd,
Because It fashlon'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
And now a tale of love and woe,
A woeful tale of love I sing
Hark, gentle maidens, hark ' 1t sighs
And trembles on the string
But most, mv own dear Oenevicve'
It sighs and trembles most for thee T
O come and hear the cruel wrongs
Befel the Dark Ladle '
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, mv Joy, my Oenevieve'
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve
Then came Lot r as we know it, with slight
changes, and the following concluding btanzas .
And now once more a tale of woe,
A woeful tale of love, I sing
For thee, my Oenevieve' it sighs,
And trembles on the string
When last I sang the cruel scorn
That craz'd this bold and lonely Knight,
And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
Nor rested day or night ;
prom is d thee a sister tale
,..' man's perfidious crueltv
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
Befcl the Dark Ladle
I pr
Of ra
860.
OBJECTION AN ODD
This poem was first addressed to Wordsworth
and was printed In The Morning Post on his
wedding-day, Get 4, 1R02 In this version
Wordsworth wa& referred to an "Edmund," and
that name occurred where "Lady" Is found
In the present text, and where "Otway" ap-
pears In 1. 120 An earlier version contained
the name "William" throughout An estrange-
ment l>etwccn the two poets wab the cause of
the later hubntttutions
H1MN BEFORE BTTNR1BB IN TTTB VAFB OF
CHAMOUNI
This poem was first printed In The Morn-
ing Post, Sept 11, 1802, with the following
Introductory note by the author
"Chamounl Is one of the highest mountain
vallevg of the Bnrony of Fauclgnv In the fcavov
Alps, and exhibits a kind of fairy world, in
which the wildest appearances (I* Jad almost
said horrors) of nature alternate with the soft-
est and most beautiful The chain of Mont
Blanc Is Its boundary , and besides the Arvc It
is filled with sounds from the Arvelron, which
,
mad with Joy, from a dungeon, and forms other
torrents of snow-water, having their rise In the
glaciers which slope down Into the valley.
The beautiful Qentiana Major, or great gentian,
with blossoms of the brightest blue, grow* In
large companies a few steps from the ncver-
mefted Ice of the glaciers I thought it an
affecting emblem of the boldness of human
hope, venturing near, and, as it *ere, leaning
over the brink of the grave Indeed, the whole
1st In this valley of wonders ' If any of the
readers of The Morning Post have visited this
vale in their Journeys among* the Alps, I am
confident that they will not find the sentiment*,
and feelings expressed, or attempted to be ex-
pressed, In the following poem, extravagant"
In later editions the poem was preceded by
the following note
"Besides the rivers Ar\e and Arvelron,
which have their sources in tlio foot of Mont
Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down Its
sides , and within a few paces of the glaciers,
As a matter of fact, Coleridge never was at
Chamonni , his poem IF. ImRod upon a transla-
tion of Ode to Chamouny, H German poem by
Frlederlke Bran (1765-1835) addressed to
KlopRtock (1724-1808) See Shelley's Mont
Blanc (p 646)
. INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HBATH
Cf this poem with the following concise
lines from Tennyson's Balm and Brian (21-
25)-
So coming to the fountnln-slde beheld
Balln and Balaa sitting stntuelike,
Brethren, to right and left the spring, that
down,
From beneath a plume of lady-fern,
Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of It
THB PAINS OF BLXIF
"God forbid that mv worst enemy should
ever have the nights and the sleeps that I
have had night after night— surprised by
sleep, while I struggled to remain awake,
starting up to bless my own loud scieam that
had awakened me — voa, dear friend f till my
repeated night-veils had made me a nuisance
In my own house As I Ihc and am a man,
this is an uncxaggerated tale My dreams he-
came the substances of my life " — Coleridge,
in Letter to Thomas Poole, Get 8, 1803
865. TO A GENTLEMAN
61-68. In place of these lines, the manu-
script copy of Jan , 1807, contained the fol-
lowing
Dear shall It be to every human heart,
To me how more than dearest ' me, on whom
Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy love,
Came with such heights and depths of har-
Such sense of wings unllftlng. thnt its might
Scatter'd and quelfd me, till my thoughts be-
1242
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
A bodily tumult ; and thy faithful hopes,
Thy hopes of me. dear mend, by me unf elt '
Were troublous to me. almost as a voice,
Familiar once, and more than musical,
Ae a dear woman's voice to one cast forth,
A wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn,
Mid strangers pining with untended wounds
O friend, too well thou know'st, of what sad
years
The long suppression had benumb'd my soul
TIMB RIAL AND IMAGINARY
"Then* is a fin? prophecy here of the two
mate activities of the coming century — Science
and Poetry. Tennyson's Ponton*** should be
read as expressing a similar truth a century
later. In this notion of the winter we have an
idea which was fundamental with Wordsworth,
as In We are Seven and Intimations of Im-
mortoMy »— George, In his edition of Cole-
ridge's Select Poems (1902).
HBAR, BWBBT HPIBZT, BBAK TUB BPBLL
This song Is found In Act III, sc 1, 60-82,
of Remorse It Is sung from behind the
scenes In proof of the power of Alvar, dis-
guised as a sorcerer, to call up spirits of the
departed
A BUNNY BHAFT DID 1 BBTIOLD
This song IB found In Act II, BC 1, 65-80,
of Zapolya It In sung by Glycinc, the orphan
daughter of a military chief, as she carries
food to a friend who has gone to seek an
enemy In a ravage wood
TOl KNIGHT'S TOMB
Coleridge states that those lines were com-
posed an a metrical experiment
YOUTH AVD AOB
As first printed In 1828, this poem closed
with L 88 The first draft, entitled Area
Bpontanea, was written In 1823 The re-
maining lines, added in 1884, were first writ-
ten and published, In a slightly different form,
in 1882. under the title of The Old Man's
Biffh; a Konnet.
WORK WITHOUT HOPS
"Though I am at present sadly below even
my par of health, or rather unhealth, and
am the more depressed thereby from the
consciousness that in this yearly resurrection
of Nature from her winter sleep, amid young
leaves and blooms and twittering nest-building
birds, the HUD so gladsome, the breeses with
such healing on their wings, all good and
lovely things are beneath me, above me, and
everywhere around me, and all from God,
while my Incapability of enjoying, or, at best,
languor in receiving them. Is directly or In-
directly from mytiplf, from past procrastina-
tion, and cowardly Impatience of pain" —
Coleridge, in Letter to Lady Beaumont, March
18,1820.
THB GABDBM Of BOCCACCIO
This poem was first published in The 1***I
take for 1829, to accompan* The Ctartfei^
Boccaccio, an engraving by Thomas Btotlk..
(1755-1884), an English painter and illusti t
tor. Boccaccio was a noted Italian writer o
the 14th century
>. 1OO. "I know few more striking or more
interesting proofs of the overwhelming Influ-
ence which the study of the Greek and Roman
classics exercised on the Judgments, fcelingx,
and imaginations of the literati of Europe
at the commencement of the restoration of
literature, than the passage In the Filucopo
of Boccaccio, where the sage Instructor,
Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the
beautiful girl Blancoflore bad learned their
letters, sets them to studv the Holy Book,
Ovid's Art of Love."— Coleridge's note
PHANTOM OR FACT
Thl** picture of the poet's spiritual youth
returning from heaven, and at the Hame time
not recognising its former dwelling-place is
full of the most plteoub pathot» yet imagined ,
It is a bit of darkness from the depths of
his soul It is full of the myntery of Ham-
let's riddling speeches "—George, in Select
Poems (1902)
3TO«
THB WANDBBINQB OF CAIN
"A prone composition, one not in metre at
least, beeuiH prtmd facie to require explanation
or apology. It wati written in the year 1798,
near Nether Htowey, In Somersetshire, at
which place (sanctum et amabtlc nomtn' rich
by so many associations nnd recollections) the
author had taken up his residence in order to
enjoy the society and close neighborhood of
a dear and honored friend, T Poote, Esq
The work wan to have been written in con-
cert with another [Wordsworth], whose name
is too venerable within the precincts of genius
to be unnecessarily brought into connection
with such a trifle, and who wan then resid-
ing at a small distance from Nether Stowey
The title and subject were suggested by my-
self, who likewise drew out the scheme and
the contents for each of the three books or
cantos, of which the work wan to conslnt,
and which, the reader la to bo Informed, was
to have been finished in one night T My
partner undertook the first canto I the sec-
ond and which ever had done flrstt was to
set about the third Almost thirty years
have pawed by , yet at this moment I cannot
without something more than a smile moot
the question which of the two things was the
more Impracticable, for a mind so eminently
original to compose another man's thoughts
and fancies, or for a taste BO austerely pure
and simple to imitate The Death of AbelT
Metbinks I see his grand and noble counte-
nance as at the moment when having des-
patched my own portion of the task at fall
SAMUEL TAYLOE GOLEBIDGE
1243
finger-speed, I hastened to him with my manu-
script—that look of humorous despondency
fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and
then its silent mock-piteous admission of fail-
ure struggling with the sense of the exceeding
ridiculousness of the whole scheme — which
broke up In a laugh and The Ancient Mariner
was written instead
"Years afterward, ho* ever, the draft of the
plan and proposed Incidents, and the portion
executed, obtained favor In the eyes of more
than one person, whose Judgment on a poetic
work could not but have weighed with me,
even though no parental partiality had been
thrown into the same scale, as a make weight .
and I determined on commencing anew, and
composing the whole in stanzas, and made
some progress in realizing this Intention, when
adverse gales drove my bark off the 'Fortunate
Isles' of the Muses and then other and more
momentous Interests piompted a different voy-
age, to firmer anchorage and a securer port
I have In tain tried to recover the lines from
the palimpsest tablet of rav memory and I
can only offer thti Introductory stanza, which
had been committed to wilting for the purpose
of procuring a friend's Judgment on the
metre, as a specimen —
En cinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress!
V lot elv IMIV was plucking fruits
Bv moonlight, in a wilderness
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew
On manv a shrub and many a tree
And all put cm a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare
It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more belo\'d than day
But who that beauteous boy begull d,
That beauteous boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,
In place so silent and so wild —
Has he no friend, no lo\lng mother near?
"I have here given the birth, parentage,
and premature decease of The Wanderings of
Catn, a Poem, — intreating, however, my read-
ers, not to think so meanly of my Judgment
as to suppose that I either regard or offer it
as any eiruse for the publication of the fol-
lowing fragment (and I may add, of one or
two others In Its neighborhood) in its primi-
tive crudity But I should find still greater
difficulty In forgiving myself were I to record
pro twdio pu&Hco a set of petty mishaps and
annoyances which I myself wish to forget.
I must be content therefore with assuring
the friendly reader, that the less he attri-
butes its appearance to the author's mill,
choice, or Judgment, the nearer to the truth
he will bo "—Coleridge (1828)
The Death of Ah el Is a drama by Soloman
Gessner (1780-88), a Swiss poet and painter.
BIOGRAPHIA LITBBARIA
"It has been my lot to have had my name
introduced both in conversation, and In print,
more frequently than I find It easy to ex-
plain, whether I considec~the fewness, unim-
portance, and limited circulation of my writ-
ings, or the retirement and distance, in which
I have lived,' both from the literary and po-
litical world Most often it has been con-
nected with some charge which I could not
acknowledge, or some principle which I bad
never entertained Nevertheless, had I had
no other motive or incitement, the reader
would not have 1x»en troubled with this excul-
pation What my additional purposes were,
will be seen in the following pages It will
be found, that the least of what I have writ-
ten concerns myself personally. I have used
the narration chiefly for the purpose of giv-
ing a continuity to the work, in part for
the sake of the miscellaneous reflection* sug-
gested to me by particular events, but still
more as introductory to a statement of my
principles in politics, religion, and philoso-
phy, and an application of the rules, deduced
from philosophical principles, to poetry and
criticism Rut of the objects, which I pro-
posed to myself, It was not the least impor-
tant to effect, as far as possible, a settlement
of the long continued controversy concerning
the true nature of poetic diction; and at the
samp time to define with the utmost impar-
tiality the real poetic character of the poet,
by whose writings this controversy was first
kindled, and has been since fuelled and
fanned ** — Opening paragraph of Biographia
Literaria, ch 1.
875. In Chapter 15 is discussed the symptoms of
poetic power an elucidated in an analysis of
Shaksperc's Tcfiitft and Adorn* and Lucreoc;
Chapter 16 considers the points of difference
between the poets of the early 10th century
and those of the 15th and 10th centuries
B7«a. 40-51. See Her Eye* Are Wild (p 220).
The following stanzas are from The Idiot Boy
'Tls eight o'clock, — a clear March night,
The moon IK up, — the skv is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from nobody known where;
He lengthens out his lonely shout, *
Halloo^ halloo ' a long halloo '
— Why bustle thus about vour door.
What means this hurtle, Hetty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?
Ami *hv on horseback have you set
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
Sea reel v a floul IB out of bed ;
Good Betty, put him down again ;
His lips with Joy they burr at you ;
But. Betty ' what has he to do
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
But Betty's bent on her intent;
For her good neighbor Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
I» sick, and makes a piteous moan,
As if ner very life would fall.
There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
And sorely nuiiled are the twain,
For what she all* they cannot goes*.
19
1244
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the dUtant Tale,
There's none to help poor Susan Gale ,
What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her
ny. that is mild and good ,
r he be in Joy or pain,
' at will along the lane,
_ .edlng at will along the lane,
Or bringing fagots from the wood.
And ho Is all in travelling trim,—
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has on the well-girt middle set
(The like wan never heard of yet)
Him whom she loveb, her Idiot Boy.
And he must port without delay
Across the bridge and through the dale,
And by .the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a doctor from the town,
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There h no need of boot or spur,
There is no need of whip or wand ,
For Johnny hatt hl« holly-bough,
And with a hurly-burly now
He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The Boy, who is her best delight,
Both what to follow, what to Hhun,
What do, and what to leave undone,
How turn to left, and how to right
And Betty's most especial charge,
Was, "Johnny f Johnny ' mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all, —
Come home again, whate'er befall,
My Johnny, do, I pray you, do."
To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too,
And then ' his words were not a few,
Which Betty well could understand
And now that Johnny is Just going,
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
She gently patK the pony's side.
On which her Idiot Boy must ride,
And beems no longer in a hurry
But when the pony moved his legs,
Oh ' then for the poor Idiot Bov r
Away she hies to Susan Gale •
Her Metbenger's in merry tune;
The owlets hoot, the, owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,
As on he goes beneath the moon
103
For Joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For Joy his head and heels are idle,
He's idle all for very Joy
And, while the pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left band you may see
The green bough motionless and dead
The moon that shines above his head
Is not more still and mute than he
Ills heart it was so full of glee
That, till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forcot his holly whip,
And nil his skill in horsemanship
Oh ' happy, happy, happy John.
And while the mother, at the door.
Stands fixed, her face with Joy o'ernows,
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him In his travelling trim,
How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her Idiot Boy,
What hopes It Bends to Betty's heart!
He's at the guide-post — he turns right ;
She watches till he?s out of sight,
And Betty will not then depart
Burr, burr — now Johnny's lips they burr,
As loud as any mill, or near it ,
Meek as a lamb the pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves,
And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
881. Chapter 18. — Coleridge's prefatory summary
35 of Chapter 18 is all that is omitted here
882. The rest of Chapter 18 contains a discus-
sion of the origin and elements of meter
Chapters 10-21 are concerned with an exami-
nation and application of Wordsworth's ob-
40 Ject as expressed In the Preface to the Lyrical
Ballad*
884b. 5. Prefatory letter to Hoboe* —William
Davenant (1605-68) an Enffllxh poet and
45 dramatist, addressed the Preface to Qondibett
(1650) to his friend Thomas Hobbes (1588-
1070) , a celebrated English phlloHnpher
88Ba. 48. Of. Chapman's An Hum or ova Day'*
Mirth, 8, 225 "Block is a pearl In a woman's
eye"
50
WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) p. 48
55 EDITIONS
Poetical Worts, ed by W M Thomas (Aldlne cd
London, Bell, 1871. New York, Maciulllan)
Poem*, ed, *lth a Life and Critical Study, b>
M WC Bronnon (AthenoMim Press ed Boston,
Glnn, 1808)
Poem*, with Johnson, Goldsmith, ami Or*\, ed
by T M. Ward (Muses' Library ed ; London,
M RoutledRc. 1905 . New York, Dutton)
Poem*, ed by C Stone (Oxford Univ. Press, 1007)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Athcnaum, The, Jan 6, 1850
llaaslitt, W. "On Swift, Young, Gray, Collins
Etc,*' Ltotun* on 1hc Knylish Poet* (Lon-
don, 1818) , Collect (d Work*, ed. Waller and
Glover (London, Dent, 1002-06; New York.
75 MtClurc), 5. 104
Johnson, 8*. The Liu* of the English Poetv
(1770-81), 3 volH, ed by G B Hill (London,
Clarendon Fret*, 1001)
Montegut, Kmlle Ileure* de Lecture d'un Critique
80 (Parti, 1801)
Perry, T 8 "Gray, Collins, and Beattle," Tho
Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 1880 (40 810)
Shatrp, J T "Nature in Collins, Grny, dnlil-
85 smith, Cowper and Burns," On Poetit Inter-
pretation of Nature (Edinburgh, Ponglmi,
1877 ; New York, nurd, 1878 ; Boston, Hough
ton, 1885)
Swinburne, A C • Miscellanies (London, Chatto,
90 1886, 1011 , New Yoik, Scribner)
CRITICAL NOTES
"Have you seen the works of two young authors,
96 a Mr. Warton and Mr. Collins, both writers of
odes? It is odd enough, but each is the half of
a considerable man, and one the counterpart of
the other. The first has but little Invention, very
loo Poetical choice of expression, and a good ear; the
second, a fine fancy, modelled upon the antique, a
WILLIAM COLLINS
1246
bad ear, great variety of words and images, with
no choice at all They both deserve to last some
yean., but will not "—Gray, In Letter to Wharton,
Doc 27, 1740
"He loved falrlcR, genii, giants, and monsters ,
he delighted to rove through the meander* of en-
chantment, to gase on the magnificence of golden
palaces to rcpono by the watei -falls of Elyblau
gardens This was, howevci, the character rather
of his Inclination than his genius , the grandeur of
wlldness and the novelty of extravagance were
always desired by him, but not always attained
Yet, ER diligence Is never wholly lost, If his efforts
sometimes caused harshness and obscurity, they
likewise produced In happier moments sublimity
and splendor This idea which he bail formed of
excellence led him to oriental fiction* and allegorical
Imagery, and perhaps, while he was Intent upon
description, he did not sufficiently cultivate
sentiment . . HI* diction was often harsh,
unskilfully la I MI red, and In Judiciously selected He
affected the obsolete when it was not worthy of
revival , and he puts his words out of the common
order, seeming to think, with some later candi-
dates for fame, that not to write prose is certainly
to write poetry HlH linos commonly are of slow
motion, clogged and Impeded with clusters of con-
sonants As men are often esteemed who cannot
be loved, *o the poetry of Collins may sometimes
extort praise when It gives little pleasure" —
Samuel Johnson, In 'Collins/' The Lives of the
English Poets (1770-81).
"There are very few poets from whose wheat BO
little chaff has been winnowed as from that of
Collins Ills entire existing work does not extend
to much more than fifteen hundred lines, at least
two thirds of which must live with the best poetry
of the century Collins has the touch of a sculp-
tor . his verse is clearly cut and direct , it is
marble pure, but also marble cold Each phrase
is a wonder of felicitous workmanship, without
emphasis, without sense of strain Ills best
strophes possess an extraodlnarv quiet melody, a
soft harmonious smoothness IIH of some divine anil
aerial creature singing in artless, perfect numbers
for Us own delight" — (Josse, In A History of
Kiqhtunth Century Literature (1888)
4O. ODB ON THB POETICAL CHARACTER
This Is supposed to be modeled on the
Greek odes of Pindar, which were divided into
a strophe and antistrophe of Identical form,
and an epode, or after-song, of different form
The utrophe originally was the movement of
the chorus In the Greek choral dance from the
right to the left of the orchestra; the anti-
strophe wax the return movement
55 If. The cliff IB symbolical of Milton •
poetry.
SO. ODB WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OW
THB TBAR 1746
This ode probably commemorates the Eng-
lish who had fallen in recent battle* at
Fontenoy, Belgium (May 11, 1745), ID a bat-
tle with the French In the War of the Aus-
trian Succession, at Prestonpans, Scotland
(Sept 21, 1745), and at Falklrk, Scotland
(Jan. 17, 1746), In battles with the forces of
Charles Edward Stuart, the Young Pretender
In all of these battles, the English were de-
feated with enormous losses
ODE TO BVBN1NO
"The most perfect and original poem of
Collins, as well as the most finely apprecia-
tive of nature, Is his Ode to Evening No
doubt evening is personified in his address as
'maid composed.' and 'calm votaress,' but the
personification is so delicately bandied, and
in so subdued a tone, that it does not jar on
the feelings as such personifications too often
do There In about the whole ode
a Hubdued twilight tone, a remoteness from
men and human things, and a pensive evening
musing, all the more expressive, because it
does not shape itself into definite thoughts,
but reposes in appropriate Images" — Bhairp,
In On Poetic Interpretation of Nature (1877)
O-12. i'f Macbeth, III, 2, 4043
Ere the bat hath flown
Ills cloistered flight, arc to black Hecate's
summons
The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy bums
Hath rung night's yawning peal.
51. THF FASHIONS
52. f)5. Sphere descended — Heaven descended
1OR. Itecottltny titticr — Clio, the Muse of his
tory
ON THE DFATH Or IIH THOMSON
This poem is an elegy on James Thomson,
the jMjet See p. 18.
58. AN ODB ON THE POPULAR BlTBRBTITIOmB
OF THB HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND
This poem, which was left unfinished by
Collins was not published until after his
death. Soon after it appeared In its incom-
plete form, what purimrted to be a perfect
copy of the ode as revised bv Collins was pub-
lished in London The bracketed passages in
the text are supplied from this version, which
Is the one usually adopted
"The whole Romantic School, in its germ,
no doubt, but yet unmistakably foreshadowed,
lies already in the Ode on the ftvperatitions of
the Highlands. He [Collins] was the first to
brine: back Into poetry something of the an-
tique fervor, and found again the long-lost
secret of bolni? classically elegant without
being pedantically cold "—Lowell, In "Pope,"
My Rtudy Window* (1871)
5tt. 192-2O5. Jeru*al(m Dthrered. by the Italian
poet Torquato Tasso (104495), was trans-
lated Into English by Fairfax in 1600 The
following stansas (18 41-48, 46) explain the
allusions in Colllns's lines
1246
'BIBLIOGBAPHIE8XAND NOTES
He drew MB sword at last and aaue the tree
A mightie blow, that made a gaping wound,
Outof the rift led streame* he trickling see
That all bebled the verdant plaine around,
1110 haire start vp, yet once agalne stroakc he,
He nould glue ouer till the end be found
Of this uduenture, when with plaint and mow,
(As from some hollow graue) he heard one
grone.
Enough enough the voice lamenting Raid,
Tottered thou hart me hurt, thou didst me
drlue
Out of the bodle of a noble maid.
Who with me llu'd, whom late I kept on Hue,
And now within thin woeful ClprehM* laid,
My tender rlndc thy weapon sharp*? doth riue,
Croell, 1st not enough thy foes to kill,
But In their graueti wilt thou torment them
btlll?
I was Olorinda. now Imprison'd heere,
(Tet not alone) within this plant I dwell,
For euorle Pagan Lord and Christian peere.
Before the cities wallet, last day that fell,
(In bodies new or graue*. I wote not cleere)
But here they are confln'd by magikes spell,
80 that each tree hath life, and sense einh
bou,
A murdoier if thou cut one twist art thou
ThuR bin fierce hart which death had ficorned
Whom no strange shape, or monster could
dismay,
With feigned fchowes of tender loue made M>f t,
A spirit false did with value plaints betray.
A whirling wlnde his sword heau'd vp aloft,
And through the forrest bare It quite awa>
"BARRY CORNWALL" (See PROCTER)
WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800), p. 145
EDITIONS
Work*, 15 vols , od , with a Life, by B. Sonthey
(London, Baldwin, 1880-87)
Poetical Works, 8 vols , ed., with a Memoir by T.
Mitford, by J Bruce <Alcllne ed London,
Bell, 1880-81, I860, New Yoik, Macmlllan)
Poetical Works, ed , with a Biographical Introduc-
tion, by W Benham (Globe ed London ,
Macmlllan, 1870)
Poems, 2 volb , ed by II T Griffith (Oxford, Clar-
endon Proas, 1H74)
Poems, ed. by H 8. Milford (Oxford Univ. I'm*,
1906)
Selections from the Poetical Work*, ed., with an
Introduction, by J O. Murray (Atheneeum
Press ed Boston, Glnn, 1898).
Unpublished and Uncollected Poems, ed by T.
Wright (Cameo Poets ed London, Collins,
1900)
Letters, ed by W Benham (Golden Treasury CM! :
London, Macmlllan, 1884)
Correspondence, 4 vols, ed by T Wright (Lon-
don, riodder, 1904 ; New York, Dodd).
Letters, selectefl and edited by E V Lucas
(World's Classics pd • Oxford Univ. Press,
1908, 1911)
Selected Letters, 2 vols, ed , with a Memoir, by J. G.
Fraser (New York, Macmlllan, 1912)
Wright, T The Life of Cowper (London, Unwin,
1902).
CRITICISM
Bagehot, W. • The National Review, July, 1855 ;
Literary Studies, 3 vols., ed. by B, II. Button
(London and New York, Longmans, 1878-79,
1895).
Blrrell, A.: Res Judioatas (London, Stock, 1892,
New York, Scribncr).
Brooke, 8. A.. Theology in the English Poets
(London, King, 1874; New York, Button,
1910).
Cheever, G. B Lectures on the Life, Genius, and
Insanity of Cowper (London. Nihbet, 185G)
Pobson, Austin Eighteenth Century Vu/ntttes
(London, Chatto, 1892, New York, Dodil)
Dowden, E "Cowper and William Huvley,"
Essays Modern and Elizabethan (London,
Dent, 1910, New York, Dutton)
Haslltt, W. . "On Thomson and Cowper,*' Lec-
tures on the English Poets (London, 1N18) ,
Collected Works, cd Waller and (Hover (Lon-
don, Dent, 1902-06, New York, McCIure),
6, 85
Jeffrey, K "Hayley's Life of Cowper," The Edin-
burgh Renew, April, 1S0.1 (2 <>4)
More, P E "The ronespondeme of William
Cowper,'* tihelburne Essays. Third Series (New
York and London, Putnam, 1906)
Norman, H J "Melancholy of Cowpet." The
Westminster Review, June, 1911 (175 (13 R)
Kotth American /Ecrirte, Tlu, A leview of "Brit-
ish Poetry at the Close of the Last Ontury,
4 vols ," Jan 1836 (42 67)
Salnte-Beuve, C A Causenes du Lundi. Vol 9
(Paris, 1854) , EnglUh trans by K P.
Wormelev, as Portraits of tin Eighteenth Cen-
tury (New York, Putnam, 11)05) and by E
Lee, as Essay* of Naintt Jtruie (Camelot Se-
ries ed London Scott, 1892)
Shalrp, J C "Nature in Collins, Gray, Gold-
smith, Cowper, and Burns" On Poetic Inter
pretatwn of Nature (Edinburgh, Douglas,
1877; New York, Hnrd, 1878, Boston, Hough-
ton, 1885).
Shorter, C K Immortal Memories (New York,
Harper, 1907)
Steele, F W "Catholicism and English Litera-
ture in the Eighteenth Century " The Ameri-
can Catholic Quarterly Review, Got, 1911
(86 684).
Stephen, L "Cowper and Rousm-nu," Ho urn m
a Library, 3 vols (London, Smith, 18" 4-79 ,
New Yoik and London, Putnam, 181)0) , 4 vols ,
(1907)
Woodberry. G B "Throe Men of Piety,** Mak-
ers of Literature (New York, Macmlllan,
1901).
CONCORDANCE
Neve, J • A Concordance to the Poetical Works
of William Coirper (London, Low, 1887)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
BIOGRAPHY
Smith, G. Oowper (English Men of Letters Be- Murray, J 0 • In Beleetiotts from the Poetical
ries- London, Macmlllan, 1880; New York, Works of William Cowper (Athenvum Press
Harper) ed ; Boston, Glnn, 1898)
WILLIAM COWPEB 1247
CRITICAL NOTES my correspondence, on account of your delay to
rappon) are nowhere practiced with more retae- to
ment or sue™.,, than at tho pUco of you. present
residence. By your atcount of It, It Bcemii to lie
Ju.t what It wa. when 1 visited It. a j,cene of
Idleness and luxury, music, dancing, cardfc, walk-
SK
me of the debt I owe you. for
for the latter be-
£ul«Tr
..mo Thmmh mv haPdIy •** lelBlire *° llrteD *° the W*1" °f ftny
of a LlJI Tha^e °th" en«W"">t « *» *"**• finished, and
? i Ih^'iJL t «r K°np to the Printer's, and I have nothing now to
"Li nJL™ h«f ? do wlth !t» bnt to corrpct thc §hwitB M tn*y are
good humor, but I gpnt to . _.._,„ lt ovcp to th_ Jndl.mpnt
t()
of the Wlc
^ oycp jndgment
, ,h nndertaklng ai this
«
are grown richer, but the manners
tioiis of the company just the
life baa long been like that
not the temper of one, nor am
enemy to cheerfulness and good
cannot envy you your situation, I even feel my-
__ , . _ . . ,. ,. • A. | w vt- *••»«• |*M"*»».. *fc IB U WJU UUUUJTUlJkllJM «L LUI^f
•elf .onntralnod to prefer the silence of tUn nook. tlmo ^ (lay when ^ many ^^ of ^^^
s^T?jKMr-tsr /" SIK^-^SMS r^r-rs s
"You ask me, how I feel on the occasion of my gracp<, of poptical embellishment, to step forth into
approaching publication. Perfectly at my eaMe. tno wopld ,„ thp (haractpr of a ,^rdf ^^^y
If I bad not been pretty well assured beforehand whpn lt ls «mMmd that ,uxuryi ,d,PnPMf and
that my tranquillity would be but little endangeied yl<p ^^ debaDehpll thp puhllr ^^ and thftt
by such a measure, I would never have engaged In notn,nK hardly ls welcomp hnt thlldlRh fiction, or
It, for I cannot bear disturbance. I have had In
haR at IoaRt ft tondency to exc|tp a la ^
view two pilnclpal objectn, first, to amuse my- , thoughtf howPVPI., that r had Btumbled upon
wlt-aud Heeondly. to eornpass that point In Huch Homc fculljetthf that ha<1 npver beforc ^ t.
a mahner, that other* might possibly be the better lcally tpeatwl and upon gome othpN to whleh
for my amusement. "I have •ucued'd. It will
lt WOD,d not be dlfficnlt to
an alr
give me pleasure, but If I have failed, I Rhall not of no^plty by tho mannpr of tpeatln|ff thpm My
be mortllled to the degree that might perhajw be solo dllft ,R to he nsrful a ^ wh|ch howevcp
expected I rememl>er an old adage (though not , knew , Bhould |n vftln alm at onlpfw j ^^ he
where It Is to be found), 'bcnc wtt. gui ftcne llkowlhp entertalnlng I have therefore fixed the«e
tataif/ Ihe haa lived wel who haB kept hidden two Rtnw Dpon my ^w Bnd by ^ M rf both
(Ovid, Tnttia, III. 4, 20)], and If I had recol- h|m, |lonp my ||est to Hpn(1 |n> Rrrow f<J fh|i niapk
lected It at the right time. It should have been the M> 1Pdderb ^m ^^^ navc ^^ to laugn ^
motto to my book. By the wav. It ivlll make an fopp thev ^}} ^ n}M opoll to ^^ that ley|ty
excellent one for Retirement. \t you can but tell and ^^ mp w,th ft morp BprloUB alp A, ^
me whom to quote for It The ciltlcs cannot ^de- tho ftf^ , leavp lt a,one ln m, bandh who ran
prive me of the plearare I have In inflecting, that alonp produoc ,t ne,ther plose nor vppse can ^
so far as my leisure ha8 been employed In writing fopm the ^^^ ^ a dlgM)llltp age, much leaa
tor the public, It haB been conscientiously em- can th ln |pfk a wn(le of wl|gto(lll obllKatloilf
ployed, and with a view to their advantage There unlesg a%lRted and mflde pfflradon, hy the p^,
Is n«,thing agreeable, to be BUW, In being chron- who Buporlntends the truth He has vouchsafed to
kled for a dunce, but I believe thoie lives not a impaPt -^rowpor, In Letter to Mrs Cowper, his
man upon earth who would be less affected by It couqinf ot 10, 1781
than myself With all this indifference to fame,
whlrh you know me too well to suppose me capa- *'i did not write the line that has been tampered
hie of affecting, I have taken the utmost painfc to with, hastily, or without due attention to the con-
deserve It This may appear a mystery or a paia- utruction of It , and what appeared to me its only
dox In practlc e. but it Is true 1 considered that merit is, in Its present state, entirely annihilated.
the taste of the day Is refined, and delicate to ex- "I know that the ears of modern verge-writer!
cess, and that to disgust the delicacy of taste by are delicate to an excess, and their readers are
a slovenly Inattention to It, would be to forfeit troubled with the same squeamlshness as them-
at once all hope of being useful , and for this rca- selves Ro that if a line do not run as smooth as
son, though I have written more verse this last quicksilver they are offended A critic of the
year than perhaps any man In England, I have present day servos a poem as a cook serves a dead
finished, and polished, and touched, and retouched, turkey, when she fastens the legs of it to a post,
with the utmost care. If after all I should be con- and draws out all the sinews For this we may
verted into waste paper, it may be my misfortune, thank Pope ; but unless we could imitate him in
but It will not be my fault I shall bear It with the closeness and compactness of his expression,
the most perfect serenity "—Cowper, in Letter to as well as in the smoothness of his numbers, we
the Rev. William TTnwln, Get 6, 1781. had better drop the imitation, whlcb serves no
•Tour fear lest I should think you unworthy of other purpose than to emasculate and weaken all
1248
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
we write. Give me a manly, rough line, with a
deal of meaning In It, rather than a whole poem
full of mubical periods, that have nothing but
their oily wnoothneuB to recommend them!
"I have isald thus much, an I hinted In the be-
ginning, because I have juHt Unbilled a much longer
poeui than the last, which our common friend will
receive by the name menbcnger that has the charge
of thlH letter In that poem there arc many linen,
which an ear, BO nice as the gentleman's who made
the above-mentioned alteration, would undoubtedly
condemn, and yet (If I may be permitted to aay
It) they cannot be made smoother without being
the woise for It. There Is a roughness on a plum,
which nobody that understands fruit would rub
off, though the plum would be much more polished
without it. But lest I tire you, I will only add,
that I wish you to guard me from all such med-
dling, assuring you that I always write as
smoothly as I can, but that 1 never did, never
will, sacrifice the spirit or sense of a passage to
the bound of It" — Cowpei, In Letter to Mr John-
son, his publisher, undated (No .130 In Lucas's ed.).
145. OL\K
This was a collection of hymns written by
Cowper and John Newton at Olney, Cowper's
residence in Buckinghamshire from 1767 to
1780
'The profound personal religion, gloomy
even to insanity ab it often became, which
fills the whole of Cowper's poetry, introduced
a theological element Into English poetry
which continually increased till It died out
with Browning and Tennyson" — Stopford
Brooke, in English Literature (1880)
LIGHT BTTININO OUT OF DARKNESS
This hymn ta often entitled God Moves in
a Afvvfmou* Tfoy According to legend, Cow-
por one* day proponed to commit Milcldi* at a
certain place as a sacrifice required of God,
but as the driver ot the vehicle could not find
the place, Cowper returned home and com-
posed this porm
THl TASK
•The history of the following production Is
briefly thlb — A lady, fond of blank verse,
demanded a poem of that kind from the
author, and ga\e him the Sofa for a subject.
lie obeyed, and, having much leisure, con-
nected another subject with it , and, pursuing
the train of thought to which his situation
and turn of mind led him, brought foith at
length, instead of the trifle which he at first
Intended, a serious affair — a Volume '" — Prom
Cowper's prefatory Advertisement The lady
referred to was Mrs. Austin, a friend of
Cowper.
"I send you four quires of verse [The Ta*K],
which having sent, I shall dismiss from my
thoughts, and think no more of, till I see
them In print I have not after all found
time or Industry enough to give the last hand
to the points. I believe, however, they an
not very erroneous, though in so long a work,
and in a work that requires nicety in this
particular, some Inaccuracies will escape.
Where you find any, you wjll oblige me by
correcting them.
"In home passages, especially In the Hcrond
Book, you will observe me very satirical
Writing on each subject** I could no_t be other-
wise. I can write nothing without aiming at
usefulness It weie beneath my years to do
it, and still more dishonorable to my religion
I know that a reformation of such abuse* as
I have censured Is not to be expected from
the efforts of a poet, but to contemplate the
world, its follies, Its vices, its Indifference to
duty, and Its strenuous attachment to what
Is evil, and not to repichend were to approve
it. From this charge at least I hhall be clear,
for I have neither tacitly nor expressly flat-
tered either its characters or Its customs I
have paid one, and only one compliment, which
was ho Justly due, that I did not know how
to withhold it, especially having so fair an
occasion,— I forget myself, there is anothei
In the First Book to Mr Throckmorton, — hut
the compliment 1 mean Is to Mr Smith It
Is, however, so managed, that nobody but
himself can make the application, and you, to
whom I disclose the secret a delicacy on my
part, which HO much delicacy on bis obliged
me to the observance of
"What there is of a religious cast in the
volume I have thrown towards the end of It,
for two reasons, first, that I might not re-
volt the reader at his entrance — nnd secondly,
that my best impressions might be made last
Were I to write as many volumes as Ix>pe de
Vega, or Voltaire, not one of them would be
without this tincture If the world like it
not, so much the worse for them I make
all the concettslons I can, that I may please
them, but I will not please them at the ex-
pense of conscience
"My descriptions arc all from nature not
one of them second-handed My delineations
of the heart are from my own experience not
ono of them borrowed from books, or In the
least degree conjectural. In my numbers,
which I have varied as much as I could (for
blank veise without variety of numbers is no
better than bladder and string), I have Imi-
tated nobody, though sometimes perhaps there
may be* an apparent resemblance, because at
the 'same time that I would not Imitate, I
have not affectedly differed.
"If the work cannot boast a regular plan
(in which respect, however, I do not think It
altogether Indefensible), It may yet boast,
that the reflections are natnially suggested
always by the preceding passage, and that
except In the Fifth Book, which Is rather of a
political aspect, the whole has one tendency ,
to discountenance the modern enthusiasm
after a London life, and to recommend rural
ease and leisure, as friendly to the cause of
WILLIAM COWPEB
1249
piety and virtue" — Cowper, in Letter to the
Rev William Unwln, Ot 10, 1784 Throe k-
moiton and Smith were friends of Cowper
Lopa de Vega, a Spanish dramatist and poet
of the 17th century, IH said to have written
18(M) playH, besides 400 poems Voltaire was
a prolific French writer of the 18th century
"ITow do you like Cowper? Is not The
Tank a gloilous poem? The religion of The
TYurfc. bating a few scmpR of Calvin it, t divin-
ity, IB the religion of God and nature, the
religion that exalts, that ennobles man " —
Robert Burns, in Letter to Mrs. Dunlop, Dec
25, 1795.
"I have been reading The Task with fresh
delight I am glad you love Cowper I could
foiglvo a man for not enjoying Milton, but I
would not call that man rav filciid, who
should be offended with the divine chit-chat
of rowper'" — Lamb, in Letter to Coleridge,
Doc 5, 170(j The phrase quoted by Lamb
was Coleridge's
"Is the kitchen-garden indeed poetical? To-
dav, pei haps, but tomorrow, if mv imagina-
tion is 1m i ion T shall sec theie nothing but
carrots and nthci kitchen stuff It is mv
Bcnsatinn uhidi In poetic, uhlch I must re-
spect, as the most pieclous flower of beauty
Hence a new st\le It is no longer a ques-
tion, alter the old oiatoilcal fashion, of box-
ing up a subject In a legular plan, dividing
It into symmetrical nortlons arranging Ideas
into files, like tho pieces on n diaught-boaid
Copper takes the fust subject that comes to
himd- om which Liul\ Austin «wve him at
hapha/nid — 77if No/a, and speaks about It
foi n couple of pngis, then he goes whither
the bent of bin mind leads him, dcscilbing a
winter ev filing, a nuiubci of interiors and
landscapes, mingling heie and there all kinds
of moral reflections stories, dissertations,
opinions confidences, like a man who thinks
aloud befoic the most Intimate and beloved
ol his f i lends 'The best dlrlnctic poems,* says
Pouthex [Life of ('cmpr*. 1 .141], 'when com-
plied \\lth Tin V'riMA are like formal gardens
in comparison with woodland scenery.* This IH
his f-ie«t poem, Tin Tank. If we enter into
dot nils, the contrast is greater still lie dncH
not seem to dream that he is being listened
to, he only speaks to himself lie does not
dwell on his ideas, to sot them in i oil of, and
make them stand out by repetitions and an-
titheses f he minks his sensation and that IH
all We follow It in him as it is born, and
we Hce it riHlng from a former one swelling,
falling, remounting aft we see vapor issuing
fiom a spring, and insensibly rising, unroll-
ing, and developing Its nhiftlng forms
Thought, which in others was curdled and
rigid, becomes here mobile and fluent, the
rectilinear \erse giowH flexible , the noble
vocabulary widens its scope to let In vulgar
words of conversation and life At length
poet i y hns again become lifelike , we no longer
listen to words, but we feel emotions , it la
no longer an author but a man who speaks.
Ills life Is there perfect, beneath its
black lines, without falsehood or concoc-
tion , bib whole effort is bent on re-
moving falsehood and concoction When
he describes his little river, his dear Ouse,
'slow winding through a level plain of spa-
cious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er* [The
Task, 1, 103-64 (p 146)], he feees it with his
Inner eye, and each word, casura, sound, an-
swers to a change of that inner vision It is
so in all his verses they are full of personal
emotion*, genuinely felt, never alteied or dis-
guised ; on the contrary, fully expressed, with
their transient shades and fluctuations; in a
word, as they aie, that IH, In the process of
pioduction and destruction, not all complete,
motionless, and fixed, as the old style repre-
sented them. Herein consists the great i evo-
lution of the modern style The mind, out-
stripping the known rules of rhetoric and elo-
quence, penetrates into profound psychology,
and no longer employs words except to maik
emotions " — Tame, in HtHtory of English Lit-
nature. Book 4, eh 1
148. KOOff. Cf. Blake's The Book of Thel, 03 «.
(P 170).
THE POPLAR-FIELD
"People nowadays, I believe, hold this style
and metre light, I wish there were anyone
who could put words together with surh ex-
quisite flow and evenness '* — Palgrave, in Pcr-
louul R< collection*, printed in Alfred Lord
Tinnif*ont A Memoir by tint Kon (1897)
149. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE
01 T OF NORFOLK
"I have lately received from a female cousin
of mine in Norfolk, whom I have not been
these thiitv years, a pictuie of my own
mother She died when I wanted two days
of being six yearn old , yet I remcmlvor hex
perfectly, find the picture a strong likeness of
her, because1 her memory has been ever
precious to me, have wiltten a poem on the
iccelpt of It A poem which, one excepted, I
had more pleasure In writing, than any that
I ever wrote That one was addressed to a
lady whom I expect in a few minutes to come
down to breakfast, and who ban supplied to
me the place of my own mother — my oun
invaluable mother, these slva nil-twenty >oait»
Some sons ma> be said to have had m«ui\
fathns but a pluialltv of mothers is not
common — Cowper, In Letter to Mrs King
March 12. 1700
Compel refers to Mis. Unwin , the poem
addressed to her Is To Matjt (P 153)
150. 4O ff. Cf this passage with the following
stanza fiom Tennyson's In Mimonam (102,
1-4)
We leave the well-beloved place
Where firbt we gazed upon the sky ,
The roofs, that beard our earliest cry.
Will shelter one of stranger race
1250
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
1B1.
IABDLH OAK Broadley, A M and Jerrold. W.' Tht Bo-
Elton ngudi this ftanncnt a. the l*rt """ 0/ a" JJWerl«' *»" «London'
sarscs s.* snz
f
Inghamshlrc, England. It wai nearly 23 feet
in girth, it 18 mid to have been planted by the
daughter of William the Conqueror.
IBS. 148. The following lines, crowed through In
the manuscript, are sometimes printed In the
poem between lines 143 and 144
T E
1LJ
Wrltere Series
Scott, 1888)
CRITICISM
L
^ * m
^
'
Life's wintry bourn , thon, after many years,
I after few , but few or many prove
A span In retrospect, for I can touch
Brooke, 8. A
And hadHt thou also skill In meararompnt
thee
Thrice mine, and few and evil, I may think
The Predlluvlan race, whose buxoin youth
Endured two centuries, accounted thilrs
ding grove
Soon teems with others, and In spring they
So pan mankind One generation meets
Its destln'd period, and a new suceeedH "
d«jik «•«• +h« *M««IAH ki ' " "
Bucn was me lenoer 01
Of the Mssonlan in old , — —
Would drawl out centuries in tedious strife
Revere with mental and corporeal 111
The quoted lines are from Cowper's transla-
tton of the /Jwd, 6, 175-79. The MaMralaii Is
Homer, reputed to havp been a native of ancient
Meonla, In Lydla, Aria Minor
TO MARy
This poem Is addre^ert to Mrs Mary Unwtn,
Cowper's friend and companion for thirty
four yean,. See above note on On the Bfcctp*
of my Mother's Picture
nvnvmr
GEORGE
SHU-iam n tei
(1754-1832), p. 154
EDITIONS
. vo „«
Jonmab and a Life, by
h,.
d don
a,d
(London,
Pms, 1914).
/rom Me Poems, ed, with an Introduc-
tlon, by A Deane (London, Methuen, 1908).
Alnger, A.* Craofte (English Men of Letters 80-
riea New York and London, Macmlllan,
1008)
CollccUd
(Londollt
"From Pope to Cowper," Theology
New York, Dutton, 1910)
Colllnb, 3 C ''The Poetry of Crabbe," The Fort-
Review, Oct ,
Magntnne, Jan , 1909 (185 78)
'The Borough/' The
, 1810 (4 281)
Harlltt, W "Mr Campliell and Mr Crabbe,"
"On Thomson an
English Poets (London, 1818),
Worls, ed Waller and Glover
Dent, 1902-00, New York, McClurc), 4, 34.1;
5,85.
Button, W n "Rome
Cornhill Magazine, Juno, 1001 (S3 750)
Jeffrey, F Criticisms In The Kauilnuyh Re-
April, 1810 (16 30),
(12 131), 'Tales In
Verse," Nov , 1812 (20 277) , "Tale* of the
Hall," July, 1819 (82 118)
Lockhart, J G "Life and Poonw. of Crabbe,"
The Quarterly Bftteic, Jan , 1884 (50 408)
More, P B "A Plea for Crabbe," Th( Ittantio
Monthly, Dec , 1901 (88 850)
More, P. E Bhelburne Sway*, First Series (New
lork and London, Putnam, 1000)
Ralntfibnrv, fi Kmta*/* in Enqlith Literature,
1780-1860, First Series (Ijondon, Perolval,
1890, New York, Fkrlbner)
Shorter, C K Immortal Jf< mortal (New York,
Harper, 1907)
Stephen, L. . Hours in a Liorary, a vols. (London,
Smith, 187479, Now 1ork and London, Put-
nam, 1899) , 4 vols. (1907).
(New York. Dntton. 1908)
M "A
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Anderson, J. P. : In Kebbel's TAfe of George Crcblw
(1888)
Bartholomew, AT In Pom* by Ororge Craftof,
ed. by A. W Ward (1905-07).
Hnchon, B In Georyr OraMe and His Time*,
translated by F. Clarke (1907)
GEORGE CBABBB
1251
CRITICAL NOTES
"Yet Truth sometime* will lend her noblest fires.
And decorate the verse herself Inspires
This fact In Virtue's name let Crabbe attest,
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best"
— Byron, In English Bard* and Scotch Review-
ers, 855 58 (p 494)
"There was In each of the four British poetH,
who illuminated this darkest period Just before
the dawn, the determination to be natural and sin-
cere It was this that gave Cowper his directness
and his delicacy, It was this which stamp* with
the harsh mark of truth the sombre vignettes of
Crabbe, just as truly as It gave the voluptuous
ecstasy to the songs of Blake, and to the strong,
homely verse of Burns It* potent charm and mas-
tery It was reality that was rising to drive back
Into oblivion the demons of conventionality, of
'regular diction,' of the proprieties and machinery
of composition, of all the worn-out bogles with
which poetical old women frightened the baby
talents of the end of the eighteenth century Not
all WBK done, even by these admirable men In
Burns himself we constantly hear the old verbiage
grating and grinding on , In his slow movements
Crabbe in not to be distinguished from bis predeces-
sors of a hundred years , Cowper Is forever show-
Ing qualities of grace and elegant amenity which
tempt us to call him, not a forerunner of the
nineteenth, but the finest example of the eigh-
teenth-century type. Tet the revolt n gainst rhetor-
ical convention IH uppermoftt, and that It is which
lh really the characteristic common feature of this
singularly dltwlmllar quartette . and when the least
Inspired, the least revolutionary of the four takes
us along the dismal coast that hl« childhood
knew so well, and bids us mark how
'Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom.
Crows the salt lavender that lackn perfume.
Here the dwarf sail own creep, the septfoll harsh,
And the Koft nhlny mallow or the marsh,1
[Crabbe, The Lover's Journey, 120-28 ]
we observe that the reign of empty verbiage is
over, and that the poets who shall for the future
wish to bring concrete ideas before us will do no
in sincere and exact language That position once
regained, the revival of Imaginative writing In
but a question of time and of opportunity " —
(Josse, In 4 fihort m*toiy of Modem Engluth Lit-
erature (IRAK)
For Jeffrey's criticism of Crabbe's poems, sec p
884 See also Wordsworth's note on JAtoy Gray
(p 1 MJ2a) , and Byron's Letter to Murray, Sept 13.
1K17 (p. 1220a),
154. TH1 TILLAGB
"The Village was Intended an in antithesis
to Goldsmith's idyllic sentimentallsm Crabbc's
realism, preceding even Cowper and anticipat-
ing Wordsworth, was the first Important Indi-
cation of one characteristic movement in the
contemporary school of poetry Ills clumsy
«tyle and want of sympathy with the new
world Isolated him as a writer, as be was a
recluse in his life. But tae force and fidelity
of his descriptions of the sceneiy of his na-
tive place and of the characteristic's of the
rural population give abiding interest to his
work His pathos is genuine and deep, and
to home Judgments his later works atone for
the diminution in tragic interest by their
gentleness and simple humor" — Stephen, In
Dictionary of National Biography (1887)
10O. THl BOROUGH
"When the reader enters Into the poem, he
will find the author retired from view, and
an Imaginary personage brought forward to
describe his Borough for him to him It
seemed convenient to speak in the first per-
son but the inhabitant of a village, In the
center of the kingdom, could not appear in the
character of a residing burgess In a large
sea-port; and when, with this point, was con-
sidered what relations were to be given, what
manners delineated, and what situations de-
scribed, no method appeared to be so con-
venient as that of borrowing the assistance
of an Ideal friend . by this means the reader
IB In some degree kept from view of any par-
ticular place, nor will he perhaps be so likely
to determine where those persons reside, and
what their connections, who are so intimately
known to this man of straw.
"From the title of this poem, some persons
will, I fear, expect a political satire, — an
attack upon corrupt principles In a general
view, or upon the customs and manners of
some particular place, of these they will
find nothing satirised, nothing related It
may be that graver readers would have pre-
ferred a more historical account of so con-
siderable a borough — Its charter, privileges,
trade, public structures, and subjects of this
kind , but I have an apology for the omission
of these things, in the difficulty of describ-
ing them, and In the utter repugnancy which
subsists between the studies and objects of
topography and poetry What I thought I
could best describe, that I attempted —the
sea, and the country in the immediate vi-
cinity, the dwellings, and the inhabitants;
some incidents and characters, with an exhi-
bition of morals and manners, offensive per-
haps to those of extremely delicate feelings,
but sometimes, I hope, neither unamlable nor
unaffccting an election indeed forms a part
of one Letter, but the evil there described is
one not greatly nor generally deplored, and
there are probably many places of this kind
where It is not felt
"From the variety of relations, characters,
and descriptions which a borough affords,
several were rejected which a reader might
reasonably expect to have met with in this
case he is entreated to believe that these, If
they occurred to the author, were considered
by him as beyond his ability, as subjects
which he could not treat In a manner satis-
factory to himself Possibly the admission
1252 BIBLIOGBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
of eorne will be thought to require more CRITICAL NOTES
apology than the rejection of otherR . In such Croker had the reputation of being a great
variety, it is to be apprehended, that almost talker Hailitt, In hla Pulpit Otatory (Collected
every reader will find something not accord- Work*, ed Waller and Glover, 12, 276) rotords an
Ing with bin ideal of propriety, or something incident which Rave Croker the nickname of
repulaivc to the tone of his feeling, nor •Talking Potato "—"Some years ago, a perlodl-
could this be avoided but by the sacrifice of eai paper was published in London, under the
every event, opinion, and even expression, title of the Pic-Nio It was got up under the
which could be thought liable to produce auspices of a Mr Fulke Urevllle, and several
such effect, and this casting away so largely writers of that day. contributed to It, among
of our cargo, through fears of danger, though whom were Mr. Horace Smith, Mr. Dubols, Mi
It might help us to clear it, would render our Piince Uoare, Mr Cumberland, and others On
vessel of little worth when she came Into B0me dispute arising between tho proprietor and
port I may likewise entertain a hope, that the gentlemen-contributors on the subject of an
this very variety, whicr gives scope to oh- Bd\anre in the remuneration for articles, Mr Pulke
Jection and censure, will also afford a M- Grevllle grew heroic, and said, 'I have got a
ter chance for approval and satisfaction young follow Just come from Ireland, who will
"Of these objectionable parts many must undertake to do the whole, verse and prose, poli-
, be to me unknown, of others some opinion tics and scandal, for two gulncaa a week, and if
may be formed, and for their admission some yoll wm come and sup with me tomorrow night,
plea may be stated you shall see him, and Judge whether I am not
"In the first Letter Is nothing which par- right in dosing with him f Accordingly, they mot
ticularly calls for ^remark, except possibly the noxt evening, and the WHITER OF ALL WORK
the last lino— giving a piomisc to the reader wnB introduced Hr bogan to make a display of
that he should both Bmile and sigh in the his native Ignorance and impudence on all sul>-
poniHal of tho following Letters This may jecti Immediately, and no ono else had oirnnlon
appear vain, and more than an author ought to say anything When ho was gone, Mr Cum-
to promise, but let it be considered that Inland exclaimed, 'A talking potato, bv God "
the character assumed IB that of a frionri, The talking potato was Mr Croker, of the Ad-
who gives an account of objects, persons, miraltv Our adventurer ahortlj, however, re-
and events to his correspondent, and vJio turned to his own country, and passing aicl-
woR therefore at lilKJrtv, without any imputa- dontally through a town where they wore In want
tion of this kind to suppose In what manner Of a ministerial candidate at an Election, tho
he would 1)0 affoctod by such dose rlptions "— gentleman of inodost assurance offered himself,
Prom Crabbe's I'lrfaco ttnd supported Thoy wanted a Jaok-puilding,'
said the father of the bopoful youth, 'and so they
JOHN WILSON CROKER (1780-1857), « hose mv son • »
p. 913 Tho following note by Ilaxlltt 1ft found in his
EDITIONS Ttlt Xew School for Reform (Collected Work*,
7, 183) "A certain Talking potatoe (who Is now
Orokcr Papers, Tfcr Correspondence and Diaries one of thc propg ^ cll|mh nnd Htate)> wntllj hp
of J. W. Croker, J vols, ed bv L J Jennings flrgt ^^ to thN (,ountryf used to frlffhtc,n Mmp
(London, Murray, 1884, New York, Hcribnei). roHpoctable old gpntl,.woracnf who Invited him to
Essay on the Early Period of the French fin* wppWi by aHKinff hlm fop a BlUlp of the ,Jpg of th<1
luttoH (London, Murraj, 1867) Ravlor/ mpanlng ft ,eR of lamh( or ft 1)It of ^
History of the Guillotine (London, Muiray, 1S5J). ,Ioly Ghost plp/ mettnlnR a plKOon ple on tnp table
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM Ill-nature and importlnonco are the same in all
M( hnolfi "
Diooy, A V Tht Nation, Fob 5, 1885 (40 121). "luowli
Fortesque, O K "The Fionch Revolution in 013. END YM ION A roiTiC BOMANCl
Contemporary Litorature," The Quarterly Re. r^g Jg ^e ^^ whlch ShpUcyf Byron,
Uw, April, 1018 (218 353) and othors oironwuslv thouplit hastoninl tho
Grant, J Random Kecolleetionit of 1hr JJoune of death of Kpath Sw, Khollov'n Preface to
Common*, 2 \ols (London, Smith, 1«37) Adonaw (p 1^40a) and stanzas J(l-«7 (p 735) ,
Kobbel, T K The Fortnight^ Review, Nov , ai§0 Byron'B Don Juan, XI, 00 and n 6 (p
1884 (42 088) 010), and iioto (p U'liOI.)
UtteU'8 Mi Ing Aye, "A Quaitot of Quarterly Re-
viewers," Oct. 1856 (51 240) ALLAW rTTiaNmOHA
Martineau, Harriet- Btoffraphieal Hkelehe* (Now AJ-l-AW CUNNINGHA
York, Huret, 1869) P' 475
Nation, The, Feb. 6, 1885 (40 120) EDITIONS
Quarterly Review, The, April, 1009 (210 748) Songs and Poem*, od , with an Introduction, by
Sillard, P. A The Gentleman's Magazine, Aug, p. Cunningham (London, Murray, 1847, 1875).
Walpole, S "Thc Croker Papers," Kaaay*, Poht- BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
ical and BioprapMoal (New York, Dutton, LI tt ell's Living Age July, 1845 (6 69) ; May,
1908) 1*47 (18 469)
THOMAS DE QU1NCEY
1253
Wilson, J G The Poets and Poetry of Scotland,
2 vote (GlaHgow, Black! e, 1876, Now York,
Harper).
CRITICAL NOTES
CRITICAL NOTES
475.
476.
THE LO>LL1 LASS OF PREbTON AIILI
Preston Mill IB a rustic village on flolway
Firth, Dumfilesshlie, hcotland
A WIT 8I1HT A\D A FLOWING SEA
_ , .
Rcott clnMPd this porm "as among the bwt
MmKs Sol,,a," and regaided Cunningham as "a
iu.ui of gonluh, besides, who onlj requites the
tact of knowing whon ami whoro to stop to
atfnln the uuhersal piaise which ought to
follow It "-From Hcott's Journal. Nov 14,
lb20
THOTUTA* nw OTTTMCPV f\1M 18SQ\
THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1785-1859),
P' ™*6
EDITIONS
IJayne, P "Thomas De Quincey and bib Works,"
Essays in Biography and Cntioittm (Boston,
Gould, 1857, New York, Sheldon)
Blrrpll, A BHBays alwut Men, Women, and Books
(London, Stock, 1894, New York, Scrlbner,
1901)
Dawson, W J The Makers of English Prose
(New York and London, Bo veil, 1906)
Dowden, E "How De Qulncey Worked," The
Naturday Rnieu, Fob 23, 1895 (79 240).
IHiiand, W Y "Do Qumcey and Carlyle In their
Relation to the Unmans" Publications of the
M^m Ltinaua^ Awctatvn, Sept, 1907
(n « 15 521)
Ho<lgMOllf s „ 0utcaBt Unsays (London, Long-
mans Ifi81j
IjHthropf '<• P .,Homp AHpcctb of ^ Quln<vy»
The Atlantic Monthly, Nov , 1877 (40 569)
Mashon, D Word*noi1h, MicU<y, Keats, and
oihfr E«Mt** (I-omlnn. Macnilllan, 1874)
MttthPWS w JJttutlt Wt1h Mfn and Book8 (Cnl.
cago, Unggs, 1877 , Scott, 1890).
Mlnto, W A Manual of Kttalish Prose Literature
!•«.,.« ,*
Boston, Ho^ton.
<»ls, od ^llh a Preface
swun 1V.O)
of the Vett.
morland (laatttc (London, Slmpkin, 1890).
r,r.v s.
an(| ,m(,h(ld , Thonuls
-..Jl- .--„
«
nil i«> \
v t *. «
(.New Yotk Mucnnll.,n.
.ed ^itlianlntrnduction, l.y H.
Daiblshlre (London 1 tov.de !»)«)
o/ ylw J<n</Ii»ft Opium Katu. Tin. «1 ,
Ritkett, A
"The Vagabond," Personal Forces in
n, I)onti 1900t Ncw
T\* ***** ** W* M'rature,
J780-J860 (London, Pcrolval, 1R90, New York,
Sorlnner)
laul,
BIOGRAPHY
Fmdlav, T R P<i tonal tft eolations of De
Winery (Kdlnbumh IHmk, isw.)
Hoitrf I />' Wiujr ana //w /-Vitwrf* (London,
Low, iSMfi)
Japp, \ II ( 'II A Page ) 7'JroniffN 7*r gwriif^
//is Li/r and Tin/nip*, uitA Unnublmhed Cor-
1 1 xpondf nu, (London, Ilelnemnnn, 1N77, New
^oik, Hciilimi)
.lap,,, A II fir QwmuMiHmmiwb Mnff Irt-
tm and olhni RiHOids brio Hist I^ublishod.
2 v«lh (I^mlon. Ilelnemnnn 1H91
MartlDimn. Han let liwrwhunl fetches (Ixin-
don, Ma<ml11fln 1M/H
MasHon, D Tlxtmn* In Qtinictt/ (English Men
of Lottorq Koih* I^ndon, Mnfinlllan, 1881 ;
Now Yoik, llHrpei)
Salt. H S />f 0vmrry (London, Boll, 1904;
New York, Mac mlllun )
Alden, IT M
(12 84G).
_ r
CRITICISM
The Atlantic Monthly, Sept, 1808
BynionH, A • "A Word on DP Qnlncoy," Studies in
Prose and Verne (London Dent, 1004)
^alker, H "The Early Magfl7lne« of the Nine-
t|lt,uth Century," Tht Enalttth Essay and Es-
wyi8ts (Ixmdon, Vent, 1915, New York, Dut-
ton)
Wmrhostor. C T 4 GfYiwp of Englwh Essayists
(jfew york| Maomlllan, 1910)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
fl j A . rfto|ffff4r Dr ^ Blhllography
^^ ^ I)p ^ Collcct!on *n ^
M<)lsS Si4ll, L|hlan Mlinchostl,P (Manchwter,
M Slde rullllc Llb 190S)>
CRITICAL NOT Eft
w w ' e°
"Dp Qidnw hlmnolf In de<icantlnff on the
Di«mfaiultv, siiys, 'Habitually to dream mag-
nlflcvnth , a man must have a conKtltatlonal de-
termination to revei ie' In that sentence he an-
nounces the true law of all literature that cornea
under tne Qpdcr of pure phant||BV But ,n n|g
cane, In spite of the strength of the dream-ele-
xncnt, we cannot proceed far till we discover that
1254
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
hi* determination to reverie wa§ bat the extreme
projection of one phase of a phenomenal nature
balancing its opposite. ... lie was skilled In the
exercises of the analytic understanding — a logician
exacting and precise— else his dreaming bad never
gained for him the eminence it has gained Burc-
ly it is calculated to strike the most casual reader
on a perusal of that first edition of the Confes-
sions* that his power of following up sensational
effects and tracing with absolute exactness the
most delicately varying shades of experience, and
recording them with conscientious precision, were
as noticeable as were the dreams to which they
were served to give effect. No proppr ground has
been laid for a liberal and sympathetic apprecia-
tion of De Qulncey till these points have been
clearly apprehended , and awurodly this is one of
the cases where, as he hlnmelf has well said,
•not to sympathise is not to understand ' " — A IL
Japp, in Thomas DC Quinccy, His Life and Writ-
ings (1877)
"He represents the reaction from the polish,
reserve, and coldness of the eighteenth century to
the warmth and glow of the seventeenth century, —
the golden period of English prose. His masters
are Milton, Jeremy Taylor, Fuller, and Browne,
whose eloquence, rich coloring, and elaborate or-
namentation he Inherits. To thene qualities he
has added the finish and elegance of the eigh-
teenth century writer*, and the freedom, deep feel-
Ing, and lofty spiritual tone of our own age In
fineness of texture anil in beauty of coloring he Is
unequalled save by Buskin, whom be surpahHes In
form and general pictorial anil sound effectH lie
Is sometimes guilty of bad tante or batho*, but
when at his best is a supreme mantcr of the 'grand
style ' With an imagination as great as Carlyle'u,
his style is more chastened, rhythmical, and ex-
quisite, though not showing so much industry or
moral earnestness He ban a finer rhetorical and
critical faculty than Macaulay, and is more state-
ly and vivacious than Landor De Qulncey's
unique power lies in his imagination, which is
extraordinary. In his best passages thpre Is a
poetic loftiness, a phantasmagoric charm, and a
spectacular gorgeousnens which seises and holds
the mind of the reader with its subtle power.
Even when we cannot accept the soundness of his
conclusions on philosophical questions, or the accu-
racy of his statements in the historical and bio-
graphical essays, we delight In surrendering our-
selves to his wonderful fancy. When he has on
his magic robes, few can mount so high " —
Wauchope, in his edition of Confession* of an Eng-
lish Opium-Eater (1898)
1048. comasioNS OF AN ENGLISH OPXDM-KATXB
"I here present you, courteous reader, with
the record of a remarkable period in my life :
according to my application of It, I trust that
it will prove, not merely an Interesting record,
but, in a considerable degree, useful and in-
structive In that hope It is, that I have
drawn it up* and that must be my apology
for breaking through that delicate and honor-
able reserve, which, for the most part, re-
strains us from the public exposure of our
own errors and infirmities Nothing, indeed,
is more revolting to English feelings, than
the spectacle of a human being obtruding on
our notice his moral ulcers and scars, ant)
tearing away that 'decent drapery,' which
time, or indulgence to human frailty, may
have drawn over them accordingly, the great-
er part of our confession* (that is, spon-
taneous ami extra-judicial confessions) proceed
from demlrepn, adventures, or swindlers and
for any such acts of gratuitous self-humilia-
tion from those who can be supposed in sym-
pathy with the decent and self-respecting part
of society, we must look to French litera-
ture, or to that part of the German which
is tainted with the spurlouH and defective
sensibility of the French All this I feel so
forcibly, and HO nervously am I alive to re-
proach of this tendency, that I have for manv
monthh hexitated about the propriety of al-
lowing this, or any part of mj narrative, to
come before the public eye, until after my
death, when, for many reasons the whole
will be published and It te not without an
anxious review of the reasons for and against
this step that I have, at last, concluded on
taking it" — IK; Qulncey, in introductory re-
marks to the Render
The text here followed is that of the first
edition of 1821-22
In the portion omitted from the Preliminary
Confessions De Qulncey stateH that he virote
this part as nn Introduction to the Confes-
sions proper for three reasons
1. AH forestalling and answering the ques-
tion as to how a reasonable being could be-
come a slave to opium
2 AH furnishing a key to ROEQC parts of
that tremendous scenery which afterwards
peopled bin dreams
3 As creating a previous personal Interest
In MM HUbJert apart from the matter of the
confessions.
104ftb. 45. A picture of the lor civ "The
housekeeper wan in the habit of telling me
that the lady had lived (meaning, perhaps,
had been born) two centurieR ago, that date
would better agree with the tradition that the
portrait was a copy from Vandyke All that
Hhe knew further about the lady was that
either to the grammar school, or to that par-
ticular college at Oxford with which the
school was connected, or else to that par
ticular college at Oxford with which Mr
Law*on personally was connected, or else,
fourthly, to Mr Lawson hlnmelf a* a private
individual, the unknown lady had been a spe-
cial benefactrera She was also a special
benefactress to me, through eighteen months,
by means of her sweet Madonna countenance
And in some degree it serves to spiritualise
and to hallow this service that of her who
unconsciously rendered it I know neither the
name, nor the exact rank or age, nor the
place where she lived and died. She was
THOMAS DE QUINGET
1255
parted from me by perhaps two centuries, 1
from her by the golf of eternity "-De Quln-
oey'H note ID enlarged Confessions (Collected
Writings, ed Masson, 3 297) Sir Anthony
Vandyke (1599-1641) was a Flemish portrait
painter , he lived for some yean In England.
lO4Tb. 34-86. A harsh and contemptuous eatprrs-
tioii — "I was wrong If I Bald anything In my
anger that was disparaging or skeptical an
to the blshop'M Intellectual pretensions ; which
were not only very sound, but very appro-
priate to the particular stations which he
filled For the BlRhop of Bangor (at that
tiire l)r Cleaver) wan also the bead of Brane-
nosc, Oxford — which college wan indebted to
him for itH leadership at that eia In ficholar-
•hlp and discipline In this academic char-
acter I learned afterwards that he might be
called almost a reformer — a wise, temper
ate, and successful reformer , and, as a hcbolnrf
I new manv year* later that he had received
the laudatory notice of I'onon " — De Qnlncov,
In enlarged Confession it (Collected Wrthnqv,
ed Masson, 8 328-24) Blfhard Poraon (1759-
1808) was a famous (2 reek scholar and critic
lO49a. 11. In the enlarged Confessions, De
Qulncev inserted an admirable passage, de-
jicrlbing the Journey to London Kee Col-
lected Writings, cd MasHon, 3 889 848
lO4»b. TIT. One cannot be Rure of the accuracy
of l>e Qulncey's account of the houHe and of
his residence there
10OO«. 3N. Whether this child — Oarnett sug-
gestR, in bin edition of Ihe Con J< unions, that
Dickens must havo had this whole situation
In mind when be drew the Marchioness and
Rally Brass in Old ftnioNi/n Khop
MNUIa. 10. Murder commit t< d — - "Two men, Hol-
lowav nn<l Haggertv were long afterwards
convicted, upon very questionable evidence aw
the perpetrator** of this nraider The main
testimony against them was that of a New-
gate turnkey, who had Imperf ec tiy overheard a
conversation between the two men The cur-
rent Impression was that of great <1 Inset infec-
tion with the evidence, and this impression
wan strengthened by tbe pamphlet of an
acute lawyer, exposing the unsoundness and
incoherent^ of the statements relied upon by
the court They were executed, however, in
the teeth of all opposition And, as it hap
IM»necl that an enormous wreck of life oc-
curred at the execution (not fcner, I believe,
than sixty persons having beeu trampled under
foot by the unusual prensure of some hreweis*
draymen forcing their way with linked aims
to the space below the drop), this tragedy
was regarded for many yearn 1» a section
of the London mob as a providential Judg-
ment upon the passive metropolis " — De
QuIucey'H note In enlarged (Jon ft nitons (Col
Itoted Wilting*, ed Ma»M»n, 8 870)
1004a. 90-21. The most pleasant place— "I
trust that my reader has not been TO irat-
tentlvo to the windings of my narrative as
to fancy me speaking here of the Brown-
Brunei! and Pyment [Brunell's clerk] period
Naturally I had no money disposable at that
period for the opera I am speaking here of
yean stretching far beyond those boyish
scenes — interludes in my Oxford life, or long
after Oxford." — De Qulncey's note in enlarged
Confessions (Collected Writings, ed Matron,
8 389)
ICKKIb. 30*. Cf. with the following closing lines
of Raleigh's History of the World — "O. elo-
quent, Just, and mighty Death T whom none
could advise, thou hast persuaded , what none
have dared, thou hast done , and whom all the
world flattered, thou only hast cast out of the
world and despised thou hast drawn together
all the far stretched greatness, all the pride,
cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered It
all over with these two narrow words, Hio
facet"
1O6T. INTRODUCTION TO TH1 PAINS OF OPIUM
The portion omitted recounts the changes
that took place between 1804 and 1818, at the
school where De Quincey attended and In his
own life Mention is made of De Qulncey's
sufferings of 1818, In which his old dreams
were revived, and as a result of which he
became a "regular and confirmed opium-eater "
The selection printed continues the record
from 1818
lOROa IttfT. "The cottage and the valley con-
< erned in this description were not imaginary :
the \alley was the lovely one in those days,
of Grasmere, and the cottage was occupied
for more than twenty years by myself, as im-
mediate successor, in the year 1809. to Words-
worth Looking to the limitation here laid
down — rts , in those days — the reader will in-
quire in what way Time can have affected the
beauty of CraMmere Do the Westmoreland
valleys turn gray-headed? O reader* this Is
a painful memento for some of nsf Thirty
years ago, a gang of Vandals (nameless, I
thank heaven, to me), for the sake of build-
Ing a mall coach road that never would be
wanted, carried, at a cost of £3000 to the
defrauded parish, a horrid causeway of sheer
granite masonry for three-quarters of a mile,
right through the loveliest Ruccesrlon of secret
forest dells and R!V recesses of the lake, mar-
gined by unrivalled ferns, amongst which was
the Oxmunda reyaUH This sequestered angle
of Orasmere Is described by Wordsworth, as
It unveiled Itself on n September morning,
In the exquisite poems on the 'Naming of
Places.' From this also — rig, this spot of
giound. and this magnificent crest (the
Osmunds) — was suggested that unique line,
the finest Independent line through all the
records of verse,
•Or lady of the lake,
Bole sitting by the shores of old romance*
Rightly therefore did I Introduce this limita-
tion The Giaranere before and after this
1256
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
outrage were two different Tales'* — De Quln-
cey's note In enlarged Confessions (Collected
Writings, ed Masson, 8 406). The poem le-
f cried to begins "A narrow girdle of rough
stones and crags."
lOTlb. .15-30. Beading is an accomplishment of
mtne. — Some persona admired the soft, clear
tone of Do Qulnccv'B voice In conversation,
but others found much fault with his reading
"It seems to me, from the manner In which
the Oplum-Eater recited a few lines occa-
sionally which he had occasion to quote, that
the reading upon which In his Confessions he
piques himself would scarcely appear good to
most people He reads with too Inward a
voice, he dwells much upon the long vowels
(this he does in his conversation, which
makes it resemble more a speech delivered in
a debating society than the varltonouH dis-
course usually held among friends) , he ekes
out particular syllables haR generally much
appearance of intensity, and, in abort, re-
moves his tone and manner too much from the
mode of common language Hence I could
not aluavs catch the wordM In his quotations,
and though one acquainted with the quota-
tion beforehand would relish it the more
from having on opportunity afforded of dwell-
ing upon it, and from hearing the most made
of those particular parts for the hake of which
it IH brought forward, yet general healers
would be left far behind, and In a state of
wonder at the quoter" — From Woodhouse's
fofirrrHaftofiff, quoted bv (Sarnett in hi* edi-
tion of the Confessions (1880)
lOT2a B An early manuscript of the Confes-
sions contains at thin point the following en-
tertaining paragraph "This, then, has been
the extent of my reading for upwaids of six-
teen months It frets me to enter those
rooms of my cottage fn which the books
stand In one of them, to which my little
boy has access, he has found out a use for
some of them Somebody ban given him a
bow and arrows — God knows who, certainly
not I, for I have not energy or Ingenuity to
Invent a walking-stick — thus equipped for ac-
tion, he rears up the largest of the folios that
he can lift, places them on a tottering base,
and then shoots until he hi Ings down the
enemy He often presses me to Join him ,
and sometimes I consent, and we are noth
engaged together in these intellectual labors
We build up a pile, having for Its base some
slender modern metaphysician, ill able (poor
man1) to sustain such a weight of philosophy,
Upon this we place the Dutch quartos of
Descartei1 and Spinoza;1 then a third story
of Schoolmen8 in folio — the Master of Sen-
1 Descartes (1590-1650) wan a noted French phil-
osopher , he lived In Holland from 1(>29 to 1040
•Spinoia (1032-77) was a noted Dutch phil-
• The* Schoolmen were medieval Christian phil-
osophers, who tried to reconcile Christian faith with
tenceV Suarea," Wcub Mirandula* and the Tele-
moDian bulk of Thomas Aquinas ,* and when
the whole architecture seems firm and com-
pact, we finish out system of metaphysics by
roofing the whole with Duval's enormous
Aristotle6 So far there is some pleasure —
building up is something, but what Is that to
destioylng? Thus thinks, at least, my little
companion, who now, with the wrath of the
Pythian Apollo,0 abbiimet. hlu bow and arrows ,
plants himself In the remotest corner of the
loom, and prepaiCH his fatal shafts The bow-
string twangs, flights of arrows aie In the
air, but the Dutch Impicgnahilltv of the
Bergen-op-Zooni8T at the base receives the few
which reach the mark, and they recoil with-
out mischief done Again the I HI filed an hoi
collects his arrows, anil ugnln he takes his
station An arrow Issues foith and takes
effect on a weak side of Thomas Symptoms
of disillusion appear — the cohesion of the sys-
tem is loosened — the Schoolmen begin to tot-
ter, the fctagyrltc8 trembles, Philosophy locks
to its centre, and before It can bo seen
whether time will do anything to heal thdr
wounds, another arrow Is planted In the
tuhlsm of their ontology, the mighty stiuc-
tuie heaves — reels — seems in suspense for one
moment, and then, with one choial crash —
to the f i anile joy of the \oung Sacrittiiiy —
lies suhveitcd on the lloor ' Kant' and
Aristotle, Nominalists and Itealists,1" Doctois
Seraphic" 01 Irrefingable," what cares he' VII
are at his feet — the Irrefragable ha* been con-
futed by his arrows, the Seraphic has been
found moitul and the ginalcst philosopher
and the least differ but according to the bilef
noise they have made" — I'o^lliumoun WorJta,
cd Jupp, 1 318-10
1 The Master of Sentences \\as Petei Lombard, an
Italian theologian or the 112th ccntuiv , he was so
called from hut Latin \toik Vttui Itools of Mn-
t< n< e*
"Suarcz CH4N-1G17) was a noted Spanish Jesuit
philosopher and theologian
•Ileus Mirandula was Pico, Count of Mlrandolu
(14(U9l), an Italian humanist and philosopher
4 Thomas Aquln.is WBM an Italian theologian and
scholastic philosopbei ol the 1 Ith centun , ho was
a prolific writer , bin woiks are called •'Telomonlun"
from Telamon a famous legendary (Jreek hero
nl)u\al was probably an eclltoi ol the works of
Aristotle (4th century H C ), the famous ttreek
philosopher
6 Apollo, the god of the sun. was given tht» epithet
Pythian, because he slew the Python, the serpent at
Delphi
7 Bergen-op-55oom was formerly a strongly forti-
fied town in the Netherlands
• Arifctotle, so culled from Stogira, his birthplace,
a city on the coast of Macedonia
•Kant (1724-1804) was a noted German phil-
osopher.
"The Nominalists were a school of philosophers
who held that universal and collectKe terms have
no real existences corresponding to them , the Real-
ists held an opposite view
"The Seraphic Doctor was St Donavcntura
(1221-74), an Italian scholastic philosopher noted
for the religious fervor of his stylo
"The Irrefragable Doctor was Alexander of
Hales, an English scholastic phllosophei of the nth.
century.
THOMAS D£
1257
10t&a. 450. "For this, as for some other pas-
sages, I was Justly attacked by an able and
liberal critic In I'fce New Edinburgh Revitw,
as foi so many absurd iirelevancies . in that
situation no doubt they wcic so , and ol this,
in spite oi the haste in which 1 had written
the gicatei part of the book, I was fully
awaie Ilowevci, as they said no more than
what was true, I was glad to take that, or
any occasion whKh 1 could invent, for offei
ing ni> pul)li( testimony of giatitude to Mr
Klfardo The truth is, I thought that some-
thing might O((ur to intercept any more ap-
propriate mode of conveying my homage to
Mr Itlcardos ear, which should else moie
nntunillv have been expressed in a direct
work on political economy This fear was at
length realized — not in the way I had appro
lieuded. i is , by my own death, but by Mr
^ Ulcarrto's And now, therefore, I felt happy
that. Ht whatever puce of good taste, I had
In some imperfect way made known my sense
of his high pretensions — although, unfoitu-
nntch, I had gi\en him no means of judging
whethei m\ applause were of anj value For
during the interval between September, 1821,
and Mr Ulraidos death in September, 1828.
I had found no leisure lor completing my
work on political economy" — l>e Quinccv, in
I)ui1o</u(i nf Tln<( Yr m;>/ars on Political Kcttn-
omv (riillirttd Wi ifiMf/M. ed Masson, 9 30-
40) This aitldi nist appearc>d In 7'/ic Lon-
don MIH/UZUH, Alurch 1824
1O7:ib. 1.1-41. Ifnmun <cntution oirr lit* wl-
JK i s —A uference to the reply of the centmion
to Christ, Uattlicii, 8 0 "For I am a man
under authority. hating soldiers under me;
,ni(l 1 sa\ to tins man, Go and he goeth , and to
anothd, Come, ind he eometh , and to uiy Her
vant, Do this, and he docth it."
lOTIb 2-:i. Rclnltn of mine — "The heroine of
this icMimrkahlc' case was a gill about nine
years old und there tan be little doubt that
she looked down as ini \\ithin the crater of
death— tint awful voleanc — AS am human be-
ing cxer tun have clone that nils lived to draw
buck and leport her expeilence Not less
than ninety \enrs did she suivlve this memo-
rable escape, and I may describe her as in all
respects a woman of remaikable and inter-
esting qualities She c>njo\ed throughout her
long life as the reaclei will icadilv Itifei.
serene and cloudless health, had a masculine*
understanding, reverenced truth not less than
did the Kvangcllsts , and led n life of salntlv
devotion, such as might have glorified
'HiJnrton or Paul9 — (The words In italics arc
Arlosto's ) — I mention these traits as char.u-
tertalng her In a memorable extent, that the
reader may not suppose himself relying upon
a dealer In exaggerations, upon a credulous
enthusiast, or upon a careless wlelder of lan-
guage Forty-five years had intervened be-
tween the first time and the last time of her
telling me this anecdote, and not one lota hnd
shifted its ground amongst the incidents, nor
had any the moat trivial of the circumgtantia-
tlons suffered change. The scene of the acci-
dent watt the least of valleys, — what the
Gieeks of old would have called an £7x01, and
we English should properly call a dell Human
tenant it had none even at noonday it was
a solitude, and would oftentimes have been a
silent solitude, but for the brawling of a
brook — not broad, but occasionally deep—
which ran along the base of the little hills
Into this brook, probably into one of its
dangerous pools, the child fell and, accord-
ing to the ordinary chances, she could have
had but a slender prospect Indeed of any
deliverance, for, although a dwelling-house
was close by, It was shut out from view by
the undulations of the ground How long the
child lay In the water was probably never
inquired earnestly until the answer had be-
come irrecoverable for a servant, to whose
care the child was then confided, had a natural
Interest in suppressing the whole case From
the child's own account it should seem that
asphyxia must have announced its commence-
ment A process of struggle and deadly
suffocation *as passed through half con-^
sclously This process terminated by a sudden**
blow apparently «n or in the brain, after
which there was no pain or conflict, but in
an instant succeeded a dazzling lush of light;
immediately after which c ame the solemn apoc-
alypse of the entire past life Meantime, the
child s disappearance in the water had happily
been witnessed by a farmer who icnted some
fields in this little solitude, and by a rare
accident was riding through them at the mo-
ment Not being very well mounted be was
retaided by the hedges and other fences In
making his way down to the water, some
time was thus lost, but, once at the spot,
he leaped in, booted and spurred, and suc-
ceeded In delivering one that must have been
as nearly counted amongst the populations
of the grave as perhaps the laws of the
shadowy world can Miffer to return T" — I>e
Qulncey's note in enlaiged Confcwwnn (Cnl-
Irrtt'd Writings, ed Masson, ft 485) The
relative mentioned is said to be De Qulncey's
mother The quotation from Anosto is found
in (hlundo Fuuoso, VIII, 45, 8.
lOTRn. .19-40. Ftft of plates caned Ma
•flrfciwj?" — No plates of this title were ever
published by Pirancsi
b. 19-20. Great modern poet.— -"What poet'
It was Wordsworth; and why did I not
formally name him? This throws a light back-
wards upon the strange history of Words-
worth's reputation. The year in which I
wrote and published these Confessions was
1S21 ; and at that time the name of Words-
worth, though beginning to emerge from the
dark cloud of scorn and contumely which had
hitherto ovei shadowed it, was yet most im-
perfectly established Not until ten years
later was his greatness cheerfully and gener-
ally acknowledged. I, therefore, as the very
1258
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
earliest (without one exception) of all who
came forward, In the beginning of hlB career,
to honor and welcome him, shrank with dlh-
gust from making any sentence of mine the
occasion for an explosion of vulgar malice
against him Bnt the grandeur of the pas-
sage here cited Inevitably spoke for Itself t
and he that would have been most scornful
on hearing the name of the poet coupled with
this epithet of 'great* could not but find hH
malice intercepted, and himself cheated Into
cordial admiration, by the hplendor of the
verses."— De Qulncey's note In enlarged Con-
fession* (Collected Writings, ed. Masnon,
8.480).
1076ft. 5. Objective.— "This word, BO nearly un-
intelligible In 1821, so Intensely scholastic,
and, consequently, when surrounded by ra-
miliar and vernacular words, so apparently
pedantic, yet, on the other hand, so indln-
pensable to accurate thinking, and to Wide
thinking, has since 1821 become too common
to need any apology" — De Qulncey's note In
enlarged Confessions (Collected Writings, ed
MasRon, 8-440).
Cf. the following passage from Ruskln's
Modem Painters, Fart IV, ch 12, "Of the
Pathetic Fallacy," sec. 1 "German dulness
and English affectation have of late much
multiplied among us the use of two of Ihv
most objectionable words that were ever
coined by the troublesomenesB of metaphysi-
cians—namely, Objective and Subjective No
words can be more exquisitely, and In all
points, useless; and I merely speak of them
that I may, at once and forever, get them
out of my way, and out of my reader's."
1078a. 57. The original manuscript contained at
this point the following passage "This
dream at first brought tears to one who bad
been long familiar only with groan* but
afterwards It fluctuated and grew unsteady
the passions and the scenery changed counte-
nance, and the whole was transposed Into au-
other key. Its variations, though interesting,
I must omit
"At length I grew afraid to sleep, and I
shrunk from It as from tbe most savage tor-
ture Often I fought with my drowsiness,
and kept it aloof by Bitting up the whole
night and following day Sometimes I lay
down only In the daytime and sought to
charm away the phantoms by requesting mv
family to sit around me and to talk hoping
thus to derive an Influence from what affected
me externally Into my Internal world of
shadows but, far from this, I Infected and
stained as It were the whole of my waking
experience with feelings derived from sleep
I seemed Indeed to live and to convene even
when awake with my visionary companions
much more than with the realities of life.
•Oh, X, what do yon see? dear X, what in
It that you seer was the constant exclama-
tion of M[argaret], by which I was awakened
as soon as I had fallen asleep, though to me it
seemed as If I had slept for years. My
groans had, It seems, wakened her, and, from
her account, they had commenced Immediately
on my falling asleep.
"The following dream, as an Impressive one
to me, I shall close with It grew up under
the influence of that misery which I have
described above as resulting from the almost
paralytic incapacity to do anything towards
completing my Intellectual labors, combined
with a belief which at the time I reasonably
entertained that I should soon be called on
to quit forever this world and those for whom
I still <lnng to it"— Quoted by Uarnett In
his edition of the Confessions, 263. Margaret
was De Qulncey's wife.
lOTOb. 11. / triumphed — This was true when
the Confessions was first written in 1821;
but De Qnlneey later suffered p rout ration**
under the Influence of opium, notably In
1828-24 and in 1841-44
1O8O». SO. The Confessions closes with an Ap-
pendix, in which De Qnlneey rather apologiieH
for conveying the impression that he had
wholly renounced the use of opium
ON THI KNOCKING AT TIIB OATH IN II \CBETH
"The little paper On tin Knocking tit tlie
Gate in Macbeth Is Interesting in several
wavs It ib a claRskal instnn<i» of the pe-
culiar faculty of discovering hidden analogies
of which De Quincev boast* , like Lamb's
essay on the tragedies of Shakspeie coiiHld-
ered as to their fltnew for stage repiesenta-
tlon. It Is an early note of the great burden
of rational Hhakspere appreciation that took
Its rise, in Knglanrl. In the lectures of Cole-
ridge, and it IK a contribution from oue who
does not tank among the great common tntorn
upon the Elizabethan drama, which no rath
commentator can afford to neglert There is.
In fact, no part of De Qulncey's additions to
literature In which he has more clearly re-
deemed for all time a bit of the unknown." —
Turk, In Introduction to Selection* from De
Quinoey (Ath. Press ed ), page 1.
For another example of the same kind of
writing see the Postscript to On Murder
Considered as One of tne Fine Arts (Oollcctra'
Writings, ed. MasKon, 13 70)
1OR9. AUTOBIOGRAPHIC SKlTCIIBfl
The Affliction of Childhood \r mainly a re-
production, with alterations, of portions of De
Qulncey'a Suspiria de Profundis articles
printed in Blaotoood's Magatinc in 1845, and
of the first Autobiographic Sketch printed in
Hogg's Instructor in 1851. In the portion
.omitted De Qulncey tells of the status of the
family
110O. 8AVANNAH-LA-MAB
Ravannah-la-Mar Is the name of a small
coast town in Jamaica, where De Qulncey's
brother Richard lost his life during a hunt-
ing trip
THOMAS DE QTJIKGEY
1269
1101.
TBB POJRBY Of POP!
The following selection is part of an article
printed m The North Brttwh Review, Aug,
1848, In the form of a review of W. Roscoe's
edition of The Works of Aleaandet Pope
(1847). When reprinted by DP Qulncey the
article Has entitled Alexander Pope, but Mas-
Ron's title (Collected Writings, 11 51) la used
here to distinguish this article from another
one by De Qulncey entitled Alexander Pope,
printed In The Encyclopaedia Britannloa
1103.
TUB INGUSH MAIL-COACH
"ThlH little paper, according to my original
intention, formed part of the fiwtptria de
I*rofu*di8, from which, for a momentary pur-
pose, I did not scruple to detach it and to
publlbh it apart, as sufficiently intelligible even
when dislocated from its place in a larger
whole To my suiprSM*, howe\er, one or two
critics not caielesbly In conversation, but de-
liberately in print, professed their inability to
apprehend the meaning of the whole, or to
follow the links of the connection between
its several parts I am myself as little able
to understand where the difficulty lies, or to
detect anv linking obscurity, as these critic*
found themselves to unravel my logic Possl-
bly I may not be an Indifferent and neutral
judge In such a case I will therefore sketch
a brief abstract of the little paper according
to my original design, and then leave the
reader to judge how far this design Is kept
In sight through the actual execution.
"Thlrtv-Hcven years ago, or rather more,
accident made me. In the dead of night, and
of a night memorably solemn, the solitary
witness of an appalling scene, which
threatened instant death In a hhnpe the most
terrific to two young people whom I had
no means of assisting, except In so far as I
was able to give them a most hurried warn-
ing of their danger, but even that not until
they stood within the very shadow of the
catastrophe, being divided from the mottt
frightful of deaths by scarcely more, if more
at all, then seventy seconds
"Such was the scene, such In its outline,
from which the whole of this paper radiates
as a natural expansion This scene is cir-
cumstantially narrated in Flection the Second,
entitled 'The Vision of Sudden Death.9
"But a movement of horror, and of spon-
taneous recoil from this dreadful scene, natu-
rally carried the whole of that scene, raised
and idealised, Into my dreams, and very soon
Into a rolling succession of dreams The
actual scene, as looked down upon from the
box of the mall, was transformed Into a
dream, as tumultuous and changing as a musi-
cal fugue This troubled drefem is circumstan-
tially reported In Section the Third, entitled
'Dream-Fugue on the theme of Sudden Death '
What I had beheld from my seat upon the
mail,— the scenlcal strife of action and pas-
sion, of anguish and fear, as I had there wit-
nessed them moving in ghostly silence,— thia
duel between life and death narrowing itself
to a point of such exquisite evanescence as the
collision nearcd all these elements of the
scene blended, under the law of association,
with the previous and permanent features of
distinction Investing the mail Itself, which
features at that time lay — 1st, In velocity un-
precedented, 2dly, in the power and beauty
of the horses, 341y, in the official connection
with the government of a great nation ; and,
4thly, in the function, almost a consecrated
function, of publishing and diffusing through
the land the great political events, and espe-
cially the great battle*, during a conflict of
unparalleled grandeur These honorary dis-
tinctions are all described circumstantially In
the First or Introductory Section ('The Glory
of Motion'). The three first were distinctions
maintained at all times ; but the fourth and
grandest belonged exclusively to the war with
Napoleon , and this It was which most natural-
ly Introduced Waterloo into the dream Water-
loo, I understand, \vas the particular feature
of the 'Dream-Fugue* which my censors were
least able to account for Yet surely Water-
loo, which, in common with every other great
battle. It had been our special privilege to
publish over all the land, most naturally en-
tered the dream under the license of our
privilege If not — If there be anything amiss
— let the Dream be responsible The Dream
is a law to Itself, and as well quanel with a
rainbow for showing or for not showing, a
secondary arch So far as I know, every
element In the shifting movements of the
Dream derived itself cither primarily from
the incidents of the actual scene, or from sec-
ondary features associated with the mall
For example, the cathedral aisle derived Itself
from the mimic combination of features which
grouped themselves together at the point of
approaching collision — rie , an arrow-like sec-
tion of the road, six hundred yards long,
under the solemn lights described, with lofty
trees meeting overhead In arches The guard's
horn, again — a humble Instrument in itself —
was yet glorified as the organ of publication
for so many great national events And the
incident of the Dying Trumpeter, who rises
from a marble bas-relief, and carries a marble
trumpet to his marble lips for the purpose of
warning the female Infant, was doubtlenK
secretly suggested by mv own Imperfect effort
to seise the guard's horn, and to blow the
warning blast. But the Dream knows best,
and the Dream, I say again, is the responsible
party" — De Qulncey, In Preface to the vol-
ume of his Collected Writings (1R54) contain-
ing The English Mall-Coach It is printed by
Matson as the Author's Postscript (Collected
Writing*, IS 828-80)
ItOQa. 88 si. "This paragraph is a caricature of
a story told In Staunton's Account of the Earl
of Macartney's Embassy to China in J79*"
— Ifasson's note in Collected Writings, 18 277.
The account was published in 1797.
1260
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
1109*. 99. "Pallyfco" or "Highflyer."— A tallyho
was a kind of four-in-hand pleasure coach, BO
called from a popular coach named "The Tal-
lyho " A highflyer was a fast stage coach
1191*. 49-5O Lilliputian Lane attt r — Lancafct ei ,
the county seat of Lancashire, was much
smaller than Liverpool or Manchester, both
situated in the bame county.
JOHN DYER (1701-1758), p. 16
EDITIONS
Poem*, ed, with a Biographical Introduction, by
B Thomas (Welsh Library ed London,
Unwln. 3903)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Dowden, E In Ward'* The English Poeli, Vol
3 (London, Matmlllan, 1880, 1900)
Johnson, R The LIKM of the English Potts
(1779-81) ; 3 vols, ed by G B Hill (London,
Clarendon Press, 1905).
CRITICAL NOTES
To the Poet John Dye*
Bard of the Fleece, *hosr skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair und Bright ,
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those toft scenes through which thy child-
hood strayed,
Thobe southern tracts of Cambria, "deep em-
* bayed,
With green hill* fenced with Ocean's muimur
lulled" ,
Though hasty fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while In the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thv head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and
still.
A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Hnowdou's wide aerial waste,
Long as the thnish shall pipe on Orongar mil '
— Wordbworth
16. GEONGAH HILL
"Qrongar Hill In the happiest of his pro-
ductions it Is not Indeed very accurately
written , but the scene* whk h It dlbplays arc
so pleasing, the Images which they raise so
welcome to the mind, and the reflections of the
writer so consonant to the general sense or
experience of mankind, that when it Is onee
road, it will be read again" — Johnson, 1n
•'Dyer," The Lives of the English Poets
(1779-81)
Grongar Hill is a hill in southwestern
Wales. With respect to title and subject mat-
ter the poem is similar to Sir John Denham's
Cooper's HM (1642).
EBENE2ER ELLIOTT (1781-1849),
p. 1165
EDITIONS
Works, 2 VO!B, ed by his son B. Elliott (London,
King, 1870)
BIOGRAPHY
Howltt, W Homes and Haunts of the Most Emi-
nent British Poets, 2 vols (London, 1847,
ITiG , Ilou Hedge, 1894 , New York, Duttou)
Phillips. G S ("J Senile* ) Ifemofrv of iSlttnt-
ret Elluttt (London, Gllpm, 1850)
Rrnileh, H Bttef Diographus (Boston, TUkuai,
I860)
Watkins, J Life, Forty, and Lctttra of Ebettcstr
Elliott, the Corn-Law Rhymer (London, Mor-
timer. 1860)
CRITICISM
ttirlyle, T "Porn-I,»w nhvmcic.1' The Edinburph
Rfview. July, 1S,<J (OT ,i3S) , Cntital and
Miscellaneous Esasys, 3 vole. (Boston, Hough-
ton, 1R80)
Fox, W J The Wmtmtnittn Ktntw (30 1N7)
Hall. 8 C and Mrs S C "Memories of the
Authors of the Age," The Keltctio Magazine.,
Nov . 1805 (65 67,*)
Htoddanl. R II I'ndrr the Enninp Lamp (Now
York, Bcribner 1 K!)2 , Ixwdon r.nv)
Wilson, John "Poetiv of IClN^uezer Elliott,'*
Mackuxtod'ff Magazine, MILV, 183i, 35 815)
CRITICAL NOTES
From On the Statue of Elcncaer Elliott
Three Elliotts there hnve lieen three glorious men
Each in his generation One1 WUH doom d
Hy Denpotism and Prelaty to pine
In the damp dungeon, and to die lor Law, so
Rackt by slow torture* ere he rencht the grave
A second1 hurl'd Inn thunderbolt and flume
When Gaul and Spaniard moor'd their pinnaces,
flcreaming deflimce at (Jlbrnltnr's frown,
Until one moment more, and other btruunih 21
And other wrlthlngn rose nluive the wave.
From Kails afire and hissing uheic thi>v fell,
Anil men hall buint along the Imovaiit mast
A third8 came calmly on, and askt the rich
To gl\e laborious huugei Utiilj bread, 30
As thev in childhood had been taught to pray
By God's own Ron, aiid sometimes have prayed
since
God heard, but they heard not God sent down
bread ,
They took it, kept it all, and cried for more,
Hollowing both hands to catch and clutch the
irumbb. 35
I m IT not live to hear another voice,
i Sir John KHot (1502 1032), an English patriot
who was imprisoned because of his opposition to the
government of Charles 1 He died In the Tower ol
London.
•George Augustus Eliot (1717-90), an English
general and Governor of Gibraltar, which he de-
fended against the French und Spanish, 1779-83
• Ebenexer Elliott
WILLIAM GODWIN
1261
Elliott, of power to penetrate, at thine,
Dense multitude*, another none may gee
leading the Mubos from unthrifty shades
To fields where corn gladdens the heart of man,
And where the trumpet with defiant bla*t
Blows In the face of War, and yields to Peace
40
—Walter Savage Landor (1853)
"No man could be moro happy than Elliott in
a green lane, though an Indefatigable and KUC-
ccHKful man of business, he devoutly and devotedly
loved Nature If absolutely rabid when he wrote
of the 'tax fed ailsto< racy1— sententious, bitter,
sarcastic, loud with bis pen In hiind and class
sympathies and antipathies for his Inspliatiou —
all evil thought 8 exapoiated when communing In
the woods and fields with the (loci by whom the
woodR and fields were made, among them his
splilt was RS fresh and gentle as the dew by which
they were nourished " — S C1 Hall In Retroapect
uf a Lonq Life (ISK3)
Piom his bold nrid vigorous attack upon the
Corn La*s, which placed restrictions upon the
grain traile. Elliott won the name ol "The Corn-
Law Rhvnu i " A volume of his verse, publlMbed
In 1831 was entitled Com l,aw Rhymr* It was
Insmhecl to "nil who re>ere the memon of Jeremy
llcnthain wise to piomote the gientest happiness
to the greatest number foi the gieatest length of
time " llmthnm was an English utilltailan phllos
opher (174K-1832)
11O6.
BATTIB BONG
This Is a workman's nong which grew out
of the In l)or tioiiblc*. of the eaih nineteenth
centnri It applies ]i<ts<*ll>h to the Peterloo
Massacre of \ng in, 1S10 On that dnte a
large asspmhh, ihlefh of the Inborlng classes,
\\hlch met at St Petei s Field Man<hest<i,
In behalf of nfoini legislation ntns chaigeri
by thi militia aud m«n\ wen* killed and
wounded
11O6.
TUB I'RBBR
The Reform Hill of 1«*32 whldi greatly
extended the franchise, hail been strongly sup-
ported by the pres* Klliott wan engaged In
the Iron trade In Sheffield from 1821 to 1S42.
PRBSTOV MILlfl
Preston Is a manufacturing town in Lan
lashln, England noted for its cotton linen,
and Iron Industiles
WILLIAM GODWIN (1756-1836), p. 213
EDITIONS
\n nnuvtrii Concerning Politual Juittce, 2 yols
(1793 1790, London. Honuenscheln, 1890;
New York, Scribner)
Caleb William*, or Thmff* CM They Art, 3 vols.
(1794) ; 1 vol (London, Newnes, n d ; Now
York, Scribner, 1904)
History of the Commonwealth of England, 4 voli,
(London, Colbnrn, 1824-28).
BIOGRAPHY
Bradford, H. N Shelley, Godwin, and their
Circle (Home University Library New Yoik,
Holt, 1918 , London, Williams)
Ciouig, B W\lliam Qoduin, sa ric, «ca entires
principal™ (ParlH, Alcan, 1908)
Paul, C K William (lodirtn, hi* Fnend* and
Oontcmpornnrit, 2 vols (London, Paul, 1876,
Boston, Rolterts)
Ramns, P William Godwin dcr Thcorttikcr dc»
KommunintiHdien AnarcliinmuM, Eme biograph-
ize he Ktudle inlt Anrllgcn au<i seiner Hciiftrn
(I^lpslg, Dietilch, 1907)
Plmon, Holene * William Godwin vnd Mary Wott-
fttonccraft (Munchen, Beck, 1909)
CRITICISM
De Qulncey, T Littrary Jfrmi m*ci ncc* (1«59) ,
Collt ctt d Wt i/ mr/v, i d Masson ( Ijondon, Black,
18K9-f>0 , 1896 97), 11, 326.
Dowderi E 'Theorists of Resolution," The
Ft f nth Rnolvtwn and Un ninth Littraturr
(New Yoik, Scrlbner, 1897 190S)
Harper (i M "Koussoan, (ioduin, and WorclK-
uoith." Tht Atlantu Monthly, May, 1912
(10*1 619)
Ila/litt W rontnbutions to The ndintwyh J?c-
ncir. A pi 11, 1830, Thi Kntnt of the Aar
(London, 1K2H) , Collicfrd TFn?l<r. ed Waller
ami r.ln^ei (London. Dent 190200. New
loik. Me Time) 10 3«.r> 4 200
Rogers \ K "Ocxlwln and Political Justice,"
Tin' I nt( motional Joutnal of Etltl<x, Oct,
1911 (22 no)
Hnlt/eff, IT IV tUtam (iodinn und die An fan ye dcs
AHatehiRmu>> im Al' III Jnhthundert (Beilln,
Haeiing. 1907)
hhille\, P B Letter*, 2 yols, ed by R Ingpon
(London, Pitman 11)00, 1912 , New \ork, Hcrlb-
ner)
Stephen, L "Godwin and Shelley" Hours in a
Ltbtary, 1 \oK (I otidon Smith 1S74 79 , N(W
York and London, Putnam, 1899) , 4 vols
(1907)
Stephen, L /ftafoiv of Enfjhvlt Thought in the
Tli<tJit(( nth Cintuiy, 2 \ols (London, Smith,
1S76, 1902, New York. Putnam 1902)
Stephen, L "William Oodttin's Not els," MuditA
of n Jlitn/rai>hcr. 4 vols ^London, Duikworth,
1898-1902 , Now York Putnam)
CRITICAL NOTES
"More than any English thinkei he [Godwin]
resembles In Intellectual tempeiaiuent thoKe French
theorists who represented the early i evolutionary
Impulse Hl8 doctrines are developed with a log-
ical precision which shrinks from no consequences,
and which placldh Ignores all Inconvenient fart*
The Utopia In which MR Imagination delights In
laid out with geometrical Rvntmotry and Rlmplldrv.
Godwin believes an firmly a« any early Christian
in the speed y revelation of a new Jerusalem, four-
square and perfect In its plan . Godwin's
intellectual genealogy may be traced to three
1262
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
sources. From Bwlft,* ICandeville,' and the Latin
historian.* be had learnt to regard the whole body
of ancient Institutions as corrupt, from Humu4
and Hartley,* of whom he speaks with enthusiasm,
he derives the means of assault upon the old theo-
ries, from the French writers, such at, Rousseau,
Uelvetlus, and Holbach,' he caught, as he tells us,
the contagion of i evolutionary seal. The Political
Justice is an attempt to frame Into a systematic
whole the principle!* gathered from thesp various
sources and may be regarded as an exposition of
the extremist form of revolutionary dogma
Though Godwin's idioHyncrasy is perceptible In
some of the conclusions, the book Is In-
structive, as Hhowlngf with a clearness paralleled
In no other English writing, the true nature of
those principles which excited the horror of Burke
and the Conservatives " — Leslie Stephen, In H in-
to* y of English Thought in the Eighteenth Centwy
(1876)
Godwin's revolutionary seal fired the enthusiasm
of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and especially Shelley
Numerous Instance* of that Influence may be ob-
served in their writings As a contrast to God-
win's Idea* on the French Revolution, see Burke's
Reflections on the Resolution tn France (p 1180)
The text here followed is that of the 1790
American edition, a repilnt of the second London
edition. In editions nuhsequent to the flrst edi-
tion of the Enquiry (1793), Godwin's radicalism
was slightly tempered
THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771), p. 57
EDITIONS
Works, 4 voln p ed by E Gosse (London, Ma< mll-
lan, 1884)
Poetical Works, ed by J Bradhhaw (Aldlne ed
London, Bell, 1891 , New York, Macmillitn)
English Poems, ed. by D C Tovey (Cambridge
University Press, 1*98)
Poems, with Collins (London, Newnes, 1905, New
York, Scribner)
Selections from the Poetry and Prose, ed by W L
Phelps (Atheneum Press ed. Glnn, Boston,
1894)
Letters, 2 vols, ed by D C Tovey (Bonn Libraiv
ed • London, Bell, 19004)4 . New York, Mac-
mil Ian)
Essays and Criticisms, ed , with an Introduction, by
C 8 Northrup (Belles Lettres Series Boston.
Heath, 1911)
BIOGRAPHY
Oosse, B Gray (English Men of Letters Series
London, Macmlllan, 1882, New York, Harper) .
» Jonathan Bwift (1667-1745), a noted English
satirist
•Bernard Mandeville (cl 670-1 7 33), a Dutch-
English writer
•TfldtUH (cSS-118), who describe*! the century
preceding bis own as degenerate
« David Hume (1711-76), n noted Rcottlsb pbll-
osoDher and historian
•tfcvid Hartley (d 1757), an English material,
fstlc philosopher
•Rousseau, Helvetius. and Holbach were noted
French philosophers of the 18th century.
Johnson, 8 The Lit es of the JSngltsh Poets (1779-
81) ; ed. by G. B Hill, 3 vols. (London, Claren-
don Press, 1905).
Norton, C E The Poet Gray as a Xatwalist
(Boston, Goodspeed, 1908).
Rawnsley, II D "Gray's Visit to Keswtck," Lit-
erary Associations of the English Lakes, 2
vols (Glasgow, MacLehose, 1906)
To\ey, D C Gray and hts Pntnds (Cambridge
University Press, 1890)
CRITICISM
Arnold, M In Ward's The English Poets, VoL 3
(London and New York, Mac-mil Ian, 18SO,
1900) , Essays in Criticism, Second Keiks
(London and New York, Macmlllan, 1888)
Been., II A "The Mlltonlc Group,1' A Histoiy
of English Romanticism in the Eighteenth
Century (New York, Holt, 1898, 1910)
Benson A C Essays (Ixmlon, Helneinann.
1896, New York. Dutton) *
Brooke, 8 A "Prom Pope to Cowper," Theology
in the Enyltsh Poets (London, King, 1874 , New
^ork, Dutton, 1910).
Itulwei, E (Lord I vtton) Miscellaneous Prose
Works, Vol 1 (New York, Harper, 1808)
Dobson, Austin "Uray's Libra rv " Eighteenth
Cintury Vignette*, First Series (London,
Chatto, 1892)
Hailltt, W C "On Swift Young, Gra>, Collins,
etc ," Lectures on the English Poets (London,
1818) , Collected Wotk*. eel Waller and (Jlo
ver (London. Dent, 1902-00. New York. Mc-
Clure), B, 104
Hudson, W IT ' (Jray and His Poetry (Now York,
Dodge, 1912)
Jack, A. A.. "Gray (Social 01 Piose Poetry) ,
Poetry and Prose (London, Constable, 1911)
Kltucdge, (i L "Grays Knowledge of Old
Norse," In Appendix to Introduction to W L
Phelps's Selections from the Poetry and Prose
of Thomas Gray (Bon ton, Glnn 1894)
Lowell. J R Latest Literary Essays (Collected
Writings, Bonton, Honghton, 1890-92, Vol 9)
Perry, T R "Grav, Collln«. and Iteattle," The
Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 18KO (24 810)
Hhalrp. J C "Nature In Collins, Gray Gold-
smith, Cowper, and Burns,*' On Poettc Inter-
pretations of Nature (Edinburgh, Doufflat,
1877 , New York, Hurd, 1878 , Boston, Hough-
ton, 1885)
Knyder, E D "Thomas Gray's Interest In
Celtic," l/odentrfcUoIoflW, April, 1914 (11 310)
Stephen, L • "Grav and his School " JJovr* in a
Library, 3 vols (London, Smith, IN 74 79, New
York and London, Putnam, 1899) , 4 void
(1907).
Walker, H The English Essay and Essayists
(London, Dent, 191R , New York, Button)
Warren, T H Essays of Potts and Poetry (Now
lork, Dutton, 1909).
Warren, T H. • "Letters of Thomas Gray," The
Quarterly Re Hew t April, 1914 (220 890)
Wilson, B "General Wolfe and Grav's Elegy."
The Nineteenth Century, April, 1918 (78 862)
Woodberry, G. B The Inspiration of Poetry (Now
York, Macmlllan, 1910).
THOMAS GRAY
CONCORDANCE
Cook, A. 8 A Concordance to the English Poems
of Thomas Gray (Boston and New York,
Houghton, 1D08).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Northrup, C H. ,1 Bibliography of Ttiomatt Gray
(Yale Univ Press, In preparation).
CRITICAL NOTE8
Gray's poetry shows a distinct gain o\er his
contemporaries In tho nnmbei of poetic foims
which he uses The introduction of new poetic
forms and new meters conHtltuted one of the no-
ticeable changes taking place in English poetry
11 Although Giay's biographers and critics have
very seldom spoken of it, the moat interesting
thing in a study of his poetry . is hi*
steady pi ogress in the direction of Romanticism
Beginning BH a classicist and disciple of Drvdcn, he
ended in tlioiough going Romanticism Ills early
poems contain nothing Romantic, bin Klegy has
something of the Romantic mood, but shows many
conventional touches, in the Pindaric OdeH the
Romantic feeling asserts itself boldly, and he
ends In enthusiastic study of Norse and Celtic
poetry and mythology Such a steady growth In
the mind of the greatest poet of the time shnwH
not only what he learned from the age, but what
he taught it (5 ray is a much more important
factor in the Romantic Movement than seems to
be commonly supposed " — Phelps, in The Begin-
nings of the English Romantic Movement (1803)
57. ODE ON THE SPRING
The original title of this poem was Jfoon-
Me, It lb based upon Horace's Npnng's Lm-
son (Odea, I, 4)
*'IIlH ode On tipring has something poetical,
both in the language and the thought, but
the language is too luxuriant, and the thoughts
have nothing new There has of late arisen
a practice of giving to adjectives deilved from
substantives the tei ml nation of participles,
such as the cultured plain, the dainied bank;
but I was worry to Bee in the lines of a scholar
like Gray, the honied spring The morality is
natural, but too stale, tho conclusion Is
pretty "—Samuel Johnson, in "Giay," The
Lives of the Knglish Pott* (1770-81)
1. In classic mythology the Hours are repre-
sented as accompanying Venus and as bring-
ing the changes of the season The epithet
roKjj-oosom'd Is borrowed from Milton (Comus,
086)
81. The pseudo-classic habit of personified -
cation is distinctly noticeable in this poem and
others of Gray.
ODB ON A DISTANT PBOSPrfT OF FTON COLLEOK
This poem was written shortly after the
death of Richard West, Gray's intimate friend
Two other friends of college days, Ashton and
Walpole, were estranged from Gray at the
time
"The Prospect of Eton Oottege suggests
nothing to Gray which every beholder does
not equally think and feel His supplication
to father Thames, to tell him who drives the
hoop or tosses the ball, is useless and puerile.
Father Thames has no better means of know-
ing than himself "—Samuel Johnson, in
"Gray," The Lives of the BngUsh Poets (1779-
81).
«. Windsor Castle is on the opposite side
of the Thames from Eton College.
BMa. SO. In such pluates as this Gray bhows the
eighteenth century pseudo-classic manner.
TO. In a note Gray refers to Dryden's Polo-
mon and Arcite, 2, 682 '
And Madness laughing in his Ireful mood.
HYMN TO ADV1RBITY
This poem was the model of Wordsworth's
Ode to Duty (p 206) It was itself modeled
on Horace's Ode to Fortune.
T. The phrase purple tyrants Gray bor-
row pd from Horace (Odes, I, 3~>. 12) Purple
refers to the robes worn by kings.
N See Milton's Paradise Lost. 2, 703
Strange horror seize thee and pangs unfelt
5O 48-4(1. Kw note above on Ode on a Distant
Prospect of Eton College.
FLEG\ WRITTEN IK A GOLNTR1 CHURCH-
YARD
"An you have brought me into a little sort
of distress, yon must assist me, I believe, to
get out of it as well as I can Yesterday I
had the misfortune of receiving a letter from
certain gentlemen (as their bookseller ex-
presses It), who have taken the Magazine of
Magaannes Into their hands They tell me
that an ingenious poem, called Reflections in
a Country Churchyard , has been communi-
cated to them, which they are printing forth-
with , that they are informed that the emccl-
lent author of it is I by name, and that they
beg not only his indulgence, but the honor
of his correspondence, etc As I am not at
all disposed to be either so indulgent, or so
correspondent, as they desire, 1 have bnt on*
bad way left to escape the honor they wonld
Inflict upon me; and therefore am obliged to
desire you would make Dodsley print it im-
mediately (which may be done In less than
a week's time) from your copy, bnt without
my name, in what form Is moat convenient
for him, but on his beat paper and character ;
he must correct the press himself, and print
It without any interval between the staniaa,
because the nense is in some places continued
beyond them , and the title must be,— 'Elegy,
Written in a Country Churchyard* If he
would add a line or two to say It came Into
his handi by accident, I should like It better.
1264
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
If you behold the Magtunnc of Magcunnen in
the light that 1 do, you will not refuse to
give yourbelf this trouble on my account,
which you have taken of your own accord
before now. If Dodsley do not do this imme-
diately, he may aa well let It alone" — Gray's
Letter to Walpolc, Feb 11, 1751.
'The Church-Yard abounds with images
which find a mliroi in every mind, and with
sentiments to which every bosom returns an
echo The four stanzas beginning 'Yet even
those hones' are to mo oitglnal I have never
wen the notions In any other place, yet he
that reads them here persuades himself that
he hab alwayb felt them Had Gray written
often thus, il had been vain to blame, nnd
useless to piaise him" — Samuel Johnson, in
"Gray," The Lives of the Englivh Potts
(177981)
"Of all short poems — or indeed of all poems
whfltboevei — in the English language, whkh
hab been, for a centuiy and a quarter past,
the one most universally, persistently, and
incessantly reproduced and quoted from? I
suppose, beyond rivalry and almost beyond
comparison, Th< Elujy in a Country Ohwth-
yard of Thomas Grav Such is the glory
*hich has waited upon scant product I vines*
and relative medlocritv — though undoubtedly
nobly balanced and adniiiably grown and fln-
ished mediocrity — In the poetic art The flu to
hab overpowered the organ, the ndlng-hoise
has outstripped Pegasus, and the dement
moon has eclipsed the sun " — W M Rossettl,
in Lire* of Fnmuu* Poiti (1S78)
O-18. If a definite suiie is in <lra\'H mind,
It Is probablv that of the church and grim>\ard
at Stoke Pogc s
6O. flff-BO. These lines should be (ompaitMl >\lth
the following from Ambrose Philip's The Fable
of Thule (174S), 3S-40
Tn foroRts did the lonolv beautv Rhine
Like \\oodUnd flout is, which paint the deseit
glades
And wabte their bweetb in unfiequentul shades
57-6O. In an early manuscript version of
th« poem, the names used in this stari/a are
Cato, Tully, and Ctriar The changes are sig-
nificant of Gray's growing Romanticism
71-72. A retc'iencv to the custom, still com-
mon In Gray's time, of writing complimentary
verses to noted poisons to sccuie theli pat ion
age After these lines, in an enilv manuscript
version, thu following H tan/as are found
The thoughtless world to majesty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and Idolize success
But more to Innocence their safety owe
Than pow'r and genius e'er conspired to
bless.
And thon, who. mindful of th' unhonored dead,
Dost in these notes their artless tale relate,
By night and lonely contemplation led
To linger in the gloomy walks of Fate,
Hark* how the sacred calm, that broods
around,
Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous passion cease,
In still small accents whlsp'ring from the
AgrI
ground
rateful <
earnest of eternal peace
No more, with icason and thyself at strife,
Give anxious caies and endless wishes
room ,
But thiouMh the tool sequestered vale of life
Puivuc the silent tenoi of thy doom
81. A number of gravestone* at Btokc
Poges contain misspellings
61. TUB I'KOORBSB OP POXB1
This and the following poem aie known as
Gray's Pindaric Odes, perhaps the best evei
wiittcn in the English language They conform
closely to the structuie and manner of Iln-
dar See note on Colllus's Orfr on tht /»oi ttcal
Character (p llMOa). Tht J'/oj/rciuf of 1'omu
wan announced bv Gray in a letter to Wai pole
(undated. No 97 In Tovey's ed ) In which he
said that he might send veiy soon to Dodxley,
his publisher, "an ode to his own tooth, a
high llndaric upon stilts, \vhkh one must be
a better scholar than he is to understand a
line of, and the very best scholars will under-
stand but a little nmttei here and theie"
Grav's expectation was fulfilled When this
poem and The Rani were published, few per
sons lead them with appreciation In 11 letter
to Mason (undated, No 14s In Tovev's CM! ),
Guiy says "I would not have put auoth« i
note to save the souls of all the o*N In
London It is extremely -well as it Is — tiol»od\
undei stands me, and 1 am perti»ctlv satisfied
K\en TJu Cntiral Iff nao (Mr Finnklin, I am
told), that Is rapt and sui prised and shudders
at me \et mistakes the Kolian l\n> for the
harp of JEolus, which, indeed as he ohsonos,
is a very bad Instrument to <lam< to IT vou
hear anything (though 11 Is not vei\ likdy,
foi 1 know m\ da\ Is o\ei) you \\lll tell me
Lord Lyttleton1 nnd Mr Rhenstone* admire me,
but wish I had been a little cliaier
In reply to Richard Ilurd's letter of thnnks
for a present of those two odes, Giay wiotc
as follows (Aug 25, 17B7)
*'I do not knew \vh\ you should thank me
for what \ou had a light and title to, but
attribute It to the excess ol vour politeness ,
and the more so, bemuse almost no one else
has made me the same compliment As \oui
acquaintance In the UnUcisltv (v>u MIV) do
me the honor to at/mm. It would be ungener-
ous In me not to gun them notice, that they
are doing a veiy unfashionable1 thing, for all
people of condition are agreed not to admire,
nor even to understand One very great man,
wilting to an acquaintance of his and mine
says that he had read them se\en or eight
times , and that now, when he next sees him,
he shall not have ataive thitty qutstion* to
ask Another (a peer) believe* that the last
stanza of the second ode relates to King
Charles the Fhst and Oliver Cromwell Even
my friends tell me they do not jrtrrrrrrf and
write me moving topic's of consolation on that
1 George Lvttleton (1709-78), an English authot
and politician
•William Shenstone (1714-63), an English poet
Beep. 40
THOMAS GRAY
1265
head. In short. I have heard of nobody hut
an actor1 and a doctor of divinity* that profeKB
their esteem for them Oh MS, n lutly of
quality (a friend of Mason's), who is a gient
reader. She knew there WHH a compliment to
Drydon. but nevei ^uspected there waft "any-
thing said about Shakespeare or Milton, till
it wan explained to her , and wishes that
there had been title* prefixed to tell what
they were about"
"[The] PtoqraiH of Pony, in reach, \arlety,
and loftiness of poise, overflies nil othei Eng-
lish lyrics like an eagle In spite of the
dulnotM of contemporary ears, pi ecu copied
with the (ontlnunus hum of the popular
hurdy-gurdy, It was the prevailing blast of
Gray's trumpet that more thnn anything else
called man baik to ttip legitimate Htandard " —
Lowell, In'Tope" Af// Nfttrfv Window* (1K71)
«1. I. 1. "The various sources of poetry, which
gives life and lustre to all It touches, aie
heip described , its quiet mn lest it progicss
enriching every subjeet (otherwise dry and
barren) \v11h a pomp of diction and luxuriant
harmony of numbers ntiil its more rapid
and Irieslstlble oourso, v»hon s\xoln and hur-
ried nwav b\ the eonfliet of tumultuous pus-
slons " — flrnv's note
I 2 "1'ouei of harmony to calm the tur
nulent sallies nf the soul "—-Grin's note
(18 1 R. "IVwu-r of huimom to pioduce all t'te
traces of motion in the bodv " — CJrav's note
II 1. 'To compensate tht teil and imngi-
nan ills of life, the Muse was given to man-
kind 1»\ the tame rnnidence that sends day by
Its cheerful presence to dispel the gloom and
tenors of the night'- Cray's note
II 2 • I \ttnsl\e Iniluince ot poetic genius
over the remotest anil most uncivilized nations
its connection *Ith liboitx and the vtitues
that iitituialh attend on It (See the Kise,
Noi \viglau, anil Welsh Fiagmonts the I,ap-
land ami \inoi l«nn songs) — (iinvK note
O2. II. a "Progress ot poetiy from Gieece to
Itah, and from Italy to England. Chaucer
was not unacquainted with the writings of
I ton to or of Potiaich The Kill of Kunov
and Wr Tho W\att had travelled in Italy,
and fmmed tholi taste then Rpoiisoi Imi-
tated the Italian writers, Milton ImproMil
on them Inil this Sehool expired soon after the
Kpstniatlon and a new one arose on the
French model *»nch has subsisted ever blneo"
— <Jia\'s note
(13. TUB HARD
"The following ode Is founded on a tradi-
tion cuirent In Wales, that Edward the Flist
when he completed the conquest of the conn-
tiv, ordered all the bards that fell Into his
hands to be put to death" — CSrav's piefatoi\
Ad \oitlsoment
"To select a singular event, and swell It to
a giant's bulk by fabulous appendages of HMOC-
i David Oarriek (1717-7IM
• William Warburton <10«W1770)
tres and predictions, ha* little difficulty for
he that forsakes the probable may always find
the marvellous And It has little* use , we
are affected only as we believe, we aie im-
proved only as we find something to be imi-
tated or declined I do not see that The Batd
promotes any tiuth, moral 01 political lilt,
stancas are too long, espec lally hlH epodes , the
ode IH finished before the ear has learned its
measures, and consequently before it can recoi\e
pleasures from tholr consonanc e and i ec urrenc e
In the second stan/n the bnid Is well
dosciihed , but In the third we have the
puenlities of obsolete mythology When wo
aie told that Tadwallo hush'd the stormy
main.' and that 'Mod rod made huge Plinlim-
mon bow his cloud-tupp'd head ' attention re
colls from the repetition of a tale that, even
when It wan first heard, was heaid with scorn
These odes are marked by glittering
accumulation of ungiaceful ornaments; they
Htnke. lather than please, the linages arc
magnified by affectation , the language Is
labored into haishnoss The mind of the
writer seems to work with unnatural violence
'Double, double, toll and trouble * He has a
kind of stintting cligmtx and is tall by
walking on tiptoe Ills 11 1 and his struggle
are too visible ami th> ic Is too little appeai-
ance of ease and nature'* — Samuel Johnson,
in I4(!rav," Tlir Ltr<* of tJir Em/Huh Potts
(1779-S1)
"Mr Fox, supposing the barel sung his song
but once OACT, does not wonder if Edwaiel the
Flist did not undei stand him This last
(iltlclsm Is lather unli'ipp^, for though It
had been sung a hundred times under his win-
dow, It \\as absolutely Impossible King Ed-
ward should understand him but that Is no
reason foi Mi Fo\ vino Ines almost 500
veais after him It is \e-iy Ykoll, the next
thing I print shall be In Wolrh — that's all " —
(irav, in letter to Mason (undated No 14K
In Totey s e»el )
1O-2O. "The image * is taken fit mi a well-
known pictuie of Raphael representing the Su-
pieme Hem a In the \lslon of I'/eklel Tliere are
t*o of these putuios (l)oth lielltxeel oilgmal),
one at Florence the other at Paris" — Oraj'a
note
28. Hoel \\as a pilnce and poet of Nortti-
\>ales See note cm Tin IHtith uf Unit, p
12fi«b Koft Llciiclliin s Ian — \ liv about the
gentle Lle^ellrn, a \\elsh prince
(IR. ODB ON THK PLIIVRTKK VRISINd FUOM
ViriSSlTI !>•
This poem In Its present unfinished
form *as found afteM (Srav's eleath in his
notebook of the» ACMIT 17R-I
(Ml.
THB PVTKL S1HTRUS
told me in the spring that the
plates from Mi lion t lex s designs were worn
' Vfirhr/A, IV, 1, 20
1266
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
out, and he wanted to have them copied and
reduced to a smaller scale for a new edition.
I dissuaded him from so silly an expenue, and
desired he would put In no ornaments at all
The Long Story was to be totally omitted, as
Its only use (that of explaining the prints)
was gone, but to supply the place of It In
bulk, lest my works should bo mistaken for
the works of a flea, or a plbmlre, I promised
to send him an equal weight of poetry or
prone so, since my return hither, I put up
about two ounces of stuff, vis The Fatal Nf tr-
ier*, The Descent of Odin (of both which you
have copies), a bit of something fiom the
Welch, and certain little notes, partly from
Justice (to acknowledge the debt, where I had
borrowed anything), partly from 11] teuipei.
Just to tell the gentlo reader that Edward I
was not Oliver Cromwell, nor Queen Elisabeth
the Witch of Enrtor This is literally all;
and with all this, I nhall be but a shrimp of
an author " — Gray, in Letter to Wai pole, Feb
26, 1768.
The Long Fttory Is a poem by Gray, written
In a playful mood
In a prefatory notice to The Fatal Rtetctft,
Gray states that the poem Is "an ode from
the Norse tongue, In the Orcadea of Thormo-
dus Torteu*, HafnUe, 1607, folio, and also
In Bartholinus " Professor Klttredgn bus
pointed out that the poem IH really a free
rendering of a Latin translation which accom-
panied the None text in the editions Gray
refers to, and that Gray's knowledge of Old
Norse was very slight See ProfeRHor Klt-
tredge's "Gray'e Knowledge of Old Norse,'*
printed as an Appendix to the Introduction
in the Athenaeum PI-CRH ed of Gray's Works.
The Latin version is printed in the same text
The Norse poem, with a prose trannlatlon,
may lie found alsolii Corpus Porttrum Bon air,
I, 281-88
"In the eleventh century, Sigurd, eail of the
Orkney Islands, went with a fleet of shifts and
a considerable body of troops Into Ii eland, to
the assistance of fUctryn with the Silken
Beard, who was then making war on his
father-in-law, Bruin, king of Dublin The
earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and
fUctryff was in danger of a total defeat , but
the enemy had a greater loss by the death of
Brian their king, who fell in the action On
Christmas day (the clay of the battle), a
native of Caithness in Scotland, of th» name
of Darrud, saw at a distance a numlwr of
persons on horseback riding full speed to-
wards a hill, and seeming to enter Into it
Curiosity led him to follow them, till looking
through an opening In the rocks, he saw
twelve gigantic figures resembling women
They were all employed about a loom, and as
they wove, thev sung the following dreadful
song, which when they had finished, they tore
the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking
her portion) galloped six to the north, and
as many to the south. These were the Val-
kyriur, female divinities, Parcas Mllltares, serv-
ants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic
mythology Their name signifies Ohusera of
the Main They were mounted on swift
horses, with drawn swords In their hands;
and in the throng of battle selected such as
were destined to slaughter, and conducted
them to Valhalla, the hall of Oain, or para-
dise of the brave, where they attended the
banquet, and served the departed heroes with
hornx of mead and ale Their numbers are
not agreed upon, some authors representing
them an 010, some as four " — Gray'b Preface
67. THE DBSCBNT OF ODIN
"An ode fiom the Norse tongue, in Bart ho-
liiius, DC cauBiH conttmncndas mottu, IlafnUe,
1689, quarto*' — Gray The NOIBC poom h» in
the Poctio Bdda, a collection of Old Norse
poetry made probably in the thirteenth cen-
tury. Gray's poem is a fice rendeiing of the
Latin tianhlation which Dartholin prints with
the Norise te\t
In this poem, Odin, the supreme deity in
Hcandlnavlan mytholog>, descends to the
lower wo ild to learii from an ancient prophet-
ess what danger threatened Balder, his favor-
ite sou Balder had dreamed that his life
was In danger, and Frigga, his mother, had
made all things swear not to huit Balder,
but Hhc had omitted the mistletoe, thinking
it too insignificant 1o be dangerous
B.1-5G 1 1 oder was Balder s blind brother
Through the Influence of the e\ll being Loki,
Hoder unconsciously slew Balder with the
mistletoe.
08-70. Vale the son of Odin and Rlnda,
when only one night old Hleu Hoder
76. The virgins were probabh the Scandi-
navian Nornn, or Bister* of Dentlnv Bee The
ratal tfuffcr* (p (16) and Gray H Preface, abme
«H. THB TRU M PI IB OF Ol» BN
This and the three following poems are
fragments taken from Evanx'H Specimens of
the Antimt Wfl*h Bat tin, a collection of WelHh
poems with English piose translations, fol-
lowed by a tftairrrtafio dr Barditi, published
In 1764 Thr Triumph* of Owen, which is
IwHed on a prone version commemorates a
battle in which Owen, King of North-Wales,
rexlsted the combined attack of Irinh, Danish,
and Norman fleets, about 1160
THl DEATH OF JIOJL
Thin and the two following poems aie ex-
tracts from the (lododin, a relic of nixth cen-
tury Welsh poetry, Included in Evans's ffpeei
men*. (See note on The Triumph* of Own )
Gray used the Latin versions given by Evans
In the Ditttttrtatw de Bardte. These are
printed in the Athenamm Press ed, of Gray's
Works The Death of lloel is supposed to
celebrate a battle between the Btratholyde
Britons and the Northumbrian Raxons Hoel
was a prince and poet of North-Wales.
BOBEBT STEPHEN HAWKEB
1267
CRAY'S LITTIRB
"Everyone known the letters of Gray, and
remembers the lucid simplicity and directness,
mingled with the fastidious sentiment of a
Hcholar, of bin description of Ruch scenes as
the Chartreuse 4 That is a well-known do
Hcilptlon, but those in his Journal of a Tour
in the North* have been neglected, and they
are especially interesting since they go over
much of the country in which Wordsworth
dwelt, and of which he wrote They are also
the first conscious effort — and in this he is a
worthy forerunner of Wordsworth — to descrll>e
natural scenery with the writers eye upon
the scene described, and to describe it in
simple and direct phrase, in distinction to
the fine writing that was then prac tlced And
Gray did this intentionally in the light prose
Journal he kept and threw by for a time the
leflncd carefulness and the insistence on
human emotion which he thought necessarv in
poetic description of Nature In his prose
then, though not in his poetrv we have
Nature lo\ecl for her own sake" — Rtopford
Brooke, in "Prom I'ope to Cowper," Theology
in the EnoliHh Poet* (1874)
The persons addressed In the letters printed
In the text *erc Oray's mother and CSray's
school and college frleurls William Mason
was his biogiaphei
73.
JOUHNAI
Till LAKES
b 2f. Emploitmcnl to the mirror— Orav UMI
alh carried with him cm his tours a plano-
convex mirror, about four inches in diameter,
which served the purpose of a camera -obscura
27. The Hoetot — l)r Thomas \Miaitou.
Cray's friend, for whose amusement the Joui-
nal was composed
55-B(l. The jam* of Borrodale —See Words-
worth's 1 nr -Trt rs (p 2«)0)
74m. 30-31 Lodoor u at erf all — «See Souther's The
Cataraet of Lotlore (p 410)
b. 27-28. Cf Milton's ftamson AaonMc*, 8f»-
89
The sun to me Is dark
\nd silent as the moon,
When she deserts the night,
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave
38. Helm-eraff — This is "that ancient
woman seated on Holme tag" of Wordswoi th
in To Joanna, r»(t
WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOUR
(1704-1754), p. 13
EDITIONS
Pormt and Bongs, ed , with a Life, bv James
Parcison (Ixmdon Htephenson, 1852)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Chalmers, A "Life of William Hamilton," Chal-
mers's English Poet 9, Vol 15 (London, 1810).
G Bcottwh Poetry of the Eighteenth
Century (Glasgow, Hodge, 1806)
Veitcb, J. The History and Poetry of the Boot-
tish Border (London, Macmillan. 1877, 1878).
Walker, H. Three Centuries of Scottish Litera-
ture, 2 volB (Glasgow, MacLehose, 1803)
Wilson, J G • The Poets and Poetry of Scotland,
2 vols (Glasgow, Blackie, 1876, New York,
Harper).
CRITICAL NOTES
"Amid the generally vague verbiage of his
[Hamilton's] descriptions, one effort of his genius
stands out In vividness of human coloring, in
depth and simplicity of feeling, and even to some
extent in powerful and characteristic touches of
scenery This is a poem which owes its inspira-
tion to the Yarrow. In fact It was suggested by
the older poem of The Dowte Dens It breathes
the soul of the place, and it Is so permeated by
the spirit of its history and traditions, that when
all the other writings of the author have fallen
into oblivion, there will still be a nook in memory
and a place In men's hearts for The Braes of Yar-
row "— Veitch in The History and Poetry of the
KeotttHh Border (1878)
18. THE BBAPS OF TAHHOW
Yarrow I* a beautiful river in Selkirkshire.
Scotland it Is celebrated in many liallads
and songs See Wordsworth's Yarrow l/ntn*-
ited (p 208), Yarrow Vtsited (p 808), and
Yarrow Revisited (p 312) Hamilton's poem
Is a dialogue spoken by three persons, desig
nated "A," "B," and "C "
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
(1804-1873), p. 1150
EDITIONS
Poetieal Woikn, ed bj J O Godwin (London,
Paul, 1870)
Poetical Worltf. ed with a Preface and Bibliog-
raphy, bv Alfred Wallis (London, Lane, 1800)
Conifjvfe Ballads, and other Poems, ed by C E
Byles (London and New York, Lane, 1004)
BIOGRAPHY
Baring-Gould, R Robert Stephen Hawker, Vicar
of MorwenKtow (London, Paul, 1870. 1886)
ttvles, C E Lift and Letters of R J*. Hawker
(London and New York. Lane, 1005)
Jlc monff/* of the Rti R K. Hau ker, od. by F. 6.
Lee (London, Chatto, 1S76)
CRITICISM
DM, The, "A Famous Cornish Character," May 1,
3005 (88 808)
Kelley, B M "Hawker of Morwenstow." The
Catholic World, July, 1016 (108 487)
More, P E 'The Vicar of Morwenstow," Shel-
ourne Essays, Fourth Scries (New York and
London. Putnam, 1006)
Noble, J A "Hawker of Morwenbtow," The
Bonnet in England (London. Mathewa, 1608).
1268 BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
•
Plllsbuiy, B. L "A Monrenntow Pilgrimage," 1158. QUEEN GUINMVAE'S ROUND
^JK^r^iS? *°.TBCV. E. 8. A «•— - " GulncTwo' the wife of K1-
Uawker," June 10, 1808 (70 777) Arthur
TO ALFRED TENNYSON
BIBLIOGRAPHY ThK poom wflR wrttte|1 to TrnilTBOI1 on tho
Byleb, C U In Life and Let it m of K tf Uairlvr public.ition of life Idyll* of Ihc King
(IftOH)
Wallis, A. In his edition of Hawker'g Pot total WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830), p. 1007
Work* (1800)
EDITIONS
CRITICAL NOTES Ltfutny R<ma\n* of tJir Laic William Tfazlilt,
^xith a Notice of his Life by his Hem, and
"The simple legends connoctcd with the wild and Thoughts cm his Oemus and Writings by K L
singular scenery oi my own countij appeal to me 11,11*01, and T N Talfouid, 2 ™ls (London,
not undcseivlng of record These which 1 nine Tcuipleman, 1830).
published were lelated to me, and that chieflj by ro//,cf,d TToiJulnl by A R Wallei and A Glovci.
the common people. In the course of my solitiuv la A0is aml U11 in.ie\ (London, Dent. 1002-
rambles in the West They were 'done into veisc,' Oflt Now ^olk? Miriine)
also, during these my walks and rides "— Fiom Wotk*, 4 vols (Kveiymau s Llbniiy cd New
Hawker's Preface to Rtrord* of tht W< stern tfhore v>ik, imtton, 1000-10)
U**32) RtUitwuH, cd , with a Bloginpbltal and Ciltual
Intioductlou, b> TV I) llowo (Itoston, (Jinn
116O. THE SONG OF THF WESTERN MEN 1913)
S~^JtS££tt-^™tt^^t&™
sss- jnass rs^rs: -r-'SJ ?r ?»r rt :
refrain In Ilawko.'K p<,Mn dab-s from that ^JT" ttnd R ' I"'wl> (U""lou S""t'
time, but the rest is nilginal It wus lirst oiftr^BAouv
publisheil anonymously, and Stott, Macaul»n, BIOGRAPHY
and DickenH all thought It a genuine ballad Illrrcll, \ William f/azlilt (Kngllsh Men of Lct-
teis Seilcs N»«\v Yoik und Loinlon. Macmllliin
I)ou.id\, J 1 ir at William lltizlilt. I Ws«flyiw/i
Clovclly Is a plctuvesque village cm tho (Pails. I lath otto, 1007)
noith coast of Dcyonshhc, England Hazlltt, W C four (1< tut at ion* of a LitfK.ti/
Family the Harlitts In Knglaml, Ireland,
1152 TUK SILENT IOWEU CIF uo JTRBAI \ and America, their Fi lends ,ind Fcntunes,
1725-1 SOO 2 \ols (Tendon Hcd \\iiv. 1S07)
"The lugged hei«hts that line the sea-shore Iltt/lltf> ^ r Lftm1i „„,/ i/affjltt /,„!,„ and
in the neighborhood of Tlntadgel Castle aud R<crnait (Londc.n. Mathtws 1«<IO)
Church fon the coast ot roinwalll are crested ilazlltt. w C Memoirs of William Hazlltt. 2
with towers Among these, that of Bottieaux, vols (London. Ilontli v 1807)
or, ah it IK now written, llosca*.th> is without
bellh The silence of this wild aud lontlv CRITICISM
chuich\atd on festive 01 bolemn occaslonn Is
not a little striking On enquln I was told /Hoeliroorf1* Manaemc Jul\ 1822 (12 04) . "fock
that the bells were once shipped for this n''Y Ton ti Unit ion s,' Juh 1S24 (10 07)
church, but that when the vessel was within "".ixlltt «'ross qm -nonnl." Aug, IS18
sight of the tower the blasphemy of her cap <8 r»r»°> • "Teffrev and Hazlltt," Juno, 1«18
tain nas punlsheil In the munnci related in <3 803) • "Inures «n English Poetry." Feb.
the poem The bells, they told me, Rtlll lie 1«18 & «»» - M«r. 1*1* (2 070), Apill.
In the bay, and announce by strange rounds 1«» <B 71). • 'Table Talk" Aug. 1822
tho appioach of a storm "— llnwker'H nc.te "* 157> • "W"*** ** the First Importance,"
11. CltougJi —"This wild Mid chiefly March. 182B (17 301)
haunts the coaxt* of Devon and Cornwall Tlie ***** R « "narlltfh Lectures on the Kngllsh
common people believe that the HOII! of King ***"•" />*^" «wrf f'0" Wrtttog*. 2 vols
Aithur InhabitB one of theHe l»irdK, and no en- <N™ York, 1S50. Philadelphia. 1883)
treaty or bribe would induce an old Tlntadgel KdlnlwnTi ffiiuw. 77»r "lectures on the Drn
quarryman to kill me one "—Hawkers note mnt" Wtciatme of the \ge of KM/abeth '
Nov , 1820 (S4 418)
"PATFH VERTLii PAKCIT ii I \" F*\ IP, J **omt Littrary Kccentnr* (\cw York,
Pott. 1900)
ThlH poem IK Rometlmefl entitled A Konnet Ilaydon, B R Conenpondcnrr and Table Talk,
of the Bea 2 vols (London, Chatto, 1876)
WILLIAM HAZLITT
Howe, P. P.: "Hazlitt and liber amoiiM," The
Fortnightly Acitcio, Fpb , 191« (105 300)
Ireland, A William llazlilt, M« nay tat and Gtitio,
with a Memoir (London, Wiune, 1SNO)
Iiwln, 8 T "Ilaxlitl and Lamb," Tin, Quattnly
Ituuic, Jan, 11)00 (204 102).
Jeffrey, F 'Thaiac ten* of Khnkegpeare's Plays,*'
Tlte Kdinbvttih Kd,icir, Aug. 1K17 (2H 472) .
Contnbvttonu to Tlu Edinburgh Rtiuic
Lucas, E V The Lift of Chat leu Lamb, 2 vols
(London, Methuen, 1905) , 1 vol (1910)
More, P E "The Fiist (Complete Edition of
Hnzlltt," Mtfloutnc Kwav*. Second Seiies
(New York and London, Putnam, 1905)
Patmoi«», P G Mv Fntudt and Acquatntatu c,
R vols (New Toik S,iunders, 1X54)
Palm oie, P G Rejictfd Arttoltn (London, Col-
burn, 1820)
Qvaituly Jt(iifWt The "Characters of Rhakos-
pear's Plays," M«y. 1818 (1H 458) , "KketcheH
of Public Characters," No\ ( 1820 (22 158).
"Table Talk," Oct. 1S22 (20 10.*) f 4 The
Hound Tubh '* Oit 1S10 (17 154)
Illckett \ "The Vagabond M PetMtnal Fote<\ in
Motion LitnntHK (London, Dent, 1900, >ow
loik, Duttou)
Sulntsbun, <i \ Ilistoiy of Criticism, 8 vols
(Edliibmgh and London Ilbutaood, 1901-
04. 1<>OS. Now York, Dodd), Honk S
Sulntsbuiv, <J Luxntn in Kwihah Litimlun,
1780 1860, First Series (London, Pcnixal,
1S90, \ew York. Bcrlbner).
Siihol, \\ \\ilham lltUhtt — Itoiimntic and
Amorist," The Fortnightly Rciicu, Jan, VH4
(101 94)
Kti'irtit'ii L //oins in a Lilnniu, 3 \ols (T^ondon,
Smith 1S7479 \r\\ ^oik nnd London, Put-
Stoddnrd, H IT Pmnnal Recollection* of Lamh,
Jlttzlitt, und olltei* (\<«w Yoik, Sdlbnri ls7"»t
J90i)
Toire\, 11 FmndH on tht Mulf (lloslon Houuh-
ton, 190f»)
Walkor, II HuyliMh I! way and 7'sMffjywfjt (Lon-
don Dfiit, 1915. Now Yoik. imtton) ch 7.
Whtpplc. E I1 '•Hiltish Cntlih*' /;ssa)/i an*
Itt'nuiH 2 volh (18*9, Huston Ospo»Ml, 1S78).
Win<host<>if r T A (lioup of Kutilwh
Yoik, Mtumlllan, 1910)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bound v, J * LMf Ohronolotjiquc des <Furr<* de
William Ilazhtt (Pans, Ilathrtic, 19Od)
Inland, \ /fsf of the Writing of W ill i not.
IfatyHft and Leigh Hunt (Tendon, Smith
(1S08)
CRITICAL NOTES
"The varlouR riltlcal writing of William Haclltt
me laden with oilglnnl and «ti Iking thoughts, and
Indjcuto an Intellect htrong and lu tonne, but nar-
towed l»v piejudlre and pmonal feeling He wns
an acute but homewhat bitter obnenor of life and
manners, and satirized lather than demrlbed them.
Though bold and arrogant In the expreRglon of his
oplnloiiH, and continually provoking opposition by
the hardihood of his paradoxes, he does not ap-
pear to have been Influenced bo much by belf-
eslceni as Hendbillty He wan natuially bhy and
despairing of nib own poweiu, and hiu dogmatism
WHS of that tuibuleiit Iclnd which comes fiom pah-
hlon and fcelf-dtatrust He had little lepose of
mind or manner, and In his woiks almost alwayH
Hjipoars O.H If hl« faculties had bei*u stung and
spurred Into action " — K. P Wblpplc, in Ewayft
and RevieuR (1K49).
' If not the first, he was the most influential
of those who bent the essay to this purely liter-
ary purpose, and he may be regarded as standing
midway between the old essayists and the new
It was a fashion in his own time, and one that
has often since been followed, to insist too strongly
on Hazlltt'H limitation*! ns a critic Yet, after
all hHH been said, his method wan essentially the
same as Hainte-Reuve's, and his essay* cannot
even now be safely neglected bv students of the
literary developments with which fhov deal It
is impossible to read them without catching some-
thing of the ardor of his own enthusiasm, and it
says much for the soundness of his taste and
judgment lhat the great majority of his criticisms
iMiiergtil undistoitod from the glowing crucible of
his thought"— J 11. Lobban, In Introduction to
EnqHM JfawFf/fe/ft (1896)
* Head a do/en of his essajs, with their constant
pi iv of allusion, their apt — If o\ei -abundant —
quotation , then fleeting glimpses of Imagination,
now august, now beautiful, now pathetic, but al-
\ui\s \'vld, their billllant, half-earnest pniado\ ,
then mild tone of melancholy reflection, tm ii
flashes of rMildil Ratlre , all flowing In a rhythm,
unstudied u't varied and musical — and then v>u
iindeistnud wh\ man^ of the bo^t masters of mod-
ern proso — Mmaulav, Walloi Ragihol R«ibeit Louis
Sttncnson, Augiibtine Bin ell — have gi\en to the
f.t^ le of Hazlltt their praise and the better tribute
of imitation *\Yc aie fine follows* sa<d St<^ en-
son once, In despairing ad mi nit Ion M>ut we can't
* ilte like William lift/lift* "-U1 T Winchestei, in
A (honp of RnyltMh Em<avi<<tH of tlie Eatly Jftne-
ttt nth Crntvry (1910)
The numerous quotations in Ilazlltt s writings
woie quoted laraeh from menion nnd lie \PIV
often Inaccurate Yet manv of them were pur-
posoh changed bv him In order to he moie ser\ Ice-
able and applicable Frequently he uses earlier
pluasos of his o\\n, as if they were quotations
f i oin some other author A numbei of the quota-
tions found in his writings ba\e not vet been
identified
1007. CTTAIUCTIRR OF 8H AKISPI VR'B PT \TB
ITaxIitt shares with Runt the distinction of
hu\iug intrcNlmed a type ol then ti leal criti-
cism which is frank and honest, at the same
time that it is keenly appieciatue Ills
criticisms of Shakspere's plays usually ap-
peared In the papers Immediately after the
performance of the plavs Ilia criticism of
Hamlet, a review of Kean'H playing, appeared
in The Morning Chronicle, March 14. 1814.
The text here given IB that of the first edl-
1270
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
tion of the Characters of Shakespear'a Plays
(1817). which was a reprint, with slight
changes, of the earlier reviews.
1006b. 14. There is no attempt to force an <«-
terest. — Baintsbury regards the criticism ex-
pressed In this sentence as one of "the apices
of Shakespearian criticism" (History of Criti-
cism, 8 268).
1011.
ON FAlflLIAB BTYLB
1014.
"In reading this essay and rereading It, one
has the feeling that here are some of the best
words ever written on the subject and written
by a man who had thought of style and what
It means "—Howe, In Selections from William
Ilazlitt (1018). Cf. Lamb's The Genteel Style
of Writing.
b. O. "Toll, opaque icortfV1— "1 hate set
dissertations — and above all things In the
world, 'tis one of the silliest things In one
of them, to darken your hypothesis by placing
a number of tall, opake words, one before an-
other, In a right line, betwixt your own and
your reader's conception'* — Sterne, In The
Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, 8, 20,
the Author's Preface In his review of Miss
O'Neill's Elvnna, In A View of the English
Stage (Collected Works, 8 257), Haslitt UHOB
the phrase as follows "We should not have
made these remarks, but that the writers In
the above paper have a greater knack than
any others, by putting a parcel of tall opaque
words before them, to blind the eyes of their
readers, and hoodwink their own understand-
THI FIGHT
Henley remarks that the summary of the
fight Is "alone in literature, as also In the
annals of the Ring." (Introduction to Col-
lected Work*, I xxlil). For an account of the
fight and the Journey home, see P O Pat-
moie's My Fnends and Acquaintance Haxlitt'a
The Indian Jugglets is another good essay on
sport, especially the latter part, which con-
tains the famous characterisation of John
Cavanaugh the fives-player (Collected Works,
6 77).
ON GOING A JOFBNIY
With this essay compare Stevenson's Walk'
ing Tours (Works, Scribner ed., 9 IftH)
lO27b. 48. Out of my country and myself I fio —
Thlfc quotation has not yet been identified
1088. MY FIRST ACQLAIJ.TANC1 WITB POBTB
"Any sketch of William Hulltt may fitly
begin with an extract from his most familiar
essay — the most delightful essay of personal
reminiscence In the English language. It Is
the story of his spiritual birth."— C. T Win-
chester, In A Group of English Essayists of
the Karly Nineteenth Century (1910)
1O89*. 8ft. Prefer the unknown to the known — •
Cf. Hatlltt's remarks In On the Conversation
o/ Authors (Collected Works, 7, 29) • "Coleridge
withholds his tribute of applause from every
person, In whom any mortal but himself can
descry the lettbt glimpse of understanding He
would be thought to look farther Into a mill-
stone than anylxxly eli»e. lie would have
others see with his eyes, and take their
opinions from him on trust. In spite of their
senses. The more obscure and defective the
Indications of merit, the greater his sagacity
and candor In being the first to point them
out. He looks upon what he nicknames a
man of genius, but as the breath of his nos-
trils, and the clay In the potter's bands If
any such Inert, unconscious mat*, under the
fostering care of the modem PrometheuM, Is
kindled Into life, — begins to see, speak, and
move, so as to attract the notice of other
people,— our Jealous patronlxer of latent worth
In that case throws aside, scorns, and hates
his own handy-work; and dewrtH his Intel-
lectual offspring from the moment they can go
alone and shift for themsclvcb"
21. ITear the loud staq speak — This quo-
tation has not yet been Identified
98. Contempt of Qray — Bee Biooraphia
Liter-aria, ch 2, note "I felt almost an If I
had been newly couched, when, by Mr Words-
worth's conversation, I had been Induced to
re-examine with Impart in 1 MtrlctnesH (J ray's
celebrated Elegy. 1 had long before detected
the defects In The Bard; but the Elegy I had
considered AS proof against all fair attacks,
and to this day I can not read either with-
out delight, nnd a portion of enthusiasm At
all events whatever pleasure I may have lowt
by the clearer perception of the faults In
certain pasHageH, has been more than repaid
to me by the additional delight with which
I read the remainder.'*
28-29. Intolerance of Pope — See Bioqraphia
Literaria, eh 1 "Among those with whom
I conversed, there were, of course, very muny
who had formed theli taste, and learned their
notions of poetry, from the writings of Mr
I'ope and his followers or to speak more gen-
erally, In that school of French poetry, con
densed and Invlgotated by English under-
standing, which had predominated from the
last century. I wan not blind to the meritH
of this school, yet, as from Inexperience of the
world, and consequent want of sympathy with
the general subjects of these poemx, they gave
me little pleasure, I doubting* undervalued
the kind, and with the presumption of youth
withheld from Its masters the legitimate name
of poets. I saw that the excellence of this
kind consisted In Just and acute observations
on men and manner* In an artificial state of
society, as Its matter and substance, and In
the logic of wit, conveyed In smooth and
strong epigrammatic couplets, an Its form;
that even when the subject was addressed to
fancy, or the Intellect, as In The Rape of the
Look, or the Essay on Man, nay, when It
was a consecutive narration, as In that aston-
ishing product of matchless talent and In-
JAMES HOGG
1271
tenuity, Pope'* Translation of the Iliad, still
a point was looked for at the end of each
second line, and the whole was, an it weie, a
sorites,1 or, if I may exchange a logical for
a grammatical metaphor, a conjunction dis-
junctive, of epigrams. Meantime, the matter
and diction seemed to me characterised not
so much by poetic thoughts, as by thoughts
translated into the language of poetry "
R4. Oh mrmoty/ etc — This quotation has
not vet l»een identified
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
(1793-1835), p. 1160
EDITIONS
Collected Worl*, eil , with a Memoir, by her Sister,
7 vols (London, Blackwood, 1880)
Complete Works, 2 vols ed by her Sister (Now
York, Appleton, 1809)
Poetical Work*, ed , with a Prefatory Notice, by
W M Roshcttl (Tx>ndon and Edinburgh,
Moxon, 1878. New York. Burt)
Poetical Work** (Oxfoid Unlv Piess, 1014)
BIOGRAPHY
Chorley, II F Mt mortal* of Mr* II < man*, 2
vols (New York, Saumlert., 1830)
II ugh os, Mrs Jftmotr of the Ltft and Writing
of Mm firman* (1839)
CRITICISM
Bancroft, G "Mrs Uemans'h Poems," "Tnc
North American Renew. April, 1827 (24 443)
Bethune, G. W Bntwh remalt Poets (Philadel-
phia, Lindsay)
Hamilton, Catherine J TFomoi Writers their
Woils and Ways, 2 Series (London, Waul,
1892)
Jeffrey, P "Records of Women with Other
Poems." and "The Forest Sanctuary *ith
Other Poems," The Edinburgh Acnrto. O<t,
1829 (DO 32) , Contribution* to the Edtnbutijh
Rtview
Quarterly Rtiteu, The, "Mrs Hemansh Poems/'
Oct. 1821 (24 180)
Walford, L B Twelve English Authoresses (Lon-
don, LongmanH, 1892)
CRITICAL NOTES
"Accomplishment without genius, and amiability
without passion, reappear, translated Into an
atmosphore of lyric exaltation, in the once famous
poetry of Mrs Hemans Of all the English
Romantic poets Mrs Hemans expresses with the
richest intensity the more superficial and transient
elcmentH of Romanticism She is at the beck and
call of whatever in touched with the pathos of
the far away, of the bygone — scenes of reminiscence
or farewell, lament* of exile and dirge* for the
i A sorites in an abridged form of utating a aeries
of syllogisms, arranged in such a way that the predi-
cate of one member become* the subject of the fol-
lowing member
dead Her Imagination flouts romantically aloof
from actuality, but It quite lacks the creative
eneigy of the great Romantics, and her fabrics
are neither real substance nor right dreams Her
expression Is spontaneously picturesque and spon-
taneously melodious, and both qualities capti-
vated her public , but she never learned to modu-
late or to tfubdue her effects She paints with few
colors, all bright Her pages are a tissue of blue
sky, golden corn, flashing swords and waving
banners, the muimur of pines, and the voices of
children"—- C II Herford, In The Age of Words-
worth (1897)
See Wordsworth's Kattmpore Effusion upon the
Death of Jamts Hogg. 37-40 (p 315)
JAMES HOGG (1772-1835), p. 476
EDITIONS
Works tn Poetry and Prose, 2 vols , ed , with a
Memoir, by J Thomson (London, Blackle,
1KC5, 1874) , G vols (Edinburgh, Nlmmo,
1878) .
Works (Centenary Illustrated ed , 1870)
Porn**, selected and edited with an Introduction,
by Mrs Garden (Canterbury Poets ed Lon-
don, Scott, 1880 . New York. Simmons)
BIOGRAPHY
Douglas, GBR James Ifoog (Famous Scots
Serleb London Ollphant, 1899)
Matkenrle. 8 "Life of the Ettrlck Shepherd,"
in Wilson's Jfoctes Ambrosianir, vol 4 (New
lork, Wlddleton, 1872)
CRITICISM
Rlnrkwood't* Magazine. "Rome Observations on the
Poetry of the Agricultural and Pastoral Dis-
tritts of Scotland,1* Feb , 1819 (4 BUI)
Chambers, W "The Candlemakeis'-Row Fes-
tival," Memoir of Robert Chambets (Kdln-
burgh, Chambers, 1872)
Dial, The. "The Real Ettrlck Shepherd " March 10,
1900 (28 205)
Iladden, J C "The Rttrlck Shepherd," The Gen-
tleman's Maqasine, Sept , 1892 (273 288)
Hall, S C and Mrs S. C. "Memories of Authors
of the Ace, The Hclcetic Magazine, Dec , 18flft
((17 090)
Jeffrey, F "The Queen 's Wake," The Edinburgh
Renew, Nov, 1814 (24 157)
Lang, A "Mystery of Auld Maitland," Black-
wood's MfHiastnc, June, 1910 (187 872)
Lockhart, J (1 Memoirs of the Life of Sir Wal-
ter Feott, Ratonet, 10 vols (Edinburgh,
1889) , 3 vols (Boston, Houghton, 1881) ;
Abridged ed . 1 vol (New York, Crowell.
1871 , London, Black, 1880)
Uemotials of James How, ed by his daughter,
Mrs M G Garden, with a Preface bv J.
Veltch (Paisley. Gardner, 1885, 1908)
Minto, W In Ward's The English Poets, Vol.
4 (London and New York, Macmlllan, 1880,
1911).
1272
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Salntbbnry, G Estays in English Literature,
1780-1860, First Series (London, Parclval,
1890, New York, Scrlbner)
Bhairp, J C "The Ettrlck Shepherd," Bketehev
inlfiHtotv and Po<try,ca by J Vcltch (Kdin-
Imrgb Douglas, 18S7)
Stoddard. K II Undn the Evening Lamp (New
York, Scrlbner, 1802, London, Oay)
Thomson, J Bioaiaphteal and Critical Studies
(London, Reeves. 1806)
Veltcb, J The II i* tori/ and Poetry of the Scot-
tish Border (London, Macmlllan, 1877, 1878).
CRITICAL NOTES
"No Scottish port has dealt *ith the power and
realm ot Faiiy mote tlvidlj and impressively than
the Bard of Ettrlck Ho caught up several of the
floating traditions which actually Joiuhzed the
laliy doings, and this, as he haunted the hills
and moors where they weie said to have taken
place, brought tbe old legend home to his eveivd.iv
life and feeling Ho was thus led to an accuiate
obseivation and description of the reputed scenes
of the stoiy, and of the haunts of the
Failles These had only rccoued rare men-
tion In the tradition Itself, and little moie
than this even when thej had been put into
tcr<.c In the older time Hut all these spotb he
Knew we'll many of them were the dally round
of the shepherd and his collie The legends he
had learned thus acquiied something of the icaim
*hich he felt Hence Tloggs poems of Faliy an*
renmrknble for the fullness the richness, and the
ucc uiac y ot the description of the country — of
hill glen niid mooi "- John Vcltch In Tht ffivfon;
and Potttti of tin Krof/NA Bordet (1K7S)
See YVoidsnortli's Iljtimpoie Lffuvion «/*«w the
Death of Jamett Hof/v (p MB) , also Wilson's
\octcn Imbrouffttrr (p 11 VI)
477 THB 8K\LAI1K
Roe Wordsworth'w and Shelley's poems on
the same subject (pp 297, 312. and 704)
THl QUIIK'B WAKB
The Qv<(ti'* Wake consists of a group of
fifteen poems supposed to have been sung by
Scottish minsticls heioro <Maiy. Queen of
Scots, at C'hrlstnmstldc. 1561. after her re-
turn to her native land Accoiding to tbe
Btory, she was so struck with the mmg of an
aged minstrel who played to her as she lode
from the plei of Lelth to I Icily rood, and by
the reports she heard ot the great body of
tradition belonging to Scotland, that nho
Rtralghtway announced a poetical competi-
tion—the prize to be a beautiful harp The
fifteen songs wore the result
"The Queen's Wake la a garland of fair
forest-flowers, bound with a band of rushes
from the moor It IB not a poem, —not it;
nor wan it intended to be MO , yon might tin
well call a bright bouquet of flower* a flower,
which, by-the-by, we do Ip Scotland. Some of
the ballads are very beautiful , one or two
oven splendid , most of them Rplrlted ; and
the wont far better than the best that over
was written by any bard In danger of being
a blockhead Kilmcny alone pluces our (ay,
out) Shepherd among the Undying Ones " —
John Wllttoa, in Ohimtopher Motth's Recrea
ttonff An II our' 8 lalk about Poetry (1881)
Kilmeny IB the story, common In Celtic
folk-lore and still believed In by the Irish
peasantry, of a maiden stolen by thv fairies
and brought back to earth after se\en yeiiis,
devoid of all human desire*
482. M'KIMMAN
This and the next poem are stirring na-
tional HongK lemimscent of border conflict**
l»etweeu Scotland and England (the Saxons)
during the 18th century The persons named
in the poemH weie probabh actual partici-
pants In the conflicts
4HB. LOCK TI1F DOOK, I \RIHTON
See note on J/'A unman. «bo\o Cf Scott1-*
Iloidir W(\i<h (p 4CIH), and Peacock's parod\
Chin UN of \tjrthumbnann ip 1 JJ4b)
Tin- M vinopfnr sr\
"This is one of the* man\ songs which
Mooto caused me to cancel, foi nothing that 1
know of, but 1 KM a use the\ ran countei to his
It is quite uatuial and reasonable that an
author should claim a copvnght of a scutl
nient , but it ne\ei struck me that it could
be so exclusively his, as that another had not
a right to contradict it Tills, houctci, HCM»HIS
to IK* the case in the London law , for true
It Ib that my songs weie cancelled, ami the
public may now judge on what grounds, by
comparing them with Mr Moore H I have
neither forgot nor forgiven it . and I have a
great mind to make him cancel Italia Rookh
for stealing It wholly from The Q*«H'H Wake,
which IH so apparent in the plan, that every
London Judge will give it In my favor, al-
though he ventured only on the chiuacter of
one accomplished bard, and I on se\enteen
He had better have let my fow trivial nongs
alone " — IIogg*H Introduction
THOMAS HOOD (1799-1845), p. 1135
EDITIONS
Complfte Worlra, 11 vols (London, Ward and
Lock, 187073, 1880)
Poetical Work*, en by W M Romettl (London,
Ward, 1880).
Poem ft, 2 vols (Miniature Poets od London, Can-
sell, 1882-84)
Pom*, od by A \tngor, 2 vols (Now York, Mac-
mlllan, 1897).
THOMAS HOOD
1273
Complete Poetical Works, ed by W. Jerrold (Ox-
ford Tlnlv Frew, 1906, 1911)
Poem*, with Hunt (selections), ed by J II Pant-
ing (Canterbury Poets ed London, Scott,
1889)
Prose Wot fct, 8 vote , ed. by B Sargent (New York,
Putnam, 1865).
Hood's Magazine and Comic Misoellany. 10 vote
London 1844-8)
Whim* and Oddities in Prone and Verse, 2 vols
(London, Ward and Look, 1876)
BIOGRAPHY
Elliott, A. TTnod in Scotland (London, Slmpkln,
1885)
Jen old, W Thomas Hood, hin Life and Times
(New York, Lane, 1909)
CRITICISM
ARhtnn, J "The Tiue Story of Eugene Aram,"
hiqhtecnlh Century Waifs (London, Hurst,
1887)
DawMon W J "The Humanitarian Movement In
Poetrv — Thomiis Hood and Mrs Browning"
The Maker* of Entjhsh PM It y (\ew York and
London. /Re\ ell, 1900)
DobHon, A '111 Wnnl s Tht Kujflifih POP/A. Vol 4
(London and Now York, Macmlllan, isso,
1911)
Dudlej, T U Ihirper'tt Ntw Monthly Magazine,
April, 1891 (82 720)
Keleetic Mafjasme, Tht , "Rec ollectlons of Thomas
Hood " Jan , Pel) , 1868 (70 90, 198)
Fruser, J The Westminster Jtevttw, 1871
(95 354)
(Mies, II The Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1860
((> 518)
Hudson W II A Quitt Comer in a Ltbraty
(Chkapo, Kand-M( \ally, 1915)
Littdl'K Lninq Aq< "The Had Hide of the Humor
Nts Lift-," Jan, 1802 (72 220) , "The Winks
of Thomas Hood," Jim , 1803 (70 120).
MasHon, 1) Maemillan'a Magazine, Aug, 1860
(2 :<15)
Memorial* of Hood, 2 vols., ed by bin daughter,
Mrs P Broderlp (London, Moxon, 1800,
1809)
More, P E Phelburnc Ks*ay*, Seventh Series (New
York and London, Putnam, 1910)
Oswald, E "Thomas Hood und die noxiale Ten-
denzclk htung seiner Zelt," Wittier Beittnyc
zur crn/i1 Philoloqle. Vol 19 (Vienna, 1904)
Balntsbury, O E**ay* in English Literature, 17N0-
1800, Second SerleH (London, Dent, 1895 , New
York, Kcrlbner)
Shellev, n T "Thomau Hood's Plrat Centenaiv "
THf Fortniohtly Reriew. June. 1899 (71 987).
Stedman, B C "A Repreflentative Triad— Hood,
Arnold, Procter," Serihner's Monthly. Feb.
1874 (7 403).
Rtedmnn, E C Vietorian Poets (Boston, Hough-
ton, 1875, 1888) ,
Whlpple E. 1' Essays and Reviews, 2 vols.
(1849, Boston, Osgood, 1878).
CRITICAL NOTES
To the Memory of Hood
Another star 'neath Time's horizon dropped,
To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas ,
Another heart that beat foi freedom stopped, —
What mournful words arc these '
O Love Divine, that claapeHt our tlrul earth,
And lullest it upon thy heart.
Thou knowent how much a gentle soul Ife wotth
To teach men what thou art '
HlR was a spirit that to all thy poor
Wan kind AH Rlumber after pain
Why ope HO soon thy heaven-deep Quiet's door
And eall him home again?
Freedom needs all her poets It IB they
Who give her aspirations wings.
And to the wlsei law of music sway
Her wild Imaginings
Yet thou bant called him, nor nit thou unkind,
O Love Divine, for *tlH thv will
That gracious natures leu\e then lo\<» behind
To work for Preedom still
Let laurel! M! marbles weigh on othei tomb*,
Let anthems peal for other dend
Rustling the bannered depth of minster-glooms
With their exulting spread
His epitaph shall mo<k the ^ho it-lived stone.
No lichen shall its lines efface,
He needs these few and simple Hoes alone
To maik bis resting place —
"Hen* lies a Poet Stranger If to thee
His claim to memoiv be obscure
If thou wouldst lenrn how tiulv gieat was he,
Go ask It of the poor "
— T R Louell (1845)
Toalous, I own It, I *as once —
That wickedness I here renounce
I tried at wit — it would not do ,
At tenderness — that failed me too
Before me on each path there stood
The wlttv and the tender Hood '
— Wnlter Savage Landor.
11.111.
FAIR INKS
"One of the noblest — and, spenklnc; of
Pancy, one of the most smgulurh laimtul of
modern poets was Thomas Hood His J'nij
fnes had aluavs, for me, an Inexpicssilile
charm" — Kdgnr Allan Poe, In The Pot tic
Principle (1850).
RUTH
Thin poem Is based on the Book of Ruth —
Tf KeatR's Od( to a Yir;ftff»w?7r, 05-70 (p
832).
I niMBMBUl, I TODUI1IBKR
The houso described In this poem has not
been accurately Identified It mnv be the
house at Islington Green where Hood lived
during the early days of his childhood
11«8. TH« DRfAH OF BF01NK ARAM, TP1 MUR-
DIR1R
"The remarkable name of Eugene Aram
[1704-69], belonging to a man of unusual
1274
BIBLIOGBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
talents And acquirements, is unhappily asso-
clated with a deed of blood as extraordinary
In Ita detail! as any recorded In our calendar
of crime In the year 1745, being then an
Usher and deeply engaged in the study of
Chaldee, Hebrew, Arabic, and the Celtic dia-
lects, for the formation of a Lexicon, he
abruptly turned over a still darker page in
human knowledge, and the brow that learn-
ing might have made illustrious was stamped
ignominious forevei with the brand of Cain.
To obtain a trifling property he concerted with
an accomplice, and with his own hand effected,
the violent death of one Daniel Clarke, a
shoemaker of Knaresborough, In Yorkshire.
For fourteen years nearly the secret blept
with the victim in the earth of Ht Robert's
Cave, and the manner of its discovery would
appear a striking example of the Divine Jus-
tice, even amongst those marvels narrated in
that curious old volume alluded to in The
Fortunes of Uiffcl, under its quaint title of
Qod'a Revenge against Murther.
"The accidental digging up of a skeleton,
and the unwary and emphatic declaration of
Aram's accomplice that it could not be that
of Clarke, betraying a guilty knowledge of the
true bones, he WEB wrought to a confession
of their deposit The learned homicide was
seised and arraigned , and a trial of uncom-
mon interest was wound up by a defense a*
memoiable as the tragedy Itself for eloquence
and ingenuity — too ingenious for innocence,
and eloquent enough to do credit even to that
long premeditation which the interval between
the deed and its discovery bad afforded That
this dreary period had not passed without
paroxysms of remorse, may be Inferred from
a fact of affecting Interest The late Admiral
Burney was a scholar, at the school at Lynn
In Norfolk, where Aram was an Usher, subse-
quent to his crime The Admiral stated that
Aram was beloved by the boys, and that he
used to discourse to them of murder, not
occasionally, as I have written elsewhere, but
constantly, and in somewhat of the spliit
ascribed to him in the poem
"For the more imaginative part of the ver-
sion I must refer liack to one of those un-
accountable visions, which come upon us like
frightful monsters thrown up by storms from
the great black deeps of slumber A life-
less body, in love and relationship the nearest
and dearest, was imposed upon my back, with
an overwhelming sense of obligation — not of
filial piety merely, but some awful responsi-
bility equally vague and Intense, and in-
volving, as it seemed, Inexpiable sin, horrors
unutterable, torments intolerable, — to bury
my dead, like Abraham, out of my flight1
In vain I attempted, again and again, ta
obey the mysterious mandate — by Home dread-
ful process the burthen was replaced with
a more stupendous weight of injunction, and
an appalling conviction of the Impossibility
of its fulfilment My mental anguish was In-
describable ,— the mighty agonies of souls
tortured on the supernatural racks df sleep
are not to be penned— and if In sketching
those that belong to blood-guiltiness I have
been at all successful, I owe it maliily to
the uninvoked Inspiration of that terrible
dream" — Hood's Preface
1141.
THB SONG OF TUB blllBT
This poem was inspired by an incident
which recently had drawn attention to the
conditions of workers in London A woman
whose husband bad been killed In an acci-
dent and who was left with two infant chil-
dren to support, wan chaiged with having
pawned articles belonging to her employer It
was brought out at the trial that she had lieen
trying to support herself and family by mak-
ing trousers at seven shillings a week, what
her master called a "good living "
The poem won instant popularity In France
and Germany an well a« in England It was
pilnteil on cotton handkerchiefs and sung
about the streets It IK said to have tichlcd
the circulation of Punch, in which it was first
printed Hood H monument hears the Inscrip-
tion "He sang the Kong of the Hhlrt "
1142.
TTIB 1UIIDGB OF BIQHS
"The vigor of this poem Is no less remark-
able than its pathos The versification, al-
though carrying the fanciful to the vciy verge
of the fantastic, IB nevertheless admirably
adapted to the wild insanity which lb the
thesis of the poem." — B. A Poe, in The Poetic
Principle (1860)
Among Hood's papers after his death wat*
found a fragment entitled Bridge of ttiyhs —
Part II This aimed to tell the story of a
mother who threw her illegitimate child into
the river and who was sentenced to death for
her act.
1143.
THB LAT OF TUB LABORBB
This poem in behalf of the starving unem-
ployed was inspired by an incident that hap-
pened in the spring of 1844. A young Hunt-
ingdon laborer threatened to burn the prop-
erty of the local farmers If they would not
give him work. He was convicted and sen-
tenced to transportation for life Haunted
by the subject. Hood wrote this poem and set
it in a vigorous prone appeal, which he sent
to the Home Secretary, Rlr James Graham
It ha a no effect on the minister, but It won
a pension for Hood's wife, and popular esteem
fur himself
* When Sarah, Abraham's wife, died In a foreign
land, Abraham said to the people • "Give me a pos-
session of a burylngplace with you. that 1 may bury
my dead out of my sight"— Oeneato, 23 4.
1144.
8TANTA8
This poem was written on Hood's death-
bed, 1845, Jen-old (Thomas Hood- his Life
JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT
1275
and Times, p. 895) calls It "the swan-song of a
suffering man possessed of unconquerable optl-
JAMBS HENRY LEIGH HUNT
(1784-1859), p. 866
EDITIONS
Poetical Works, ed by his son, Thornton Hunt
(London, Routledge, 1860).
Poetical Works (Popular Poets ed , London, Mozon,
1888).
Poem*, with Hood, selected and edited by J H.
Panting (Canterbury Poets ed . London, 8<ott,
1889, New Yoik, Simmon*)
Leigh Hunt as Pott and Essayist the Choi* (at
Pas*affes seleeted, with Biographical Introdue-
Iwn, by W C Kent (London, Warne, 1888)
Essays and Poems, 2 vols , selected and edited by
R B Johnson (Temple Library ed. . London,
Dent, 1891)
Essay*, ed , with an Introduction, by B. Oilier
(London, Chatto, 1869, 1890).
Essay*, Helcrted and edited, with an Introduction,
by A. Symons (Camclot ed. London, Scott,
1887, 1903)
Essays, selected and edited by A. Seymour (New
York, Dutton. 1904).
Dramatic K**ay*. ed by W. Archer and R. W.
Lowe (London, Scott, 1894).
Autobiography (Ixmrton. Smith, 1850, 1906) , 2
vols, ed by R Ingpen (London, Constable,
1908, New York, Duttnn)
Imagination and Faney or, Selections from tho
Engluth Poets, with an Kfwav In answer to
the question, "What is Poetry?" (London,
Smith, 1845, 1852, 1891 • New York, Sci Inner).
What is Poetry t, ed. by A. 8. Cook (Boston, Ginn,
1893) j
WishmvCap Papers, The (London, Low, 1878;
Boston, Lee)
BIOGRAPHY
Johnson. R. B Leigh Hunt (London, Sonnen-
Mheln, 1896)
Monkhouw, C Life of Ltigh Hunt ((Sreat
Writers Serlek London, Scott, 1893)
CRITICISM
Blaolwood'* Magaelne- "Foliage, or Poem* Origi-
nal and Translated," CM , 1819 (6 70) ; "On
the Cockney School of Poetry," Oct., 1817
(2 38), Nov., 1817 (2 194), Julj, 181ft
3 453), Aug., 1818 (3 510), Aug , 1825 (18
155).
Calne, T Flail Cobweb* of (Mffrfiwii (London,
Stock, 18S2, 1885)
Clarke, Mary C The Ctntutu M<ti/ustn<, Mnith,
1882 (23 704)
Conwnv, M D "The Leigh Hunt Memorial "
Harper's Vew Monthly Magazine, Jan , 1870
(40 253).
Dowden. B In Ward's The English Poets, VoL
4 (London and New York, Macmlllan, 1880,
1911).
Edinburgh Review, The 'The Story of Rimini,"
June, 1816 (26 470).
Fields, Mrs J. T. . A Hhclf of Old Books (Boston,
Osgood. 1894)
Hailltt, W "Mr. T. Moore— Mr Leigh Hunt,"
The Sptrit of the Age (London, 1825) , Col-
Icoted Works, ed Waller and Glover, (Lon-
don, Dent, 1902-06; New Yoik, McClure), 4,
360
Home, R. H.: "William Woulswoith and Leigh
Hunt," A New Spirit of th< \ge, 2 vols. (Lon-
don, Smith, 1844)
Kent, Armlne T "Leigh Hunt as a Poet," The
Fortnightly Renew, July, 1881 (36 224)
Macaulay, T B The Edinburgh Review, Jan.,
1841 (72 490) . Critical and Historical Essays,
2 vols. (London and New York, Longmans,
1898).
Miller, Barnette- Leigh Hunt's Relations with
Byron, Khelley, and Keats (Columbia Univ.
Press, 1910)
Punchard, C 1) • Help* to the Study of Leigh,
Hunt's EMuays (Ixmdon. Macmlllan, 1899).
Quaitttly Review, The "Foliage, or Pocnm Origi-
nal and Translated," Jan , 1818 (18 324) .
"The Story of Rimini." Jan , 1816 (14 473)
Redding, C * R<mmi*ccitc<8 of Eminent Men, 8
vols (London, Haunders, 1867)
Balntsbury, G. • Esttays in English Literature,
mo-itw, First Series (London, Perdval, 1890,
New York, Scrlbner)
Trelawny, B J Record* of Rhelley and Byron
(Ixmdon, Mozon, 1858) , Records of Shelley,
Ryron and the iuthor, 2 vols (London, Pick-
ering, 1878 , Frowde, 1906 , New York, Dutton,
1905 , Oxford Italy Press 1906)
\\alkcr, H The English Etnay and EttwiyiBts,
ch 7 (London, Dent, 1915; New Yoik, Put-
ton).
Whlpple, R P "British Critic V and "Leigh
Hunt's Poems," Essays and Reviews, 2 vols
(Boston, OHRood. 1849, 1878).
Winchester, C T. A Group of English Essaiimts
of the Early Nineteenth Century (New York,
Macmlllan, 1910)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Anderson, J P In Monkhouse'q Life of Hunt
(1893).
Ireland, A List of the Writings of William Has
litt and Leigh Hunt (London, Smith, 1868)
Johnson, R B • In his edition of Hunt's Essay*
and Poems (1891)
CRITICAL NOTES
"An essayist, poet, and translator, full (at his
bout) of grace and charm In a kind quite of his
own, he lacked both the stamina and the piercing
Imaginative vision which make Hazlltt so great In
temperament he was more akin to Lamb, but he
equally lacked Lamb's rarer qualities both as a
man and ns a writer, and his chief function in
literature was to further the ease, vivacity, and
grace of which, though in a far choicer kind.
Lamb was a master in prose, and Chaucer *nd
1276
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Arloato In verse." — G. II. Herford, in The Age at
Wordsworth (1807)
From Litter to Maria Gfoftornt;
Ton will see Hunt— one of those happy souls
Which are the Halt of the caith, and without
whom 210
This woild would smell like what It IB— a tomb.
Who IN what other* aeeiii , his room no doubt
Is btlll adoinod with man} a cast from Shout,
With giacctul floweis tastoi ullv placed about ,
And coionals of 1m y fioui lihhons bung, 215
And brighter wioaths In neat dlsoidci flung,
The gifts of the most loainod among some do/ens
Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and cousin*
And there Is he with his eternal puns.
Which beat the dullest brain tor smiles, like
duna 220
Thundering for money at a poet's door ,
Alas » it is no use to wiy, "I'm poor "'
Or oft in giavcr mood when be will look
Things winer than wero ever rend in l>ook,
In tthakebpcaic'B wlbifst temlciuchs. — 225
690.
TBB BTOBY OV EIMIlfl
—Shelley (1820)
Shelley dedicated The Ccnci to ITunt In the fol-
lowing words "M\ DBIII FiiiBND — I Insulin with
your name, from a distant countrj, and after «n
absence whose mouths have seemed years, this the
latest of my llteraiy efforts.
"Thoso writings which I have hitherto pub-
lished, have beon little else than visions which
impersonate my own apprehensions of tho beauti-
ful and the just. I can also perceive In them the
literary defects incidental to youth and Impa-
tience; they are dreams of what ought to be, or
may be. The drama which I now present to
you Is a sad reality I lav aside the presump-
tuous attitude of an Instructor, and am content
to paint, with fciich colors as my own heart fur-
nishes, that which has .been
""Had I known a person moio highly endowed
than you i self with all that it becomes a man to
possess, I had solicited for this woik tho ornament
of his name One more gentle, honoiablo, inno-
cent and brave , ono of more exalted toleration
for all who do and think evil, and yet himself
moio free from e\il , ono who knows letter how to
rccehe, and bow to confer a benefit, though ho
must ever confer far more than he can rocoue,
one of simpler, and, in tho highest sense of the
word, of puior life and manners I never knew
and I had already boon fortunate In friendships
when your namo was added to the list
"In that patient and IrrocomllHblo enmity with
domestic and political tyranny and imposture
which tho tenor of your life has Illustrated, and
which, had I health and talents, should Illustrate
mine, lot us, comforting each other In our task,
live and die
"All happiness attend yon* Tour affectionate
friend, PBUCY R KHBLLBY.
"Rome, May 20, 1810 "
See Keats's tonnefe Written on the Day that
Jfr. Mffh Hunt Lrft Prtnon (p 753) and To LHffh
Hunt, E*q (p. 704), alt»o Dickens s genial cari-
cature of Hunt as Harold Sklmpole In Bleak
Bouse.
"The following story Is founded on a
passage In Dante, the substance of which Is
contained in the concluding paragraph of the
second [fifth] Canto For the rest of the
Incidents, geneiaily speaking, the praise or
blame remains with myself The passage In
question — the episode of Paulo and Fran-
test a — has long been admired by the readers
of Italian poetry, and Is indeed the most cor-
dial and refieshlng one in the whole of that
feingultu poem the Inferno, which some tall
a satire, and some an epic, and which, I
confess, has always appeared to mo a kind of
sublime night-maic. We even lose sight of
the place, In which tho saturnine poet, accord-
Ing to his Mimmai v way of disposing iMith of
friends and enemies, has thought proper to
put the sufferers, uiid sec tho whole melan-
choly absurdity of his theology, in spite of
itself, falling to nothing before one genuine
Impulse of the affections.
"The Interest of the passage In greatly in-
creased by its being founded on acknowledged
matter of fact Even the particular circum-
stance which Dante doscilbes an having has-
tened the fall of the lovers, — the perusal of
Luuiuclot of tlic Lake**- is most likely a true
anec dote ; for he himself, not long after tho
went, vuib living at the court of Guldo No-
vella da Polenta, the* heroine's father: and
Indeed the \oiy ilicumsinuce of his hn\iug
related It at all, consldoilng its nature, is a
wui i ant of is authentic itj . • .
"There me no notes to the present poem
1 have* done inv best, as e\er\ wilter should,
to bo true to costume and manners, to time
and place, and If tho raider understands mo
as ho goc«s, and feels touched where I am
most ambitious he should be, 1 can be content
that be shall miss an occasional nlcttj or so
In other mutters, ami not Ix* qulto Ncnslhlo of
the mighty extent of my Inform it Ion If the
poem leach posterity, curiosity may find com-
in on ta to is enough for It, and the sanction of
time give interest to whatever they maytiaco
after me If the case be othorwlso, to wiltp
notes Is only to show to how little purpose
has iMM-n one's leading . .
"For the samp reason I suppress a Rood
deal which I bad Intended to Hay on the versi-
fication of the poem,— or of that part of It,
at least, wbeic, in coming upon household
matters calculated to touch us nearest, It
takes leave, as It WOIP, of a more visible
march and accompaniment I do not hesitate
to say, however, that Pope and the French
school of versification have known the least
on the subject, of any poets perhaps that ever
wrote* They have mistaken more smoothness
for harmony ; and, in fact, wrote as they did,
because their ears were only sensible of a
iLauncclot of the Laic was a popular medieval
romance
• rf Coleridge's remarks In lilonraphia Liter-aria,
ch. 1, quoted in the Notes, p. 1270b.
JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT
1277
marked and uniform regularity One of tbo
most successful of Pope'u Imltatoiu, Dr John-
Bon, was confusedly insensible to music. In
speaking of Huch men, I allude, of course, only
to theli htyle In poetry, and not to their un-
disputed e\i elleutc In othci matters The ,
gioat uiRMteis of modern versification are,
Diyilen for ec minion narrative, though he
wanted sentiment, and his style in some re-
upects was apt to he aitlflclal. — Spenser, who
was musical from pure taste, — Milton, who
was learnedly BO, — Arlosto whose fine par
and animal splilts gave RO fiank and exquisite
a tone to nil he wild,— Miakspearc, whoso
verification escapes us, only because he ovcr-
Infoimcd It with knowledge and ftentlment —
nnd, though the name may appear slngulm to
.those who ha\o not r<»ad him with due atten-
tion to the nature of the language then exist-
ing,— rimucci, — to whom 11 sometimes ap-
peam to me tint I can tiace Drvden himself,
though the latter spoke on the subject with-
out much relish. 01, In fact, knowledge of It
All these are about as dtflerent fiom Pope as
the chimb oig,in is fiom the bell In the
Btecple, 01, to gl\c him a moie decorous com-
parison the song of the nightingale, fiom
that of the cuckoo
"With the cudeinor to near to a freer
spirit of \erslfluitlon, I h,i\c Joined one of
Ktill greater Imimrtancc. — that of bavin,; a
fin- and Idiomatic cast of language. Theio
Is a cant of urt as well ns of niture, though
the foiiner Is not so unpleasant as the latter,
which oftVcts lion affectation Hut thepioper
language of poetn Is In fait nothing dlffei cut
fiom that of icnl llf< and depends for Us
dignity upon the stifn-tlh and sentiment of
what It spc'iks It Is emit adding mnshnl
modulation to Vthnt a flne umlei standing
might artuallv utter In the midst of Its
gilefs or enjoyments The pent therefoie
fihoulil do ns Chnucer oi Shakspcaic did.—
nut <np> \\lnt k obsolete 01 peculiar In either,
un> mule than they copkd from their piedo-
ceiwors, — but use ns much as possible an
actual CM sting language,— omitting of course
meie Milp.nlsms and fugitive phrases, which
aie the cunt of ordinary discouise, Just as
trngech phrase*, dead Idioms, nnd raggeia-
tlons of Rlmplliltj. are of the rntuial The
nillflclnl style, It Is true, has Its beauties as
Borne great poets ha\e prcned; but I am
here Rpcakliig of the st>lc that Is most beau-
tiful; and these poets, It is to be obsened,
were not the greatest Of the style, to which
I allude, e\qnlslte specimens, making allow-
ance* for what Is n1>solcte, are to be found In
TJif Cnnlnltury Tahg of Chnucer, and his
TtoilH* onrf Cr<*Hl<1a, and \ou have onl\ to
open the first books of Pulcl1 and Arlosto2 to
meet with two charming ones, the Interview
of Oilando with the Abbott, In the Morgante
Uaqgiore (Canto 1 towards the conclUHlon),
and the flight of Angelica, hei meeting with
Klnaldo's horse, etc, In the Orlando Funotto.
Homer abounds with them, though, by the
way, not In the tiaiwlatlon, and I need not,
of com so, warn any leader of taste against
hunting Mr. Hoole1 foi a piopur reprebenta
tlon of the delightful Italian Such versions,
moie 01 less, losemble bail eugiavlngs, In
whi< h all the mibstanc et», whether flesh, wood,
or cloth, urn made of one texture, and that
a bad one With the Greek dramatlata I am
nshnmod to ray ] am unacquainted, and of
the 1/itlii writers, though Iloiace, for bin
delightful companionship. Is my favorite,
Catullus npncais to me to hme the truest
taste for nature But an Englishman need
go no farther than Hhakspearc Take a single
spppch of Lewi's, such for Instance an that
heait-i ending one,
•I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward/ etc -
and von have all that crltlclnm ran say, or
pcxti> can do.
"In making these observation^ I do not
demand the reader to conclude that I have
succeeded In my object, whate\er may be my
own opinion of the matter All the merit I
claim Is that of having made an attempt to
dcscilbc natural things In a language becom-
ing to them, and to do something towards a
rc\l\al of what appeals to me a proper Eng-
lish versification. There aie narrative poets
now living who ha\c fine eyes for the truth
of things, and It remains with them peihaps
to perfect *hat I may suggest If I ha\e suc-
ceeded at all, the lovers of natuie hate still
to Judge In what pioportlon the success may
be; but let me take them v«lth me a while,
v* bother In doois or out of cloois, whether In
the room or the giecu fields — let im veises.
In fthoit, come under the perusal of ingenuous
eves, and be felt a little by the heoits that
look out of them, and I am satisfied " — Hunt,
In Preface to Tin Mom of J?im/tif (isifl)
The poem was dedicated to Lord Bvion.
See Kiats's On l.mih J/MB/'* Poem "The
8tmy of Riminr (p 705)
In the poll Ion of the poem omitted, Paulo,
the brother of Giovanni, Lord of Rlmlnl, goes
to Ravenna to bring back Giovanni's bride,
Fiumcscn. the1 daughter of Duke (juldo A
proM wedding Is held, and Paulo and Fran-
<cs<a return to Rimini Fiom their flist meet-
ing I*anlo and Frnncesca had grown to love
each other, and as Giovanni was Ill-tempered
nnd uncongenial the relationship between him
nnd his beautiful bride was not cordial He
often ga^e vent to his wrath and Ill-treated
Fiancesca At such times, Francesca sought
Pulct (1432-H7) was an Italian romantic
Hoole (172
was an English
127S
BlfiLIOGfcAPflTfcS AND NOTES
solace in the garden described In the text,
tho place where she and Paulo first confessed
tbelr love fot each other
867. TO HAHPBTBAD
Hampstead IB a borough and parish In north-
western London , It was the home of Hunt and
the center of a literary circle Including Hunt,
Keats, Shelley, Hailltt, Lamb, and other*
808. TO THB GRABSHOPPin AND THB CRICKBT
ThU sonnet wa§ written in friendly com-
petition with Keats See hla On the Grawt-
hopper and Oiieket (p 704)
THI NILB
Hunt, Keats, and Shelley all wrote Ronneta
on the Nile on the same day, Feh 4, 1818
For Keats'* nonnetv see p 767 Shelley'* In
as follow*
Month after month the gathered rain* descend
Drenching yon turret Ethiopian dells,
And from the deaert'fl ice-girt pinnacles
Where Front and Heat in btrange embraces
blend
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend
Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest
dwells
By Nile's aBreal urn, with rapid spells
Urging those waters to their mighty end
Oer Egypt's land of Memory floods are level
And they are thine, O Nile— and well thou
knowest
That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil
And fruits and poisons spring where'er thou
flowefct
Beware, O Man — for knowledge must to thee,
Like the great flood to Egypt ever be.
MAHMOUD
The subject of this poem is Mabmoud the
Gainevlde, a famous Turkish prince, who
reigned in one of the eastern provinces of
Persia during the first part of the eleventh
century The Incident on which this poem
h based is related in Gibbon's The HMory of
the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
ch 57 Gibbon found the storv in D'Herbe-
lot'e Btoliothtque Onentalf (1697)
upon Hunt's announcement that the publishers
had accepted her husband's History of Fred-
erick the Great
878. GETTING UP ON COLD MORNINGS
For the point of view opposite to that ex-
pressed In this essay, see Hunt'h A Word on
Ratty Rising
874. ON THB EBALITIBS OF IMAGINATION
8T6b. 21. The passage omitted consists of quota-
tions from Milton's L'lllegro and Arcade*,
llluhtratlng his love of nature
877su 65. The passage omitted consists of a quo-
tation from Ben Jonson's To Pcnahurat, illus-
trating his method of enlivening description
by the use of clasulcal mythology and of man-
ners of the time
A "NOW"
'The paper that was most liked by Keats,
if 1 remember, was the one on a hot sum-
mer's day, entitled A Vow He was with
me when I wan writing and reading It to him.
and contributed one or two of tho passages '
— Hunt, in Autobiography, ch 16 (1850)
BONO OF FAIB11S BOBBING OftCHABD
Thle poem 10 sometimes entitled Fairies
Song It is taken from some Latin verses in
Thomas Randolph's drama of Amyntan, or the
Impossible Dowry (1038), Act III, sc. 4.
ABOU BBN ADH1M AND THI ANGBL
This poem is based on an Incident recorded
in D'Herbelot's Bioliothtque Oriental? (1697).
870.
THB OLOVB AND THB LIONS
This poem is based on an incident quoted
from Brantome (d 1614) in fit Felix's His-
tory of Paris
BONDBAU
This poem is tald to have been inspired by
the expression of delight of Mm Jane Carlyle
PROEM TO BBTBCTION FROM KBATB'R
POBTUl
In hi* volume entitled Imagination and
Fancy (1844), Hunt printed an a hdettlon
from KeatR'fl pwtry The E\e of tff Agncx,
three pages of extract* from Endymwn and
Hyperion, the Ode to a Nightingale, and On
First Looking mfo Chapman'* //omri The
essay here printed served ah an Introduction
to the hclpctlonh
888a. lOfl. Hunt's enthusiasm for Keats ac-
counts for thin extravagant and unround
statement
884a. 14. Denied tt to no one — "Allu»ion, of
course, is not here made to all the critic* of
the time, but only to such reigning reviewers
as took earliest and most ficquent notice of
Keats. The Edinburgh ficHcie, though not
quick to speak of him, did so before he died,
with a fervor of eulogy at leant equal to Its
objections; and I think I mat add that its
then distinguished editor [Jeffrey], now a
revered ornament of the Scottish bench, hat
since felt his admiration of the young poet
increase, instead of diminish" — Hunt's note
RICHARD KURD (1720-1808), p. 97
EDITIONS
Complete Work*, 8 VO!H (1811)
Moral and Political Dialogue*, with Letter* on
Chivalry and Romance (1765, 178R)
Letters on Chivalry and Romance (1762) ; ed.t
with an Introduction, by Edith J. Morley
(London, Frowde, 1911).
Moral and Political Dialog*™ (1759).
1279
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Kllvert, P Memoirs of the Life and Writing* of
the Right Rev Richard Ilurd (1860)
Baintsbury, G A History of Ontkism, 8 vols.
(Edinburgh and London, Blackwood, 1901-04,
1908, New York, Dodd).
Stephen, L History of English Thought in the
Eighteenth Century, 2 vote (Ixmdon, Smith,
1876, 1902, New Yoik, Putnam)
CRITICAL NOTES
"The Lyrical Ballads of 1798 were bv no means
the first Indication of the change which was tak
lug place in prevalent habits of thought and mode*
of expression In criticism, men of letters early
began, almost in spite of themselves, to reject the
goilH to whom they Htlll professed allegiance The
citadel of classicism was first asgaulted by the
friends who claimed to defend it, and the attack
was M> Insidious as to be irresistible The very
men who do most to bring about the Romantic
Revival are strangely a\erse to its spirit of free-
dom and of individuality Richard Ilurd, the nco-
claHHle upholder of Pope, the defender of Poetical
Imitation, is one of the earliest to deviate from
the beaten track, and IB consequently of more im-
portance than the ordinary neglect of bin writing*
would lead one to suppose "— Kdlth J Morley, In
Introduction to Kurd's Letter* on Chivalry and
Romance (1911)
FRANCIS JEFFREY (1773-1850). p. 884
EDITIONS
Contributions to the Edinburgh Review, 4 vols
(London, Longman*, 1843) , 3 volt (1S40) ,
1 vol (1852)
Essay* on Enqlitth Pod* and Poetry from Tin fidtn-
ourt/h Renew (New Universal Library ed
New York, Dutton, 1913)
Littrary CrlHeism, ed with an Introduction, by
I) N Smith (Ixmdon Frowde, 1910)
Selection*, ed , with an Introduction, by L K.
Hates (Athemi'um Press ed. Boston, Gtnn,
1894)
BIOGRAPHY
Cockburn, II Life of Lord Jeffrey, with a Selec-
tion from JIM Correspondence, 2 vols (Lon-
don, Hlnck, 1S52, 1874)
CRITICISM
Bagehot, W "The First Edinburgh Reviewers,"
The National Review, 1865 , Literary Studies,
3 vols (London, Longmans, 1878-79, 1895)
Gates, L E Three Studies in Literature (Now
York, Macmlllan, 1899)
McCosh, J The Scottish Philosophy (London,
Macmlllan, 1874 , New York, Carter, 1876)
Salntsbnry, 0 "Jeffrey and Sydney Smith,"
E**av* in English Literature, fRO-lM, First
Series (London, Perdval, 1890, New York,
Scrlbner).
Tuckerman, II. T. : Essays, Biographical and Crit-
ical (Boston, Phillips, 1857)
Walker, II. . The English Essay and EttsayM, ch.
8 (London, Dent 1915, New York, Dutton)
Whlpplo, B P • "British Critic*,1' K»»au* and
Revitws, 2 vols (Boston, Osgood, 1849, 1878)
Winchester, C T "The New Essay— Jeffrey an a
Critic," A Group of English Essayists of the
Early Nineteenth Cent toy (New York, Macmll-
lan, 1910).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Smith, D N "List of Jeffrey's Articles in The
Edinburgh Review," Appendix to Jeffrey's Lit-
erary Criticism (1910)
CRITICAL NOTES
"Jeffrey was before all things a literary critic,
and, within the limits of his discernment, one of
the atutest and liveliest of his time Ills point of
view was that of refined but positive common-
sense, qualified by a rooted distrust of innovation
To the simple and obvious poetry of Rogers, Camp-
bell, Crabbe, he brought a keen if somewhat ex-
cessive appreciation , mawkish sentiment and
pseudo-medievalism he exposed with signal effect
We cannot now wholly disapprove of the stricture
upon Maim ton which angered Scott, nor share his
effusive penitence for those upon Byron's Hours of
Idleness But he was, unfortunately, as proof
against the true Romantics as against the false,
and comprehended the mysticism of imaginative
poetry In the bame anathema with the crude super-
naturalism of the school of horrors The mani-
festo against the *Lake school* with which he
opened the review is one of the most striking
examples in literature of the fatuous efforts of a
clever man to Interpret a larger world than his
own The naked simplicity of Wordsworth, the
tumultuous energy of Coleridge, the irregular
metres of Southey were equally offensive to him,
and he classed them together, as if Innovators
formed one brotherhood "— 0 II. Herford, in The
Age of Wordsuotth (1S97)
"lie is a Whig in taste BK in politics, and de-
sires in both spheres the supremacy of a chosen
aristocracy. In bis essay on Scott's Lady of the
Lale he declares the standard of literary excel-
lence to reside in 'the taste of a few . . . per-
sons, eminently qualified, by natural sensibility,
and long exi>erlence and reflection, to perceive all
beauties that really exist, as well as to settle the
relative value and importance of all the different
sorts of beauty* Jeffrey regards himself as one
of the choicest spirits of this chosen aristocracy,
and It Is as the exponent of the best current opin-
ion that he speaks on all questions of taste. His
business, then, is to dogmatise, to pronounce this
right and that wrong, to praise this author and
blame that one, but his dogmatism is not the
dogmatism of reason, but the dogmatism of taste ,
he Justifies his decisions, not by referring to a
code of written laws from which there is no
appeal, but by a more or less direct suggestion
that he has all the best Instructed opinion behind
1280
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
him "— Gates, In Selections from the JBaaaya of
Franti* Jeffrey (Athenojum Press ed , 1804)
Bee Byron's English liard* and Nootch Review-
era, 438-589 (pp 402-08) '
Speaking m the Preface to Contribution* to The
Edinbwub R< ntwt Jeffrey sajs of his connection
with The L<linbu>yh Review "It will not, I
think, be expected or required of me, that I should
look back — from any station — upon the part I
took in originating and conducting buch a work,
without home mi&tuie of agiccable feelings And,
while I biek not to decline my full hhaie of the
faultb and follies to \\hlch I have alluded, I truht
1 may he allowed to take nedlt, at the same time,
for some pin tic Iputlou In the inoiltx by which
these weie, to a cmtnin extent at least, redeemed
01 atoned for If I might be permitted farthei to
stale, in *hat particular depaitment, and gener-
ally, on account of what, I should most wish to
claim a Mho re of those merits, I should certainly
Bay, that It wan by having constantly endeavoied
to combine ethical pieeepts with literary criticism,
and ea mostly Bought to impress my rendois with a
sense, both of the close connection between sound
Intellectual attainments and the hlghei elements
of duty and eiilounent, and of the just and ulti-
mate subordination of the foimer to the latter.
The piaise in shoit to which I aspire, and to
nieilt uhlch I am conscious that my efforts were
most constantly diiected, la, that I have, moro
uniformly and eainestly than any piecedlng critic,
made the moral tendencies of the \\orks under
consideiation a lending subject of discussion, and
neglected no opportunity, In leviews of poems and
no\els as well us of graver productions, of eluci-
dating the true constituents of human happiness
and vlitue and coin ba ting those besetting picju-
dices and errors of opinion which appear w> often
to withhold men Irom the path of their duty — or
to arra> them in toolish and fatal hostility to ench
other I cannot, of course, do more, in this place,
than Intimate this proud claim. But for the
pi oof— -or at least the explanation of it, — I think
I may ventuie to refer to the greater part of the
pai>erH that follow "
884.
CEABBE'S P01MS
"I have given a larger space to Crsbbe In
this lepubluation than to any of his con-
tempoiary poets, not meiely because I think
more highly of him than of most of them, but
also because I fancy that ho has had less
Justice clone him The nature of his subjects
was not such as to attract either Imitators
or admirers, from among the ambitious 01
fanciful loveiH of poetry, or, consequently to
set him at the head of a school, or let him
sunound himself with the zealots of a sect
And it must also lie admitted, that his claims
to distinction depend fully as much on his
great powers of observation, his skill in touch-
Ing the deeper sympathies of our nature, and
his power of inculcating, by their means, the
most Impressive lemons of humanity, as on
any fine play of fancy, or grace and beauty in
his delineations. I have great faith, however,
in the intrinsic worth and ultimate success of
those moic substantial attribute*, and have,
accoidlngly, the strongest impression that the
citations I have here given from Crabbe will
strike more, and sink deeper into the minds
of readers to whom they arc new (or by
whom they may have been partially forgot-
ten), than any I have been able to present
from other writers. It probably in idle enough
(as well as a little presumptuous) to suppose
that a publication like this will uffoid many
opportunities of testing the truth of this pre-
dl< tlon But as the experiment is to be made,
theie can be no harm in mentioning this a*
one of its objects.
"It is but candid, however, after all, to add,
that my concern for Mr. Crnbhe's leputatlon
•Mould scarcely have led me to devote near
one bundled pages to the estimate of his
poetical merits, had I not net some \alue on
the speculations as to the elements of poetical
excellence in general, and its moral bearlngt*
and affinities — for the intioductlou of which
this estimate seemed to present an occasion,
or apology " — Jeff ley's note in Contributions
to the Edmbuiuh Kcvtcw
Besides the essay given here, Jeffrey re-
printed In hlH Contribution* to The Edinbwgh
Hi ctr u essays on Ciabbe'H The JZorour/7i, Tcilr w,
and Talt s of the Hall, which had oilglnully
appealed In The Edinburgh Rnuw Apill,
1HOK, API 11 1810, Nor, 1N12, and Jul>, 1S10
Jeffrey nevei escaped fiom the nairow and
prejudiced tlcw that poetiy \\ns something
artificial, to be composed with btrlct adher-
ence to rules and conventions Sec Woids-
woiths Preface to Lynial Ballads (p 322.1,
2027)
.-ll-OH. flee Coleridge's Bin urn phi a LHa-
(ii iff, 14 (p R72b, 2241)
NHOb 2H-tt2fi. ThlH is an inn ecu in to and unfair
thaiucterlxatlon of Wordsworth's poem.
8ST.
At IKON'S BSHA\ ON TUB NATl RB AND
1'RISCII'I E8 OF IAS IB
This review was aftei wards expanded and
included in Tin Enottlopcrdut llritanmca us
the dlscUHslon on Beaut} It \uis omitted in
the ninth and suhfiequcnt editions. Alison's
EHHOV, the work of the Reverend Archibald
Alison (1757-1830), a clergyman of the Eng-
lish Church, appeared In 1700; the second
edition, printed in 1811, gave occasion for
Jeffrey's review.
Jeffrey's theory of the uatme of beauty
should be compared with his principles of
literary criticism, especially with bin ethical
interpretation of literature. Bee note on
Crabbe'a Poems, above.
NMTh. 28-35. Upon receiving a copy of the
Kn*ay, Burns wrote Alison ab follows (Feb
14, 1701) "You must by this time have set
me down as one of the most ungrateful of
men You did me the honor to present me
with a book which does honor to science and
the Intellectual power* of man, and I have
FRANCIS JEFFREY
1281
not even BO much as acknowledged the receipt
of It The fact IK, jou yourself are to blame
for it Flattered as I was by your telling me
that you wished to have my opinion of the
work, the old Hplrltual enemy of mankind,
who knows well that vanity Is one of the
•Ins that most cablly beset me, put It Into
my head to ponder over the perfoimanee with
the look-out of a critic, and to draw up, foi-
•ooth ' a deep learned digest of strictures on
a comnoHltlon of which. In fact, until I road
the book, I did not even know the first prin-
ciples I o\\n, sir, that at first glance several
of your propositions htaitled me as paradox -
l<al That the martini clangor of a trumpet
had Homo thing In It vastly more grand, heroic ,
and sublime, than the twlngle-twangle of a
Jews-harp; that the delicate flexure of a
rose-twig, when the half -blown flower Iff homy
with the tears of the dawn, was Infinitely
more beautiful and elegant than the upright
stub of a burdock, and that from something
Innate and Independent of all associations of
Id. -as , — these I had set down as Incfiagable,
orthodox truths, until perusing your book
shook mv faith In short, sir, except Euclid s
Element* of OVomr/rj/, \\hl(h I made a shift
to unra\el bv my fattier'* fireside, In the
winter e\enlngs of the first Reason I held
the plough, I never read a book which ga\p
me such a quantum of Information, and added
so much to mv stock of Ideas, HH your Sways
ttn the Principle* of T attic "
B. ^ORDSWOUTH'S Till HXCTUBION
"I ha\o spoken In ninnv places rather too
bltterh and confidently of the faults of Mr
Wordsworth's poetry , and forgetting that,
even on my own view of them, they were but
faults of taste, or venial self-pai tlallty, have
nnnietlmes visited them, I fenr, with an an-
perltv which should be reserved for objects
of moral reprobation. If 1 were now to deal
with the whole question of his poetical merits,
though mv Judgment might not be substan-
tially different, I hope I should repress tho
greater pnrt of these rfracffr'ff of expression
and Indeed so utrong haH been my feeling In
this way, that, considering how much I ha\e
alwavH loved many of the attributes of his
genius, and how entirely I respect his char-
acter, It did at first occur to me whether It
was quite fitting that, In my old age and his.
I should Include In this publication anv of
those critiques which may have formerly given
pain or offence, to him or his admirers. Hut,
when I reflected that the mischief, If there
really ever was any, was long ago done, and
that I still retain, In substance, the opinions
which I should now like to have seen more
gently expressed, I felt that to omit all notice
of them on the present occasion, might be held
to Import a retraction which I am as far as
possible from intending, or even be repre-
sented as a verv shabby way of backing out
of sentiments which should either be man-
fully persisted, in, or openly renounced, and
abandoned as untenable.
"I finally resolved, therefore, to reprint my
review of The Excursion, which contains a
pretty fall view of my griefs and charges
against Mr. Wordsworth, set forth too, I
believe, in a more temperate strain than most
of my other Inculpations, — and of which I
think I may now venture to bay farther that
If the faults are unsparingly noted, the bean-
ties are not penuriously or grudgingly allowed,
but commended to the admiration of the
reader with at least as much heartiness and
goodwill.
"But I have also reprinted a short paper
on the same author's "White Doe of Rvlttontr-
In which there certainly Is no praise, or notice
of beauties, to set against the very unqualified
censures of which it is wholly made up I
have done this, however, not merely because
I adhere to these censures, but chiefly because
It seemed necessary to bring me fairly to Issue
with those who may not concur In them I
can easily understand that many whose ad-
miration of The Eacurmon, or the Lyrical Bal-
lads, rests substantially on the passages which
I too should Join in admiring, may view with
greater Indulgence than I can do, the tedious
and flat passages with which they are Inter-
spersed, and may consequently think my cen-
sure of these works a great deal too harsh
ancj uncharitable. Between such persons and
me, therefore, there may be no radical dif-
ference of opinion, or contrariety as to prin-
ciples of Judgment But If there be any who
actually admire this White Doe of ByUtone,
or Peter Hell the Wagi/oner, or the Lamenta-
tion* of Martha Rae, or the Sonnets on the
Pvmshment of Death t there can be no ruch
ambiguity, or means of reconcilement. Now
I have been assured not only that there are
such persons, but that almost all those who
seek to exalt Mr. Wordsworth as the fqnnder
of a new school of poetry, consider these as
by far his best and most characteristic pro-
ductions, and would at once reject from their
communion anyone who did not acknowledge
In them the traces of a high Inspiration Now
I wish it to be understood, that when I speak
with general Intolerance or impatience of the
school of Mr Wordsworth, it is to the school
holding these tenets, and applying these tests,
th*t I refer and I really do not see how I
could better explain the grounds of my dis-
sent from their doctrines, than by republlsh-
Ing my remarks on this White Doe n
RfKlb. 8-H. Through his failure to appreciate the
Influence of solitude upon poets, Jeffrey Is led
Into this unsound statement See p. 8Mb,
n 1; also Thomson's Preface to Winter, p
1348a.
S84a. 7 IT. Jeffrey never understood Words-
worth's theory of poetry or his doctrine of
the Immanence of God In nature. What is
perfectly sincere and distinctive In Words-
worth's mystical interpretation of nature, Jef-
frey regards as merely affectation or madness.
1282
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
9O2.
WORDSWORTH'S THE wuiTB Don OF
BILSTOM
in connoc«on with
lowing passage from
note on too poem. _,,,..,
»<• here My a few word, of Ih Is poom
^_ .
004.
,
CHILD! HAROLD'S PI WEI MAG.
"I have already Bald BO much of Lord Byron
with reference to hi* dramatic productions,
that I cannot now afford to republlBh more
than one other paper on the subject of hl«
poetry in general and I select thin rather
because it refers to a greater variety of these
composition!*, than because it deals with Biuh
as are either absolutely the bent, or the most
characteristic of his gentaB. The truth, it,
however, that all his writings are character-
<* «*
prrfatoty
nature whl<>h haw ,ea ^
a'"™* terpstatlbly) into observation, more
na, to thp ..^t^ of fte auth ^
to » "»« ut-
ln
Sir Walter pursued the customary and very
natural eoume of conducting an action, pre-
sentlng various turns of fortune to some out-
standing point on which the inind (might lost
as a termination or catastrophe The course
persona gps in T/ic W/tifr 7>oc failK, BO far a<4
its object is extcinol and substantial So f^r
as it is moral and spiritual it success The
hen»ine ol the poem known that hrr dut> Is
not to interfere with the current of event*
either to forward or delay them, but
•To abide
The shock, and finally secure
O'er pain and giief a triumph pure1
ThiB «he does in obedience to her brother^
Injunction, as most suitable to a mind and
character that, under pinions trials had
been proved to accord with his She arhi,ve«
this not without aid from tho communication
with the inferior ucatims which often lead*
her thoughts to molve upon th. past with a
tender and humanizing influence that exalts
rather than depiesses hoi The anticipated
beatification, if I mnv sc, Bay, of her mind,
and the apotheosm of the companion of her
solitude, aie the points at which the poem
alms, and constitute Its IcBitlmato catastrophe.
far too spiritual a ono for in.Unt or widely-
•Dread sympathy, but not therefore the les,
Steel to make a deep nnd permanent Impres-
glon upon that c»lass of minds who think and
feel more indopondrntU , thnn the many do.
of the surfncea of thinpfs and intciosts transl-
tory because belonpinR moie to tho outward
and social forms of life thnn «« its intenial
BDtrlt How inMgnlflcant a thmp, for exam-
pie. doeR perwmal prcmess appear compared
with the fortitude of patience and heroic ma i-
tyrdom , In other words, with Btrupgles tor
the Bake of principle, in preference to victory
glorified in for itH own sake"
work n ^ JdM
wfls writtpn Lord BpoUBham Bec
noto on ^ f|afc Bafd|I fflnd ^ rh ^ pw
i21Ub
SAMUEL JOHNSON <1709-"M>' p- »»
EDITIONS
Wor*f' « ^V^J with an KBBtty on Ltfe and
c««]«". by A Muiphy (Ix,ndon, 1792, 1810).
Wo'A*» 16 vols (Utwarjr Club ed. New York,
Lamb 1903).
Works, 8 Yols. (New York, Bigelow.
Lwt* of thr Pocttt, 3 vols, ed f with an Introduc-
t|nn by j w IIal(ls l)y Mls A Naplop (1johtt
"|«fl «> *"***• M»- 1«» . »«r York,
r wn«nuian; ,..„,,
^"'^ '*P * hy W' E'
« " *«""«'-'" f 'jp » «»
OI-i/S I .",'
<°xford,
, - « ',' Vfc ?.}
*"'• ° "r Pft1'? M) ™rf "^rt ' ,?**
v!^ "<1£*m' Macmlllan-
York, Ilolt)
i T^ -""f ^"' J'
ed. London, Scott ,
• ed « » "*"
lf
Jrwi '
• a
, ,
by G' "• nil1 <0xf°rd Unlv
by C G °Kgood (New York' Ilolt'
?***™'"™***** \™(? hy
A Raleigh (Oxford Unly Tn-sH, 190S)
«""• ^ G B IIIU <0xfoPrt» Ctarwuloii ProKh,
„ ..„„ ,, ,^,
' Pnnoc °* ********* (Chicago, McClurg,
., M t ^
L«tcr*f 2 vols . ed by G B Hill (Oxfoid, Claren-
don Presp, 1892 , New York, Harper)
Porm*t with Coldsmlth. Collins, and CSray, ed by
T> M Ward (M . U||fmiy
n , *™i™*°> a^5 ; ^ *OP£ - , ,
Poftlcal *•**.« ^ D N. Smith (Oxford; in
preparation)
BIOGRAPHY
Bailey, J Dr Johniton and fcfe Circle (Dome
Univ. Library* London, Williams, 1913, New
York, Holt)
SAMUEL JOHNSON
1288
Boflwell, J The Life of Samuel Johnson, with Shorter, C K. Immortal Memories (New York,
the Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, ed. Harper, 1907).
by G B. Hill, 6 vols. (London, MacmlUan, Stephen, L "Dr Johnson's Writings," Hours in
a Library, 3 vole (London, Smith, 1874-79 ,
New York and London, Putnam, 1899) , 4 vole.
1887).
Boowell. J • The Life of Samuel Johnson (Globe
ed London, Matmillan, 1898) , 0 vote. (Tom- (1907).
pie Library ed . London, Dent, 1898) , 2 Taggart, H
vols. in 1 (Oxford ed.; London, Fiowdc.
1904).
"Dr Johnson as a Literary Critic,'*
The Westminster Review, SepL, 1918 (180
291).
Broadley. A M Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale Trent, W. P.. "Bicentenary of Dr. Johnson,"
(London and New York, Lane, 1910) Longfellow and Other Essays (New York,
Dobson, A "Dr Johnson's Haunts and Hablta- Crowcll, 1910)
tlons," Side-Walk Studies (London, Chatto, Walker, H The English Essay and Essayists,
1902). ch 6 (London, Dent, 1915; New York, Dut-
Grant, F Life of Samuel Johnson (Great Writers ton).
Series London, Scott, 1887) Wheatley, H. B
Hutton, L Literary Landmarks of London (Lon-
don, Unwln, 1885, 1888).
Scott, W Lives of the Novelists (London, Dent,
'Dr Johnson as a Bibliog-
rapher," Transactions of the Bibliographical
BooHty, 1907, Vol 8
BIBLIOGRAPHY
n d )
Stephen, L Samuel Johnston (English Men of
Letters Series London, Macmlllan, 1878 , Anderson, J P. In Grant's TAfe of Samuel John-
New York, Harper). 80n (1RR7)
Tinker, C. B Dr Johnson and Fanny Bumcy Courtney. W P Bibliography of Samuel Johnson
(New York, Moffat, 1911).
(Oxford Univ. Press, 1915).
CRITICISM
Arnold, M "Johnson's Lives," Essays in Criti-
Cfttm, Third Heries (Boston, Ball, 1910)
Boynton, P n "Johnson's London," London in
English Literature (Unlv of Chicago Press,
1918)
Carlyle, T "Boswell's Life of Johnson," F/o-
*(r>8 Magazine, May, 1882 (5 879) , Critical
and Miscellaneous Essays, 4 vols (Boston,
IToughton, 1880)
Carlyle, T "The Hero as Man of Letters,*' Oi»
Heroes, Hrro Worship, and tht Heroic in His-
tory (London, Chapman, 1841, 1887, New
York, Longmans, 1900)
Collins, J C "Johnson's Lives of the Poets,"
The Quarterly Review, Jan , 1908 (208 72)
Dawsnn, W J The Makers of English Ptose
(New York and London, Ilevell, 190G)
Dobson, A "Johnson's Library," Eighteenth
Century Vignettes, Second Series (London,
Chatto, 1892).
Gosse, R The Fortnightly Review, Dec, 1884
(42 781)
Hill, OB Dr Johnson Jlis Friends and his
Critics (London, Smith, 1878).
Hodell, C W "The Great Cham ol Literature
after Two Centuries," Putnam's Magazine,
Oct. 1909 (7 88).
Macaulay, T B "Boswell's Life of Johnson,"
The Edinburgh Review, Sept , 1881 (54 1) ;
Critical and Historical Essays, 2 vols (Lon-
don and New York, Longmans, 1898)
Meynell, A C. Johnson (Chicago, Browne, 1918).
Raleigh, Sir W ftamuel Johnson (Leslie Stephen
Lecture* London. Clarendon Press, 1907)
Raleigh, Sir W • Johnson on Shakespeare (Lon-
don, Frowde, 1908)
Raleigh, Sir W • flto Essays on Johnson (London,
Frowde, 1910).
1180.
CRITICAL NOTES
PR1FACI TO BIXAK8P1ARB
Johnson published an edition of Shaks-
peie's Works in 1765 The selection here
printed is from the Preface to that work
11S4b. 60. Goto —Voltaire says of this play
(Letters on the English, 18, "On Tragedy")
"The first English writer who composed a
regular tiagedv, and infused a spirit of ele-
gance through every part of it, was the illus-
trious Mr. Addison. His Cato k a master-
piece, both with regard to the diction and to
the beauty and harmony of the numbers
... Mr Addlson's Cato appears to me the
greatest character that was ever brought upon
any stage "
In contrast to Voltaire's extravagant praise
of Cato, cf the following criticism from
Ward's A History of English Dramatic Litera-
ture, 8, 441-42* "When we view this famous
tragedy as it now lies dead and cold before
us, and examine it, as we needs must, on Its
own merits, there remains surprisingly little
to account for its unprecedented success Cato
is full of effective commonplaces, many of
which are to this day current as familiar quo-
tations, but otherwise it would be difficult
to find In it any distinguishing feature .
Such as Cato was, it helped to make English
tragedy pursue more resolutely than before
the path into which It had unfortunately
entered. . . . The play which Addison had
written and which Voltaire eulogised marks
no doubt with incontestable deflnlteness an
epoch in the history of English tragedy . but
this epoch was one of decay, holding out no
prospect of recovery by any signs easily ad-
mitting of interpretation."
1284
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
JOHN KEATS (1795-1821), p. 751
EDITIONS
Poetical Works and Other Writings. 4 vols , ed by
H B Foiman (London, Reeve*, 1888. 1889).
suppl. vol (1890)
Complete Work*, 5 vols, ed, with a Memoir, by
H. B. Forman (Glasgow, Gowans (1800-01);
New York, Crowoll)
Portteal Work*, ed by H B. Forman (London,
Reeves. 1889. 1898, Imperial ed . New York,
Crowell, 1895)
Complete Poetical Works and Letter*, ed , with a
Biographical Sketch, by H. E Scudder (Cam-
bridge ed Boston, Hough ton, 1899)
Poetical Works (Globe ed. London and New York,
Macmlllan, 1902)
Poe tioal Work*, ed. by W 8. Scott (London, Finch,
1902).
Poem*, ed by E de Sftllnconrt (New York, Portd.
1905. 1912)
Poetical Works, ed , with an Introduction, by II.
B Forman (Oxford ed Oxford Unlv Pi ens.
1906. 1908)
Poetical Works, ed by G Sampson (London.
Nimmo, 1900),
Poems, 2 vols, ed, with a Preface, by 8 Colvln
. (London, Chatto, 1915, New York, Brentano).
Pocttoal Worla, ed by F T Palgrare (Golden
Treasury ed London and New York, Mac-
mlllan, 1884).
Poems, ed by Arlo Bates (Athcmpum Press ed :
Boston, Ginn, 1896)
Poems, ed , with an Introduction by R 8 Bridges
(MubPB1 Library ed London, Bullen, 1896;
New York, Scribner)
Poems, selected and edited, with an Introduction,
by A Syinons (London, Jack, 1907).
Letters to Fanny Browne, ed , with an Introdnc-
tion, by II B Forman (London, ReevoH,
1878. 1890, New tork, Scribner).
Letters, ed by S Colvln (London and New Yoik,
Macmlllan, 1891)
Letter*, Papers, and Other Rehos, ed., with Fore-
words by T. Watts-Dunton, and an Introdur-
tion by II B Forman, by G C Williamson
(London and New York, Lane, 1914).
BIOGRAPHY
Clarke, C C "Recollections of John Keats,"
The Gentleman's Magazine, Feb., 1874
(12 177)
Clarke, C C and Mary Recollections of Writers
(London, Low, 1878).
Colvln, R. Keats (Engltoh Men of Lettera Series
London, Macmlllan, 1887 , New York, liar-
per).
Hancock, A B • John Keats, A Literary Blog-
raphy (London, Constable, 1908; Boston,
Houghton). \
Houghton, Lord (R M Milne*) (ed ) • Life, Let-
terst and Literary Remains of John Keats,
2 vols (London, Mozon, 1848, 1867; New
Universal Library ed.. London, Boutledge,
1906 , New York, Dntton).
Hunt, Leigh Autobiography (London, Smith,
1860, 1906) , 2 vola , ed by B. Ingpen
London. Conitable, 1008, New York, Dut-
"""J* W- £ : ^° •/ Ja°*n *«•*•- Gpcat
Writers Series (London, Scott, 1887)
W«,t. K "Keats iu HampHtead." 3Tftr Century
Maqamue, Oct, 1895 (50 898)
1" £0fcw 5""*' *° Fll> * '
(Part", Hacnette, 1910).
CRITICISM
Arnold, M. . Essays in Criticism, Second Series
(London and New York, Macmillan, 1888)
Blaclwood's Uaganne "On the Cockney School
of Poetry" (Endymion), Aug, 1818 (J 019).
Bradley, A C "The Lcttcih of Keats,11 Oxford
Lectures on Poetiy (London, Macmillan, 1909,
1911)
Bridges, R John Keats, A Critical Essay (Pri-
vatoly printed, 1895) , Reprinted au the In-
t reduction to MUHCB* Library edition of
Keate'h J»ocm (1K90)
Brooke, 8 A. Studicn in Poetry (Nou York,
Putnam, 1907, London, Duckwoith)
Croker, J. W • "Endymlon/* The Quarterly Re-
uric, April, 181K (10 204)
DawHon, W J The Motor* of Enyl^h Poetry
(New York and London, Rtvoll, 1900)
De Vcre, A Sways, Chiefly on Poetry (New
York, Macmlllan, 1RK7)
Geeht, 8. Der KenmtaZurm* bti John Keata
(Heidelberg, C Winter, 1908)
Gosne, E uKeatM in 1894," Critical K\t Kate
(New York, Dodd, 1806, 1903)
Graham, W • La»t Linla With Ryro*, Khelley,
and Keats (Ixmdon, BmlthprH, 1899)
Harrison, F "Lamb and Keata," Tt*ny*o*,
Runktn, Mill, and Other Literary Enttmatcs
(New York and London, Macmlllan, 1900,
1902)
Hudson, W II Keats and Hts Poetry (New
York, Dodge, 1912)
Hutton, R II Brief Literacy Criticisms, ed by
his niece (London, Macmlllan, 1906)
Jeffrey, F 'Endymlon, Lamia, Isabella, The
Eve of 8t AgnpH, and Other Pooms," The
Edinburgh Review, Aug. 1820 (84 203)
Long, A Letters on Literature (New York,
LongmanH, 1889;
Lowell, J R • Among My Books, Second Rerlea
(Boston, I lough ton, 1884) , Collected Writings
(Bonton, Houghton, 1890-92)
Mable, H. W Essays in Literary Interpretation
(New York, Dodd. 1892)
MacCracken, H "The Source of Keatn'a Bvo of
St. Agnes" Modem Philology, Ort, 1907
(5 146).
Mackall. J W Lectures on Poetry (London,
Longmans, 1911).
Man*on, D. Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and
other Essays (London, MacmllUn, 1874,
1881).
JOHN KEATS 1285
Miller. Baraette: U»»t'i JtetoMoiM mth Bttron, CRITICAL NOTES
0MI*, and £«.*. (Columbia TJnlv. Pre», ..^ ^ ^ ^^ ^^ wa§ 8 ^^ of
M°v ; .r^of^.r^r6' «^^T?^s~jr5
(New York and London, Putnam, 1906) teem ^^ ^ thrU1
OUVZ.%.^r^«™eim°r(^r *"* * hta toe •— .' — the flutter of hi,
ton. Bn<7?«»c»r 8t««oi, 1811 (*8). electrical nervec. and we do not wonder he felt
°*m^*, ««,«/ * «"* '»•* h« «• •» t« ** *•«• «""* •
i. w \i ™. «»«,««• K««l,»h P«-t. of th« Keat» cer*«lnly had more of the penetrative and
Payne, W M The Greater Kigluk Port* oltM Bympatnet,c ,magInaHoil whl<.h Mongg to the
Wtart,r»*fc Oentvrv (New York. Holt. 1007. ^ rf that ^,,^4,,,,, „„,,.„ ,dentlflM ltae)f
1,1 Jf* t «*•„. TM.I- Ko.t. .ml Bossettl - wltb the moin«'talry obJc«t <* W" contemplation,
Rlokett, A "The Poet Keats and ™»»*™; than any man of these later <lay« It I* not
FtTHonal Forre. m Jfodcr« Aerator, (Lon- mw,y that ^ ^ gt|jdled ^ ^i.^,,,,,,. and
don. Dent. 1906. New York. DottM) eaught thelr turn „, th nt ^ thttt hc ^^
Bobcrtaon, J M. "The Art of Keat^ JTc» ^ goverelgn eye. and feel.
AM* taMrtt a OnMflal JfrtJiod (New Tork. them wlft ^ f|fftrlfcd ^^ * We M
Lane. 18»7) „,,,», , v * v "P* to tolk of thc clasale reno<*«anor as of a phe-
8ev<™' J.. ^.^J^^H," Anril ISO? nom<™» lo°t •«*• — ««• to «» renewed, and
ffi l'ni» *«rtM», April. 1S01 to tMnk ^ Oreckg Md ^^^ alone had the
"H? ' % Mourns -«•«"*" «*• ±"0? 2*5 ,ZLr a'speTo? ^T
CM.f«,y *«'/<w-»t. Sept . 1010 (80 684) ,n tav(¥ P WMH.WW
^ ,L £,„. ** Uaaaeme' FP"' going on almost under our own eye... and that the
1884 (27 00»). Intellectual ferment wat. In him kindled by a
Btedmnn E C Oc» «. and Other K*,aV* (Now pnre]y ^^^ Ieaven ^ had ^^ nQ ^^
York, Woirat, 1»11| ..„:,. «hlp any more than Khakeiipeare had. but like him
Suddaid 8 J M Knti.nenw.andahatewar, ^ assllnllated at R toucnPwhatewr „,„,„ wrTe
«Mfci - (Camb,ld«e Cnlv Press. 1912. New ^ purpo|(e mg ^^^ ^^ abwr|)ed ^^^
8-s-rCjrr^^r- a-™' ™"- <2istsi'^t'£
^ri'wsift'BSj, j .,,- snt^ars.- yx szx
Poctiy (Tendon, (Unstable, 1909, New Yoik, Wfc ^flj|if<i f^ ^ ^^ lndl«crimlnation of
Dutton) Endymwn In his odes he showed a sense of form
Text, J "A;-f*/f Jf ."'V'7SZI r ,Jo and P~Porti»n which we seek vainly in almost
^SS^S^mif LlWratUr" IV a^ other EnKllsh poet, and some of his sonnets
peene t™s' J Loiin, iw VHJ (taking all qualities into consideration) are the
T°rr?y' ion£m °n ' ( § moht Perfect in our language No doubt there is
ton, 1 900) Komethinv tioplcal and of strange overgrowth
Van Dyke, II "The ™»*™ <* '****• ™< !n hls gudden matnrity, but it tra. maturity
Century Magazine Oct 1895 ; (60 910). crtheless. Happy the young poet who has
Watson W -Keats'H Inters *««™» «* tho saving fault of exuberance; if he have also
<7r«,mm (New York Macmlllnn 1S93) ^ ^^ of
Wolff, L An E»»ay ^ Keat^s Treatment of the amend R y BQQ^
Heroic Rhythm and Blank Verse (ParH, ^187fl^
1909) « . ^ ^u » • * tr * « "Not «lnre SP*n«er had there been a purer gift
Woodberry, O B "On tte Promise of Keats" ^J Engllsh-speaklng peoples, not
f*^p± LeWW" ^^ W/° (B08t°n' D°Ug 8ln^ M"*<>n * »n« ^ -oHlV baJancTof sound,
ton, 18»0). thought, and cadence. There is no magic of color
in written speech that is not mixed In the diction
CONCORDANCE of The Eve of St Aqncs, — a vision of beauty,
. n deep, rich, and glowing as one of those dyed wln-
nrouBhton, L N A Concot dance to the Poems dowg |n whlch ^ hoart of ttfi MJ(1(1]e A Ml
of Keats (Carnegie Institution of Washington; ]mm Wn|,e rf the ^^ BQ peffrrt |n fornif
in press, 1916) M ripe wltn Bought, so informed and irradiated
BIBLIOGRAPHY Dy the vision and the Insight of the imagination,
what remains to be said save that they furnish us
Anderson, J P • In Rossettl's Life of John Keats with the tests and standards of poetry itself?
(1887) They mark the complete Identification of thought
Forman, II B In his edition of Keats's Com- with tyrm. of vision with faculty, of life with
plcte Works (1900-01) art."— H. W Ma Me, in Essays in Literary Inter-
Sellncourt, E do and Bradley, A. C : "Short pretation (1892-98).
Bibliography of Keats" in fthort Bibliographies See Shelley's Adonais (p 780). and Hunt's
of Wordwotth, etc. (English Association Proem To Selection from Keats's Poetry (p.
Leaflet, No. 28, Oxford. 1912). 882)*
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
751.
IMITATION OV SPINSIU
•'Probably no English poet who has used the
Spenserian stanaa, first assimilated ao. fully
the spirit of Spenser, before ubing the stanza,
as did Keats , and to this fact may lie partly
attributed his effective line of it as an organ
for his Imagination In Its 'lingering, loving,
particularizing mood ( " — Hiram Corson, In A
Primer of English Vert* (1892).
TBS* TO CHATT1RTON
Keats was an early and constant admirer
of Chatterton Kndymwn was dedicated to
him.
758. HOW MAST BAUDS OIEI> TUB I APSIS OF
Till!
This sonnet gained Keats an Introduction
to the literary circle of which Leigh Ilunt was
the center
ON riliST lOOKlNG INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER
After Charles Cowden Clarke and Keats had
read over Chapman's translation of Homer
together, Keats composed this sonnet, which
be presented to Clarke the next morning
George Chapman was an Ellrabetban poet nurt
dramatist , his translation of Homer was pub-
lished in 15981616
As a contract to Keats's Interest In Chap-
man's translation, cf. Cowper's remarks In
a letter to Thomas Park, dated July 1~,
1703 •
"Within these few days I have received
youi acceptable present of Chapman's
translation of the Iliad. I know not whether
the book be a rarity, hut a curiosity it cer-
tainly IB I have as yet been but little of It,
enough, however, to make me wonder that
any man, with so little taste for Homer, or
apprehension of his manner, should think it
worth while to undertake the laborious task of
translating him; the hope of pecuniary ad-
vantage may perhaps account for it I Us
Information, I fear, was not much better
than his verse, for I have consulted him In
one passage of some difficulty, and find him
giving a sense of his own, not at all warranted
by the words of Homer Pope sometimes does
this, and sometimes omits the difficult part
entirely I can boast of having done neither,
though tt has cost me infinite pains to exempt
myself from the necessity "
Pope's translation of Homer's Iliad and
Orfywey appeared in 1715-20; Cowper's, In
1791.
had not yet essayed a long flight, as in
ion; but these lines indeed were written as
a prelude to a poem which he was devising,
which should narrate the loves of Diana, and
it will be seen how, with circling flight, he
draws nearer and nearer to his theme, but
after all his songs end with a half agitated
and passionate speculation over his own poetic
birth "— -Scndder's note in his edition of
Keats'B Complete Poetical Works (1899).
TIW. 8LIIP AND POBTBT
7B4. I STOOD TIPTOI UPON A LITTMB BILL
"When Keats wrote the lines which here
follow he was living in the Tale of Health In
Hampstead,' happy in the association of Hunt
and kindred spirits, and trembling with the
consciousness of his own poetic power He
This poem was wiltten In Leigh Hunt's
library which had been temporarily fitted up
us a sleeping room "It originated In sleeping
In a room adorned with busts and pictures,
and is a striking specimen of the restlessness
of the young poetical appetite, obtaining lt«
food by the very dt hire, of it, and glancing for
fit subjects of creation 'from earth to heaven*
Nor do *e like it the less for an Impatient,
and as It may be thought by some, Irreverent
absault upon the late French school of criti-
cism and monotony, which has held poetry
chained long enough to lender It home what
Indignant *hen it has got free" — Hunt, In a
Jcilew of Keats's flist volume of poeniH, the
review was published In The Examiner, July,
1817
759. 00-08. Cf. these lines with II hen I Have
Fears TJtat T lf<iy Ccave to Be (p 705)
7041. 102-220. "Iloth the strength and the weak-
nexK of this are typlcalh chaiactcilstk of
the time and of the man The passage is
Hk'»lv to remain for posterity the central ex-
pression of the spirit of literarj emancipation
then militant and about to triumph In Eng-
land. The two great elder captains of revolu-
tion, Coleridge and Wordsworth, hiue both
expounded their cause, in prose, with much
more maturity of thought and language
. . But neither has left any enunciation
of theory having power to thrill the car and
haunt the memory like the rh\mes of this
young untrained recruit In the cause of poetic
liberty and the return to nature. It Is easy,
indeed, to pic k these verses of Keats to shreds,
if we choose to fix a prosaic and rational
attention on their faults. . . Rut con-
troversy apart. If we have in us a touch of
instinct for the poetry of imagination and
beauty, as distinct from that of taste and
reason, however clearly we may see the weak
points of a passage like this, however much
we may wish that taste and reason had had
more to do with it, yet we cannot but feel
that Keats touches truly the root of the
matter; we cannot hut admire the elastic
life and variety of his vorse, his fine spon-
taneous and effective turns of rhetoric, the
ring and power of his appeal to the elements,
and the glow of his delight in the achieve-
ments and promise of the new age " — Hldney
Colvln, in Keats (English Men of Letters
Series, 1901).
JOHN KEATS
1287
768. ADDBBBBBI) TO BBNJAI11N HOBBRT HAYDON
Haydon (1786-1840) *a* an historical
painter, a mcmbei of the liteiaiy circle com-
poaed of ITunt,t KeatH, Shelley, and others
AB originally written the thiitccnth line of
this bonnet was failed out with the woids "m
the human mart " Ilaydou suggested omit-
ting them and tending th«> sonnet to WonlM-
worth Keatb replied In a note as follown
(Xov 20, 1810) •
"Tour letter has filial mo with a proud
pleasure, and shall lx» kept h\ mo a* a stimu-
lus to exertion — I begin to tt\ mv eye ui»on
one horizon Mv feeling entlieh full in
with yours in regard to the ellipsis and I
glory in It The 1dm of your bending it to
Words* 01 th put me out of breath — you know
with what reverence 1 would Mud mv wdl-
wlbhetf to him *'
STANZAS
This poem IB pometlmes entitled Happy In-
*ciittibi1itj/ It is thought to he a stt of ullium
T04. ON THE f.IC \HSI10PPEH AND PHUKET
This sonnet vius *ntten nt Hunts cottngf*
In filendly comni tltlon \ilth Hunt SK his
O» tfcr f/nift&hfi/j|)fr aitrf flic rmltt (p M»S).
ON \ Pll II KB OP IF\M»FH
In Orcek legeud, Lennder, of \lmlos Asia
Mlnoi, su<iiii tin Hellespont, nigbth, to ^isit
Hero, a priestess of \plirodite, at Res Ins In
am lent Thrnte One ninlit he wns diouncd,
and Hero, in gilcf tust In i self into the sea
TO iri< 11 HUNT, KSQ
This sonnet wns the IVdluitloii to the 1817
volume of Keats s poems
70S. ON THE SE\
TOO. OA bITTING DOTVN 1O HI- AD "KING L£AttM
ONCE AGAIN
This fioiinet was Inserted in a letter to
Keats's brotheis, date<l Jan. 23( 1S18,
aftoi the following statement "I think
a little change has taken place m ray
intellect lately — I cannot bear to be un
Intel ested or unemployed, 1, who for BO
loiig a time have In en addicted to pashlveness
Nothing is lluei loi the pui poses of gieat pro
ductlons than n \ery gradual rip4*nlng of the
intellectual powers As an instance of this —
ohspive — T sat down \esteiday to lead King
Lear on«e agiun the thing apjieiired to de-
mand the piologiie of a sonnet I wrote It,
and begun to lead — (1 know yon would like
to see it) "
LINES ON THE MEUM VID T\>EEN
This nnd the following poem were sent In
a lettei to Reynolds, dated Feb rf. 1S1H, in
letuin for two souiuts on R«ilnn Hood which
Re> nolds had sont Keats Foi the lettei to
Reynolds Me p M>2 Ilotn Reynolds and
Rents \veie 111 lull syTiipitbv with the spliit
of the 1'jhznhcthnns The Mermnid Tavern in
London ^vas fnmouh ns the lesort of Ben
Tonson Urn u mon t, Flctrhci. and other Eliza-
hot htm dramatists
RODIN noon
See note to previous poem Keats was fond
of tlu> li'gtmlaiv iiudiixil heio, Robin Hood,
not «<1 is a t.hn all oils and genetous out Inn
Little John nnd Mnld Aim inn weie associates
ol Robin Hood
TO THE MI B
Kraft* Hunt, «nd Shellev all *rote sonnets
on tbo iNik' on the snme d.n FH> 4 1S18
For Hunts soniut, see ]i s«>S , for Shelley's,
see note on Tin A fir, p 1278a.
This sonnet IIRS Inserted in a • letter to
Reynolds, dnted Apill IT, 1M7, follovMQK tint
statement "From wnnt of regular lest 1 «
ha\e l>een inther nan'UK — nnd the passnvo In
Lear — *T>o xm not henr th*1 sea?' hns bnunted
me Intensely" The words quoted by KcatH
are found in Act IV, 0, 4
LIMB
Thl- U iioMMlblv tbe "Rone' to \\lilfh Kcitd
refeiH in his I^tt « r to l^illey. Nov 2°, IM7.
See p NfGSn, 7 IT
WHBN I IT4VB PB1RR THAT 1 MAY I BA8B TO BB
Thlp winnet wn«c sent In a letter to Rey-
nolds, dated Jan 81, 1818. Cf with
and Putty, 1>«»8 (p. 759)
THE HT MVN REVSONS
This sonnet wns sent by Keats In ft letter
to Itnllet (lit. H! Alar 14, IMS, nfter the fol-
lowing stnttimnt "^011 know IHJ Ideas about
leligion I ilo not think nnself moie In the
light thnn otlui people, nud th.it nothing in
IbN w«iild is pun ihlo I \\ish 1 (ould entrr
Into all xoni feelums on the Mihjet t, moldy
for one shoit 10 minutes, mid gixe ^ou a page
01 two to \oiir liking 1 nm sometimes HO
\ei\ tkepthnl is to think poetry itself a
mete Jack o* Lnntein to nniuse whoever may
(hnnce to IM> stimk \\ith Its brilliance AH
tindesnion s»n (southing is \\orth what It
\\I1I fetch so probnblv every mental pursuit
lakes Its icalin nnd worth fiom the ardoi
of the puisuer — being In Itself a nothing
Etheienl things mm at least be thus reul
dl\lde<l under three heads — things real--
thlngs semlroal — aud nothings Things real,
as existences of sun, moon, and star
1288
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
and passages of Shakspeare — Things semireal,
•neb as love, the clouds, etc , which require a
greeting of the apirlt to make them wholly
exist — and nothings, which are made great
and dignified by an ardent pursuit — which, by
the by, stamp the Burgundy mark on the bot-
tles of our minds, Insomuch an they are able
to 'contecrate what e'er they look upon' I
have written a sonnet here of a somewhat
collateral nature — so don t Imagine It an
•apropos des bottes1 — "
"Apropos dcs bottes" means literally "apro-
pos of boots," — i e, without any reason or
motive
The Human Reatton* and To A Una Rook (p.
826) wore flint published, with the signature
/, In Hunt's Literary Pocket Book. 1819 The
Blackwood reviewer described the poems as
"two feats of Johnny Keats "
767. BNDlllION
The story of Endymlon, the beautiful youth
beloved by Diana, the moon goddetiB, had boon
In Keats' B mind for about a year before ho
actually began to write It The spirit of
romance and of the classics abode with him
constantly and stimulated him to poetic pro-
duction In a letter to lieynolds, dated April
17, 1817, he flays "I find I cannot cxlat
without poetrv — without eternal poetry — half
the day will not do — the whole of it— I began
with a little, but habit has made me a levia-
than I had become all In a tremble from
not having written anything of late — the Ron-
net overleaf did me good I slept the better
last night for It — this morning, however, I
am nearly HS bad again Just now I opened
Bpensc r, aiid the first Hues I saw were these —
The noble heart that harbors virtuous thought,
And is with child of gloilouH great Intent,
Can never rest until it forth have brought
Th* eternal brood of glory excellent — '
"I shall forthwith begin my Endymion,
which I hope I shall have gut some way with
by the time you come, when we will read our
verses In a delightful place I have set my
heart upon "
The "sonnet overleaf" was On the flea (p
760) The lines quoted by Keats are found in .
Bpenher's The Faerie Queenc, I, 5, 1, 1-4
In a letter to Bailey, dated Get 8, 1817,
Keats quote* as follows from a letter written
to his brother George "In the upring" " 'As
to what vou say about my being a poet, I can
return no answer but by saying that the high
Idea I have of poetical fame makes me think
I see It towering too high above me At any
rate, I have no right to talk until Endymion
Is finished— It will be a test, a trial of my
powers of Imagination, and chiefly of my In-
vention, which is a rare thing indeed — by
which I must make 4000 lines of one bare
circumstance, and fill them with poetry and
when I consider that this 1* a great task, and
that when done It will take me but a doien
paces towards the temple of fame — It makes
me say— God forbid that I should be without
such a task » I have heard llunt say, and I
may be asked — why endeavor after a long
poem? To which I should answer, Do not
the lovers of poetry like to have a little region
to wander In, where they may pick and choose,
and In which the images are so numerous
that many are forgotten and found new In a
second reading which may be food foi a
weck'H stroll in the Hummer? Do not they
like this better than what they can read
through before Mrs Williams comes down
fctalrs? a morning work nt most
" 'Besides, a long poem is a test of Invention,
which I take to bo the Polar Rtar of poetry,
as fancy Is the sails — and imagination the
rudder. Did our gicat poets over write short
pieces? I mean In the shape of tales — this
MLine Invention seems Indeed of late years to
have been forgotten ns a poetical excellence—
But enough of this, I put on no laurels till I
shall have finished Endymon ' "
The poem was finished Xov 2S, 1M7, and
"Insc rlbed, with e\er\ feeling of pilde and
regret and *ith 'a bowed ml nil* to the memory
of the most English of poofs except Shaks-
peare, Thomas Chattn ton "
The poem was published In April, 181H, with
the following Preface "Knowing within my-
self the manner in *hl(h thlb poem has been
produced, It Is not without a feeling of regret
that I make It public
"What manner I mean, will be quite clear to
the reader, who must soon peicel\e great
Inexperience, Immaturity, and ctcrv oiror de-
noting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed
accomplished The two first books, and In-
deed the two last, I feel stnsilile are not of
such completion as to wan ant their passing
the press, nor should they If I thought a
vearVi castlgatlon *ould do them any good —
it vtlll not the foundations are too sandy.
It l«i JuHt that this youngster should die
away a sad thought for me. If T had not
some hope that while it is dwindling I may
be plotting, and fitting myself for verses nt
to live
"This may Ite speaking too presumptuously,
and may deserve a punishment but no feel-
ing man will be foiward to Inflict it he will
leave me alone, with the conxiction that there
Is not a fiercer hell than the failure In a
great object This Is not written with the least
atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of
course, but from the desire I have to con-
ciliate men who are competent to look, and
*ho do look with a zealous eye, to the honor
of English literature
"The Imagination of a boy is healthy, and
the mature Imagination of a man Is healthy ;
but there Is a space of life between, In which
the soul Is In a ferment the character unde-
cided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition
thick-sighted thence proceeds mawklshness,
and all the thousand bitters which those men
JOHN KEATS
1289
I speak of must necessarily taste In going
over the following pages
"I hope I have not In too late a day touched
the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled
Its brightness for I wlHh to tiy once more,
before I bid it farewell "
In the last line Keats has in mind a poem
on the fall of Hyperion, the *»nn god
An earlier preface had been discarded be-
cause of objections by Reynolds Keats'a
defense of It IK contained In the following
Interesting letter to Reynolds, dated April 9.
1818- "Since you all agree that the thing la
bad, It must be so — though I am not aware
there IB anything like Hunt in It (and if
there IB, it is my natural way, and I have
something in common -with Hunt) Look It
over again, and examine Into the motives, the
seeds, fiom which any one sentence sprung —
I have not the slightest feeling of humility
towards the public — or to anything in exist-
ence,— but the eternal Being the principle of
beauty, and the* memory of gteat men When
I am writing for myself fox the mere sake
of the moment's enjo\im»nt, perhaps nature
has its course with me — but a preface IB writ-
ten to the public , a thing I cannot help
looking upon as an cnrmr and which I cannot
address without feelings of hostility If I
write a preface in a supple or subdued st\lo,
it will not bo in character with me as a
public speaker — I would he subdued before inv
friends, and thank them for subduing mo —
but among multitude** of men — I have no f< el
of stooping, I ha to the Idea of humility to
them
"I nc\er wrote one single line of poctiv with
the least shadow of public thought
"Forgi\e me for ic\lng \<m and milking a
Trojan horse of such n trifle, both with respe* I
to the matter in question, and myself — but it
eases me to tell you — I could net li\e without
the lo%e of m\ friends — I would Jump down
JEtnn. for anv great public good — but I bate
a innwklsh {wpiiliirlty I cannot be subdued
before them — Mv glorv would bo to daunt
and da 7/1 o the thousand Jabberers about pic-
tures nnd books — I see swarms of porcupines
with their quills erect 'like lime-twigs set to
catch inv winged book.* [2 II<nry VI, III, »,
10] and I would fright them away with a
torch You will say my preface is not much
of a torch It would have been too Insulting
Mo begin from Jo\e,' and I could not set a
golden head upon a thing of clay If there
is any fault In the preface It is not affectation,
but an undersong of disrespect to the public —
if I write n not her preface It must be done
without a thought of those people— I will
think about it If it should not reach you In
four or five days tell Tavlor to publish it
without a preface, and let the dedication sim-
ply stand — 'inscribed to the Memory of Thomas
Chatterton ' "
The new preface was sent to Reynolds in a
letter dated April 10, IRIS, with the following
comment. "I am anxious you should find
this preface tolerable If there is an affecta-
tion in It 'tis natural to me Do let the
printer's devil cook it, and let me be as 'the
casing air* I Macbeth, III, 4, 23]
"You are too good in this matter — were I
in your state, I am certain I should have no
thought but of discontent and Illness — I
might though be taught patience I had an
idea of giving no preface , however, don't you
think this had better go' O, let it — one
should not be too timid — of committing
faults "
7<IH. 34-02. Of Keats's Letter to Ilessey, Oct 9,
1818, In which he says "In Endymion I
leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby have
become tetter acquainted with the soundings,
the quicksands, and the rockb than If I had
stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly
pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice I
was never afraid of failure , for I would sooner
fall than not be among the greatest "
770. 80S. The review of Endt/mwn in The Quar-
terly tfcfiicw (see p 913) accused Keats of
Introducing- new words into the language
Needments, which Keats borrowed from Spen-
ser's The Fame Queenc (I, 0, 35, 60), Is one
of the words objected to
23X-30O. This Ilymn to Pan was recited by
Keats to Wordsworth when they met at Hay-
don b house, Dec. 28, 1817
772. 411. This Is one of nine un rhyming lines in
Endymio*. These arc probably the result of
changes made in revising the poem The other
lines arc as follows I TOG, II, 14tt, 802,
III, 707, 1018, IV, 510, 758, 799
77*. 5.14. Rteed from, 4rabt/ — This is an an-
ac hronism
7N4. 370 fT. Of this passage with the account
of the garden of Adonis In Spenser's The
Faerie Quecne, III, 0, 29-50
TOa. Book Ml. — Keats Is said to ha\e lemarked
to a friend "It will be easily seen what I
think of the present ministers, by the begin-
ning of the third Book " Bates suggests
(AthcnaMim Press ed ) that "the pseudo-
political effusion with which the third Book
opens is rather a reflection of the opinion of
the Leigh Hunt circle than the spontaneous
expression of Keats, who at heart was too
fully absorbed in literature to feel deeply
upon such subjects as theme "
NOf). 244. Arabian* prance — This Is an an-
achronism. See Book I, fi!4 (p 774).
1SAB1LIA OB Till POT OF BASIL
This poem was originally Intended to be
printed in a projected volume of metrical
tales translated by Reynolds and Keats from
Boccaccio; but Keats published his poem in
1820 without waiting for Reynolds, who pub-
lished his in 1821 In the Preface to his volume,
Reynolds said "The stories from Boccaccio
(The Garden of Florence, and The Ladye oj
Provence) were to have been associated with
tales from the same source, Intended to have
1290
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
been written by a friend — but illness on hlg
part, and diet i acting engagements on mine,
prevented us flora accomplishing our plan at
the time, and Death mm, to mj deep «>r-
row, has fiustiated It foiever' He, who la
gone, was one of the veiy kindest friends I
possessed, and yet he was not klndei perhaps
to me, than to others Ills Intense mind aiid
poweiful feeling \inuld, I tiuly believe, have
done the world some seivlce, had his llfo been
Bpaml — but he i\,is of too sensitive a nature —
and thus he Tins destroyed* One stoiv be
completed, utid thnt is to me now the most
pathetic poem in existence '"
825. FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA
_ ^ . ^ A
This fragment was wiltten In a letter to
Remolds dated May 3. 1S1H. aftn the fol-
lowing statement "With respect to the affec-
tions and poetry you must know bv a sun-
pathy my thoughts that way, and I daiesay
these fiw lines will be but a ratification I
wrote them on Ma^ day — and intend to finish
the ode all In good time—'
Arnold quotes this ode In the closing p.na-
grnph of his ess.iv on K<ats pi<fl\c<i to the
selwtlons in Ward's Thr rnrfi£ P**-. *'«-
Hpmirtnn, bm.iusp lt«t o^pnshlon hns thnt
rounded pnfr.tlon n.,,1 Mullv «f lottlln.,,
of whlrh Sh.,k,^.,,.«. Js tt,- wrat nm,t-r To
time I Uoeciml In the sea Allaa Bock 940 feet
high — It was 15 miles distant and seemed
dose upon us The effect of Ailaa with the
peculiar pel-spec the of the nea In connection
^ith the ground we stood on, and the ralstv
rain then tailing gave me a complete Idea of
u delude Allsa Htruek me very suddenly—
really I was a little alaimed "
Hoe note on The Human H canons, 1287b.
82(1. FANCY
"I know of no other poem which so closely
mala the luhiu'ss and melody, — and that In
this very difficult and lan-ly attempted
meter,— of Milton's HWff/io and Pmmrwto " —
Palgravc's note In his edition of Potm* of
Krattt
This pornn was wilttcn on a blank
helim- Beaumont anil Flet( hoi's tingli coined*
Thr /'air JfnW of lltt Inn In his poem Keats
ief*»rs especially to theMc ElUabethan diama-
827. ODE Oh MELANCHOLY
,„ JnntI,PV> „„, Kpnt, wrofp n
_ . .
Trt ' °
"8
thp.
niilamholv,
<lnv "', J w" "
snioki moie and mme
May-day n
TO A1LBV ROCK
_. _ _ . _ ta^HJtir*
While Journevlng through Seotlanfl, Keats
uruti- ins bioth. i as follies (Julv 10 I8JR) •
"Yesterday we cnmo 27 miles fnmi Stianin. r
^ntcicHl ATmhliP a little lu-yoml Cnun, . in.l
had oui path thiough a delightful eoun«i\.
I »,hall endeiuor that >ou may follow our
Hteim In this walk— It would be uninteresting
In a hook of ttnvels— It can not be Interesting
but by my hnvlng gone through it When we
left Calm our road Iflv half way up the
sides of a green mountalnnun shore, full of
rlefts of \erdure and eternally varying — pome-
times up humcttniCM down, and over llttlo
bridges going adoss green chasms of rnosH,
rock, and tices — winding about everywhere.
After two or thtee miles of thin we tuinul
Buddenly Into a magnificent fflen finely wooded
In parts — seven miles long — with a mountain
stream winding down the midst — fall of tot-
tflges In the most happy Hltuatlonn — the *ldc«
of the hills covered with sheep — the effect of
cattle lowing I never had HO finely At the
end we had a gradual ascent and got among
the tops of the mountains whence In a little
•
ODE ON \ r.HECIAN UHN
There Is a tradition that the urn which
inspliod thin poem W.IK one htlll presurvwl In
(ho ^^^ <|f nollaml 1IoilM,f a noto(1 miinslon
,n Kcnslngtun, London
tl.ia> ^ Worflswort|l-s PtlhOnaj
25 o0 (p
OM ON
Tn a letter to Oeorge and Ceorglana Kcatfl,
d.it<»d Mai<h 1U, 1S19, Keats ^iote as fol*
lows. "This moinlng I am In a soit of tem-
pel, Indolent and nupremelv cnieless — I long
after a fitunza or two of Thomnonfb Ca*11< of
Indolence — my paHslons are all aslrep, from
my having Rlunibered till nearly eleven, and
weakened the nulnial fibre all over me, to a
delightful sonsntlon, about three degrees on
this side of fnlntnesH If T had teeth of pcnrl
and the breath of UlleR 1 should call It Ian-
guor, but an I am I muHt rail It lailnens In
this ulate of effemlnncy the fibre* of the brain
are relaxed In common with the rest of the
Iwdy, and to such a happy degree that pleas
ure haft no show of enticement and pain no
JOHN KEATS
1291
unbearable power. Neither poetry, nor ambi-
tion, nor love have any alertness of counte-
nance as they pans by me; they seem rather
like figures on a Greek vase — a man and two
women whom no one but myself could dls-
tlngnlsh In their dlsgulsemcnt This la the
only happiness, and la a rare Instance of the
advantage of the body overpowering the mind."
LA BBLLB DAME 8AN8 MBKCI
When Hunt printed this poem In The Indi-
cator, May 10, 1820, ho stated that Keats was
Inspired to write It by a poem of the same
title written by Alain Chartler which WAS
found In a translation In a volume of Chau-
cer's works and formerly ascribed to Chaucer.
830. AVOTHin ON F\MB
10. Fame personified Is conventionally char-
aittilzcd ns Jcnlous, like Potlphar, and aft
faithless, like Pntlphar's wife. The word
*i*tcr-1n-law would seem to Identify the char-
acteristics of fame and Potlphar's wife.
GDI TO PSYCHE
This poem was written In n letter to George
and (ii'oigianu Keats lolloping this statement:
"The following poem — the last I have writ-
ten — IB the first and the only one with which I
nine taken e\eu moderate pains. I have for
the moht part dnsh'd off my lines In a hurrv.
This I hnvc done leisuiely— I think It reads
the mote ilchly fof It, and will I hope entour-
age me to urltc other things In even a moie
pent enble and healthy spirit Tou must re( nl-
Itcl that Psvihe was not embodied ap i god-
dess before the time of A pn lei us the Pin ton Nt
who Hied after the Augustan age, and conse-
quent lv the Goddtss was never worshipped or
sacrificed to with nnv of the am lent fervor —
and perhaps ne\er thought of In the old re-
ligion — I nra moie orthodox than to let a
heathen Goddess be so neglected — "
831. RO-U7. Ruskln quotes these lines to Illustrate
Keats's power In describing the pine (Modern
Pointers, Pt VI, ch 9, sec 9, note) lie says •
"Keats (an Is his wav) puts Dearly all that
may be said of the pine Into one verse [line
551, though thev are only figurative pines of
which he Is speaking T have come to that
pass of admiration for him now, that T dare
not read him, so discontented he makes me
with mv own work ; but others must not leave
unread, In considering the Influence of trees
upon the human soul, that marvellous Ode to
GDI TO A CTGHTINGALB
In the Aldlnt edition of 1876, Lord Hough-
ton prefixes this note to the poem "In the
spring of 1819 a nightingale built her nest
next Mr. Sevan's house Keats took great
pleasure In her song, and one morning took
his chair from the breakfast table to the
grass plot under a plum tree, where he re-
mained between two and three hours lie
then reached the house with some scraps of
paper In his hand, which he soon put together
In the form of this ode "
WI2. 2O This line may refer to Keats's brother
Tom, who died In December, 1818 Shortly
after this date, Haydon wrote Miss Mltford,
"The death of his brother wounded him
deeply, and It appeared to me from the hour
he began to droop lie wrote his exquisite
Ode to the nightingale at this time, and as
we were one evening walking In the Kllburn
meadows he repeated It to me, before be put
It to paper, In a low, tremulous undeitone
which affected me extremely"
62. /A love with catcjul Death.— Ct Kcats's
statement In Letter to Bailey, dated June 10,
IRIS "I was In hopes some little time back
to be able to relieve your dulness by my spir-
its— to point out things In the world worth
vour enjoyment — and now I am never alone
without rejoicing that there Is such a thing
as death— without placing my ultimate In the
gloiy of dying for a great human purpose
Perhaps If my affairs were In a different state,
I should not have written the above — you
shall Judge I have two brothers, one Is
driven, bv the 'burden of society,' to Amerlta ,
the other with an exquisite love of life, Is In
a lingering state — My love for my brothers,
from the early loss of our parents, and even
fiom cailler misfortunes,1 has grown Into an
affection 'passing the love of women *• I have
l>een Ill-tempered with them — I have vexed
them— but the thought of them has always
stifled the Impression that any woman might
otherwise have made upon me I have a
sister too, and may not follow them either to
America or to the grave Life must be under
gone, and I certainly derive some consolation
from the thought of writing one or two more
poems before It ceases"
In a letter to Charles Brown, dated Nov
80, 1820, Keats said, "It runs In my head, we
Ahull all die young "
06-70. 8ec Hood's Ruth (p 11 Id)
09-70. These are two of the lines referred
to by Kipling In his TPfrrtflw "Remember that
In all the millions permitted there are no more
than five — five little lines — of which one can
say These are the magic These are the
vision. The rest Is only poetry * " The other
three lines referred to are In Coleridge's JTuMo
Khan, 14-16 (p. 868).
LAMIA
Keats Is said to have written this poem
after studying Dryden's versification. It Is
based upon the old legend of Lamia, a beau-
tiful woman loved by Zeus and turned Into a
man eating monster by Here , later Lamia was
regarded as an evil spirit who enticed youths
by her beauty and fed upon their flesh and
1 Probably a reference to the unfortunate second
marriage of their mother.
26
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
blood. Keats found the germ of the story In
the following passage from Burton's The
Anatomy of Melancholy (1621) . "Phllobtra-
tus, in his fourth book de Vita ApoUonii, hath
a memorable Inbtanrc In this kind, which I
may not omit, of one Menlppus Lycius, a
young man twenty-five yean of age, that
gptag betwixt Cenchreas and Corinth, mot
such a phantasm In the habit of a fair gentle-
woman, which, taking him by the hand, car-
ried him home to her house, In the suburbs
of Corinth, and told him she was a Phoenician
by birth, and If he would tarry with her, he
should hear her sing and play, and drink such
wine an never any drank, and no man should
molest him, but bhe, being fair and lovely,
would live and die with him, that wan fair
and lovely to behold The young man, a
philosopher, otherwise staid and discreet, able
to moderate his passions, though not thlb of
love, tamed with, her a while to his great
content, and at last married her, to whose
wedding, amongst other guests came Apollo-
nlus, *ho, by some probable conjectures,
found her out to be a serpent, a lamia , and
that all her furniture was like Tantalus* gold,
described by Homer, no fluhstamc but mere
Illusions When she saw herself descried, she
wept, and desired Apollonlus to be silent, but
he would not be moved, and thereupon she,
plate, house, and all that was In it, vanished
In an Instant many thousands took notice
of this fact, for It was done In the midst of
Greece" (III, 2. 1, 1,)
This passage appeared as a note to the last
line In the first edition of Lamia
R42. THB BVV OF 8T. AGN1B
8t Agnes was a Roman virgin who suf-
fered martyrdom alwnt the year 300 For-
merly, In the Catholic church, upon 8t Agnes
Day, January 21, while the Agnu* DH (Lamb
of God) was chanted, two lambs were sacri-
ficed and their wool was afterwards woven
by nuns The poem IB based on the supersti-
tion that It was possible for a girl, on the
eve of Rt Agnes, to obtain knowledge of her
future husband; a* she lay on her back,
with her hands under her head, he was sup-
posed to appear before her in a dream, to
salute her with a kiss, and to feast with
her.
H X MacCracken suggests (Modrrn Philol-
ogy, 5, 1-8, Oct 1907) that 'for most of the
numerous and essential details of the charm-
Ing episode of Porphyro and Madeline, Keats
in Indebted to the Filocolo of Boccaccio "
846. 23-25. Keats devoted especial care to the
composition of these three stanzas, as is shown
by the manuscript changes Hunt says of
stania 24, in his comment on the poem pub-
lished In Imagination and Fancy (1844)
"Could all the pomp and graces of aristoc-
racy, with Titian's and Raphael's aid to .boot,
go beyond the rich religion of this picture,
with it* 'twilight saints,' and Its 'scutcheons
'blushing with the blood of queen*' r The
haunting quality of several of these lines is
aptly portrayed by Kipling In his "Wireless,"
printed in Traffics and Dlttcovettea, and in
Sorfbncr'0 Uauamnc, Aug, 1002 (82 129)
27, 7. CJiuji'd like a stuuial wh&e mart
Paynlms pray.— Several interpretations have
been given for this line. Hunt In-
terprets it an follows "Where Christian
prayer-books must not be seen, and are, there-
fore, doubly cherished for the danger "
Other Interpretations suggested are 'Her
soul was clasped as tightly in sleep as a
praycr-liook would be by a Christian in a
land of Pagans1" — "A prayer-book bearing
upon its margin pictures of converted heathen
in the act of prayer " Keats originally wrote
"shut like a missal*' , HO cla/fp'd must mean
fastened by oloupv. The meaning given on
p 846a. n 1, seems to fit best
28, 7. The suggestlveness of thlb line has
frequently been called worthy of Rhakspere
SO. "It is, apparently, as a poetical contiast
to the fasting which was generally accepted
as the method by which H maiden was to pre-
pare herself for the vision, that the porgeoun
supper-picture of st xxx was introduced
Keats, who was Leigh Hunt's guest at the
time this volume appeared, read aloud the
paMMLge to Hunt, with manifest pleasure In
his work the wile Instance I can recall
where the poet — modest In proportion to hta
greatness — vielded even to so Innocent an
impulse of vanitv " — I'algrave, In his edition
of Keats's Pott teal Work* (1884)
4O, 9. Carpet* — The use of carpets in the
poem is an anachronism
THl IV B Or ST MARK
This poem was written in a letter to George
and Georglana Keats, dated Sept 20, 1810,
following this statement "The great beauty
of poetry is that it mukus everything in every
place interesting The palatine Venice and
the abbotlne Winchester are equally interest-
ing. Borne time *lmc I began a poem called
The Eve of Nt Mark, quite In the spirit of
town quietude I think I *111 give you the
sensation of walking about an old country
town In a coolish evening I know not
whether I shall ever finish it, I will give it
as far as I have gone "
Regarding the superstition on which the
poem is based, Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote
Forman as follows "Keats*s unfinished poem
on that subject is perhaps, with La Belle
Dame Miur Mctci, the chastest and choicest
example of his maturing manner, and shows
astonishingly real medievalism for one not
bred as an artist. I copy an extract [from
The Unteen World (Masters, 1868), p 72]
which I have no doubt embodies the supersti-
tion in accordance with which Keats meant
to develop his poem It is much akin to
the belief connected with the Eve of Rt.
Agnes. 'It was believed that if a person, on
JOHN KEATB
1293
8t liark'B Bve, placed himself near tbe
church-porch when twilight was thickening,
he would behold the apparition of those per-
sons In the pariah who were to be Belied with
any severe disease that year, go into the
church If they remained there It signified
their death, if they came out again it por-
tended their recovery, and the longer or
shorter the time they remained in the build-
ing, the Hcverer or less dangerouM their Ill-
ness Infanta, under age to walk, rolled in ' "
— Quoted from Forman's edition of Keatb's
Poetical Works.
I
H4O. HYFBHION
In a letter to George and Oeorgiana Keatn,
dated Dec 26, 1818, Koats announced that
his next poem would to on the fall of Hype-
rion, the gun-god On Kept 22, 1819, he
wrote Reynolds "I have given up Hyperion —
there were too many Miltonk inversions in
it — Miltonlc verse caunnt be written but In
an artful, or, rather, ai list's humor I wish
to give myself up to othei sensations Eng-
lish ought to tie kept up It may be interest-
ing to you to pick out home lines from
7/1/prnoM, and put a mark X to the false
beauty proceeding fiom art, aud one fl to the
true voice of feeling Upon my soul 'twas
Imagination — I cannot make the distinction —
Eveiv now and then there Is a Miltonic Into-
nation— Hut I cannot make the division
properly "
Kcats's friend, Woodhousc, In his annotated
copy of Etidymion, says of Hyperion "The
strurturc of the verse, ns well as the subject,
are colossal It has an air of calm giandeur
about It which Is indicative of true power — I
know of no poem with which in this resjyect
it can be compared — It Is that in poetry,
whl(h the Elgin and Egyptian marbles are in
sculpture" — Quoted fiom Fortran's edition
of Keats's Poetical Works
At the close of his extracts from the manu-
script of the poem, Woodhouse says "The
above lines, separated from the rest, give but
a faint idea of the sustained grandeur and
quiet power which characterize the poem ;
but they are sufficient to lead us to regret
that such an attempt should have been aban-
doned The poem if completed, would have
treated of the dethronement of Hyperion, the
former God of the Run, by Apollo, — and Ind
dentally of those of Oceanns by Neptune, of
Ha turn by Jupiter etc , and of the war of the
(Hants for Saturn's refctahlishmcnt — with
other events of which we have but very dark
hints in the mythological poets of Greece and
Rome In fact the Incidents would have been
pure creations of the poet's brain How he
is qualified for such a task may be seen In
a trifling degree by the few mythological
gllmpB«B afforded in flmfymton."— Quoted
from Forman'B edition of Keats'B Poetical
Work*
TO AUTUMK
Autumn always had a peculiar attraction
for Keats On Sept 22, 1819, he wrote Key-
nolds "How beautiful the season IB now—
How fine the air A temperate sharpness
about it Really, without joking, chaste
weather— Dian skies— I never liked stubble-
fields so much as now— Aye better than the
chilly green of the spring Homehow, a
stubble-field looks warm — In the same way
that some picture* look warm This struck
me BO much in my Sunday's walk that I com-
posed upon it" He refers to the ode To
Autumn
N61. BRIGHT STAR, WOPLD I WBRB BTB \DFABT
AS THOU AHT
This Bonnet was composed on the Dorset-
shlie coast Just as Keats was sailing for Italy
in the autumn before his death "The bright
beauty of tbe day and the scene revived the
poet's drooping heart, and the Inspiration re-
mained on him for some time even after his
return to the ship It was then that he
composed that sonnet of solemn tenderness,
Bnght Mar, Would I Were Steadfast ait Thou
Art, and wrote it out in a copy of Shake-
speare's poems he had given to Severn a few
days before I know of nothing mi It ten after-
wards " — Lord Houghton, In 7/i/r, Letters, and
Literary Remains of John heat* (1848).
KIATB'B LETTBRB
In the Preface to his edition of Keats's Let-
ters, Cohin says that Keats "is one of those,
poets whose genius makes Itself felt In prose-
writing almost as decisively as In verse, and
at theli liest these letters are among the most
beautiful in our language " The Letters here
printed were addressed to the following
(1) Benjamin Bailey (17041852), under-
graduate of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, afterwards
Archdeacon of Colombo, (2) John Hamilton
Reynolds (1706-1852), poet, critic, and law-
yer, (S) John Taylor (1781-1804), publisher,
of the firm of Taylor and Hessey, and pro-
prietor and editor of The London Maaaannc;
(4) James Augustus Hessev, publisher, of the
firm of Taylor and Hessey, (5) George and
Georgian* Keats, Keats's brother and his
brother's wife, (6) Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792-1822), the poet
TO DBNJAUIN BAILBY
b. 8. Unartd — Colvin, in his edition of Keate's
tetters, suggests that this Is probably an
error for unpaid As the first part of the
word Is Italicized, It may. however, be sim-
ply a play on the phrase "the said letter."
TO JOHN TATLOR
b. 89-40. "0 for a Muse of Fin to worn*."
Henry F, Prologue 1
1294
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
304.
TO JAMU AUOUBTUM H1BUY
». 8. The first letter, which appeared in The
Morning Chronicle, Oct. 8, 1818, was written
by John Bcott It U ai follows "Sir, Al-
though I am aware that literary squabble*
are of too uninteresting and Interminable a
nature for your Journal, yet there are occa-
sions when acts of malice and gross injustice
towards an author may be properly brought
before the public through such a medium —
Allow me, then, without further preface, to
refer you to an article in the last number of
The Quarterly Review, prof curing to be a
critique on The Poem* of John Keats Of
John KeatB I know nothing , from his Preface
I collect that he IH very young — no doubt a
heinous sin; and I have been informed that
be nab Incurred the additional guilt of an
acquaintance with Mr Leigh Hunt Tbat this
latter gentleman and the editor of The Quar-
terly Review have long been at war, must
be known to every one in the least acquainted
with the literary gossip of the day Mr L
Hunt, it appears, ban thought highly of the
poetical talents of Mr Keats, hence Mr K
IB doomed to feel the merciless tomahawk of
the Reviewers, termed Quarterly, I presume
from the modi** operandi From a perusal of
the crltkiHm, I was led to the work itself
I would, Sir, that your limits would permit
a few extracts from this poem I dare appeal
to the taste and Judgment of your readers,
that beauties of the highest order may be
found In almost every page — that there arc
also many, very many pasfiages indicating
haste and carelessness, I will not deny , I will
go further, and asstrt that a real friend of
the author would have dissuaded him from
an immediate publication
"Had the genius of Lord Byron sunk under
the discouraging nneerR of an Edinburgh Re-
new the nineteenth century would scarcely
yet have been termed the Augustan era of
poetry Let Mr. Keats too persevere — he ban
talents of fno] common stamp, thin is the
hastily written tribute of a stranger, who
ventures to predict that Mr K is capable of
producing a poem that shall challenge the
admiration of every reader of true taste and
feeling, nay If be will give up his acquaint-
ance with Mr Leigh Hunt, and apontatlse in
hit friendships, his principles, and his politic*
(if he have any), he may even command the
approbation of The Quarterly Review.
"I have not heard to whom public opinion
has assigned this exquisite morceau of crit-
ical acumen. If the Translator of Juvenal be
Its author, I would refer him to the manly
and pathetic narrative prefixed to that trann-
latlon, to the touching history of genius op-
pressed by and struggling with Innumerable
difficulties, yet finally triumphing under pat-
ronage and encouragement If the Biographer
of Kirke White have done Mr Keats this cruel
wrong, let him remember bis own Just and
feeling expostulation with The Monthly fie-
viewer, who 'aat down to blast the hopes of a
boy, who had confessed to him all his hopes
and all his difficulties ' If the 'Admiralty Scribe*
(for he too is a Reviewer) be the critic, let
him compare The Battle of Talavcra with
Sndymion.
I am, Sir, Your obedient aervant,
J B."
The "Translator of Juvenal" was William
Glfford, editor of The Quartet ly Rnuw, the
"Biogiapher of Kirke White" wan Houthcy ,
the "Author of The Battle of Talavcra" wan
John Wilson Crokei, Secretary of the Ad-
miralty, the actual author of the article In
question (s«* p 913)
Tbe second letter which appeared Oct 8. Is
as follows Tbe author has not been identi-
fied "Sir, — The spirited and feeling remon-
strant e of your correspondent J B against
the cruilty and Injustice of The Quartet I ji
tffrifto, hHH most ably anticipated the few
remaiks which I bad intended to add i ess to
jou on the subject But your well kuoun
liberality In giving admission to everything
cahulflttd to do Justice to oppressed ami
Injured merit, Indueew mo to trespasH further
on youi \alun 1>le columns, 1>\ A few extracts
from Mr Kent's [«<] poem As the Re
viewer profrsses to have roail only the flist
hook I hu\e confined mv quotations to thtit
part of the poem, and I leaxe your readers
to Judge whether the erltle who could pas««
over such hnauttes a1 these linen contain, and
condemn the whole poem as Vonsistlng of
the most Incongruous ideas in the mo*t un-
couth language* in \ery implicitly to be relied
on.
I am. Sir, Your obedient servant.
Temple, Oct. 3rd, 1818. R B "
JOHN KEBLE (1792-1866), p. 1133
EDITIONS
Thi Ghrtittwn Tear, Lyra Innocdttinm, and Other
Poems (Oxfoid id Oxford Lniv. PTCHB,
1914).
Ghrintian Y(arf The (London, Paiker, 1873).
Christian Yrar, The (Canterbury Poets eel Lon-
don, S<ott, 1800)
Christian Year, 77ir (World's Claflflltt) ed . Oxfoid
Inlv. Press, 1014)
Lyra Innooenttum (London, Parker, 1878; ed by
W Lock (Now York, Oorham)
Lei ture* on Poetry. I 832-1841, 2 voln . tranwlated
by E K FranciR (Oxford Unlv Pi em, 1912)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Coleridge. J T Memoir of John Keble, 2 volr
(Oxford, Parker, ISftO, 1874)
Lock, W John Keltic (London, Methuen, 1898.
1895)
Bhalrp, J. C flfaMHm in Poetiy and Philosophy
(Edinburgh, Pouglan, 1872, 1886, Boiton,
Houghton, 1880).
CHARLES LAMB
1295
Shelley, U. C. . "Keble'e nuisloy," UnttodcK*
English Ways (London, Bivgle, 1910, Boston,
Little).
Wood, K F. L. John hello (London, Mowbray,
1909; Milwaukee, Young Churchman Co,
1910).
CRITICAL NOTE8
"There can bo no doubt that Kohlo had. In oven
an eminent degtee, some of the hlghei qualities
which make the tiue poot Ills fam> was lively
and fertile In Images full ot boauU Ills obser\n-
tlon of outwaid nature, Midi as it may bo won
In the rleh lowlands of Enuhind was accuiate,
and h1<4 fooling for th< ciuioi and tender beauty
of ffro\c and btreum, and fleld and English \\ild
flowers -was exquisitely quick nnil true Ills sym-
pathy with all that IK puie and s\voot in home
affections, with the Jo\i and HOITOWH of family
life, with the wa^s and the feelings of child ion,
was almost unequalled He bad learnt, too.
from Cowpor and Woidsmorth in England, and
from the earl\ poets of ancient (Jiooco, whom IK
lo\od so w« P, to o-vpic'-s his thought bv preference
dirocth and truthfully avoiding artlflrial 'poetic*
diction*1'— K T VaiiKhnn in "The Life of Keblo "
Tht Contemportnjf Kt i tew (1S<»9)
TII1C rnitISlI\N tBAR
This was a collection of poems ohaiactoii/od
bv Kohle as "thoughts in MISO for the Sun-
dayH mid. Uol>du\s throughout the jeui *'
CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834), p. 915
EDITIONS
Cnmplrtt TT«>A«» Jw 7*»O9r fiwci Trrtr, ed bv R H.
Shophoid (London, Chatto, 1S74, 1901).
Lift, Lttttm, ntid Wutint/*, d vols, ed bt P Fitz-
geiald (London Moxon. 1S73 , Dent, 1N92;
Philadelphia, Lipplneott)
Wotli, i\ \O!M, od b\ A Ahiftor (Loud on, Mac-
millau, 1SS4-S5)
Life and llofAv. 12 \oK, od , ^ith Introduction*,
bv V \ingor (New ^ ork, Armstiong, 1^9*)-
11)00)
/», 12 \ols, oil, with a THographlc il ami
Olthril KSMU, 1>> W Macdouald (London,
Dent, 100S Now Yoik, Dutton)
rA«* of I'hailt* and Mat it Jamb, 7 >ols, od b\
r V laicas (No\\ ^oilv, Putnam, inoioi,
London, Mc»thueii) , 0 \ols (Xi^\ Yoik, 1*H3)
iktt in J'H'sr and \tt*e of Cliailt* and Almii
Lamb. 2 vols, ed by T Ilutcblnson (CKfoid
Vnlv 1'iess, 1<M)S)
«//»r of Klia, 2 vols f ed bv \ Birrell (Temple
Llbiary ed London, Dent. 1SSR)
*, 2 vnls , ed , with an Introduction, by A.
AlpRer (London, Maomillan, 13R8)
Letter*. 5 voln , ed , with an lutioduttlon. In II.
II. Harper (liostcm llihliopbllo Society, 190(0.
BIOGRAPHY
Alnger, \.: Chailes Lamb (English Men of Let-
ters Series London, Macmlllan, 1882, New
York, Harper).
De Qumct), T The North British Review, fcov ,
IMh, VoUtittd Htttmryw, cd MUKHOII (Lon-
don, black, 1880-90, lS'ld-97), 5, 216.
Fitsrgornld, P C'/ifij/cs JAIIH!*, 7/iw Ft tends, U\s
Haunt*, and Hi* Ttoolv (1S05)
Gllclulht, Mib Anue Life of Maty Lamo (Emi-
nent Women Scilcs London, Allen, 1883,
1890)
Ha/litt, W r The Laml>* tlttir Lire*, their
r»/fwds, and t lien (Join HjHHid i not, etc
don, 10 Mathewh, 1M)(»)
Lucas, E V The Lift »f ClmilcK Lamb, 2 yoli
(London, Methuen I'MH) , 1 vol (1907,
IftlO , New Yoik, Putnam)
Maitin, It 1C In tin rwj/pMMfH of Vttarlta
Lamh (New \oik, Scrllmer, 1S90)
Pioeter II W ("llarn' Cornwall") Charlt*
Lamb A Mtmtnt (I^oiiilon, Mozon, 1H(I6,
1809; Boston, ItoUoiM)
CRITICISM
Ainger, A "The Lettcis of C'hnrleq Lamb" —
"How 1 Timid Chariot* Liinil) in lleitloid-
shue," Lutun* and IJ*i(ii/^, 2 vols (London
and Ncu loiK, MtKinillan, lUOR)
I»ensusnn, J< L Cliuil'v Lamb (New Yoik, Dodge,
Itmell \ Ubittr Ihtta, Second Seiles
Mock, iss-i, 1SSS >«•* ioik Hciibnei)
Kin ell, A "Liml/s Lettois" lf<n Jvdicatat
(London. Sio<k 1M»J N«'W Yoik. Sciilmer).
Bo\nton P II rlhe London of Lamb and
r.Aion" I tuition in KiHflmh Littiatute (TTniv
of ( hit ago Pi ess 1U13).
Colher, H "The Tiue Stoiv of Charles and Mary
Lamb," <1l<nt tint (Ituston, Am Fnitailan
Assn, 1913)
Damson W .T Tin l/c?A<r« of L'n</hvh J'tose
(New York mid Ixmdon, Ue\ell, UM)<>)
De QUITKOJ, T "Kec i illoi tions of C'hailc^ I^amb/'
Tails Mavasine, Apiil and June 1K38 , C«f-
Ittfcd 11 M//IH/S, I'd Al isM>n (London, Iliac k,
1 SSI) 90, lS9t»<)7) .1, S.r>
1? Xt<1ch(j1it\ on rhathtt Lamb (l^mdon.
l, 1903. New \oik, Scrllmei)
Il.iulson, F "Ijamh ami Konts 1it\njj«ont
7?tfsAuj, Mill, and Oth< r Litrtaiy ]l*timatt9
(New Yoik and London, Macmlllan, 1900,
1002)
lla/litt. \V "Of Persons One Would Wish to
Have Seen,*' Hit Art/? Monthly jl/rir/tirifir,
J.m, 1SJO rollidtd "HorAs, ed Waller and
^lo>er (IxNiilon, Dent, 190200, New York,
McCluie), 12 26
Hunt, Leigh \titabloaraphii (London, Smith,
is r>0, 1000) , 2 \ols, ed bv R Ingpen (Lon-
don. Constable*, 1903 , New York, Dutton)
11 u tt on L Lit n ui 11 Landmatl* of London
(London, l.nulu. 1SS5, ISSft).
Lucas, K V f7iff»7r<i Lamb and the Lloyda
(London, Smith 189S)
Moie, P E tihtlbuint Eviai/H, First and Fourth
Seiles (New Yoik and London, Putnam,
190(1)
Pater W Appreetatlon* (London and New York,
Macmlllun, 1889, 1895).
1296
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Patmore, P. G My Friends and Acquaintance,
8 vols. (New York, Saunders, 1864)
ifc.ni IT «*«v,« ?«*<)» fT^nrinn TJIIU* if)A<n
Paul, H Stray Leave* (London, Lane, i»ou)
Rawnsley, H. D Literary Associations of the
English Lakes, 2 vols. (Glasgow, MacLehose,
Boblnson, H C Diary, Reminiscences, and Cor-
respondent, 8 vote , ed. by T Sadler (Lon-
H«« wo»mnio*i liiaot o Vni« riB79 ittiBtan
don, Macmillan, 1869) , 2 vols (1872 , Boston,
Fields, 1869, 1874)
Bandford, Mm. H Thomas Poole and Hie
Friends, 2 vole (London, Macmillan, 1888)
Stoddard, E H Recollection*, Personal and
Literary, ed by R Hitchcock (New York,
ifei-nA. innjit
±sarnes, IHUBJ
Swinburne, A C "Charted Lamb and George
Wither," Miscellanies (London, Chatto. 1886,
1Q11v
«, . i m* ™ . ^ . *
Walker, H The English Essay and Essayists,
Chaps 7, 9 (London, Dent, 1915 , New York,
Dutton)
Winchester, C T A Group of Enqlitth Essayists
of the Karly Nineteenth Century (New York,
Macmillan. 1»10)
Woodberry G E Makers of Literature (New
York, Macmillan, 1901)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Hutthinbon, T In bis edition of the Wor** in
Pro*r and Verte of Charles and Mary Lamb
(1908)
Ireland, A. Li*t of the Works of Charles Lamb
(London, Smith, 1868)
Livingston, L. S. Biography of the first Kd*
Han* in Book Form of the Writings of Charles
and Mary Lamb, Published prior to Charles
Lamb'* Death tti IM* (New York, Dodd, 1908).
North, ED In Martin's In the Footprints of
Charles Lamb (1890)
Thomson, J C Biography of the Writing* of
Charles and Mary Lamb (Hull, Tutin, 1908).
CRITICAL NOTES
Written after the Death of Charles Lamb
Thi*.fSn1
Hallowed to meekness and to Innocence,
£j<f "in him i meeknewi at times gave way.
Provoked out of herself by troubles strange,
Many and strange. that hung about hie life.
mill. at the centre of his being, lodged 80
A aoul by resignation sanctified
And lf t00 often, self -reproached, he felt
r[,nat |nnocence belongs not to our kind,
A power that never reasetl to abide in him,
^^ty, 'mid the multitude of sins 81
That bhe ran cover. Irft not his exposed
To an unfOrglvln? judgment from Just Heaven
O, he was good, if e'er a good man lived '
•
—Wordsworth (1836)
Linea Qn the Dtath Qj oharlcs Lflff|b
_ M . ._ „ ^ *
Onco, and once onlv have I Been thv face
Ella , onre onj haH thy tapping tongue
Run o'er my breast, yet never has l>cen left
Impm*lon on it ftronger or more hwwt
Cordial old man1 what youth was In thv vears,
What wisdom in thv levitv, what truth
in every utterance of that pniost ROU! '
fVw an> the spirits of the glorified
Id spring to earlier at the gate of heaven
— Landor (1846)
.,Thero wag L - Wm|ielf tno ||1<|st ll|lIlBhtfllU
the mobt pPovoklng, the molt witty and senblble
of mpn He alwayg made fhe ^ pun and tne
^t ^murk In the course of tho evening UN
RcriouR conversation, like bin senous writing, IK
his best No one ever Rtammered out Ruch flne,
l>«<iuant. deep, eloquent things In half a dozen
half-sentences as he does Ills JoMts scald like
tears and he prol>cR a question with a play upon
wordK ti Tnore wag no fuHK or t>ant alM>llt Wm :
nor were nls hweetR or his sourh ever dllutort with
»»* P""^ «f affectation "-.William Hariltt, in
On th* Conversation of Authors," The Plain
^P™*™" U&26)
"CHarles Lamb'h noaegav of verso mav be held
*>7 thc «ma" han'» ^ a maiden, and there is not
ln !t ono flaunting, gallant flower, it IR, however,
fragrant with the charities of home like hloHSoms
Withered In some old cottage croft "—Edward
Dowden, in Ward's The Knvlish I'octs, Vol 4
(1880)
flee Landor^ To the Bister of Elia (p 970) and
Harlltt's On Familiar Kyle (p 1012bf Slff )
bread,
Independenc-e, Bounty's rightful sire ,
Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ,
10
With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets
With a keen WyAawrtM^to**
%T$S£S&^^ love
Inspired — works potent over smile* anil tears
And as round mountain-tops the lightning play*,
Thus innocently sported, breaking forth
\K from a cloud of some grave sympathy,
Humor and wild instinctive wit, and all
The vivid flashes of his upoken words
w
It was probably in spired by bin bister Mary's
Iwlng taken to an a«ylum as the result of a
5-
( ount equally well for its composition The
text here given is that of the first edition.
Hubsequent^edltlons omitted the first four
lines, perhaps the moHt strikingly effective
,_ the
ln tne
Bc bS! r
Wherever Christian altars have been raised,
niT _„_ .......
°17' TH1 THni1
This poem wa, written during the time of
the spy system, a protective movement inau-
GHAHLE8 LAMB
1297
gurated by Lord Bidmonth (1757-1844), the
Home Secretary, in 1817, as the result of
several riots and conspiracies and general dis-
satisfaction in the country George Edwards,
named in the laflt line of the poem, was a gov-
ernment spy who revealed the Cato Street
Conspiracy, a plot to murder the ministers in
1820 Castles and Oliver wore other contem-
porary spies. William Bedloe (1000 SO), and
Titus Optes (16401706), mentioned in the
second line, were lying informers on whore
testimony and forged document* a number
of persons were executed an conspirators In
an alleged plot of the Roman Catholics In
1678 to murder Charles II and gain control
of the government
The title of the poem was borrowed from
Coleridge's The Three Graven This poem
of Lamb's and the next, were highly praised
by I>e Qnlncev for what he called their
"almost demoniac force" See p. 1084af
35-40
THl GIPSY'S MALISON
This poem was first printed In Blackwood's
Magannr, Jan, 1829, after it had bwn de-
clined, by The Gem, of which Hood was then
editor Upon its publication Lamb wrote R
W. Procter a* follows (Jan 22, 1820) "Did
you see a tonnet of mine In Blackwood's last?
Curious construction f Elaborate facilita* '
And now 1 11 toll 'Twa* written for The
Gem, but the editors declined it, on the plea
that It would shoek all mothers; so they pub-
lished The Widow instead I am born out of
time I have no conjecture about what the
present world callb delicacy I thought tfowi-
mund Gray wab a pretty modest thing Hes-
scy a figures me that the world would not bear
It I have lived to grow into an Indecent
character. When my sonnet was rejected, I
exclaimed. 'Damn the age; I will write for
Antiquity fi "
The Widow i* a parody of Lamb written bv
Hood Rotmmund Gray is a brief story by
Lamb written in 1708 Ilessey was one of the
publishers of The London Magaginc
ON AV INFANT DYIfG AS BOOM AS BORN
Lucas (Works of 0ft a» tat and Mary Lamb)
regards this as "In some ways, Lamb's most
remarkable poem "
At the Grave of Charles Lamb tn
918.
•HI IS) GDI NO
The subject of
identified.
IBTTBR TO WOBDBWORTH
91Ob. 48-4A. 1 hare pasted all my day* in Lon-
don— Lamb's fondness for the city is admir-
ably expressed in the following poem by
William Watson (1808)
Not here, O teeming City, was it meet
Thy lover, thy most faithful, should repose,
But where the multitudinous life-tide flows
Whose ocean-murmur wa* to him more sweet
Than melody of bird*, at morn, or bleat
Of flocks in spring-time, there should Earth
enclobe
ITIs earth, amid thy thronging Joys and woes,
There, 'neath the music of thy million feet
In love of thee this lover knew no peer
Thine eastern or thy western fane had made
Fit habitation for his noble shade
Mother of mightier, nurse of none more dear.
Not here. In rustic exile, O not here,
Thy Ella like an alien should be laid
921. THOMAS HITWOOD
a. 83. The English Traveller — Heywood's
Preface to tbib play, publlbhed in 1633, Is as
follows "If, reader, thou hast of this play been
an auditor, there is lebb apology to be ubed by
Intreatfng thy patience This tragt-comedy
(being one reserved amongst 220 In which I
had either an entire hand or at the lea*»t a
main finger) coming accidentally to the press.
and I having Intelligence thereof, thought It
not fit that It should pass, as flliu* popult a
bastard without a father to acknowledge It
true it Is that my plays arc not exposed to
the world In volumes, to beat the titles of
works (as others) one reason Is, that many
of them by shifting and change of companies
have been negligently lost Others of them
are still retained in the hands of some actors,
who think it against their peculiar profit to
have them come in print, and a third that
It never was any great ambition in me to
be In this kind voluminously read All that
I have further to say at this time is only
this censure I entreat as favorably as It U
exposed to thy view freely
Ever
Studious of thy Pleasure and Profit,
Th Heywood "
By "others,"
Jonson who
"Works "
Ileywood probably means Ben
had recently published his
988.
THl TRAGBDIBS OF BniKBTBARB
b. 46. Ore rotttndo — The phiase lb quoted
from Horace's Arn Poetica, 828
tttttta. 55. Contemptible machincrv — One method
of producing rain was to tear up rejected
manuscripts and drop the pieces upon the
stage from above
this poem has not been
987. TITS SOUTH BBA HOITSB
Most of Lambs essays were contributed to
The London Magazine under the pseudonym
of "Ella," the name of an obscure Italian
clerk whom he had known at the South-flea
House, the headquarters of the 8onth-Nea
Company, Incorporated in 1710 to monopo-
lise the trade with Spanish Ronth America
Lamb held an insubordinate position with
1 From Selected Poems of William Watson, copy-
right 1902 by the John Lane Company.
1298
BIBLIOOBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
this company, probably from Sept , 1701 to
Fcb , 1702. His brother John was wirh the
company when Lamb entered Its employ
b. 48-49. Living account* . puzzle vie —
"Here Ella begins his 'matter-of-Iie' careci.
Lamb wan at this time In the Accountant*'
Office of the India Houi»e, living among figures
all day"— Lucas In his edition of The Woika
of Charles and Mary £amb (1908)
928b. 9. Picture *tiH Iwny*— This picture, if it
ever existed, has boon lost
93Ob. 4B-4T. These names are borrowed from
Bhakspcic's Tltc Tammq of tnc Nhren, Induc-
tion, BC 2, 08-08, in which one of the servants
bays to Christopher Rly
Why, Mir. you know no house nor no su<h
maid
Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up
An Stephen Hly, and old John Naps of Greece,
And Peter Turph, and Henr\ Plmpernell,
And twenty more Mich names and men as
those
Which never were, nor no man e^er saw
9»1. CRHIBT'B HOSP1TU F1VB \ND THTIiTY
1EIU8 \OU
This essay combines Lamb's experiences at
sthool with thoHp of Coleiidge Both bovs
entered Cbribt s ITospltal, the famous charity
school, on July 17, 17S2 , Coleridge was nearly
ten years old, Lamb was seven and a half
From the opening of the essay to the paia-
graph beginning "I was a poor hypothondiiac
lad* (p lM.Jb, 41), Lamb writes under the
character of Coleridge with that paragraph he
assumes his own character
987. Till TWO BAC1B Or MBN
Lucas suggest*, In his edition of Tltc Worl*
of Charlta and Matt/ Lamlit thut the germ of
this essay is proliahly found in the follow-
ing passage fiom a letter to Woi dsworth,
dated April 0, IMfl "Thanks for the books
you have gl\cn me and for all the books you
mean to give me I will bind up the Po-
litical Hunnct* and Ode accoidlng to your
suggestion I have not bound the poems jet
I wait till people have done borrowing them.
I think 1 shall get a chain and chain them
to my shelves More Hodlclano, and people may
come and lead them at chain'n length. For
of these who honow, some rend nlow, sonic
mean to read but don't read, and some neither
read nor meant to lend, but borrow to leave
you an opinion of their sagacity I must do
my money-borrowing friends the Justice to
say that there Is nothing of this caprice or
wantonness of alienation In them When
they borrow my money, they neier fall to
make use of it "
More Bodleiano —Until the middle of the
eighteenth century It was the custom in the
Bodleian Library to hive some books fastened
with chains
lOff. Lamb's Letters contain SCM ral refer-
ences to Coleridge's habit of borrowing books.
flee especially the letters to Coleridge dated
June 7, 1800, and Autumn, 1820 (Lucas'b ed ,
pp 400 and 544)
18. Bloomnbury. — A noted 01 strict in Luu-
don , Lamb never lived there.
15-10. Reformed posture. — These figures,
which once guarded the entrance, bad been
lemoved to the real of the hall
94On. 1. H id ousct -volume. — John Buncle wan
originally published in two volumes, only one
of which remained on Lamb's shelf
BS-40. The authorship of theHe Uu«s !•»
credited to Lamb
ItBB BATT11H OPINIONS ON WHIST
TTunt rep ilnt ed this essay In The London
Journal after the following statement "Here
followcth, gentle leadet, the Immortal retold
of Mrs Ilattlc and her whist, a game which
the author, as thou wilt sec, wished that he
could play foievei , nnd, accordingly, in the
deathless pages of his wit, forever will he
play it"
Critics have identified Mrs Battle with
Maiy Field, Lamb's giandmotbcr, and with
£ntah lluincy, the wife of Lamb's filend
JnnieH Ituincy, and the tenter of a prominent
uhlst club If any Identification Is necessary,
the latter suits well
944.
MACKIB1 END, IN JTFHTFOUDSTI IUJ
Mackerj End \\as the name of u farm hi
ITeitfordsliiie Lamb hnd \lslted there once
before, altoiit 1780
b. 11-12. Frtt thinker* — The following among
Lamb's friends might be Included In this
description Godwin Ilnrlltt, Hunt, Thomas
Holcroft. and John Thctaall
IMBa. 1. 7n thin faxhton — Cf the following
statement by Ruskln In his "Of Queen's Car-
dens," Rename and Lilitg, IT "\Vithout, how-
ever, vcntuilug heie on any attempt at de-
cision how much no\el n iidlng should be al-
lowed, let us at least clearly assert this that
whether no\els, or poetry or history be n\id,
they should be chosen, not for their fioedom
from e\ll, but for their possession of good
The chance and scatteiecl evil that niaj heio
and there haunt, or hide Itself in, a power-
ful lK>ok, no\cr docs ant huim to a noble
glil , but the emptiness of nn author oppi esses
her, and his amiable folly d(>gi tides her
And If she can have access to n good library
of old and classical books there need be no
choosing at all Keep the modem magazine
and novel out of your girl's wa> , turn her
loose Into the old library eveiv wet clay, and
let her alone. She will find what Is good for
, her, >ou cannot, for there IK Just this differ-
ence between the making of a girl's character
and a hot's — you inny chisel a boy Into shape,
as yon would a rock, or hammer him Into It,
if he be of a hotter kind, as you would a
piece of bronse But you cannot hammer a
girl into anything She grows as a flower
CHAELE8 LAMB
1299
does,— she will wither without ran; &he will
decay In her sheath, as a narclMUB will If
yon do not give her air enough , she may fall,
and defile her head In cluHt, If you leave her
without help at some moments of her life,
but you cannot fetter her ; she must take her
own fair form and way, If she take any, and
In mind as In body, mubt have always
'Tier household motion* light and free
And steps of virgin liberty '
Let her loose In the library, I nay, as you do
a fawn In the field. It known the bad woods
twenty times better than yon, and the good
onoK too, and will eat some bitter and prickly
ones, good for it, which you had not the
slightest thought would have been so"
The lines quoted by Ruskln are from Words-
worth's Khc Was a Phantom of Delight, 18-14
(P 205)
O4O. DREAM-CHILDREN
Thin reverie is an exquisite a piece of prose
as anything Lamb ever wrote, It IH one of the
choicest bltH of prose writing in English
literature The essay was inspired by the
death of Lamb's brother John, which oceuirecl
on Oct 20 1821 Writing to Wordswoith
March 20, 1*422, Lamb said: "We are prettv
well sine, colds and rheumatics, and n certain
deaclnoss to even thing, which I think mav
date fiom pour John*H loss, nnd another aecl-
dent or two at the same time that has made
me almost burv mvself at Palston. where >et
I see more faces than T could wish I>eaths
mcrsct one and put one out long after the
roroiit griof Two or threo have rtiort within
this last two twclvemths, and so many nails
of me have been numbed One FOPS n picture,
n. uls an anecdote, stalls a casual famy, and
thinks to toll of It to this person in preference
to n\ery other — the person is gone whom it
vioulfl have peculiarly lilted It won't do
for another Eveiy departure destroys a class
of sxmpathlcs There's Capt Burney gone* —
wb.it tun has whist now9 what matters it
what \ou lead, If you can no longer fancy
him looking over vou? One never hears any-
thing, but the Image of the particular poison
occurs ulth whom alone almost you would
care to share the intelligence Thus one dis-
tributes oneself about — and now for so many
parts of me I have lost the market Common
natures do not suffice me Good people as
they are called, won't serve I want indi-
viduals I am made up of queer points and
I want so many answering needles The OBI.
going away of friends docs not make the re-
mainder more precious It takes so much
from them as there was a common link .
I grow ominously tired of official confinement
Thirty years have I served the Philistines,
and my neck is not subdued to the yoke Ton
don't know how wearisome it I* to breathe
the air of four pent walls without relief day
after day, all the golden hours of the day
948.
054.
between 10 and 4 without ease or Interposi-
tion O for a few years between the
grave and the desk* they are the same, save
that at the latter you are outside the ma-
chine 1 sit like Philomel all day (but
not singing) with my breast against this thorn
of a desk, with the only hope that some
pulmonary affliction may relieve me"
Alfred Alnger, In Charles Lamb (English
Men of Letters Series), writes of the death of
Lamb's brother as follows
"The death of this brother, wholly unsym-
pathetic as he was with Charles, served to
bring home to him his loneliness He was
left In the world with but one near relation
ibis sister Mary], and that one too often re-
moved from him for months at a time by
the saddest of afflictions. No wonder if he
became keenly aware of his solitude No
wonder If his thoughts turned to what might
have been, and he looked back to those boyish
days when he wandered In the glades of
Blakesware with Alice by his side ... For
no reason that is apparent, while he retains
his grandmother's real name, be places the
bouse in Norfolk, but all the details that fol-
low are drawn from Blakesware Inex-
pressibly touching, when we haw once learned
to penetrate the thin disguise in which be
clothes them, are the hoarded memoirs, the
tender regrets, which Lamb, writing by his
'lonely hearth,' thus ventures to commit to
the uncertain sympathies of the great public
More touching still is the almost supei-
buman sweetness with which he deals with
the character of his lately lost brother
And there is something of the magic of genius,
unless, indeed, it was a hurst of uncontrollable
anguish. In the revelation with which his
dioam ends "
A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST TIG
In a letter written to his friend Bernard
Barton. Maun 11, 1823, Lamb says that the
idea of the discovery of toasting pigs was
borrowed from his friend Manning The fact
that Manning had spent some years In China
may account for the fantastic scenery of the
story The central idea of the essay, how-
ever, has been found in The Turkish ftp//, an
Italian work by Giovanni Paulo Marana
(1(i84), and elsewhere Lamb wiltcs of the
subject of the essay In a letter to Coleridge
dated March 0, 1822. Influenced by this
essav, several persons sent pigs to Lamb.
OLD CHINA
This essay was one of Wordsworth's
favorites It completes the sympathetic por-
trait of Mary Lamb begun in If ar A cry End, in
ffcrtfordfihire.
POOR RELATION B
This essay is noted for Lamb's marvelous
command of words
1800
BIBLJOGBAPHIES AND NOTES
957. BANITX <MT TRUB QBXIUS
This essay was originally published as one
of the Popular Fallacies under the title That
Great Wit is Allied to Madness The subject
Is a common one among essayists and scien-
tists See Dryden's Absalom and Aehitophel,
1, 168-164
Great wits are «ure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide
Cf the ehKay with Lamb H On the Tragedies
of Shakupeare \p. 028)
THfe. DtEATH OF COLBBIDGB
Thpsp reflections were written by Lainb In
an album of Mr Keymer, a Ixmdon book-
seller, at the euggertlon of Lamb's friend
John Forster Lamb never fully recovered
from the death of Coleridge.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
(1775-1864), p. 959
EDITIONS
Works, 8 vols , «1 , with a Life, by J Footer
(London, Chapman, 1N74-76)
Works, 10 vols, ed by C. U Crump (London,
DeDt, 1801-93)
Selections, ed , with a Preface, by H Colvln
(Golden Treanury ed London and New York,
Macmlllan, 1882, 1895)
Selections, ed by W B S Clvmor (Athcnwum
Pro* ed Boston, Ginn, 189S)
Poems, boloctloDK, ed by E Radfotd (Cantorbuiy
PoetH ed London, Scott, 1887)
Imaginary Con ret nations, 5 vols (Boston, Roberts,
1883)
Imaginary Conversations f telec lions 3 vols, ed
by II Kills ( Camel ot od London, Scott,
1889).
Selections from the Imaginary Conversations
(prose only), ed by A G Newcomer (New
York, Holt, 1899)
Imaginary Comersations, selections ed by J P
Mahaffy (London Blackip, 1909)
Imaginary Conversations, selections, wl b> F A
Cavenagh (Oxford Univ Press, 1914)
Pentameron, The, and Other Imaginary Conversa-
tions, ed . with a Pieface, by U Ellis (Came
lot ed London, Scott. 1889)
Letters and Other Unpublished Writing, ed by
8 Wheeler (London, Bcntley, 1897)
Lettets, Private and Public, cd by K Wheelor,
(London, Duckworth, 1899).
BIOGRAPHY
Colvln, R Landor (English Men of Letters HP-
rlcs London, Macmillan, 1878, New York,
Harper).
Field, Kate- "Last Days of Landor," The At-
lantic Monthly, April, May, June, 1866
(17 886, 640, 684).
Forster, J Walter Savage Landor, 2 vole. (Lon-
don, Chapman, 1869) , abridged as Vol 1 of
Forster's edition of Lander's Works (18V4)
Robinson, H. C. Diary, Reminiscences, and Cor-
respondence t 8 vols , ed bv T Sadler (Lon-
don, Macmillan, 1869) , 2 vols (1872, Boston,
Fields, 1869, 1874)
Whiting, L The Florence of Landor (Boston,
Little, 1905, 1912)
CRITICISM
Ulaakwood's Magazine, "Imaginary Conversations,"
April, 1824 (15 457). March and April, 1837
(41 289, 493) , "Laht Fruit off an Old Tree,*'
Jan , 1854 (75 74)
KoyntoD II W "The Poetry of Landor,*1 The
Atlantic Monthly, July, 1902 (90 126).
Bradley, W The Early Poems of Walter Navage
Landor. A Study of his Development anil
Debt to Milton. (London, Bradbury, 1914)
Dawbon, W J The Makers of English Prose
(New York and London, Kc\ell, 11)06)
De Qulncey, T "Notes on Walter Sa\age Lan
dor," Tail's Magazine, Jan and Fob, 1K47 ,
Collected WnttNf/ft, ed Mahson (London,
Black. 188990, 1890-97), 11. 894
DP Vere, A • Landor's Poftry," Essays, Chiefly
on Poetiy, 2 vols (Now York, Macmillan,
1887)
Dowdpn, E Studies in Literature (Ixmdon, Paul,
1878)
Edinburgh Revieu , The "Imaginary Conversa-
tions," March, 1824 (80-67) , "The llrilenks"
April, 1850 (91 408)
Kuipmon. R W Natural History of Tnttllect
(1898) The Complete Works, 12 vols (Cen-
tenary Hi Boston, Houghton, 1904)
Evans, E W Walter Nai atte Landor A. Critical
Ktndy (New York, Putnam. 1892)
Fyvlp, J Rome Literary Eorentrus (Ncn \oik.
Pott, 1906).
Henley, W. K Vuus and Rnuws (Chhago,
Hcrlbner. 1890)
Hewlett, H (3 The Contemporary ftfttno. Aug ,
1871 (18 109)
Home, R H A New Kpirit of the 4gr. 2 \O!H
(1844) , ed. by W Jerrold (Ix>ndon. Frowcle,
1907)
Lowell, J. R "Some Letters of Landor " Latest
Litctaty Essays, Collet t<d Writings. 10 \oh<
(Boston. Houghtou, 1890-92, London Mar-
mlllan)
Notth American Jfcuic-w, The "Foixtrr'H Llfo and
WorkH of Landor** Jan. 1A77 (124 132)
Payne, W. M . The (Ji cater English Poets of the
Nineteenth Century (New York. Holt. 1907,
1909).
BnintMbury, G Essays in English Literature,
1780-1860 Keoond Rorlen (Ixindon, Dent, 1895;
New York, Hcrlbner)
Scudder, H H "Landor as a Classic," Men and
Letters (Boston, Houghton, 1887).
Stedman, K. C. "Introduction to Cameos."
GmriiM and Other Essays (New York, Moffat,
1911).
WALTEB SAVAGE LANDOB
1301
Btedman, E. C. • Victoria* Poets (Boston, Hough-
ton, 1875, 1884).
Stephen, L "Lander's Imaginary Conversa-
tions," Hour ^ in a Library, 3 vols (London,
Smith, 1874 70 , Now York and London, Put-
nam, 1807) , 4 vote (1007).
Swinburne A C Minecllanict (London, Chatto,
1886, 1011 , New \ork, Scribncr)
Symons, A "The Poetry of Landor," The Atlantic
Monthly, June, 1000 (07 808) , The Romantic
Movement in Enqlinh Poetry (London, Con-
stable, 1000, New York, Dutton)
Tatham. EUR "Unpublished Letters of W
B Landor," The Fortnightly JB«Mir, Feb ,
1010 (03 861).
Woodberry, G. E tftudic* In Let ten and Life
(Boston, Houghton, 1800) , Makers of Litera-
ture (New York, Macmlllan, 1001)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Wheeler, R In his edition of Landor's Litter*
and other UnpuMinhed Writing* (1807)
CRITICAL NOTES
In Mtmoiy of Walter tfarayr Landor
Back to the flower-town Ride by Ride.
The bright months bring.
New-born, the bridegroom and the bride,
Freedom and spring
The sweet l*ind In ugh* from sea to sea, 5
Filled full of sun
All things come luuk to her, bring free, —
All things but oni»
In many a tender whoaten plot
Flowers that were dead 10
Live, and old RUBS revive, but not
That boiler head
B\ this white wandering waste of sea
Fai north, I hear
One fact* shall ne\t*r turn to me if
As once this year
Shnll never Rmlle and turn and rest
On jnlne an thete.
Nor on i' most sat red ha ml bo pressed
I pon my hair. so
I came as one whoso thoughts half linger,
Half run before,
The jounu»^t to the oldest singer
That England bore
I found him *hnm 1 shall not find »
Till all grief end,
In holiist nge our mightiest mind,
Father and friend
Hut thou, If anything endure,
If boi>e there be, SO
O spirit that man'H life left pure,
Man's death bet free,
Not with disdain of da>» that were
Look earthwaid now
Let dreams revl\e the reverend hair, V
The Imperial brow ,
Com* back In sleep, for In the life
Where thou art not
We find none like thee Time and strife
And the world's lot 40
Move thee no more, but love at least
And reverent heart
May move thee, royal and released,
goal, aft thou art
And thou, his Florence, to thy trait 45
Receive and keep,
Keep safe MB dedicated dust.
Ills sacred sleep.
So shall thy lovers, come from far.
Mix with thy name M
AH mornlng-Rtar with evening-star
Illb faultless fame
—A C Swinburne (1RA6)
"Few men have ever Impressed their peers so
much, or the general public so little, as Walter
Savage Landor Of all celebrated authors, he ban
hitherto been one of the least popular Neverthe-
less he Is among the most striking figures In the
hlstorj of English literature, striking alike by
his character and his powers . The place
occupied by Landor among English men of let-
ter In a place apart He wrote on many subjects
and In many forms, and was strong both In Imagi-
nation and criticism He was equally "master of
Latin and English, and equally at home in prose
and verge He cannot properly be associated with
any given school, or, indeed, with any given epoch
of our literature, as epochs are nftually counted,
but stands alone, alike by the character of his
mind and by the tenor and circumstances of his
life . Everything he says must be his own
On the other hand, It is no part of Lander's origi-
nality to provoke attention, as many even of
Illustrious writers have done, by emphasis or sin
gularity of style Arbitrary and vehement beyond
other men in many of his thoughts, in their utter-
ance he is always sober and decorous He de
livers himself of whatever is In his mind with an
air, to borrow an expression of hl« own, 'majes-
tically sedate'" — Sidney Colvln, in Landor (Eng
lUh Men of Letters Series, 1881)
"I claim no place In tfce world of letters, 1
am alone, and will be alone, as long as I Ihe and
after " — Landor, in a letter to Lord Brougham on
the neglect of Souther, printed In The Lait Fruit
off an Old Tree (1853)
G1BIR
This poem was suggested to Landor by an
Arabian tale, The Uwtoty of Charoba, Quten
of Egypt, which he found lu Clara Reeve's
The Proot run of Romance (1785), lent him
by his f i lend Rose Aylmer CJoblr in a prince
of Spain who makes war upon Charoba in
fulfillment of a \ow to avenge hereditary
wrongs Charoba in aided by her nurse, the
sorceress Dalle ia Although the first meeting
of Gebir and Charoba changes their enmity
to love, the story ends tragically an a result
of Dalicla's mlrandenitandlng of the true
situation Landor first attempted the poem
In Latin and In English, but finally decided
to write it in English Later he translated
it Into Latin. It was republlshed In 1859
as one of the Hellenics (See p 975a, n 2 )
"Qebir was published In 1798, the year of
the Lyrical Ballads, and In Its individual
way It marks an epoch almost as distinctly.
No blank verse of comparable caliber had ap-
peared since the death of Milton, ami, though
1302
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
the form wai at times actually reminiscent
both of Milton and of the Latin structure of
some of the portions as they were originally
composed, It hah a quality width still re-
mains entirely Its own Cold, sensitive, splen-
did, so precise, BO restrained, keeping step
with such a stately music, si archly any verse
in English has a more individual harmony,
more equable, more refreshingly calm to the
ear" — Symons, In The Romantic Movement
in EnyHfth Poetry (1909)
In the selections printed here, Lander's
spelling has lieen somewhat modernised, such
forms as touch t, flat, and loolf being changed
to touch' d. jto'd, look'd On Landoi's spelling
see his Imaginary Conservation*, "Archdeacon
Hare and Walter Landor," and I)e Qulncey's
Orthographic Mutineers (Collteted Writings,
ed Masson, 11, 437)
BOO. DO if. The passage upon which the Incident
of the wrestling match is based Is as follows
"Now the chief shepherd was a beautiful per-
son, and of a goodly stature and aspect One
day when he had committed his flock* to the
other shepherds, and wandered far awa> from
them, he saw a fair young ladv rising out of
the sea, who walked towards him and saluted
him graciously — He leturned her salutation,
and she began to converse with him — 'Young
man/ said she, 'will von wrestle with me for
a wager that I shall lay against you ?' — 'What
will you lay, fair lady,' said the shepherd,
'and what can I stake against you?1 — 'If you
give me a fall/ said the lady, 'I will be yours,
and at your disposal, — and if I give you a
fall you shall give mo a beast out of your
flock1 — 4I am content/ said the shepherd, —
so he went towards her, and she met him,
and wrestled with him, and presently gave
him a fall She then took a beast out of the
flock, and carried it away with her into the
sea.
"She came every e\ cuing afterwards, and
did the same, until the shephcid was des-
perately in love with her — So the flock WQH
diminished, aiid the shepherd was pining away
with love and grief
"One day King (Jell run, passing by the
bhepheid, found him sitting very pensive by
his flocks, HO he came near and spoke to
him — 'What misfortune hath befallen thee,
shepherd? why art thou so altered and de-
jected? thy flork also diminishes, and gives
less milk every dav?' — Upon this the shep-
herd took courage, and told the king all that
had befallen him by the lady of the sea "
961. 1IH». "W Wordsworth borrowed this shell,
and filled it to overflowing for the refresh-
ment of the wayfarers In his Excursion The
Lord of a Manor may wink at small encroach-
ments on the common, but the steward must
note them In his book "—Lander's note, ed. of
1859
B08B ATLMER
The subject of this little elegy, the daugh-
ter of Henry, Baron Aylmer, was Landor s
fiiend and companion during his early years
In Wales (1705-98). He was Indebted to
her for the book which gave him his hint
for (Itbir Tho poem was wilt ten after hear-
ing the ncus of her death in India in 1800
Colvin says of this poem (Landot . English
Men of Letteis Series) "Just, natural, sim-
ple, severely and at the same time hauntlngly
melodious, however baldly or stoically they
may strike the ear attuned to more high
pitched lamentations, these arc the lines
which made afterwards so deep an impression
upon Charles Lamb Tipsy or sober, It is
reported of that impressionable spirit a few
years before his death, he would always be
repeating Rone Aylmer
L1BICS, TO IANT1IL
A number of Ivrics referring to lanthe,
written and published at various times, aie
here giouped together in the older suggested
by Colvin In the Golden Treasury edition of
Selections /torn Landot It is probable that
a number of Landor's other lyrics also
were addressed to lanthe Colvin nays
of these poems (Landot English Men of
Letters Series) "From these you is, alniut
1802-1806, dates the chief pait of Laii-
dor's verses written to or about laiitho
Whether In the form of praise, of complaint,
or of appeal, these versos are for the moht
part gencial in their terms, and do not in-
able us definitely to retrace the course of an
attachment on which Landor never ceased to
look back as the strongest of his life, and for
the object of which he continued until hoi
death to entertain the most chivalrous and
tender friendship Landor's verses in tills
class, although not in the first rank of love
poetry, nevertheless express much contained
passion in their grave concise way, and sel
dom fall to Include within the polished shell
of verse, a solid and appropriate kernel, how-
ever minute, of thought "
IMJ4. PAST HDIN'D ILION III LIN LIVES
Helen was the wife of Men el a UK, King of
Sparta Pails can led hei off to Tiov (Illon),
and by so doing caused the Trojnn Wiir
\fter the fall of Troy, Helen retiuned to
Menelaus
90S. A FIESOLAN IDYL
This poem admirably phrases Landor's pas-
sion for flowers In a letter to II Crabb
Robinson, Landor writes "I like white flow-
ers better than any others, they resemble
fair women Lily, tuberose, orange, and the
truly English syrlnga are my heart's delight
I do not mean to say that they supplant the
rose and violet in my affections, for these
are our first loves, before we grew too fond
of considering and too fond of displaying our
acquaintance with others of sounding titles."
—If C Bobinson'8 Diary (1869). 2, 518.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
1308
This poom should be compared with Tenny-
son's The Gardener'* Daughter, printed Rome
ten yean, latci
INK). TUB (ITVTION AND EXAMINATION OF
Wllllitf 8II\KR1'B\KB
This is one of Laudors longer prose works,
which alms to lepioducc Rhakspere's trial
for deer-stealing The humorous account In
sup|K>scd to bo wilt ton by the magistrates
clerk The work contains H0\eral lyrics, the
best of whlih arc those pi luted here Tlir
Mald'tt Ltimmt Is found In Shaksiicrc's pocket
by the examine is and rend In comt Upon a
fltrrff Ilrlnr was recited by fthnkspere after
he had heard Home lines on dog roses
BO7. PBRiriRH \ND
This is a long prose work by Lander rom
posed In the IOIIH of linaglnaiv letteis wiittcn
by Pciules, the famous Athenian statesman
and oiatoi (fith cent B C ), and hi* mis-
tress \spasin, and some of their frlonds
Rome oi the letteis are in veiso others con-
tain mses Foi the letters wiltten In prose,
see n W3 Hdmuiid Claience S ted in an sa*s
of this \\ork flirfoifciN Port*) "As an exhi-
bition of iiitell«tual be.tutv (It) may be
termed the inns t CM piece of Ln.ndoi's whole
career ('titles me not wanting *ho main-
tain /'(rir/rv and Atpawa to lie the pmcst
ireatlon of sustained art In English prose
lit] Is clear an noonday, a book for
think* rn — but a book for lovers also, and
Hhnuld be as Immortal as the currents which
flow between \oung hearts"
rOHI\N\ TO TIN AGRA
This poem is found In letter 44, A spa si a,
to Cleonc following this statement "To
coni)>cnsa1c the disappointment you com-
plained of I will now traiiHciibe for you an
ode of (Nulnna to her natUe town, being
quite suie it is not In your collection Let
me first intorm you that the extertoi of the
best houses in Tanngrn Is painted with his-
torical scenes adventures of gods, allegories,
and oilier things, and under the walls of the
city flows the Thei modem TbiR It Is requi-
site to tell jou of BO small and *o distant a
place "
I WILL NOT LOVB
This poem IH found In Letter 52, A*pasla
to Cleone, it purports to be an autograph
from the library of Pericles It follows this
statement "Men may be negligent In their
hand writing, for men may be In a hurry
About the business of life , but I never knew
either a sensible woman or an estimable one
whose writing wan disorderly Well, the
verses are prettier than my reflection, and
equally true"
THB DEATH OF ABTBU1DOIIA
This poem IB found In Letter 85, Cleone
to Aspasla, following this statement "We
arc losing, day by day, one friend or other
Artemldora of Ephesus was betrothed to Elpe-
nor, and their nuptlalH, It was believed, were
at hand How gladly would Artemldora have
survived Elpeuor. I pitied her almost as much
as If she had I must ever love true lovers
on the eye of separation These Indeed were
little known to me until a short time before
We became friends when our fates had made
us relatives On these occasions there are
always many verses, but not always so true In
feeling and In fact as those which I shall
now transcribe for you "
The text here given Is that of the first
edition The poem was later Included In Tlir
7/rlIrfifc* with the last three lines dropped
and a few other slight changes
OtW. LIFE PA8BI8 \OT AB BOMB M1N BAT
This poem Is found In Letter 91 Aspasla
to Phone, following this statement "Noth-
ing Is pleasanter to me than exploring In a
library What a delight in being a discov-
erer f Among a loose accumulation of poetry,
the greater part excessively had, the verses
I am aliout to transcribe are peihaps the
least so" Ardalla, of line 7, ifa the person
whom the poet addresses
LITTt B AGLAB
This poem Is found in Letter 113, Cleone to
\spanla, following this statement * In case
of necessity, eveiything Is ready foi my de-
parture to the snuices of the Meandei I
will prove to you that I am not hurried nor
frightened, I June leisure to write out what
perhaps may be the last verses written In
Miletus, unless we are relieved "
WF MIND NOT HOW TH1 SI N IN THE MID-SKY
This poem Is found in Letter 119, Cleone
to Vspasla, following this statement "Worse
verses, It may he, than any of those which
you lately sent to me affect me more There
is no giddiness in looking down the precipices
of youth It is the rapidity and heat of Its
course that brings the giddiness When we
are near Its termination a chilly thrill comes
over ns, whether we look before or behind
Tet there Is something like enchantment In
the very sound of the word youth, and the
calmest heait at every season of life, beats
In double time to It Never expect a com-
pensation for what you send me, whether
prose or poetry but expect a pleasure, be
cause It has given me one Now here are the
worse veraes for the better, the Milesian for
the Attic"
SAPPHO TO HB8PBRDB
This poem Is found In Letter 150, Cleone to
Aspasla, where it Is quoted as the authentic
1304
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
work of Sappho, the famous Greek lyric
poetess of the 7th century B. C. Hesperus IB
the evening star.
DIRCB
This poem IR found In Letter 280, Aspasla
to Cleone Aspaala states that it was sent
to her by Pericles to prove that his Athenian!
could sport with Charon Dirce, the wife of
Lyras, King of Thebes, was murdered by
Amphion and Zethus because of her 111 treat-
ment of their mother Antlope Charon was
the ferryman who transported the souls of
the dead over the Rlvei Styx In the lower
world
O* SKIING A HAIR OF LUCRBTIA BORGIA
1. From eve to morn. — Cf. Milton's Para-
ditie Lost, 1, 742-43 "From morn to noon he
fell, from noon to dewy eve. *
975. ON TUB HBLLBNICB
This poem was prefixed to the second edi-
tion of Landor'H The Hellenic* (1847).
THRABTMBDB8 AAD BI'NOB
Thrasymedes eloped with Bnntie, the daugh-
ter of Plsiritratos, tyrant of Athens, 6th cen-
tury B C In this poem finnoe's brother
Hlpplas overhauls the fleeing pair and brings
them lack to Athens
IPRIGBNBIA AND AG \MBMNON
Lncretla Borgia (1480-1519) wa« an Italian 976.
woman, noted for her rare beauty and ability,
her patronage of learning and the arts, and See note on °* Hi* °™ Aoamrmnon and
notorious for her wickedness Iphigencta, above
969.
TO JOS1PII ABLBTT
The sul)Je<t of this poem was a Welsh gen-
tleman of considerable means who admired
and befriended Landor Among other things
he advanced the money for the purchase of.
Lander's home near Flesole, Italy. The poem
was written after the two friends had made
a tour from Ablett's home to the lakes, and
after Landor had returned to Italy
970.
TO THB BISTBB OF BL1A
This poem was sent In a letter to H Crabb
Robinson, following this statement "The
death of Charles Lamb has grieved me very
bitterly New did I see a human being with
whom I was more Inclined to sympathize.
There Is something In the recollection that
you took me with von to Rep him which affects
me greatly more than writing or speaking of
him could do with any other When I firet
heard of the loss that all his friends, and
many that never were his friends, sustained
In him, no thought took possession of my mind
except the anguish of hi* sister That very
night before I closed my eyes I composed
this "
071. ON BIB OWN AGAUB1INON AND IPBIOBNBIA
This poem Is written as a criticism of
Lander's earlier poem The Shade* of Agamem-
non and Iphtgeneia, Included in Letter 225 of
Pcnolra and Aspatla. Agamemnon was the
leader of the Greek expedition against Troy.
Iphlgenela was hU daughter When the Greek
fleet was becalmed at Aulls, a seaport on the
eabt coast of Greece, through the anger of
Artemis, the seer of Colchas declared that the
death of Iphlgenela was the only means of
appeasing the goddess At the time of the
sacrifice Artemis carried Iphlgenela away in a
cloud to TaurlH, and made her a priestess.
Bee Lander's Iphigrnria and Agamemnon (p.
076)
977. TUB HAMADKYAD
A hamadyrad was a nymph who was born
and who died at the same time with the
tree (usually an oak) of which she wan the
spirit (Mma, with + 3pO,, tree) The legend
traces back to the fifth century B C
ON*. ON HIS BBVBNTY-FIITn BIliTHDAY
"How definite Is the picture of the old
man bending with outstretched hands over
the dying embers, with what dignity Is the
emotion repressed We feel the modern spirit
if we contrast thin with Browning H Prtwpw,
with Its cry of exulting struggle, or with
Tennyson's Crr>*tti*f/ the Bar. with its music.
Its twilight tones, its mvstery of the sea " —
Reed, in EnffHtth 7,ynuiZ Porfry (1912).
084. THBBBUB AND HIPPOLTTA
Hippolyta. daughter of Ares and Otrera,
was Queen of the Amaions, a tribe of warlike
women reputed to live In Asia Minor The-
seus, the son of JEgeus, King of Athens, was
the national hero of Attica, Greece In his
exploit against the Amasons, he carried off
their queen.
OMB. IMAGINARY CON VMS ATI ONB
This work consists of a number of prow
dialogues or conversations between Illustrious
personages chiefly of the past In "Arch-
deacon Hare and Walter Landor," Landor
says "Poetry was always my amusement,
prose my study and business. I have pub-
lished five volumes of Imaginary Oonventa-
tiont cut the worst of them through the
middle, and there will remain In this decimal
fraction quite enough to satisfy my appetite
for fame I shall dine late ; but the dining-
room will be well lighted, the guests few and
JAMES MAGPHEBSON
1305
TIBB&IUI AMD VIPSJAMA
Tiptanla was the daughter of Agrlppa, a
Roman general and consul of the 1st century
B C Tiberius, her husband, was the eon
of Tiberius Nero and Llvla (later the wife
of Augustus Caesar) and heir to the throne.
Upon the birtH of a son (DruguB) to Vlp-
sanla, Tlberlna wa« compelled to divorce his
wife and marry Julia, the daughter of AugUb-
tufl, In order that the crown might be held
by Inheritance. Landor here represents an
unexpected meeting between Tiberius and
Vlpaanla
087. MABCBLLI78 AND HANNIBAL
Hannibal, the famous general of Carthage,
overcame MartelluH, the Roman general, In
houthern Italy, in 208 B C In this scene,
Marcellus lies before bis conqueror mortally
wounded
O8O. MFTLLLI B AND MAttIT S
In this conversation, the Roman centurion
Calus Marlus, at the request of the tribune
CaxllluB MetelluH, enters Numantla, a city In
Spain besieged by the Romans In 182 B C,
and repoitH what he has Keen
991. LBOFKIC AND f.ODIVA
This conversation IK based on the legend
that Leofrlc, Karl of Mercia (llth centurv),
consented to relieve the people of a burden-
Home tax on condition that bin wife Qodlva
should ride through the street* of Coventry
naked at noon-day She fulfilled the condi-
tion, covered only bv her luxuriant hair The
festival of Uodlva Is still celebrated In
Coventry
993. FBKICLB8 AND ABPABIA
See note on Fertile* and in pasta, p. 1303a
THB PINTAICBRON
The Pen tan ct on (r^rra. five + plrpof,
part) Is a series of five Interviews held on
successive davs between Giovanni Boccaccio
and Francesco Petrarca, famous Italian writers
of the 14th centun In the selection given
here, Boccaccio relates how his former love
Flaraetta, daughter of the King of Naples,
appeared to him In a dream
"In The Pentameron Landor Is again at hla
very brat All his study of the great Italian
writers of the 14th century, and all his recent
observations of Tuscan scenery and Tuscan
character are turned to skilful and harmoni-
ous account Landor loved and understood
Boccaccio through and thrqngh , and if he
over-estimated that prolific and amiable genius
In comparison with other and greater men. It
was an error which for the present purpose
was almost an advantage Nothing can be
pleasanter than the Intercourse of the two
friendly poets as Landor had imagined It,
nothing more classically idyllic than the inci-
dental episodes.' — Colvm, in Landor (English
Men of Letters Series, 1878)
JAMBS MACPHBRSON (1738-1796), p. 86
EDITIONS
Poems of OBKOH, translated by James Macpheruon
(Boston, Phillips, 1852)
Works of Oman, translated by James Macpherson,
ed by W Sharp (Edinburgh, Gcddcs, 1896)
Poems of Osttian, Translated by James Macpher-
son, ed , with an Introduction, Historical and
Critical, by G Eyrc-Todd (Canterbury Poets
ed London. Scott, 1888)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Nutt, A - Ossian and tht Ownrrntr Literature
* (Popular Studies in Mythology, Romance, and
Folk-Lore, Series 3 London, Nutt, 1899)
Saunders, (T ) It Tne Ltfe and Letters of James
Uacpherson (London, Sonncnsthein, 1894,
New York, Mn cm 11 Ian)
Shalrp, J C "The Poetry of the Scottish High-
land*— Ohhlan " AxpectH of Pot try (Oxford,
Clarendon Press, 1881 , Boston, Houghton,
1882)
Smart, J S James Macpherson An Episode in
Literature (London, Nutt. 1905)
Tombo, R, Jr. Ossian tw Germany (Columbia
Univ. Press, 1901)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Nutt, A In his Osstan and O*ntanie Literature
(1899)
Lowiides, W T In Tne Hillwffraphrt'* Manual,
Fart 6, ed by 11 G Rohii 10 part* (Bonn's
Library ed Lomlon Bonn 1SS7-64)
CRITICAL NOTES
The following selections are from the so-called
Osslanlc Poems, which Macpherson said were trans-
lations from an ancient Gaelic bard, Obsian. son
of FIngal A considerable controverts was waged
as to the truth of Macpherson's statement, it is
now generally agreed that the publications, though
probably based upon genuine Gaelic remains, were
largely the work of Macpherson himself For
Gray's Interest in these productions, see his let-
ters to Walpole, Stonehewer Wharton, and Mason
(pp 71-72) In leply to a saucy letter from Mac-
pherson In regard to the controversy, Samuel John-
son wrote Macpherbon as follows (1775)
"I received vour foolish and Impudent letter
Any violence offered me I shall do my best to
repel, and what I cannot do for myself the law
shall do for me I hope I shall m»\er be deterred
from detecting what I think a cheat, by the men-
aces of a ruffian.
"What would you have me retract? I thought
your book an imposture; I think It an Imposture
still For this opinion I have given my reasons
to the public, which I here dare you to refute.
1306
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Tour rage I defy Tour abilities, since your
Homer,1 are not BO formidable, and what I hear
of your morals, incline* me to pay regard not to
what yon shall say, but to what yon shall prove.
Yon may print this If you will."
For a clear account of the whole matter, see
J. 8 Smart's Jam fa Macphcrson (1905)
"Homer has been superseded In my heart by
the divine Ossian Through what world does
this angelic bard carry me1 With him I wander
over barren wastes and frightful wilds, sur-
rounded by whirlwinds and hurricanes, trace by
the feeble light of the moon the shades of our
noble ancestors, hear from the mountainous
heights, intermingled with the roaring of waves
and cataracts, their plaintive tones stealing from
cavernous recesses, while the pensive monody of
some love-stricken maiden, who heaves her depart-
ing sighs over the moss-clad grave of the warrior
by whom she was adored, makes up the inarticu-
late concert " — Goethe, in The Sorrows of Werther,
Letter 68 (1774).
Coronal's posterity. He set sail, from the
Clyde, and falling on the roast of Morven,
defeated two of Flngal's heroes, who came to
oppose his progress He was, at last, unwit-
tingly killed by his father ClessAminoi, in a
single combat. This story is the foundation
of the present poem, which opens on the night
preceding the death of Carthon, bo that what
passed before IB introduced by way of episode.
The poem in addres«ed to Malvina the daugh-
ter of Toscar " —
OOb. I8-1O. The incident of the father-and-son
combat is the basis of Arnold's Kohtab and
RuBtum For a discussion of this theme in
literature, see Potter's No A rob and Ruttum
(Grimm Library Series, 1002)
91.
O1NA UOBUL
86. CARTHON
Macphcrson*s Argument of this poem is as
follows "Thin poem ib complete and the
subject of it, as of most of Osslan H composi-
tions, tragical In the time of Com ha I the
son of Trathal, and father of the celebrated
Fingal, Clessammor the son of Thnddu and
brother of Morna. Fingal s mother, was driven
by a storm into the Ulver Clyde, on the banks
of which stood Bttlclutha, a town belonging
to tyie Britons between the walls He *as
hospitably received by Renthftmlr, the piintl-
pal man in the place, who gave him Moina
his only daughter in marriage lieudu. the
son of Cormo, a Briton who was in love with
Moina, came to KcuthAmir'a house, and be-
haved haughtily towards Clessammor A
quarrel ensued, in which Reuda was killed ,
the Britons, who attended him, pi cased so
hard on ClessA minor, that he was obliged to
throw himself into the Clyde, and swim to
his ship He hoisted ball, and the *lud being
favorable, bore htm out to sea He often
endeavored to return, and carry off his be-
loved Moina by night , but the wind continu-
ing contrary, he was forced to desist
"Moina, who had been left with child by her
husband, brought forth a son, and died soon
after — Ileuthamlr named the child Carthon,
i e, the murmur of waves, from the storm
which carried off Clessflmmor his father, who
was supposed to have been cast away When
Carthon was three years old, Comhal the
father of Fingal, in one of his expeditions
against the Britons, took and burnt Balclutha
Beuthamlr was killed in the attack, and
Carthon was carried safe away by his nurse,
who fled further into the country of the
Britons Carthon, coming to man's estate,
was resolved to revenge the fall of Balclutha on
*Macpherson published a prose translation of
Homer's lUad in 1778.
MacphcrHon's Argument to this poem is as
follows "Aftoi an address to Malvma, the
daughter of Toscui, Osslan pioceeds to relate
his own expedition to Fu.lrfed, an island of
Scandinavia Mal-onhol. king of Funrfed, !M«-
ing hard pressed In war, lij Tou-tkorinod,
chief of Sar-dronlo (who had demanded, in
tain, the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage),
Fingal sent Ossian to his aid Osnlan, on the
day after his arrival, came to battle with
Ton-thoimod, and took him prisoiiei Mnl-
orchol offers his daughter Olnu-niorul to (te-
siaii , but be, disc overlng her passion for
Ton-thormod, geneiously surrenders hei to her
lover, and brings about a reconciliation be-
tween the two kings "
f»1b. B. "Con cathhn, 'mild btam of the WJK '—
What star was so called of old Is not easily
ascertained Home now distinguish the pole-
star by that name*'— Mac phei son
92.
Macpherson's Argument to Book 1 of Plrtaal
is UH follows "Cuthullln (general ol the
Irish tribes, In the minority of Cormac, King
of Ireland) hitting alone beneath a tree, at
the gate of Turn, a castle of Lister (the
other chiefs having gone on a hunting paity
to Cronila, a neighboring bill), IK informed of
the landing of Swaran, King of Lochlin, by
Moran, the sou of Fit nil, one of his scouts
He convenes the chiefs, a council is held,
and disputes run high about giving battle to
the enemy Counal, the petty king of To-
go rma, and an intimate friend of futhullln,
was for retreating, till Fiugal, King of those
Caledonians who inhabited tbe north-west
coast of Scotland, whose aid had boon pre-
viously solicited, should arrive, but Calmar,
the son of Mat ha, lord of Lara, a country in
Connaught, was for engaging the enemy Im-
mediately Cuthullin, of himself willing to
fight, went into the opinion of Calmar March-
ing towards the enemy, ho mimed throe of
hi* bravest heroes, Fergus, Duehomar, and
Cathba. Fergus arriving, tells Cuthullin of
the death of the two other chiefs, which
THOMAS MOORE
1307
introduces the affecting episode of Morna, the
daughter of Connac The army of Cuthullin
is described at a distance by Swaran, who
sent the son of Arno to observe the motions
of the enemy, while he himself ranged hits
forces in order of battle The son of Arno
returning to Swaran, describe* to him Cuthul-
lin's chariot, and the terrible appearance of
that hero The armies engage, but night com-
ing on, lea\eb the victory undecided Cuthul-
lin, at cording to tho hospitality of the times,
sends to Swaran a formal Imitation to a
feast, by his bard Carrll. the son of Kinfcna
Rwaran refuses to come Cairil relates to
Cuthullln the story of Orudar and Itrassolis
A party, by Connal's advice, Is Hent to observe
the enemy which closes the action of the
first day '*
O8b. 18. Lodihn— "The Gaelic iiauic of Scandi-
navia In general *' — Macpherson.
16. Inistote — "The Orknej Islands.*' — Mac-
pherson
6O. Four titonctt. — "Tuib pabbage alludes to
the mannei of burial among the ancient Scots
They opened a gmvc si\ or eight feet deep,
the bottom was lined with fine clav , and on
this they laid the body of the deceased, and.
If a warrior his sword and the heads of
twelve arrows In his side Above they laid
another stratum of clay. In which they placed
the horn of n deer, the symbol of hunting
The whole mas co\ered with a fine mould, and
four Rtones were placed on end to mark tho
extent of the grave These are the four stones
alluded to here '* — Macpherson
OSb. 53. • The Isle of Sky not Improperly called
the Msle of mist.' a* it* high hills, which
catch the (loutls fiom the Western Ocean,
occasion almost continual rains" — Macpher-
son
86b. 42. "Tbe Coma heie mentioned U that small
river that runs through Glenco in Argvle-
shlre One of the hills which environ that
romantic valley is still called Scornafena, or
the hill of Flngars people " — Macpherson
O7a. •*. "Lubar, a river in Ulster Lab bar, loud,
nolsv " — Macpherson.
DAVID MALLET (1705-1765), p. 15
EDITIONS
Works, 8 vols (London, Millar. 1759)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Johnson, S The Lire* of the final wh Poet* (Lon-
don, 1779 81) , » vols , ed bv G. It. Hill (Lon-
don, Clarendon Press, 1905).
CRITICAL NOTES
15. WILLIAM AND MABCJAR1T
This was one of the most popular balladt
of the eighteenth century Mallet was not the
author of it, but be was thought to be until
1878 For a discussion of the matter, see
Phelps, The Beainninas of the English Ro-
moftfto Movement (1898), Appendix II
"William and Margaret is simply PoAr Mar-
garet and Btotet William rewritten in what
used to be called an elegant style."— Child,
in English and Scottish Popular Ballad* (1882-
98), II, 1, 200
THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852), p. 424
EDITIONS
Poetical Works, ed bv W M RoKsettl (Popular
Poets ed London, Moxon, 1872, 1880)
Complete Poetical Workn, ed , with a Biographical
Hkctch, by N II Dole (New York, Crowell,
1805)
Poetical Works (Home Library ed. New Tork,
Burt, 1900)
Poittcal Work*, ed by A D Godley (Oxford ed
Oxford Unlv Press. 1910)
Poems, selected by C L Falklner (Golden Treas-
ury ed London and New York, Macmlllan,
1903)
Irish Melodies and Rong*, ed., with an Introduc-
tion, by 8 Gwvnn (Muses' Library ed Lon-
don, Roulledge, 1908, New York, Dutton)
Lalla Roolh (Home Library eel New York, Burt,
1900)
Lalla Rookh (Handy Volume Classics ed New
York, Cro*ell, 1012)
Pi one and Verne, ed . with an Introduction by
R II Shepherd (New Yoik, Scribner. 1878)
BIOGRAPHY
G\v\nn S Thomas Moore (English Men of Let-
ters Series New York and London, Macmll-
lan, 1905)
Symington, A J Thomas Moore, Uis Life and
Works (London, Black, 1880).
^
CRITICISM
Blatkwood'* Magazine "Irish Melodies," Jan.,
1822 (1J 62). "Lalla Rookh,*' June. 1817
(1 279, 508) , 'The Fudge FamlH in Paris,"
May, 1818 (8 129) , "The Loves of the An-
gels," Jan. 1823 (18 68)
Edinburgh JtYitro, The "Translation of Anac-
reon," Juh, 1S03 (2 462)
Gunning, J P Moore Pott and Patriot (Dub-
lin Gill, 1900)
Hajlitt. W "Mr T Moore— Mr Leigh Hunt,"
The Spirit of the Agi (London, 1825) , "Of
the Jealousy and the Rpleen of Party," Tho
Platn Nptakrr (London 1826) , "On the Liv-
ing Poets,*' Lectwex on the English Poets
(London. 1818) CoUertid Worln, ed Waller
and Glover (London, Dent, 1902-06, New
York, McTlure. 4, 353, 5, 151 . 7, 865.
Jeffrey, F. "Lalla Rookh," The Edinburgh Re-
view. Xov , 1817 (29 1) : Contribution* to the
Edinburgh ffemrte (1858)
Quarterly Review, The "Irish Melodies/* June,
1812, and Got, 1822 (7 874, 28 188).
1308
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Baintsbury, G.. Essays to English Literature,
J780-JM0, Flret Series (London, Perdval, 1890 ;
New York, Scribner)
Thomas, A a "Moore en France," Contribution
a I'htotoAre de la fortune de 999 omvrea dons
la Uttfrature franoaise, 1819-50 (Paris, Cham-
plon, 1911).
CRITICAL NOTE8
From For tttt Moore Centennial Celebration, Man
K, 1879
Enchanter of Erin, whose magic ban bound os.
Thy wand for one moment we fondly would
claim,
Entranced while it summons the phantoms around
us
That blush into life at the sound of thy name
The tell-tales of memory wake from their slum-
bers '
I hear the old song with Its tender refrain, —
What passion lies hid in those honey-voiced num-
bers'
What perfume of youth In each exquisite strain T
The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was
planted,
Where the shamrocks grow green from the cliffs
to the shore.
The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted.
Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands
of Moore '
—Oliver Wendell Holmes (1879)
"It has been the fashion of late days to deny
Moore imagination, while granting him fancy— a
distinction originating with Coleridge — than whom
no man more fully comprehended the groat powers
of Moore The fact is, that the fancy of this
poet so far predominates over all his other facul-
ties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to
have Induced, very naturally, the idea that he Is
fanciful only But never was there a greater
mibtake. Never was a grosser wrong done the
fame of a true poet "— Poe, In The Poetic Princi-
ple (1860)
See Byron's English Bards and Scotch Review-
ers. 283-94 (p 489).
484. TUB LAKB Or TH1 DZBMAL SWAMP
This and the following poem, A Canadian
Boat Bong, are part of a collection of poems
relating to America, first published in 1800
in the volume entitled Odes and Epistles
"The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve
miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in
the middle of it (about seven miles long) is
called Drummond's Pond " — Moore's note
Moore prefixed to the poem the following
account
" They tell of a young man, who lost his
mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and
who, suddenly disappearing from his friends,
was never afterwards heard of. As he had
frequently said. In his ravings, that the girl
was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp,
It !• supposed be had wandered into that
dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger,
or been lost In tome of its dreadful morasses/
— Anon."
A CANADIAN BOAT BONO
, "I wrote these word* to an air which our
boatmen sung to us frequently The wind
was so unfavorable that they were obliged to
row all the way, and we were five days in
descending the river from Kingston to Mon-
treal, exposed to an intense sun during the
day, and at night forced to take bhelter from
the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks
that would receive us But the magnificent
scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such
difficulties.
"Our voyageurs had good voices, and sung
perfectly in tune together The original words
of the air, to which I adapted these stanzas,
appeared to be a long, incoherent story, of
which I could understand but little, from the
barbarous pronunciation of the Canadians . .
"I ventured to harmonize this air, and have
published it Without that charm which as-
sociation gives to every little memorial of
scenes or feelings that are past, the melody
may, perhaps, be thought common and trifling,
but I remember when we have entered, at Run-
sct, upon one of those beautiful lakes, into
which the 8t Lawrence so grandly and unex-
pectedly opens, I have heard this simple air
with a pleasure which the finest compositions
of the first masters have never given me,
and now there is not a note of It which does
not recall to my memory the dip of our oars
In the St Lawrence, the flight of our boat
down the Rapids, and all those now and fan-
ciful impressions to which my heart was alive
during the whole of this very Interesting voy-
age"— Moore's note
IRISH MILODII8
"In one only of hta writings Moore attained
a positive perfection of »tyle Those homely
and sentimental lyrics which have endeared
themselves to thousand!* of hearts under the
name of the It nth Melodies form a part anil
parcel of our literature the extinction of
which would leave a sad blank behind It
When they were first produced, in slender
instalments spread over a period of more than
twenty-five years, they seemed universally
brilliant and fascinating to the ears on whom
their fresh tunes and dulcet numbers fell in
a most amiable union Here for once, It
seemed, music and sweet poetry agiecd in
complete harmony, the one not brighter or
more dainty than the other. Exposed to the
wear and tear of sixty years, all the Jewels
in the casket do not now, any longer, look
equally brilliant. Some have wholly faded,
others have become weak or crude In color-
ing, while a few, perhaps one eighth of the
whole, are as glowing and exquisite as ever,
and shine like real stones in a heap of false
Jewelry. It in upon these fifteen or sixteen
songs, amatory, patriotic, and Jocose, that
Moore's fame mainly rests, but though the
support hat become slender, it Is lifted beyond
WILLIAM MOTHJ3RWELL
1309
all further fear of disintegration" — B. W.
Goose, In Ward's The English Poeti, Vol 4
(1880)
OH. BREATHE NOT H1R NAME '
TblR poem refers to Robert Emmet, the
famous Irish revolutlonUt executed in 1808
because of his part In stirring up a rebellion
ID Dublin He was a leader of The Unitrd
IrMimen, a prominent revolutionary society
Emmet wan affianced to ftarah Curran, com-
memorated In the following poem by Moore
She I* Par From the Land
She Js far from the land where her young
hero sleeps,
And lovers aie round her, sighing
But coldly -he turnK from their gase, and
For her heart In nig grave In lying
She hlngs the wild song of her dear native
plains, 6
Every note which he lov'd awaking, —
Ah1 little thev think who delight In her
stialns.
How the heart of the Minstrel IB breaking
He had llv'd for his love, for hit* country he
died,
They were all that to life had cntwln'd
him , "
Nor soon shall the tears of bin country he
dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him
Oh1 make her a grave whore the sunbeams
rest
When they promise a glorious morrow ,
They'll shine o'er her bleep, like a urn lie from
the West, «
From her o*n lov'd island of sorrow.
the many fugitive melodies which have hith-
erto had none,— or only such as are unintelli-
gible to the generality of their hearers,— is
the object and ambition of the present work
Neither is It our Intention to confine ourselves
to what are strictly called National Melodies,
but, wherever we meet with any wandering
and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet
assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to
claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our
humble Hlppocrene with Its song" — Moore's
prefatory Advertisement Hlppocrene was a
fountain In Greece supposed to give poetic
inspiration
WlIlS HI WHO ADOR18 TH1B
This poem is an appeal to Ireland to re-
memlwr Robert Emmet See note on Oh,
Btcatht not hitt Yamc, above
42O. TTTE HMIP THAT OVCB THROUGH TARA'B
If AI 1,8
Tare, near Dublin, was famous In early
history as a residence of Irish kings
428. NATIONAL AFR8
"It Is Cicero, 1 believe, who says, 'nature
ad modott ducimur* [l>v nature wo are led to
melody] , and the abundance of wild, Indi-
genous airs, which almost every country, ex
cept England, possesses, sufficiently proves the
truth of his assertion. The lovers of this
simple, but interesting kind of music, are
here presented with the first number of a
collection, which, I trout, their contributions
will enable us to continue A pretty air
without words resembles one of those half
creatures of Plato, which are described as
wandering In search of the remainder of them-
selves through the world To supply this
other half, by uniting with congenial words
429. LALLA ROOKH
This is a series of four Oriental tales con-
nected with a blight prose narrative showing
how the poems were recited for the entertain-
ment of Lalla Rookh, a beautiful Indian prin-
cess, on her journey from Delhi, India, to her
betrothed, the Prince of Bucharia, In the
Vale of Cashmere, a district north of India
The name Lalla Rookh means tulip cheek
The "Light of the Haram" is the Sultana
Nourmahal
"It Is still possible to read Lalla Roo*h
with pleasure, and even with a sort of Indul-
gent enthusiasm . . Underneath the smooth
and faded surface lie much tenderness and
pathos in the story of the Peri, much genuine
patriotism in the fate of the Fire- Worshippers,
much tropical sweetness in the adventures of
the Light of the Haram "—E W Gosse, in
Ward's The English Poet ft, Vol 4 (1880).
FABI IS FOR Till HOI \ ALLIANCE
This Is a collection of eight satires on the
league formed by the rulers of Russia, Austria,
and Prussia, after the downfall of Napoleon
In 1815 The league was formed for the
purpose of opposing all changes in existing
dynasties
2O. A congress of European powers held at
Laybach, Austria, in 1821, decided to use arms
in repressing revolutions in Piedmont and
Verona, in northern Italy A congress of the
monarchs of Russia, Austria, and Prussia
was held at Troppau, Austria, in 1820, to con-
sider the revolution at Naples, and to make
plans for preserving the Holy Alliance The
congress of European powers held at Verona
in 1822 was occasioned by recent disturb-
ances In Spain and southeastern Europe
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL (1797-1835),
p. 1162
EDITIONS
JTInrtrflty, Anoient and Modem, ed by W. Mother-
well (Glasgow, 1827, Paisley, Gardner, 1878).
Poetical Works, ed., with a Memoir, by J.
M'Canechy (Paisley, Gardner. 1881).
1310
BIBLIOGBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Mlnto, W In Ward's The English Potts, Vol 4
(London and New York, Macmillan, 1880,
1911)
Htoddard, R II Under the Eientny Lamp (New
York, Scribner, 1802, London, Gay)
Wilson, J "Motherwell's Poems," Blackwood'*
Magazine, April. 1833 (33 608)
CRITICAL NOTES
Motherwell was an antiquarian who was inter-
ested in the balladb and folk-lore of Scotland and
Scandinavia, and nearly all of nib poems are of
a ballad character Ills martial pieces are noted
for their stirring life and action, and his love
poems for their tenderness and simplicity
1108.
J1ANI1 MOBBZBON
"MothorweU's reputation in bin own conn-
try as a poet was made by the plaintive song
of Jeame Morrison, a sweet and touching
reminiscence of pleasant days spent with a
school playfellow and child sweetheart This
and another song in the Scotch dialect, My
Hetd w Like to Break, in which a betrayed
dambel harrows up the feelings of her se-
ducer with pitiless pathos, may be said to be
the only two lyrics of his that have taken
any hold of fame They prove him to have
been a man of keen sensibility , he was albo a
man of vigorous intellect and large culture,
more of a student and a scholar than any
contemporary Scotch lyrist" — Minto. in
Ward's The Knglish Poets, Vol 4 (1880)
1164. MY IIB10 IB LIKB TO BIND, WILL1B
See note on preceding poem.
CHRISTOPHER NORTH (See WILSON)
THOMAS PARNELL (1679-1718), p. 3
EDITIONS
Poetical Works, ed , with a Memoir, by G A
Aitken (Aldine ed London, Hell, 1840, 1804 ,
New York, Mac rail Ian)
Poetical Works, with Churchill and Tick HI (Brit-
ish Poets ed Boston, Houghton, 1854)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Goldsmith, O Life of Dr Parnell (1770), ed bv
J. W M Glbbs in Goldsmith's Work*, 6 voN
(Bohn Library ed London, Bonn, 1884-86)
Johnson, 8 The Liven of the English Poets
1779-81). 8 vols.f ed by G. B Hill (London,
Clarendon Press, 1905)
CRITICAL NOTES
**We do not know how it Is with others, but we
never think of Parnell's Hermit without tranquillr-
Ing and grateful feelings. Parnell was a true poet
of a minor order, he saw nature for himself,
though he wrote a book style; and this, and one
or two other poems of his, such as the eclogue on
Health and the Fairy Tale, have inclined us to
believe that there is something in the very name
of Tarneir peculiarly gentle and agreeable" —
Leigh Ilunt, in A Book for a Corner (1849).
8. A rum TALI
This poem is meant to be written "In the
ancient English style," but the vocabulary is
characteriied only by a timid and occasional
pseudo-archaism, and the spirit of the whole
piece IB largely false, yet the poem does con-
tain faint echoes of medievalism For a
crisp version of the incident of the hump,
see The Legtnd of Knocknrafton, printed In
Teats's Fairy and Folk Talcs of 1h< Irish
Peasantry (1888)
5. 1N3-O2. These linos illustrate the moralizing
tag habit of the eighteenth century
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH
This poem IB an important forerunner of
the so called graveyard literature, whlth ful-
minates in (iray's Eltgy In phrasing, Pariiell
is a slave to his time, but he given an Indi-
vidual turn to the choice of subject (lold-
wnlth rajs in bin Life of Parnell (1770) that
"the Night-Piece on Death, with very little
amendment, might be made to surpass all
those night-pieces and chiiiihyard sceneH that
have sine e appeared " — Kee note on Illalr's
The tint <,v. 1201b
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK (1785-1866),
p 998
EDITIONS
Works, 3 vols , ed , with a Preface by Lord Hough-
ton, by II. Cole (London, Bentlej, 1H75, 1888).
CoWcted Prose Works, 10 vols, ed by It (iurnett
(London, Dent, 1S91)
Pwms, ed, with H Biographical Pieface, by R B.
Johnson (Muses' Libia rj ed. London, Rout-
ledge, 1906, New York, Button)
hovels, 2 vols (New Universal Library ed Lon-
don, Routledge, 1005. New Yotk, Dutton).
Letter* to Eduard Uookham and Perty B. Shelley,
ed by R Oarnett (London, 1010)
Plays, ed by A B Young (London Nutt, 1010).
BIOGRAPHY
Helm, W II Thomas Loie PtacocK (Chicago,
Browne, 1018)
Van Doren, C Lift of Thomas Lor< Peacock
(London, Dent. 1011 , New York. Dutton)
CRITICISM
Freeman, A. M Thomas Love Peacock, A Oriti-
oal Survey (London, Seeker, 1011 , New York,
Kennerley, 1018)
Garnett, R Essays of an Ef -librarian (London,
Hrinemann, 1001).
THOMAS PEBCY
1811
LitteU'a Living Age. "The Complete Satirist/'
Nov. 14., 1014 (288 440).
Paul, H. . "The Novels of Peacock/' Stray Leaves
(London and New Yoik, Lane, 1006).
Halntsbury, (i EMWiyn in Kngliiih Ltteratute, 1780-
J800, First RerloR (London Pcrclval, 1HOO,
New York, Rerlbncr)
Smith. U li Poof* and NovelMti (London,
Rmltb; 1876)
Btoddard, R IT Undei the Evening Lamp (New
York, Rcribner, 1802; London, Gay)
CRITICAL NOTE8
From Letter to Mat la Gisborne
And there
TR English Peacock with hln mountain Fair,
Turned Into a Flamingo , — that shy bird
That gl<*ams 1' th<> Indian air — have vou not heard
When n mnn marries, dies, or turns Hindoo,
Ills h<"*t friends hear no more of him' — hut you
Will MK* him and will like him too, I hope,
With the mllk-^hlto Snowdonfan Antelope
MntchPd *lth this t.nneleonanl— hN line wit 2W
Makes su< h a wound the knife i«. lost in It ,
A strain too learned tor a shallow ago
Too nlsp for sol fish hlgotR lot his page
Whl(h charmR tho chosen spirits of the time,
Fold Itsolf up for the science ellme 241
Of vears to eome, and find its recompense
In that Just expectation
—Shelley (182*0)
Tho "Rnnwlnnlan Antelope" IR Peacock's wife, a
Welsh glil, uho lived neat Mt Snowdon In Wales.
The marrl.igi' took plnro on Mnuh '20, 1820
"Ills leained wit, his satire upon the vulgarity
of progress, are nioio continuous!* present in
his prose than in hi« verse, hut the novels are
filled with cheerful wrap* of rhyming. wine-songs,
love Rongs Rongs of moekerv, and nonsensp Jingles,
somp of whl«h are no more than the scholar's Idle
diversions hut others of a Rlngular excellence
They are like no other ver«*e , they are startling,
grotesque, full of hearty e\tra\aganeeK at times
thrilling with unexpected beauty" — Rymons. in
The Romantw Jforrmrnf in En (flirt Poetry (1009)
098. HAIL TO THE HB \DLONG
Tblh song IB found In Chapter 18 of Head-
long tfaH It IH sung as a toast "To the
Immortal memory of Headlong Ap-Rhalder,
and to the health of bin noble descendant and
worthy representative," Squire Headlong, mas-
ter of Headlong Hall.
9119. THOUGH I RB NOW A GHAT, GHAT FRIAR
Thin song IR Hung by a blhulouR Friar In
Chapter 4 of Mmd Mai inn
OH v BOLD RUBIN HOOD Ib A FOUfcbTEU HOOD
This Hong IH found in Chapter 11 of Maid
Mat tan It is sung; at the end of the day**
festivitlen in Sherwood ForeRt, the haunt of
Robin Hood and bin followers
YB WOODS, THAT OFT AT SILTHI NOON
ThlR Rong Is found in Chapter 18 of Ma4d
Marian It is sung by the Friar an he bids
farewell to the forest
1000. TUB CIRCLING OF THB Ml AD HORNS
ThlR Rong is found in Chapter 2 of The
Jfw/orfunrv of Kljrfnn It Is the chorus which
greets Elphln, the hero of the atory, as he
approaches the castle of Seithenyn, one of the
"immortal drunkards of the lale of Britain "
THE l\Att 60NG OF DIN AS \AWR
ThlR f.ong is found In Chapter 11 of The
Misfortunes of Elpnin The caRtle of Dinai
Vawr, a petty Welsh king of the days of
King Arthur, had been Rcized by King Melvan
from east of the Severn The Bong la pre-
ceded by the following comment "The hall
of Melvaa WEB full of magnanimous heroes,
who were celebrating their own exploits in
sundry choruses eRpcclallv that which fol-
lows, which IH here put upon record as being
the quinteRsence of all the war-Hongs that
ever were written, and the Rum and substance
of all the appetencies, tendencies, and conse-
quences of military glorv "
1001. IN THB D4Y* OF OLD
This song Is found in Chapter 18 of Crotchet
Castle It if* sung by a Lady Clarlnda dur-
ing an Interval at a dancing-party
LOTB AND AQI ?
ThlR song is found In Chapter 15 of Gryll
Clranqe It Is sung by one of a company of
young people It was probably Inspired by
Peacock's memory of a young woman to whom
he wa<* engaged In 1807, but who married an-
other Rho died in 1808 Peacocks Newark
4bbcy was written in her memory.
HUAUfcN inRLl- ' WH%T MEN UK W*
This song Is sometimes entitled The Men of
Gotham, It IH found in a drinking scene in
Chapter 11 of Nightmare Abbey
FOR THB BLBNDBR BBBCH AND TUB SAPLING O\K
This poem is recited in Chapter 2 of Maid
Martan, to illustrate the Impossibility of a
certain young lady*s being other than a Icner
of the birds and the forests.
THOMAS PERCY (1729-1811), p. 110
EDITIONS
Rtllgues of Ancient English Poehy (1765) 2 vols,
ed by C C Clarke (London, Cassell, 1877) ;
3 volb , ed by H. B Wheatley (London, 8on-
nenscheln, 1876-77, 1801 , New Tork, Macmll-
lan, 1010)
Folio MR , 4 vols , ed , with a Life by J. Pickford,
by J. W Hales, F J Furnlval, and F. J.
Child (London, TrObner, 1867-68).
1312
BIBLIOGBAraiEB AND NOTES
Northern Antiquities, 2 vols , translated from the
French of I* U Mallet (1770, Edinburgh,
1809 , London, Bohn, 1844).
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
GnuHsen, A C C . Percy , Prelate and Poet, with
a Preface by Rlr G Douglas (1908)
OTHER BALLAD COLLECTIONS
Child, F J . The English and Scottish Popular
Ballads, 5 vols (Boston and New York,
Iloughton, 1882-98).
Gummere, F B Old English Ballads (Athena?um
Press ed Boston, Glnn, 1894, 1904).
Haxlltr, W. C Remains of the Early Popular
loetry of England, 4 >ol8. (London, 1804
00).
Lalng, D . Seleet Remains of the Aneitnt Popu-
lar Poetry of Scotland (Edinburgh, 1822) , 2
vols (London, Reeves, 1896)
Motherwell, W Minstrelsy, Ancient and Mod
ern (Glasgow, 1827, Paisley, Gardner,
1878)
Ramsay, A The Tca-TabU Miscellany, 3 vols
(Edinburgh, 1724-27) , 4 vols. In 1 (London,
1760).
Rltson, Joseph. Ancient English Mctnoal Ro-
mances, 8 vols (London, 1802) , Inrirnf
Hongs and Ballads (London, 1790, London,
Reeves, 1877) Robin Hood, 2 vols (London,
1795, 1832)
Rargent, Helen Child, and Kittredge, G L Eng-
lish and Scottish Popular Ballads, with an
Introduction by G L Kittredge (Cambridge
ed Boston, Iloughton, 1904)
Rcott, Rlr Walter The Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border, 3 volh (Kdmburgh, 1802-08) . 4 ^ols,
ed by T F Ilomlerwon (Edinburgh, Black
wood, 1902) , 1 vol , with an Introduction bv
A Noyes (Edinburgh Melrose, 190S , New
York, Rtokes, 1913)
CRITICAL NOTES
HO. RBI IQ1 B6 OF ANCIBNT BXOLIHH TOBTBT
The Interest in old popular ballad* is recog-
nised as one of the important aspects of
Romanticism, and selections from Percy's
Rehgues are Included In this volume as repre-
sentative of that phase of the movement The
Rcliques Is the most noted collection of bal-
lads, songs, and other pieces of earlier poets,
that was published in the eighteenth century
The materials were drawn from various
sources, edited and discussed, expanded and
compressed, as Percy pleased The collection
won an Immediate popularity, and its influ-
ence upon butaequent writers of the Romantic
period, notably Rcott and Wordsworth, is hard
to be estimated The text followed is that
given by Percy.
"T remember well the spot where I read
these volumes for the first time It was
iMmeath a huge platanui tree, in the mini of
what had been Intended for an old-fashioned
arbor In the garden I have mentioned. The
6ummer-day sped onward so fast that not-
withstanding the sharp appetite of thirteen,
I forgot the hour of dinner, was sought for
with anxiety, and was still found entranced
in my Intellectual banquet. To read and to
remember was in this instance the same thing,
and henceforth I overwhelmed my school-fel-
lows, and all who would hearken to me, with
tragical recitations from the ballads of Bishop
Peicy. The first time, too, I could scrape
a few shilling* together, which were not com-
mon occurrences with me, I bought unto
myself a copy of these beloved volumes , nor do
I believe I ever read a book half so frequently,
or with half the enthusiasm "—Scott, in Auto-
biography, printed as Chapter 1 of Lockhart's
Memoirs of the Life of Sir 'Walter Scott,
Bart (1837-39).
"I have already stated how Germany is in-
debted to thl^ latter woik, and for our own
tountrv, its poetry has been absolutely re-
deemed by it. I do not think there is a
writer in verse of the present day *ho would
not be proud to acknowledge hlH obligations
to the Rcllqucft. I know that it is flo with mv
friends, and for myself, I am happy In this
occasion to make a public avowal of my
own " — Wordsworth, in KM nay, Supplementary
to the Preface (1815).
ROBIN HOOD AND GUI Ol> O18BORNB
Robin Hood, the famouH legendary English
outlaw, is the subject of numerous songs and
tallads. His chief resort was in Sherwood
Forest, in Nottinghamshire Of his followers,
the most noted are Little John, Friar Tuck,
and Maid Marian
The scene of this ballad IH In the vicinity
of Gisborne, a town neni the western border
of Yorkshire.
112. THB ANCIINT BALLAD OF CI1BV1 CIIAgB
This ballad is known also as The Hunting
of the Ch(not The scene of the action Is the
chase, or hunting ground, of Cheviot, a range
of hills in NorthnmlwrlandHhire, England, and
Roxburghshire, Scotland
The persons mentioned in the ballad belong
to English and Scottish history of the 14th
and 15th centuries.
"1 never heard the old song of Percy and
Douglas that I found not my heart moved
more than with a trumpet , and yet it is sung
but by some blind crowder with no rougher
voice than rude style, which being so ap-
parelled In the dust and cobwebs of that
uncivil age, what would it work, trimmed in
the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar?" — Kidney,
in The Defense of Poesy (1695) Ree also
Addiion's praise of the ballad in Spectator,
Nos. 70 and 74.
ALEXANDER POPE
1313
ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744), p. 1175
EDITIONS
TFcufctt, 10 volb., cd, with an Introduction, by
W. Elwiu and W. J. Courthope (London, Mar-
ray, 1871-89).
Pot tical Works, 3 volt., cd by A I>yce (Aldlne
c*d London, Bell, 1860, New York, Mac-
inillan, 1801)
Pottioal Works, ed , with an Introductory Memoir,
by A. W Wuid (Globe ed London and Now
lork, Macmlllan, 18(19, 1890, 1007)
Compltte Putins, ed by I! W Boynton , Includes
translation of Homer (Cambridge ed Bob-
tciu, Houghton, 1003)
HrlectioriH, od by K Delghton (Edinburgh, Boll,
1803, Now York, Macmillan)
Selection*, od by E K Rood (Now York Holt,
1001)
BIOGRAPHY
Johnson, & The Lire* of the English Poet*
(1770M) ; 3 \ols, oil by G B TI111 (London,
ClnuuUon Piesh, 190DJ.
Paston, G Mi PUJH, Hts Life and Ti wls, 2 \ols.
(New loik, l*utniiin, 1000)
Reed, M Loit Affaus of Lileiary Men (Now
Yoik, Putnam, 1007)
Spent c, J An<(dut(v, Observations, and Chatao-
ttm, of ftouAs riNd Jfr», <'t>ll<ct<d ftom the
Connrsatwn of Mr Pope and Other Eminuit
Petson* of hi* Tina (1N20, Cnnielot od Lon-
don, Hfiitt IHSfl)
Stephen, L Altfandir Pope (English Mon oi
Loiter* Strtos Urn don, Maomlllan, 1HSO .
Now York. Harper)
CRITICISM
Biiroll, A Obttcr Dieta. Reconcl Pcrles (London,
Stock, 1K86, 18SS, Ne\v York Scnbnoi)
(^hostoiton, Ci K 'Tope and tho Art of Katlro,"
Turin TyiHH (I^udon, Humphrevts, 1002,
1010) . Vantd Type* (New lork, Dodd, 1003,
1000)
J "The Poetry of Pope," Omfotd
*, 4 volH (Tendon, Parker, 1850 58) .
WotJbfl. 2 VO!H (London, Long-
1S72)
De QUIU«M, T "Alexander Pope," The Encyclo-
pedia, Bntanmia, 7th ed , "The Poetry of
Pope." The Worth British Review, Aug, 184ft;
"Lord Carlihlo on Pope," Tail's Magazine,
April-July, 1S51 , Volltetrd TTn/iw/;w, ed.
Masson (London, Black, 1889-90, 1806-07), 4,
237, 11, 61. 08
Elton, O The 4ti(/u«*an Ages (Edinburgh, Black-
wood, 1800 , New York, Bcrlbnor)
Griffith, R IF "NotoH on the Dunclad," Mode**
PMlnlow. Oct., 1912 (10 170)
Hazlltt, W "Dryden and Pope," Lectures on the
Enahuh Poets (London, 1R1R) , "Pope, Lord
Byron, and Mr Bowlen," The London Mayo-
rim , June, 1821 Collected Works, ed Waller
and Glovei (London, Dent, 1002-06; New
York, M<Clure), 5, 68; 11, 486.
Lang, A. . Letters to Dead Authors (London.
Longmans, 1886, 1802, New York, Scrlbner,
1893).
Lowell, J B M v Study Windows (Boston, On-
good, 1871 , Hougbton. 1800-92)
McLean, Mary L "The Riming SyKtcm of Alexan-
der Pope," Publication* of the Modern Lan
guaue Association of America, 1891 (6 134)
Monttgut Emlle. Heurn de Lecture d'un Critique,
Revue des Dcua Monde* (Paris, Hachetto,
1891).
Sainte Beu\e, C A "Qn* CHt te qu* un ClaHslque^ '
Ca-uscrus du Lundit Vol d (Paris, Gamier,
1857)
Rtephen, L "Pope as a MoralUt, ' Hour* in a
Lthtary, 3 yolb (London, Smith, 1874-70 , Now
lork and London, Putnam, 1800) , 4 vols
(1907)
Swinburne, A C. "A Century of English Poetry,"
Miscellanies (London, Chatto, 1880, 1911.
New York, Bcrlbner)
Thackeray, F S "I* the Present Neglect of
Pope Merited'" The Nineteenth Ocntunt, O<t,
1913 (74 805)
Thackotay, W M Lectures on the English
Humorists of the Eighteenth Century (1853) ,
London, Smith, 1875, 1888, New York, Holt,
1900).
Tuppor, J W "A Study of Pope's Imitations of
TToiaw," Publication* of the Modem Language
\HHoeiationf Juno, 1900 (n s 8 181)
CONCORDANCE
Abbott, E A Concordance to the Worl* of Alex-
ander rope (Tx>udon, Chapman, 1875, Now
York, Apploton)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Thorns W J "Blbliograph\ of the Lltoiature
Cannot tod with Poi>o and His Quarrels,"
Arofr« and Quints, Soiies D, Vol 12
CRITICAL NOTES
See selection from Warton R Essay on the Genius
and H t itinrrx of 1'opc, p 8r> , Johnson B Pope, p
1131, Coleridge's comment on Pope, p. 1270b, and
Hunt s Preface to Rimim, p 127Gb.
117B. WINDSOR rO&EST
Windsor Forest In near the town of Wind-
sor, in Berkshire, tho sent of the famous
royal reMdeme \Vlmlbor ("astle, foundml by
William the Conqueror
117O. AN 1S8AI ON CRITICISM
In this Essay, Pope presents In concise form
the actepted rule* of poetic composition as
thoy had boon formulated in tho works of the
ancients and of Italian, French, and English
critics of tho hoventeenth and eighteenth cen-
turies. Cf especially Horace s Ar* Poctfra,
Vlda'B De Arte Poettea, and Bottom's L'Art
Poftiqve, all of which are founded on Aris-
totle's Poetics
The importance of Pope's poem llos in the
skill with which these rules are presented.
1314
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND MOTES
1178.
AN MBAX ON MAN
This IB a treatise in four Epistle* on the
moral order of the universe For much of the
thought Pope was Indebted to Henry Bt John,
Lord Bolingbroke, a contemporary politician
and philosopher, to whom the poem la ad-
dressed The poem should be compared with
Bollngbroke's Fragments, 48-68 Bolingbroke
belonged to the school of Delstlc philosophers,
who discredited revelation, and endeavored
to construct a religion solely by the light of
reason
Pope's reasons for treating his subject in
verse rather than in prose arc thus net forth
In his Preface • "If I could flatter myself that
this essay has any merit, it is In steering be-
twixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly
opposite, In passing over terms utterly unln
telllgible, and in forming a temperate yet not
Inconslbtent, and a short yet not imperfect,
system of ethic* This I might have done
in prose, but I chose verse, and even rhyme,
for two reasons. The one will appear obvious ,
that principles, maxims, or precepts so written
both strike the reader more strongly at flr*t,
and are more easily retained by him after-
wards The other may seem odd, but Is true
I found I could express thorn more shortly
this way than in prose Itself , and nothing is
more certain than that much of the force as
well as grace of arguments or Instructions
depends on their conciseness "
1180. 937-40. The biological idea expressed In
these lines Is false , evolution, however, predi-
cates Just such a chain, but with a difference.
Salntsbury, G. . Essays in English Literature,
1780-1860, Vint Series (London, Perclval, 1800;
New York, Scrlbner)
Smith, G B "English Fugitive Poets," Poets and
Novelists (London, Smith, 1876).
Whitmoro, W H. "Praed and His Poems," The
North American Rewtc, Oct. 185D (89-586).
CRITICAL NOTE8
Praed is best known as a writer of social satire
and vers de socicte, and among writers of such
vcise he has never been equalled. Austin DobMra
says of him (Mlles's The Poets and the Poetry of
the Century (1889) "In ease of wit and humor,
In spontaneity and unflagging vivacity of rhythm,
in sparkle of banter and felicity of rhyme, no
imitator, whom we can iccall, has ever come
within measurable distance of Winthrop Mack-
worth Praed ff
1140. 6PIH1TS, THAT WALK AND WAIL TONIGHT
This song Is found in Canto 1 of The
Troubadour It N sung by the troubadour In
response to a request for a song of witchery
OH fLT WITH HB' 'TIS PASSION'S HOUR
This song is found In Canto 2 of The Trou-
badow It Is sung by the tioubadour beneath
his sweetheart's window In a convent.
1146.
OUR BALL
This is one of two "letters" written from
Telgnmouth, a fashionable watering place in
Devonshire, England The places mentioned
In the poem belong to the vicinity.
1149.
STANZAS
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED
(1802-1839), p. 1145
EDITIONS
Poems, 2 volb., ed , with a Memoir, by D Cole-
ridge (London, Moxon, 1864 , New York, Wld-
dleton, 1865, London, Ward and Lock, 1880)
Political and Occasional Poems, ed, with an In-
troduction, by G. Young (London, Ward and
Lock, 1889).
Selections, ed. by G. Young (London, Moxon,
1866)
Poems, selected, with an Introductory Notice by F
Cooper (Canterbury Poet* ed. London, Scott,
1888)
Poems, selection, ed , with an Introduction, by F.
Greenslet (Boston, Houghton, 1909)
Select Poems, ed , with an Introduction, by A D.
Godley (London, Frowde, 1909).
Essays, ed , with an Introduction by H Morley,
by G. Young (London, Rontledge, 1887).
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Dennett, J R • The Nation, July 18, 1865 (1 .52).
Hewlett, H G "Poets of Society," The Contem-
porary Review, July, 1872 (20 .288)
Kranpa, M "W M. Praed, seln Leben und seine
Werke, Weiner Beitrdoe, 1910 (82).
11 BO. 14. Move to abolish the sun and moon —
Cobbrtt was a member of tbe House of Com-
mons who was known for his virulent at-
tacks upon all sorts of Institutions and meas-
ures James Sayera (1748 1823), the carica-
turist, thus characterises him
Mr Cobbott ask'd leave to bring in very soon
A Bill to abolish the Hun and the Moon
The Honorable Member proceeded to state
Home arguments, used in a former debate,
On the mihject of sinecure*, taxes, vexations,
The Army and Navy, and old Corporations —
The Heavenly Bodlen, like those upon Earth,
Had, ho Raid, boon corrupt from the day of
their birth,
With recklesH profusion expending their light,
One after another, by day and by night
And what rlasa enjoy'd it? — The* upper
Upon such they had always exclusively shone.
• • • • • . .
These abuses must cease— they had lasted too
long —
Was there anything right? was not every-
thing wrong?
The Crown was too costly,— the Church was a
curse, —
Old Parliament's bad. Reform'd Parliament'*
worne,——
All revenues 111-manag'd, — all wants ill-pro-
vided. —
Equalityr-Llbertv,— Justice, divided
— Quoted from Melville'* The Life and L*t-
tos of William Coblett (1918). '
BBYAN WALLER PBOCTEB
1315
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
(1787-1874), p. 1168
EDITIONS
English Songs and Lyrics (1844. London, Bell,
1870).
An Autobiographical Fragment and Biographical
Notes, ed by C. Patmore (London, Bell,
1877)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Becker, F "B. W. Procter," Wiener Beitrage,
1911 (87).
Fields, J T "Barry Cornwall and Some of hi*
Friends," Yesterdays with Authors (Boston,
Iloughton, 1871, 1880).
Hewlett, II G The Nineteenth Oentury, Oct,
1878 (4 643).
Patmore, P. G My Friends and Acquaintance,
8 vols (New Tork, Saunders. 1854)
Slmcox, G A The Fortnightly Review, May,
1H77 (27 708)
Stedman. B C "A Representative Triad. Hood.
Arnold, Procter" Soribncr's Monthly, Feb ,
1874 (7 468)
Stedman, B C Victorian Poets (Boston, Hough-
ton, 1875. 1884)
Symons, A The Romantic Movement in English
Poetrv (London, Constable, 1900, New York,
Dutton),
Whipple B P "English Poets of the Nineteenth
Century." E**ays and Review* ', 2 vols (Bos-
ton, OHgood, 1849. 1878).
Whipple, B. P.: Recollection* of Eminent, Men
(Boston. Houghton. 1886)
CRITICAL NOTES
"There never was a poet more honest In the ex-
pression of his nature His songs are the reflec-
tions of all moodh of his mind, and he cares not
If the sentiment of one contradicts that of an-
other In grief, or love, or fear, or despair, at
the festive board, or the bed of HicknesM, wherever
and whenever the spirit of song comes to him,
it takes the color of the emotion which animates
or saddens the moment He is a large-hearted and
most lovable man , and his poetry is admired lie-
cause it IK the expression of his character " — B P.
Whipple, in Ensays and Reviews (1845)
1168. 24. / was oorn on the open sta — Procter
was born at Leeds, a large inland city in the
western part of Yorkshire
80-30. Cf with Glendower's account of hit*
birth in 1 Henry IV, III, 1, 18-16
At my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,
Of burning cressets , anil at my birth
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shak'd like a coward
ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758), p. 7
EDITIONS
Poetical Works, 2 vols., ed , with a Memoir, by
C Mackay (London, Virtue, 1870)
Works, 2 vols, with a Life, (Paisley, Gardner,
1877).
Poems, selections, ed., with a Biographical Intro-
duction, by J. L. Robertson (Canterbury Poets
ed. London, Scott, 1887).
The Evergreen, 2 vols, ed by A. Ramsay (Edin-
burgh, 1724)
The Gentle Shepherd (London, Black, 1875)
The Gentle Shepherd (London, Simpkin, 1801)
The Tea-Table Miscellany, ed by A Ramtay, 8
vols (Bdinburgh, 1724-27) ; 4 vols in 1 (Lon-
don, 1750)
BIOGRAPHY
Rmeaton, O. A llan Ramsay ( Famous Scots Series
Bdinburgh, Oliphant, 1896)
CRITICISM
Eyre-Todd, G Scottish Poetry of the Eighteenth
Century, 2 vols (Glasgow, Hodge, 1896).
Masson, D Edinburgh Sketches and Memories
(London, Black, 1892 , New Tork, Macmlllan)
Mlnto, W In Ward's The English Poets, Vol 8
(London and New York, Macmlllan, 1880,
1909).
Shalrp, J C "Return to Nature Begun by Allan
Ramsay and Thomson,*' On Poetic Interpreta-
tion of Nature (Bdinburgh, Douglas, 1877,
New Tork, Hurd, 1878, Boston, Houghton,
1885)
Walker, H Three Centuries of Scottish Litera-
ture, 2 vols (Glasgow, BfacLehose. 1893,
New Tork, Macmlllan)
Wilson, J G The Poets and Poetry of Scotland,
2 vols (Glasgow, Blackle, 1876, New Tork,
Harper)
CRITICAL NOTE8
7. MY PBOGY
This poem was first published as part of
Patvc and Roget, later made the first scene
of Act I of The Gentle Shepherd
9. THE GENTLE SHEPHERD
"I spoke of Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shep-
herd, in the Scottish dialect, as the best pas-
toral that had ever been written, not only
abounding with beautiful rural imagery, and
Just and pleasing sentiments, but being a
real picture of the manners , and I offered
to teach Dr Johnson to understand it 'No
sir,' said he; 'I won't learn it Tou shall
retain your superiority by my not knowing
It • "— Boswell, in The Life of Samuel John-
son (1778)
Patle and Peggy arc conventional names in
Scottish pastoral poetry
11. THE EVERGREEN
This was "a collection of Scots poems,
wrote by the Ingenious before 1600" It was
compiled to arouse interest in old Bngllsh
poetry It contained popular songs and bal-
lads, new as well as old
1316
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
SAMUEL ROGERS (1763-1855). p. 207
EDITIONS
Poetical Work*, ed , with a Memoir, by B Bell
(Aldlne ed London, Bell, 1866, 1802 ; New
York, Macmlllan)
Poem* (London, Routledge, 1800)
Reminiscences and Table-Talk, collected by Q H.
Powell (London, Johnson, 1003)
BIOGRAPHY
Clayden, P W • Roger* and his Contemporaries,
2 vols (London. Smith, 1880)
Hubert*, It K Samuel Rogers and hi* Cirde
(London, Methuen, 1010, New York, Button)
CRITICISM
Edinburgh Review. The "Poems," Oct. 1818
(22 82)
Hayward, A The Edinburgh Renew, July, 185ft
(104 88) , Biographical and Critical Essays.
2 vols (London, Longmans, 1868)
Jeffrey, F "Human Life/' The Edinburgh Re-
view, March, 1810 (81 826)
Patmore, P. G. . My Friends and Acquaintance,
8 yolB. (New York, Saunders, 1854)
Quarterly Review, The. "Poem*,," March, 1818
(0 207)
Symons, A The Romantic Movement in English
Poetry (London, Constable, 1000 , New York,
Button)
CRITICAL NOTES
"Rogers's title to a place among the representa-
tives of the moRt brilliant age — the drama apart —
of English poetry cannot now be challenged, but
bin rank IK lower than that of any of bin contem-
poraries, and hi<t position is due in great measure
to two fortunate accidents the establishment of
bis reputation before the advent, or at least the
recognition, of more potent spirits, and the Inti-
mate association of his name with that of greater
men. lie has, however, one peculiar distinction,
that of exemplifying beyond almost any other poet
what a moderate poetical endowment can effeit
when prompted by ardent ambition and guided by
refined taste Among the countless examples of
splendid gifts marred or wasted, it is pleasing to
find one of mediocrity elevated to something like
distinction by fastidious care and severe tolL It
must also be allowed that his inspiration was gen-
uine as far as It went, and that it emanated from
a store of sweetness and tenderness actually ex-
isting in the poet's nature."— B. Qarnett, In the
Dictionary of National Biography (1807)
SOT.
THE PLIASCRIfl OF M1MOBT
"The Pleasures of Memory Is an excellent
specimen of what Wordsworth calls 'the accom-
plishment of verse* and it was well worthy
to attract attention and admiration at the
time when it appeared, for at that time
poetry, with few exceptions, was to be distin-
guished from prose by versification and little
else The Pleasures of Memory is an essay in
verse, not wanting In tender sentiment and
just reflection, expressed, graceful no doubt,
but with a formal and elaboiate grace, and
in studiously pointed and carefully poised dic-
tion such as the heroic couplet had born
trained to assume since the days of Pope " —
Sir Henry Taylor In Ward's The English
Poets, Vol 4 (1880).
With regard to title and hubject, cf, this
poem with Akenside's The Pleasure* of the
Imagination (p 44), Warton's The Pleasures
of Melancholy (p 75), and Campbell's The
Pltasures of Hope (p 417)
SBOB. WRITTBN IN Till HIGHLANDS OF SCOT! AND
24. Another flood — Loch Long, a narrow
bay west of the county of Dumlnarton, Scot-
land
AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA
9E1O. 9. To «c hu face no more — 'Thoie U a
beautiful story, delivered down to us from
antiquity, which will here perhaps occur to
the reader
"Icariub, when he gave Penelope in mar-
riage to UlyhReti, endeavored to porbuadr him
to dwell in Lac odtrnion , and, when all he
urged wab to no purpose, he entreated his
daughter to remain with him When Ulysses
set out with his bride for Ithnra, the old man
followed the thai lot, till, overcome by his
importunity, Ulysses consented that It should
bo left to Penelope to decide whether she
would pioceed with him or return with her
father It is related, says Pauwinlas, that
fche made no reply, but that F.he covered her-
self with her veil, and that harlus, perceiv-
ing at once by it that she 1m lined to Ulysses,
suffered her to depart with him
"A statue was afterwards plain! by her
father as a memorial in that part of the road
where she had covered herself with her veil.
It was fctlll standing there in the days of
Pausanias, and was called the statue of Mod-
esty ' — Rogers'* note
THB HOT Or 10B1MOND
"In the twelfth century William Fits-Duncan
laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and
sword, and was afterwards established there
by his uncle. David. King of Scotland He was
the last of the race , hlh son, commonly called
the Boy of Bgremond, dying before him In
the manner here related, when a Priory was
removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might
be as near as possible to the place whore the
accident happened That place is still known
by the name of the Strid, and the mother's
answer, as given in the first Mania, is to thin
day, often repeated in Wharfedale"— Rogers'*
note
The places mentioned alx>ve are ID the west-
ern part of Yorkshire, England
BIB WALTEB SCOTT
1317
•11.
TRI OONDOLA
812. 80. Lay of love — "La Blondlna in Gondo-
letta." — Rogen's note
41. Qrass-ffroKH. — "When a despot lays his
hand on a free city, how noon must he make
the discovery of the rustic who bought Punch
of the puppet-show man, and complained that
he would not bpeak '" — Rogen'H note
60-52. "For this thought I am indebted to
some unpublished travels hy the author of
Vathck " — Rogers'* note,
67. Tancrcd and Ermmio* — "Goldonl, de-
scribing his excursion with the rassalacqua,
ban left us a lively picture of this class of
men 'We were no sooner in the middle of that
great lagoon which encircles the city than our
dlbcrcot gondolier drew the curtain behind ust
and let us float at the will of the waves At
length night came on, and we could not tell
where we were "What IB the hour'" said I
to the gondolier — "I cannot guess, sir, but,
If I am not mlHtakon, it is the lover's hour " —
"Lot UM go homo," I replied , and he turned
the prow homeward, singing, as he rowed, the
twontv ninth htropho of the sixteenth canto
of the Jerusalem Delivered'" Carlo Goldonl
(1707-03) was a not (Ml Italian dramatist
BO. litanta -"Ultima Capello It had been
shut. If w<» mav believe the novelist Maleaplni,
by a baker's boj , as he passed by at daybreak ,
and In her despair hhe fled with her lover to
Florence where he fell by assassination Her
beauty, and her love adventure as here re-
lated, her marriage afterwards witb the grand
duke, and that fatal banquet at which they
were both poisoned bv the cardinal, his
brother, have rendered her history a romance "
— Rogcn'K note Illanca Capello was a noted
Italian adventures* of the 10th century She
eloped ulth Iluouaventurl in 1563, and mar-
ried Francesco, grand duke of Tuscany, in
1578.
SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832), p. 433
EDITIONS
Poetical Wort*, with a Biographical and Critical
Memoir, bv F T Palgrave (Ulolx* ed Lon-
don and New York. Macmlllan. 1866. 1907)
Pottlcal Uorfrr, with a Critical Memoir by W M
Robwttl (London. Moxon. 1870)
Poetical Works, 2 vols, ed , with a Prefatory
Notice. Biographical and Critical, by W Sharp
(London, Rcott, 188580)
Poetical Work*, 2 voln, ed by W Mlnto (London,
Black, 1887-88, 1891-92)
Poetical Works, ed by W J Rolfe (Boston, Hough-
ton. 1888)
Po<m*, 5 vols, ed by J Dennis (Aldlne ed
London, Bell, 1892 , New York, Macmlllan)
Poetical Works, 4 vols. with the Author's Intro-
ductions and Notes, and the Annotations of
J Q Lockhart (Edinburgh, Ollphant, 1898.
Philadelphia, Lipplneott, 1900)
Complete Poetical Work*, cd , with a Biographical
Sketch, by H B Scudder (Cambridge ed
Boston, Houghton, 1900)
Complete Poetical Works, 6 vols , ed , with Intro-
ductions, by A. Lang (Boston, Bates, 1902) ;
1 vol (London, Nlmmo, 1905)
Poetical Works, ed by J L Robertson (Oxford
Unlv Press, 1904, 1918)
Waverley Novels, 12 vote (Abbotsford ed Bdln
burgh, Black, 1842-47)
Waverlev Novels, 25 volt (Centenary ed Edin-
burgh, Black, 1870-71)
Wavcrlev Novels, 25 vols (Oxford Unlv Press,
1912)
Mtitcellaneoua Prose Works, 80 vols (Edinburgh,
Cadell, 1884-71 , Black, 1870 82)
Journal, 18K-X, 2 vols , ed by 1) Douglas (Edin-
burgh, Douglas, 1890, New York, Harper,
1890, 1900)
Familiar Letters. 2 vols , ed by D Douglas j( Edin-
burgh, Rlmpkln, 1898 , Boston, Houghton,
1894)
MinHtrelKy of the Scottish Border, 4 volf. , ed by
T F Henderson (Edinburgh. Black wood,
1902), 1 vol, with an Introduction by A
Noyes (Edinburgh, Melrose, 1908 , New York,
Stokes, 1918)
BIOGRAPHY
Crockett, W S Footsteps of Scott (New York,
Jacobs, 1908 , Boston, Phillips, 1914)
Crockett, W R The Scott County y (Edinburgh,
Black, 1902, 1911 , New York, Macmlllan)
Findlay. J P Kir Walter Scott, the Great Un-
known (London, Nlmmo, 1911)
Gllflllan. G Life of Kir Walter Scott (Edin-
burgh, Hamilton, 1870. 1871)
Hudson, W II Sir Walter Scott (London, Bands,
1901)
Hutton, R H Kir Walter Scott (English Men
of Letters Series London, Macmlllan, 1878,
1896 , New York, Harper)
Irving, W Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey
(Bonn's Library ed London, Bell, 1850)
Lang, A Sir Walttr Seott (Literary Lives Se-
ries London, Hodder. 1906, New York,
Scrihner)
Lockhart, J G Memoirs of the Lift, of Bit
Walter Scott, Baronet, 10 vols (Edinburgh,
1819), 3 vol& (Boston, Honghton. 1881),
\brldged ed , 1 vol (New York. Crowell, 1871 ,
London, Black, 1880, Boston, Honghton,
1901)
MacCunn, F A Sir Waltei Scott's Friends
(Edinburgh, Blackwood, 1909, New York,
Lane, 1910).
Napier, G G Homts and Haunt* of Scott (Lon-
don, Macmjllan, 1907)
Norgate, G Le G Lift of Sir Walter Scott (Lon-
don. Methnen, 1900)
Olcott, C. R The Country of Sir Walter Scott
(London, Cassell, 1918, Boston, Houghton)
Olcott, C R "The Courtship of Sir Walter
Scott." The Bookman, Jan , 1912 (84 488)
Olcott. C. B "The Making of Sir Walter," The
Outlook, July 27. 1912 (101 70S)
1318
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Salntsbnry, 0 tftr Walter Scott (Famous Scot.
. Series Edinburgh and London. Ollphant,
1897 , New York, Bcribner)
Scott C. G. and A Letters of Bir Walter Soott's
Family to their Governess (London, Richards,
1906)
Scott, Bir W Journal, and Letters.
Hkene, J Memories of Sir Walter Scott, ed by
B. Thomson (London, Murray, 1909)
Stephen, L The Story of Scott'H Ruin/' Studies
of a Biographer, 3 vols (London, Duckworth,
1898-1902 , New Tork, Putnam)
Yonge, C D Life of Sir Walter Scott (Groat
Wrtterb Series London, Scott, 1888)
CRITICISM
Alnger, A. Lecture* and Unsay*, 2 tolb. (New
York and London, Marmlllan, 1905)
Bagehot, W "The Waverlev No\eK" The Na-
tional Renew, April, 1SBH , Literal y fl/mfira,
3 vols., cd by R U. Iluttoii (London and New
York, Longmans, 1878-79. 1895).
Ball, Margaret Sir Walttr ftoott an a Critic of
Literature (Columbia Unh Press, 1907)
Beers, HA A History of English Romantiintm
in the Nineteenth Century (New York, Holt,
1901, 1910)
Blackwood's Magazine, "Sir Walter Scott, His
Friends and Critics," Feb. 1910 (1S7 187)
Brandes. G "Historical Naturalism." Main Cur-
rents in Nineteenth Century Literature, Vol.
4 (London, Helnemann, 1905, New York,
Hacmlllan, 1906)
Brooke, 8 A Studies in Poetry (New York, Put-
nam, 1907 , London, Duckworth)
Canning, A S G Sir Walter Hoot* Studied in
Bight Novels (London, Unwln, 1910, New
York, Weasels)
Canning, A S G History m Scott's Novels
(London, Unwln, 1905, 1907)
Carlyle, T The London and Westminster Rtntw
(1888), Ontical and Miscellaneous Essays,
4 vols (Boston, Ilonghton, 1880)
Chesterton, G K "The Position of Sir Walter
Scott," Twelve Types (London, Humphreys,
1902, 1910) , Varied Types (New York, Dmld,
1903, 1909)
Crockett, W S The Scott Originals (Edinburgh,
Foulls, 1911 ; New York, Scrlbner)
DawHon, W J The Malers of English Poetiy
(New York and London, Revell, 1900)
Dawson, W J • "The Wavertey Novels" and
"Scott (B Greatness," The Makers of English.
Fiction (New York and London, Revell, 1905)
Elliot Col F • Trustworthiness of the Border
BaUadt (London, Blackwood, 1906)
Elliot, Col F Further Essays on the Border
BaUad* (Edinburgh, A. Eliot, 1910)
Fyfe, W. G • Edinburgh under Sir Walter Scott
(Edinburgh, Constable, 1906; New York,
Dntton)
Gates, L B Studies and Appreciations (New
York, Macmillan, 1900)
Hay, J "Address at the Unveiling of the Bust
of Scott in Westminster Abbey 1897," Ad-
dresses (New York, Century, 1906)
Haslitt, W The Spirit of the Age (London,
1825), Collected Wotks, ed Waller and
Glover (London, Dent, 1902-00, New York,
McClure), 4, 241
Hugo, V • Literature et Philosophic (Park,
1884).
Ilutton, B H Brief Literary Criticisms (Lon-
don, Macmillan, 1906).
Jack, A A Essays on the Noicl as Illustrated
by Kcott and Miss Austen (London, Macmil-
lan, 1897)
Jeffrey, F Criticisms in The Edmbuigh Review
"Marmion," April, 1808 (12 1) , "The Lady
of the Lake," Aug, 1810 (16 203) , "The Lay
of the Last Minstrel," April, 1805 (01).
"Tbe Lord of the Isles," Feb , 1815 (24 273) ,
"The Vision of Don Roderick," Aug, 1811
(18 379)
Lang, A Essays in Little (London, Henry, 1891 ,
New York, Scrlbner)
Lang, A Letters to Dead Authors (London, I«ong-
mann, 1886, 1892, New York, Scrlbnei, ISO,;)
Lang, A and J Highways and Bjways in the
ttordet* (London, Muimlllan, 1013)
Laiig, A Mr Walter Kcott and the Boidtr Mm
strclsy (London and New York, Longmans,
1910)
Mable, H W "The I*nd of Scott," Barlgtuund*
of Literature (Now York, Outlook, 1903)
Masson, D British Novelists and their Styles
(London, Macmlllsn, 1859)
Morgan, A B Ncott and his Poetry (London,
Harrap, 1933)
Omond, T S The Romantic Triumph (Edin-
burgh, Blaekwooil, 1900, New York, Scrib
nor, 1900, 1909)
Plarr, G "Walter Scott and Joanna Halllle,"
The Edinburgh Art lew Ort , 1912, and Jan ,
1913 (216 35Q , 217 170)
Quarterly Reritw. The "Rokebj," Dei , 1812
(8 485) , "The Lady of the Lake," Mny, 1810
(3 492) , "The Lord of the Isles," Juh, 1815
(13 28$ , "The Vision of Don Roderick, 0(t ,
1811 (0 221)
Rawnsley, II I) Library Associations of the
English Ltffcra, 2 vols (Glasgow, MacLehose,
1894, 1900)
Roesel, L K Die Literaristhen und perstmlichen
Bcffichunycn Sir Walter Stotts tu (locthe
(Leipzig, 1902)
Ruskln, J For* Olavigtra, Letters 3134, 92
(1873, 1883 , New York, Crowrll, 1909)
Ruskln, J "Of Modern Landscape," Modem
Painters, Part 4, ch 16 (London, Smith, 1R56 ,
New York, Crowell, 1909)
Saintsbury, O "The Historical Novel," Essays
in English Literature, JW-JW, Second Series
(London, Dent, 1N95, New York, Scrlbner)
Seccomhe, T "Scott Waveriey," TAr Contem-
porary Review, July, 1914 (106 26)
Bhalrp, J C "The Homeric Spirit in Walter
Scott," Aspeets of Poetry (Oxford, Clarendon
Press, 1881 , Boston, Plough ton)
Smith, Goldwln In Ward's The English Poets.
Vol 4 (London and New York, Macmillan,
1880, 1911).
SIB WALTEB SCOTT
1319
Stephen, L.. "Some Words About Sir Walter
Scott," Uoun in a Library, 8 volb (London,
Smith, 1874-79 , New York and London, Put-
nam, 1899) , 4 \olft. (1907).
Stevenson, E L "A Gossip on Romance," Mem-
ones and Portraits (London, Chatto, 1887)
Swinburne, A. C. . "The Journal of Sir Walter
Scott," Studies in Prose and Poetry (London,
Chatto, 1897)
BymonH, A "Wan Sir Walter Scott a^ Poet'"
The Atlantic Monthly, Nov , 1004 (94 004) ,
The Romantic Movement in Ennlith Poetry
(London, Constable, 1909 , New York, Dutton)
Vaughan, C E The Romantw Revolt (Ertln-
bnrgh, Black* ood, 1900, New York. Scrlb-
nor, 1907)
Veltih, J The llvttory and Poetry of the Scot-
ttoh Border, 2 volh (Glasgow, MacLchose,
1878)
Verrall, A W Collected Literal y Ewaye (Cam-
bridge, Ontv Press, 1913)
Watt, L M Ncottbh Ltfc and Poitty (London
MsbPt, 1912)
Williams, A M "Scott ah a Man of Letter*,."
Knoliftehe Mudien, 1907 (87)
Woodbpnv, 0 E "Tht» Prince of Proso Ro-
mancer*." ffrrrif Wnfrr* (New York, McClure,
1007, Maciiiillfin 1912)
Wyndham. G Mr Walter Ncott (London, Mai-
mlllan. 1908)
Young, C \ Thr Wavirlcy Aoufir ((Jlahgow,
MacLohoHt', 1907)
KEY, DICTIONARY, AND 8YNOP8ES
Grev, II hty to tin Waurlty Aoi'rtn (London,
Griffith, 1SR4 , Long 1SOR SonurnHcht'ln,
1K99, Now York, Bowman, 1010)
Husband, M F A Dictionary of Charaelet* tn
the Warerlcy Nowl* (London, Routledge,
1910, New York, Dutton)
McSnadden, J W Warcrlui Nynopmti (New
York, Ciowoll, 1900, 1914)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Anderson, J P In ^onge's LI/I of Sir WaUtr
ficott (1S8H)
llall, Margaret In Nn WaWr Ntott OH <i Critic
of Literature (Columbia Univ Press, 1907)
CRITICAL NOTES
"Tln« perennial charm of the Wa^erley Novels
resides Mry Inigfly In their hpalthfulnehk. Thn
take UH entlrt-h out of ourselves, and absorb u*
in the world of Incident and action If they nre
not always great as works of art, they nre
aluajs great In that health of mind and wnil
which Is elemental In all true Ihlng Men cannot
be too grateful for a roam of writing BO genuine
In tone, no free from morbid tendencies, no true
to the fundamental ethlcR of living"— H W
Mable. In My tiff/dy Fire, Second Series (1896)
What Mabie nay« of the norelt, applies to Rcott'H
work as a whole
"Scott's Is almost the only poetry In the Eng-
lish language that not only runs In the head of
average men, but heats the head In which It
runs by the men force of Its hurried frankne»b
of style . No poet ever equalled Scott In
the dchcrlption of wild and simple feelings"—
R II Ilutton, In Mr Walter Keott (Engllbh Men of
Letters Series, 1879)
See WordMWorth'u 1 arrow Revisited (p 312),
and On the Departure of Kir Walter ffoott from
Aobottford, for Naples (p 314) , also Byron B Ena-
li*h Bards and Scotch Reviewer*. 158-84 (pp 487-
88)
433. WILLIAM AND HILBJi
Scott's first publication was a translation
or Imitation of two German ballads written
by G A lidrgcr (1748-94), a noted German
poet One of these was Lenort (1774), the
lUKls of Scott's William, and Helen Scott
giveH In a note the following account of how
he became acquainted with Lenori "A lady
of high rank In the literary world read this
romantic tale, as translated by Mr Taylor,
in the house of the celebrated Professor
Dugald Stewart, of Edinburgh The author
was not present, nor Indeed in Edinburgh at
the time , but a gentleman who had the pleaH-
ure of hearing the ballad, afterwards told him
the htory, and repeated the remarkable
chorub —
Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede,
Hplflhh, splash, across the sea,
Hurrah, the dead can ride apace.'
Dobt fear to ride with me?'
"In attempting a translation, then intended
only to circulate among frtendu, the present
author did not hesitate to make use of this
Impressive stanza , for which freedom he has
hime obtained the forgiveness of the inge-
nious gentleman to whom it properly belongs "
The lady referred to was Mrs Anna Letltla
Itarbauld (1748-1825) Mr Taylor was Wil
llam Taylor of Norwich (1766-1886)
486. THI VIOLBT
Thin is usually regarded as one of the most
beautiful and delicate of Scott's poems It
refers to bin love, never directly expressed,
for Wllllamlna Stuart The poem was writ-
ten immediately after it became evident that
his hopes wore in vain Miss Stuart, who
married Sir William Forbes, died in 1810
Seventeen years later Scott wrote In his Jour-
nal (Nov 7 and 10, 1827). after a vMt to
Mibs Ptuart'h aged mother "I went to make
another visit, and fairly softened myself like
an old fool, with recalling old stories till I
was fit for nothing but shedding tears and
repeating verses for the whole night This IK
Mid work. The very grave gives up ttn dead,
and time rolls tack thirty vours to add to
my perplexities I don't care t begin to
grow over hardened and, like a stag turning
at bay, my naturally good tompor grows fierce
and dangerous Tet what a romance to tell,
and told I fear it will one day be And then
my three years of dreaming and my two years
1320
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
of wakening will be chronicled doubtless But
the dead will feel no pain ... At twelve
o'clock I went to poor lady J. B to talk
over old stories I am not clear that It IB
right or healthful Indulgence to be ripping
up old sorrows, but it seems to give her deep-
seated sorrow words, and that is a mental
blood-letting To me these things are now
matter of calm and solemn recollection, never
to be forgotten, yet scarce to be remembered
with pain "
For a full account of tho story, see Lock-
hart s Life of Scott, ch. 8, and Miss F. M F.
Skene'B "Sir Walter Scott1* First LOVP," The
Century Magazine, July, 1890 (58 868).
GLBNFINLAB
This ballad was first published in Monk
Lewis's Tales of Wonder. The following ac-
count of the ballad was there given by Scott
in a preface "The simple tradition upon
which this ballad is founded runs thus
While two Highland hunters were peering the
night in a solitary oothy (a hut built for the
purpose of hunting) and making merry over
their venlHon and whisky, one of them ex-
pressed a wish that they had pretty lasses to
complete their party The words were scarcely
uttered, when two beautiful young women ,
habltPd In green, entered the hut, dancing
and singing One of the hunters was seduced
by the siren who attached herself particular! v
to him, to leave the hut the other remained,
and, auspicious of the fair seducers, continued
to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some
strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary Day
at length came, and the temptress vanished
Searching In the forest, he found the bones of
his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to
pieces and devoured by the fiend into whose
tolls he had fallen The place was from
theme called the Glen of the Green Women
' Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, folng
In the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from
Callender In Mcnteith It was formerly a
royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of
Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent
district of Balquldder, was, in times of yore,
chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors To the
west of the Forest of Glenflnlas lies Loch
Katrine, and Its romantic avenue, called the
TroshachB. Benledl, Denmore, and Benvolr-
llch, are mountains in the same district, and
at no great distance from Glenflnlas The
Elver Telth passes Callender and the Castle
of Donne, and joins the Forth near Stirling
The Pass of Lenny Is immediately above Cal-
lender, and is the principal access to the
Highlands from that town Glenartney IB a
forest, near Benvolrllch The whole forms a
sublime tract of Alpine scenery "
438.
CAD10W CABTL1
This ballad was Included in the third vol-
ume of Scott's The Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border. Scott gives the following historical
basis for the ballad :
"The ruins of Cadyow, or Cadsow Castle,
the ancient baronial residence of the family
of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipi-
tous banks of the River Bvan, about two mllet*
above its Junction with the Clyde It was
dismantled, in the conclusion of the Civil
Wars, during the reign of the unfortunate
Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton
devoted themselves with a generous seal,
which occasioned their temporary obscurity,
and, very nearly, their total ruin. The situa-
tion of the ruins, embosomed in wood, dark-
ened by ivy and creeping shrubR, and o\er-
hauglng the brawling torrent, is romantic In
the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity
of Cadyow IR a grove of Immense oaks, tho
remains of the Caledonian Forest, which an-
ciently extended through the south of Scot-
land, from the eastern to the Atlantic Otean
Home of these trees measure twenty -five feet
and upwards in circumference, and the state
of decav in whi< h they now appeal shows that
they have witnessed the rites of the Druids
The whole scenery is included In the magnifi-
cent and extensive park of the Duke of Ham-
ilton . .
"In detailing the death of the Regent Mur-
ray, *hkh is made the subject of the ballad,
It would be InJuHtlce to my reader to use
other words than those of Dr Robertson,
whose account of that mc»niorable event forma
a beautiful piece of historical painting
" 'Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the per-
son who committed this barbarous action He
had been condemned to death soon after the
battle of Langslde, as we have already re-
lated, and owed his life to the Regent's clem-
ency But part of big estate had been
bestowed upon one of the Regent's favoiltea,
who seized hlH house, and turned* out his wife,
naked, in a cold night, into the open fields,
where, before next morning, she became furi-
ously mad ThlH injury made a deeper Impres-
sion on him than the benefit he had lecelved,
and from that moment he vovted to be re-
venged of the Regent. Party rage strength-
ened and Inflamed bin private resentment
His kinsmen, the Hamlltons, applauded the
enterprise. The maxims of that age Justified
the most desperate ioun.c he could take to
obtain vengeance. He followed the Regent
for some time, and watched for an opportu-
nity to strike the blow He revived at last
to wait till his enemy should arrive at Lln-
Ilthgow, through which he was to pass In his
way from Stirling to Edinburgh He took
his stand In a wooden gallery, which had a
window towards the street, spread a feather-
bed on the floor to hinder the noise of his feet
from being heard, hung; up a black cloth
behind him, that his shadow might not be
observed from without, and, after all this
preparation, calmly expected the Regent's ap-
proach, whd had lodged, during the night, in
BIB WAI/TIB SCOTT
1321
a house not far distant fcotae indistinct
Information of the danger which threatened
him had been conveyed to the Regent, and
he paid HO raurh regard to it, that he renolved
to return by tho same gate through which he
had entered, and to fetch a compass round
the town. But, as the crowd about the gate
was great, and he himself unacquainted with
fear, he proceeded directly along the street,
and the throng of people obliging him to
move very slowly, gave the assassin time to
take so true an aim, that he shot him, with
a single bullet, through the lower part of his
belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman
who rode on his other side. His follower**
instant!} endeavored to break Into the house
whence the blow bad come; but they found
the door strongly barricaded, and, before It
could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted
a fleet hoi-fee, which stood ready for him at
a back passage, and was got far beyond their
reach The Regent died the same night [Jan
23, 1500] of hlx wound ' "—JJtotory of Scot-
land, Book v
440. 45. The Chit}— "The head of the famiU of
Hamilton, at this period, was James, Earl
of \rraii, Duke of Chatclhcrault In France,
nnd first peer of the Scottish realm In 1509
he was appointed by Queen Mary her lleu-
tcnnnt-gcnernl In Scotland " — Scott's note
441. 141. Dark Mm ton — "Tie was concerned In
the munler of David Rfezlo, and at least
prlv> to that of Dnrnlev " — Scott's note. Rl7-
rlo (il 1500) wa« secretary to Mary Queen
of Hcots, Lord Dnrnlev (d 1507) was Mary's
second husband
1111* Ml NS Fill LSI OF HIP SCOTTISH BOUDHl
This was a collection of ballads and songs
whi<h 8<ott gathered together with help of
friends, and published in three volumes, IKOli-
08 It contained, besides genuine ballads, a
number of pieces which were the work, in
part or entirely, of Scott
KlVilONT WILLIB
"Tuis liallud Is preserved by tradition in
the West Itoi tiers, but muth mangled by re-
citers, so that some eonjectlonal emendation*,
have been absolutely necessary to render It
Intelligible "—Scott's note It Is believed that
most of this ballad is the work of Scott If
that is so, the ballad is peihaps the one
cMiinplc of a completely successful imitation
of Ilie genuine ballads The ballad which mat
hfl\e furnished the basis for Kinmont Willie is
Jock ft' ffto Ride See Child's English and
NMltteh Popular Ballads, 8, 475
The ballad Is based upon a Border Incident
of 1590 Kinmont Willie, or William Arm
ntrong, of Kinmouth, near the southern bor-
der of Scotland, was captured for freebootlng
by the English and shut up In Carlisle Castle,
under the wanlenshlp of Lord Scroop and
his deputy Sakeld Falling to secure the
release of Armstrong, Sir Walter Scott of
Rranxholm, Lord of Buccleugh, led a troop of
horsemen to the Castle, surprised the watch-
men, set the prisoner free, and escaped across
the River Eden
444
LOILP KV>DVL
445.
This is a genuine ballad, versions of which
are widely distributed throughout Europe
See the account of It in Child's The English
and Rootttoh Popular Ballads, 1, 151 ft
THI LAY OF TH1 LAST MINSTR1L
In the Preface to the first edition, Rcott
Htates that the poem was Intended "to illus-
trate the customs and manners which an-
ciently prevailed on the Borders of Scotland
and England The inhabitants living In a
state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and
combining habits of constant depredation with
the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, were
often engaged In scenes highly susceptible of
poetical ornament. As the description of
scenery and manners was more the object of
the author than a combined and regular nar-
rative, • the plan of the ancient metrical
romance was adopted, which allows greater
latitude, in this respect than would be con-
sistent with the dignity of a regular poem
For these reasons, the poem was put into
the mouth of an ancient minstrel, the last of
the race, who, as he is supposed to have
sur\lved the Revolution, might have caught
somewhat of the refinement of modern poetry,
without losing the simplicity of his original
model The date of the tale Itself is about
the middle of the sixteenth century, when
most of the persons actually flourished "
The poem Is written in honor of Lady
Dalkelth (afterwards Duchess of Rnccleugh),
of Rranksome Hall on the River Tevlot in
Roxburghshire. She suggested to Scott that
he write a ballad on the legend of the goblin
page. Gilpln Homer, and this poem was the
result It Is sung by the minstrel in the
presence of the Duchess and her ladles
See Byron's English Bards and Scotch J?e-
ifcwrr*, 150-64 (p 4N7)
HAROLD
This song is bometimes entitled The Lay of
Rosabflle. The poem Is supposed to be sung,
after the espousal of Margaret of Buccleuch to
Lord Cranstoun, by Harold, the minstrel of
the house of St Clair. It tells of the death of
RoHabclle as she was returning from Ravens-
heuch Castle to Roslin, the family scat of the
St Clalrs, in Edmburghshlrc, Scotland
THB MAID or NBIDPATH
The following explanatory note is prefixed
to this poem in the Cambridge edition of
Scott's Poetical Worts "There Is a tradi-
tion In Tweeddale,' savs Scott, 'that, when
1322
BIBIIOGBAPHIES AND NOTES
Neldpath Castle, near Peebles, was Inhabited
by the Barls of March, a mutual passion sub-
sisted between a daughter of that noble family
and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Et-
trlck Forest As the alliance was thought
unsuitable by her parents, the young man
went abroad Duilng his absence the lady
fell into a c onHumptlon , and at length, ah
the only means of saving her life, her father
consented that her lover should be recalled
On the day when he was expected to pass
through Peebles, on the road to Tushlelaw,
the young lady, though much exhausted,
caused herself to be carried to the balcony
of a house in Peebles belonging to the faintly,
that she might see him as he rode past Her
anxiety and eagerness gave such foice to her
organs that she is said to have distinguished
the horse's footsteps at an incredible distance
But Tuthiclaw, unprepared for the change in
her appearance, and not expecting to see her
In that place, rode on without recognising her,
or even slackening his pace The lady was
unable to support the shock, and, after a
short struggle, died in the arms of her at-
tendants ' Published In 1800, in Haydn's
Collection of Koottmh Airs."
HUNTING BONO
This song is found in Scott'* continuation
of Strutt's Queenhoo-TTall printed in the Ap-
pendix to the General Preface to Warcrlcy
The song is sung by three minstrels prepara-
tory to a hunting expedition
WHERE SHALL THE LOVER BEST
This song is found In Canto 8 of M arm ion,
lines 148-88 It is sung by the youth Fit/-
Bustace, in response to a request from Mar-
mion, "To speed the lingering night away *'
It is thus Introduced
A mellow voice Fits-Eustace had,
The air he chose WHS wild and sad ,
Such have I henrd in Scottish land
Rise from the busy harvest liand
When falls before the mountaineer
On Lowland plains the ripened eat
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild (horns swells the song
Oft have I listened and stood still
As It came softened up the hill,
And deemed it the lament of men
Who languished for their native glen,
And thought how sad would be such sound
On Susquehanna's swampy ground,
Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake,
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake.
Where heart-sick exiles in the strain
Recalled fair Scotland's hills again*
447. LOCH INVAR
This familiar ballad is found In Canto 5
of Jfarmtoff, lines 818-60 It is sung by Lady
Heron, who has come to the court of King
James of Scotland to make peace between
him and her husband, who was held prisoner
because of alleged connection with the death
of Sir Robert Kerr. Warden of the Middle
Marches James's defeat at Flodden is by
some historians imputed to his Infatuation
for Lady Heron
The ballad is based on the ballad Katharine
Jaffrav, first published by Scott, under the title
of The Laird of La mint on, in The Minttrehy of
the Ncottitth Border, 1802 The names in the
ballad are traditional
448. THE LADl Or THE LAKE
"The scene of the following poem is laid
chiefly in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the
WeHtern Highlands of Perthshire The time
of action includes sl\ days, and the transac-
tions of each day occupy a canto" — Scott's
piefatory Argument
Scott gives the following account of the
poem in the Introduction prefixed to the
edition of 1880 "After the success of Mar-
mion, I felt inclined to exclaim with Ulysses
in the Odyssey —
Oflroj u&v 8k &eff\oi ddtaror farerAeorai
NOr afore ffKovor 4XXo*— Odye. XXII, 5. *
'One venturous game my hand has won to-
day —
Another, gallants, yet remains to play*
"The ancient manners, the habits, and cus-
toms of the aboriginal race by whom the
Highlands of Scotland were inhabited, had
always appeared to me peculiarly adapted to
poetry The change in their manners, too,
had taken place almost within my own time,
or at least I had learned many particulars
concerning the am lent state of the Highlands
from the old men of the last generation I
had always thought the old Scottish Cael
highly adapted for poetical composition The
feuds, and political dissensions, which, half a
century earlier, would have rendered the
richer and wealthier part of the kingdom In-
disposed to countenance a poem, the scene of
which wax laid In the Highlands, were now
sunk in the g6nerous compassion which the
English, more than any other nation, feel
for the mlHfortunes of an honorable foe The
poems of OsRlan had, by their popularity,
sufficiently shown, that If wiitlngs on High-
land subjects were qualified to IntcrcHt the
reader, mere national prejudices were, in the
present day, very unlikely to interfere with
their success
"I had also read a great deal, seen much,
and heard more, of that romantic countrv,
where I was in the habit of spending some
time every autumn , and the scenery of Loch
Katrine was connected with the recollection
of many a dear friend and merry expedition
of former days Thta poem, the action of
which lay among scenes so beautiful, and so
deeply Imprinted on my recollection, was a
labor of love ; and It was no less so to recall
the manners and incidents Introduced The
frequent custom of James IV, and particu-
larly of James V, to walk through their king-
dom in disguise, afforded me the hint of an
BIB WALTER SCOTT
1323
Incident, which never fall* to be interesting,
If managed with the slightest address or
dexterity "
453. 686. Though all «na«i'd hut birth and
name- — "The Highlanders, who carried hos-
pital I ty to a punctilious excess, aie said to
have considered it an churlish, to ask a Htian-
ger his name or lineage, before he had taken
lefreshment. Feuds were so frequent among
them, that a contiary rule would In many
cases have produced the discovery of some
circumstance which might have excluded the
Kueht fioni the benefit of the assistance he
stood In need of " — Rcott's note
468 BOAT BONO
This song (lines 899-438 of Canto 2) IB
sung by a group of Ixmtmen as they bring
their chieftain to shore
46O. CORONACH
Thin song (lines 870 03 of Canto 3) Is sung
by a group of village maids and matrons ah n
lament over Duncan, their dead leader
CANTO VI
Summary of Cantos II-V. Shortly after
the departure of James Kit/ Tames the next
morning Roderttk Dhu, one of the proudest
of Highland chieftains, returns *lth his
clansmen from a foray on the Lowlands At
the same time, Douglas, who has been shel-
tered by his nephew, lloderlek, from the
King's hatred, retains from hunting, bringing
with him young Mal<olm Giaeine, Ellen H
lover That night Roderick suggests that
Douglas give him El Ion to wed, and that they
Join forces against the King Douglas, know-
ing Ellen's love for Malcolm, refuses to Join
Roderick against the King Malcolm leaves,
hoping to secure protection for Douglas
All the next day, Roderick's messenger rides
through the Highlands, rousing the men to
arms The day following, James Fitz James
again discovers Ellen, this time In hiding
with old Allan, and he propose* to carry her
to the court as his wife Upon her refusal,
he gives her a ring, which he nays will Heeure
for her any boon that she may ask from the
King On the fifth day, James meets with
Roderick in single combat and overcomes him
A little later, Douglas, who has tHM»n per-
forming feats of strength at the court, arouses
the anger of the King and Is thrown into
prison
46O. BATTLB OF BBAL' AN DTTINB
"A skirmish actually took place at a pass
thus called In the Trosachs, and closed with
the remarkable Incident mentioned In the text.
It was greatly posterior In date to the reign
of James V " — Rcott'B note "Bear an Dolne"
means 'The pass of the man "
884-91. Cf the following lines from the
\nglo Saxon poem The Fight at Pinnaburgt
describing the approach of an armed troop
"This is not day that da* us from the cast, nor
here flies the dragon, nor here burns the gables
of this hall , but hither come bearing a hostile
band Its bright battle gear, fowls sing, the
gray-coated one [the wolf] howls, the war-
wood resounds, shield answers shaft "
464. BEIONALL BANKS
This song Is found In Canto 8 of Aofceby,
lines 894-4B8 It Is sung In a scene of revel
by a youth, Edmund of Winston
"as the aptest mate
For Jovial song and merry feat"
The song Is sung after Edmund dreams of
early bcejieh and Incidents In bin own life
llngnall was the name of an ertate along the
Greta River, in Yorkshire Edmund sings
also the next song, Allen a Dale, lines 718-47
of the same Canto
4O5. ALLBN-A-DALB
The subject of this song was a legendary
outlaw minstrel, a companion of Robin Hood
in Sherwood Forest
UIB AWA1, HIB AWAT
This song Is found in Chapter 12 of Waver-
Iry It IM sung by Davle, a simple-minded
youth, to his two large deer greyhounds
TWIST YB, TWINB II
This bong IK found In Chapter 4 of Guy
Manntnny It is sung by Meg Merrlllcs, a
gypsy, as she spins the charm of the new born
son and heir of her master The next song,
Watted, Weary, Whercfote Ktay, found In
Chapter 27, is sung also by Meg Merrllles as
a sort of spell or prayer to speed the passage
of a dying smuggler
4<MI IINBH ON TRB LIFTING OF TUB BANNBR OF
TUB HOI SB OF BUCC'LBl CII
The football match described In this poem
took place on I>e< 4t 1815 on the plain of
Carterhaugh, near the junction of the Ettrlck
and Yanow livers in Relklrkshlre, Scotland
The game was arranged bj Scott's friend, the
Duke of Buccleuch, between the men of the
Vale of Yarrow and the Burghers of Selkirk
The names mentioned in the poem are those of
the players and partisans of the two teams
For a full account of the event see Lockhart's
Lt/0 of Hcott, 4, 271 (ch 80)
14 A ntnphng'* weak hand — This was
Scott's oldest son Walter
467. JOCK OF HA9SBLDBAN
The first stanza of this poem Is old Bee
Child's Jfffwlufc and Scottifth Popular Balloto,
5, 150 ff.
1324
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
PIBBOCH OP DONtJIL DHD
"This la a very ancient pibroch belonging
to Clan MacUonald, anil supposed to refer
to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in
1481, launched from the Isles with a consid-
erable force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inver-
lochy defeated and put to flight the Earls of
Mar and Caithness, though at the head of an
army superior to his own " — Scott's note
WUX BITT'ST TUOU BY THAT UUIH'D BALL?
This song In sometime* entitled Time It
is found In Chapter 10 of The Antiquary
Lovel, one of the chief characters In the Btory,
hears it early In the morning as it Is sung by
a woman in a turret opposite his window
468. AND WHAT THOIGH WINTER WILL PINCH
PBOUD 1IAIB1B
This song 'la found in Chapter 40 of The
Heart of Midlothian. It IH sung by the Insane
Madge Wildfire on her death-bed
THB BARBTOOTBD FRIAR
This song is found In Chapter 17 of Ivanhoe.
It is sung by the friar of Copmanhurat to
entertain his guest, the Black Knight
4Of>. BBBBCCA'B H1MN
This Bong Is sometimes entitled Cavalier
Kong It IH found in Chapter 19 of Old Mor-
tality, where it Is Hung by a Major Bellcnclen
to his sister after he had been refused a
request by Colonel Grahame.
CLARION
This poem stands as the motto to Chapter
84 of Old Mortality. It IH one of a number
of mottoes ascribed by Scott to anoiiymouB
writers, but really written by himself
"It may be north noting that it wa« In
correcting the proof -sheets of Tttf Antiguaty
that Scott first took to equipping his chaiat-
tera with mottoes of his own fabrication On
one occasion he happened to ahk John Ballan-
tyne, who was sitting by him, to hunt for a
particular package in Beaumont and Fletc her
John did as he was bid, but did not succeed
In discovering the lines 'Hang it Johnnie1*
cried Scott 'I believe I can make a motto
sooner than you will find one1 Tie did so
accordingly, and from that noun, whenever
memory failed to suggest an appropriate epi-
graph, he had recourse to the Inexhaustible
mines of 'old play9 or 'old ballad' to which we
owe some of the most exquisite verse that
ever flowed from his pen " — Lockhart. In Life
of Koott, ch 27.
ID! DBBABT CHA2tGB
"It was while struggling with such languor,
on one lovely evening of this autumn L1817J,
that he composed the following beautiful
verses. They mark the very spot of their
birth, — namely, the then naked height over-
hanging the northern side of the Cauldshlelds
Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the cant-
ward, and the hills of Ettrlck and Yarrow to
the west, are now visible over a wide range
of rich woodland, — all the work of the poet's
hand."— Lockhart, in Life of foot*, cb 30
FABBWBLL TO THE LAND
This poem stands as the motto to Chapter
80 of Rob Roy. See note on Clarion, above.
This hymn Is found in Chapter 39 of Ivan-
hoe. It follows this statement "It was in
the twilight of the day when her trial, if it
could be called such, had taken place, that
a low knock was heard at the door of Re-
becca's prison-chamber It disturtwd not the
Inmate, who was th.cn engaged in the evening
prayer recommended b> her religion, and
which concluded with a hymn *e haVf ven-
tured thus to translate into English "
The original of Rebecca was an American
Jewess named Rebecca Grata The story of
her fruitless love for a Christian was told to
Scott by Washington Irving at Abhotsford in
1817 See Van Rcnwelaer's "The Original of
Rebecca In Iranhoe." 'Tht Ctntwy Mauazim t
Sept, 1882 (24 670)
BORDER MARCH
This song is found In Chapter 25 of The
Monastery It is fcung by a follower of Baron
Avcncl as he sits over his meal with a small
company of Border-riders
The following interesting parody is by
Thomas Love Peacock It Is one of his so-
called Paper Monc> Lyrics
Ohoittn of Korthumbtiatt*
On the Prohibition of Scotch One-Pound Notes
In England
1825 1837
March, march. Make-raffs of Borrowdale,1
Whether ye promise to bearer or order ,
March, march. Take-rag and Bawbee tall,1
All the Scotch flimsies must over the Bor-
der
Vainly you snarl anent
New Act of Parliament,
Bidding you vanish from dairy and "lauder" ,'
ItogH, you have had your day,
Down tail and slink a WHY ,
You'll pick no more bones on thib side of the
Border
Hence to the hills where your fathers stole
cattle ,
" "Not the Cumberland Borrodaile but the genu
Ine ancient name of that district of Scotland, what-
ever It be called now, from which was Issued the
first promise to pay, that was made with the oipreas
purpose of being broken "—Peacock's note
•Scotlcfi for Tap-rag and Bob-tall, (a highly re-
spectable old firm.' £ paper kite with a bawbee at
Its tall IB perhaps a better emblem of the safe cur-
rency of Scotland than Mr Canning's monntnin of
paper irrigated by a rivulet of gold "— Peacock's
note George Canning (1770-1827) was a noted
English statesman. Secretary of Foreign Affairs,
1822-27, and Premier, 1827. Marder
BIB WALTER SCOTT
1325
Hence to the glens where they skulked from
the law,
Hence to the moon where they vanished from
battle.
Crying "De'll lak the hindmost," and
"Charlie's awaV
Metal Is clanking here ,
Off with your banking gear ,
Off, eie you're paid "to Old Harry or order",
England shall many a day
Wish you'd been far away.
Long ere your kite-wings flew over the Border.
March, inarch. Bttrlck and Tevlotdale.
Pay-day'ti the word, lads, aiid gold Ik the
law,
March, march, Eskdale and LlcUtesdale ,
Tagdale, and Kagdalc, and Bobdale, and a* ;
Persons or purse, they <-uy ,
Purse you have none to pay ,
Your perrons who'll deal with, except the
Recorder?
Yet, to retrieve your freaks.
You can Just leave your breekn ,!
You'll want them no more when you're over
the Border.
nigh on a pole In the vernal BUD'S backing*,
When April has summoned you ragshlps
away,
We 11 hoist up a pair of your best galligaskins,
Eii twin o<l with young thirties to usher In
May
Types of Scotch "copital,"
They shall o'er-top-it-allt
Stripped off from bearer and brushed Into
order ,
Then If you tarry, rogues,
Nettles \on'H get for brogues1
And to the Rogue's March be drummed o'er
the Border
470. THE SONG OF THE REIM-KENNAR
This song IK found in Chapter 6 of TJto
Pit ait It Is sung bj the witch Norna, and
Is thus Introduced "Having looked on the
sky for some time In a nxed attitude and
mlth the most profound silence, Norna at
on<e, vet \\ith a slow and elevated gesture,
extended her staff of black oak toward that
part of the hea\en« from whl<h the blast
came hnrclost, and In the midst of Its fury
chanted a Norwegian Invocation, still pre-
served in the Island of ITIst, under the name
of The ttony of the Rtim-kcnnar, though some
call It The Sony of the Trot pert The follow-
ing is a free translation. It being impossible
to render literally many of the elliptical and
metaphorical terms of expression peculiar to
the ancient Northern poetry "
471. COUNTY GUT
This poem is found in Chapter 4 of Quctittn
Durward It IH thus introduced "The mairi
of the little turret, of the veil, and of the
lute, sung exactly such an air as we are
accustomed to suppose flowed from the lips
of the high-born damn* of chivalry, when
knights and troubadours listened and lan-
guished The words bad neither so much
sense, wit, or fancy, as to withdraw the
attention from the music, nor the music so
much of art, as to drown all feeling of the
wordn The one seemed fitted to the other,
breeches, trousers
and If the song had been recited without the
notes, or the air played without the words,
neither would have been worth noting It
Is, therefore, scarcely fair to put upon record
lines Intended not to be said or read, but
only to be sung But such scraps of old
poetry had always had a sort of fascination
for us, and as the tune Is lost forever —
unless Bishop happens to find the notes, or
some lark teaches Stephens to warble the
air— we will risk our credit, and the taste of
the Lady of the Lute, by preserving the
verses, simple and even rude as they arc."
Bishop and Stephens were contemporary
English musicians and composers
WHAT BRAVB CHI IF
This song Is found In Chapter 11 of The
Talisman It IH snug by a minstrel as a com-
pliment to Leopold, Archduke of Austria, to
glorify him as equal to Richard the Lion-
Hearted of England Both were leaders In
the Crusades
RODIN HOOD
This song IR found in Act II, sc. 1, of
Scott's drama Tht Doom of Dirorgod. It Is
sung by Blackthorn, a forest ranger, in love
ulth Kathleen, TV ho has just skipped away
from him
BONNY DUNDBB
This and the following song. When Friends
arc Met, are found In Act II, sc 2, of The
Doom of Dciorgoil Bonny Dundee It sung
by Leonard, a forest ranger, in recounting
an incident in which OB* old of Dcvorgoil, a
Scottish baron, had a part thirty years be-
fore.
Bonny Dundee was John Graham of Claver-
house (164980), Viscount Dundee, a staunch
Scottish supporter of Charles II and James
II of England His stiict enforcement of the
laws against the Scottish Covenanters won
him the title "Bloody Claver'ne" After the
flight of James Into France. Claverhouse sup-
ported his cause against William III, going
so far as to defy the Convention or Scotch
Parliament, which had accepted William
Falling in his attempt to persuade the Duke
of Gordon to hold Edinburgh Castle, on Castle
Rock, for King James, he raised an army
which met and defeated the government
forces at the Battle of Killiec rankle, In 1689
He died of a wound the night of the victory
473. WHBN FRIBVDB ABB MBTV
This was sung as a duet by Leonard and
Flora, Oswald's daughter, after Bonny Dun-
dee was finished
GLBB FOR KING CHARLBB
This song Is found in Chapter 20 of Wood-
stock. It is sung by a merry group, Just
before they separate for the night, in honor
of Charles I, King of England (1629-49).
1326
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822),
p. 627
EDITIONS
Work*, 5 vote , ed . with a Memoir by Leigh Hunt,
by B. U. Shepherd (London. Chatto, 1871-
75).
Complete Works, 8 vole., ed. by H. B. Forman
(London, Beeves, 1876-80, 1882, Mew York,
Scribner).
Complete Works, 8 vole , ed by N H Dole (Laurel
ed . London and Boston, 1904-60).
Poetical Work*, 8 vote., ed. by B. H. Shepherd
(London, Chatto, 1888)
Poetical Works, ed by B. Dowden (Globe ed .
London and New York, Macmlllan, 1800,
1907).
Complete Poetical Works, 4 vols., ed., with a
Memoir, by 6 B. Woodberry (Centenary ed :
Boston, Houghton, 1892; London, Paul,
1898)
Poetical Works, 5 vols, ed., with a Memoir, bv
Bw B. Forman (Aldlne ed London, Bell,
1892, New York, Macmlllan)
Complete Poetical Works, ed with a Momou, by
O B. Woodberry (Cambridge ed Boston,
Houghton, 1901).
Complete Poetical Works, ed. by T Hutchlnson
(Oxford Univ. Press. 1904, 1907).
Poems, 4 volh, ed. by C. D. Locock (London,
Mrthuen, 1900-09).
Poems, 2 voln , ed , with an Introduction by A.
Glutton-Brock, by C. D. Locock (London,
Methucn. 1911).
Prose Works, 2 vols , ed by B. H. Shepherd (Lou
don, Chatto, 1888, 1912)
Select Forms, ed , with an Introduction, by W J
Alexander (Athenaeum Press ed. Boston,
Ginn, 1898)
Poems, selected, ed , with an Introduction, by A.
Meynell (Bed Letter ed • Glasgow, Blackio,
1908).
Poems, selected by J. C Collins (Edinburgh, Jack,
190(7).
Select Poems, ed , with an Introduction, by G R.
Woodberry (Belles Lettres ed • Boston,
Heath, 1908).
Essays and Letters, ed, with an Introduction, by
B Bhys (Camelot Classics ed London,
Scott. 1886).
Letters, 2 vols, ed by B. Ingpen (London, Pit-
man, 1909, 1912 , New York, Scribner, 1909 ;
Macmlllan, 1915)
Select Letters, ed , with an Introduction, by B.
Garnett (London, Paul, 1882).
Literary and Philosophical Criticism, ed. by J.
Shawcross (London, Frowde, 1909)
Note Books, 8 vols , ed by U B Forman (St Louis,
privately printed for W K Blzby, 1911)
Prose in the Bodleian MRS., ed. by A. H. Kossul
(London, Frowde, 1910)
A Defense of Poetry, ed , with an Introduction,
by A. 8 Cook (Athenaeum Press ed Boston,
Glnn, 1890)
An Apology for Poetry, with Browning's Bssay
on Shelley, ed. by L Wlnstanley (Belles
Lettres ed.: Boston, Heath, 1911).
BIOGRAPHY
Angell, H B. : Shelley and His Friends in Italy
(London, Methnen, 1911; New York, Bren-
tano).
Clutton-Brock, A.. Bhelley, the Man and the
Poet (New York, Putnam, 1909; London,
Methuen).
Dowden, B The Life of P. B. Shettey, 2 vols
(London, Paul, 1886, 1896; New York, Scrib-
ner).
Godwin, W • The Elopement of Shelley and Maty
Wullstonccraft Goduin, ed by II B Forman
(St. Louis, Privately printed for W K
Bixby. 1912).
Cribble, F : The Romantic Life of Shelley, and
the Sequel (New York, Putnam, 1911)
Hogg, T J The Life of Percy Bysshe BhclKy,
2 voln. (London, Mozon, 1858) ; 1 vol , witb an
Introduction, by B Dowden (London, Bout-
lodge, 1906, New York, Dutton).
Hogg, T J Shelley at Oaford, with an Intio-
ductlon by B. A. Streatfelld (London,
Mothuen, 1904).
Hunt, Leigh Autobiography (London, Smith,
1850, 1900) , 2 VO!H , ed. by B Ingpon (Lon-
don, Conhtablc, 1908, New York, Dutton)
Marshall, Mrs J Life and Letters of Mary Woll-
stontcraft Shelley f 2 vols (London, Bontlcy,
1889).
Mod* in, T . Life of Shelley, 2 vols. (1847) , od In
II B Forman (Oxford, Clarendon Press,
1918)
Paul, C K : William Godwin, His Friends and
Contemporaries, 2 vols. (London, Paul,
1876)
Peacock, T L Memoirs of Shelley, uith Khcl-
liy's Letters to Peacock (London, Rentier,
1875, Frowde, 1909, New York, Oxford Unlv
Press).
Reed, M Low Affairs of Literary Men (Now
York, Putnam, 1907)
bait, H 8 P. B. Shelley f Poet and Plonetr u
Biographical Study (London, Ret* OR, ISOtl)
Hharp, William Life of Shelley (Great Writers'
Series London, Scott, 1887, Now Yoik,
Scribner).
ShelUy Memorials, ed. by Lady Shelley (London
King, 1859)
Smith, G B Shelley A Critical Bioyraphy
(Edinburgh, Hamilton, 1877).
Symonds, J A Rhcllcv ^English Men of Letters
Bones London, Macmlllan, 1878, 1887, New
York, Harper).
Trelawny, E J Recollections of the Last Day*
of Bhtttey and Byron (London, MOTOU, 1R5R) ,
Records of Shelley, Byron, and ,the Author
(London, Pickering, 1878; Frowde, 1900.
New York. Button, 1905 , Oxford Unlv Presfl,
1900).
CRITICISM
Arnold, M Essays in Criticism, Second Beiiea
(London and New York, Macmlllan, 1888).
Bagchot, W The National Rcrttw, Get, 1856;
Literary Studies, 3 vols , «1 by R Hs Hut ton
(London and New York, Longmans, 1878-79,
1895).
PEECY BY8SHE SHELLEY
1327
Bate*, B. B.- A Stud* of Shelley's Drama, The
Court (New York, Macmillan, 1908).
Blackwood's Magavine, "Adonals." Dec, 1821
(10 696) ; "AlaBtor," Nov., 1819 (6 148) ;
"Prometheus Unbound," Sept, 1820 (7 079) ;
"Rosalind and Helen/* June, 1819 (5 26 K) ;
"The Revolt of Islam," Jan , 1819 (4 475)
Bradley, A C. "Shelley's View of Poetry/' Ox-
ford Lectures on Poetry (London, Macmillan,
1909, 1911)
Brallsford, I! N. Shelley, Godwin, and Their
Circle (London, Williams, 1913, New York,
Holt).
Brandes, G Main Currents in Nineteenth Cen-
tury Literature, Vol 4 (London, Helnemann,
1905, New York, Macmillan, 1906).
Brooke, B A • "Bplpsychldlon," "Inaugural Ad-
dress to the Shelley Society," "The Lyric* of
Shelley/' Htudies in Poetty (London, Duck-
worth, 1907, New York, Putnam)
Browning, R "An Emmy on Shelley" (1852),
Shelley Society Papers (London, 1888) ;
Printed In the Appendix to the Cambridge
edition of Browning's Complete Factual
Works (Boston, Hough ton, 1895)
Buck, P M "The Empire of Beauty, Shelley."
Racial Forces in Modern Literature (Boston,
Glnn, 1918)
De Vere, A Essays, Chiefly on Poetry (New
York, Macmillan, 1887).
Dawson, W J Quest and Vision (London, Hod-
der, 1892, New lork, Hunt).
Dawhon, W J The Makers of English Poetry
(New York and London, Rev ell, 1000)
Do* den, E "Last Words on Shelley, * "Shelle\ s
Philosophical View of Reform/' Transcnpts
and Htudies (London, Paul, 1888, 1910)
Dowclen, K "Renewed Revolutionary Advance,"
The Punch Xeiolutwn and English Litera-
ture (New York. Scrlbncr, 1897, 1908)
Edinburgh Rciicir, The, "Posthumous Poems,"
July, 1824 (40 494).
Edmunds, E W * Shelley and His Poetry (New
York Dodge, 1912)
Edgar, I' A Study of Shelley (Toronto, Brlggs,
1899)
Forster, J Great Teachers (London, Redway,
1898)
Gaidncr, E G "Mysticism of Shelley," The
Catholic "World, Nov , 1908 (88 145)
Garnett, R "Shelley and Lord Beaconicflcld,"
"Shelley's Views on Art," Essays of an
Kae -Librarian (London, Helnemann, 1901)
Gosse, B Question* at Issue (Chicago, Appleton,
1893).
Graham, W • Last Links With Byron, Shelley,
and Keats (London, Smlthers, 1898).
Hancock, A E The French Revolution and
the English Poets (New York, Holt, 1899)
Hutton, R H • "Shelley and His Poetry," Liter-
aty Unsays (London, Htrahan, 1871, Mac-
millan, 1888, 1908)
Hntton, R. H • "Shelley as Prophet," Brief Liter-
ary Criticisms (London and New York, Mac-
millan, 1906).
Ingpcn, R Shelley in England (Boston, Hough-
ton, 1916).
Jack, A A. Shelley. An Essay (Edinburgh, Con-
stable, 1904)
Jeaffreson, J. C. The Real BheUey, 2 vols. (Lon-
don, Hurst, 1885).
Johnson, C. F Three Americans and Three Eng-
lishmen (New York, Whlttaker, 1886).
Lang, A Letters to Dead Authois (London,
Longmans, 1886. 1892 , New York, Scrlbner,
1893).
Matison, D Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and
Other Essays (London and New York, Mac-
millan, 1874).
More, P. B Shelburnc Essays, Seventh Series
(New York and London, Putnam, 1910)
Myers, F W H In Ward's The English Poets,
Vol 4 (London and New York, Macmillan,
1880, 1911).
Nicholson, A P "Shelley contra Mundum," The
Nineteenth Century, May, 1908 (68 794)
Payne, W M The Greater English, Poets of the
Nineteenth Centuiy (New York, Holt, 1907,
1909).
Quarterly Review, The, "Prometheus Unbound,"
Get , 1821 (26 168) , "The Revolt of Islam,"
April, 1819 (21 460).
Robertson, J M New Essays Towards a Critical
Method (London, Lane, 1897)
Salt, H R A Shelley Primer (London, Reeves,
1887)
Schmltt, H : "Shelley ale Romantlker," Englische
Htudien. 1911 (44)
Sim lip, J. C.. "Shelley as a Lyric Poet," Aspects
of Poetry (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1881 ,
BoHtoii, Houghton).
Shellty Noddy Papers (London, 1886 — )
81 leer, T R P B Shelley An Appreciation
(New York, Everett, 1903)
Stawoll, Miss M "On Shelley's The Triumph of
Life," Essays and Studies by Members of the
English Association, Vol 5 (Oxford, 1914)
Stephen, L "Godwin and Shelley," Hours in a
Library, 3 volt.. (London, Smith, 1874-79,
New \ork and London, Putnam, 1899) , 4 vols
(1907)
Suddard, S J M • Keats, Shelley, and Shakes-
peare Studies (Cambridge Univ. Presb, 1912 ,
New York, Broadway Publishing Co ).
Swinburne, A. C • "Notes on the Text of Shel-
ley," Essays and Studies (London, Chatto,
1875)
Symons, A The Romantic Movement \n English
Poetry (London, Constable, 1909, New York,
Dutton)
Thompson, F Works, 8 vols. (New York, Scrlb-
ner, 1909, 1913).
Thomson, James. Biographical and Critical
Studies (London, Reeves, 1896).
Todhunter, J A Study of Shelley (London, Paul,
1880)
Trent, W P "Apropos of Shelley," The Au-
thority of Criticism and Other Essays (New
York, Scrlbner, 1899)
Wlnstanlev, L "Platonlsm In Shelley," Essays
and Studies by Members of the English Asso-
ciation, Vol. 4 (Oxford, 1918).
1328
AND NOTES
Wlnstanley, L. "Shelley as Nature Poet," Bng-
lisohe Btudicn, 1904 (84)
Woodberry, G E •* Studies in Letters and Life
(Bobton, Uoughton, 1890) , Makeis of Litera-
ture (Macmlllan, 1901).
Woodberry, G B The Torch (New York, Me-
Clare, 1005, Macmlllan, 1912)
Woods, M. L "Shelley at Tan-yr-allt," The Nine-
teenth Century, Nov , 1911 (70 890)
Yeats, W B "The Philosophy of Shelley's
Poetry," Ideas of Good and Evil (London.
Sullen, 1908, New Tork, Macmlllan)
Young, A B "Shelley and Peacock," Modern
Language Review, 1907 (2)
Young, A B ' "Hhelley and M G Lewis," Mod-
ern Language Renew, 1900 (1)
CONCORDANCE
Ellis, 78 A Leaioal Concordance to the Poeti-
cal Works of Shelley (London, Quarltch,
1892)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Anderson, J P In Sharp's Life of Bhellty
(1887)
Bradley, A C "Short Bibliography of Shelley,"
Short Bibliographies of Wordsworth, etc
(English Association Leaflet, No 28, Oxford,
1912)
Ellih, P 8 An Alphabetical Table of Contents
to hhelley's Poetical Works (London, Shelley
Society Publication, Series 4, No 6, 1888)
Forman, II B The Shelley Library, an Essay In
Bibliography (London, Reeves, 1886).
CRITICAL NOTE8
Shelley's Centenary1
4th August, 1892
Within a narrow span of time,
Three prlncens of the realm of rhyme1,
At height of youth or manhood's prime
From earth took wing,
To join the fellowship sublime 5
Who, dead, yet sing
10
16
lie, first, bin eaillpftt wreath who wove
Of laurel grown in Latmian gro\e,
Conquered bv pain and hapless love
Found calmer home,
Roofed by the heaven that glows above
Eternal Rome
A fierier soul. Its own fierce prey
And cumbered with more mortal clay,
At Mlssolonghi flamed away,
And loft the air
Reverberating to this day
Its loud despair.
Alike remote from Byron's scorn
And Keats'* magic as of morn
Bursting forever newly-born
On forest old,
To wake a hoary world forlorn
With touch of gold,
Shelley, the cloud-begot, who new
Nourished on air and sun and dew,
Into that Essence whence he drew
His life and lyre
Was fittingly resolved anew
Through wave and fire.
i From Selected Poems of William Watson, copy-
right 1902 by the John Lane Company
86
40
BO
'Twas like his rapid soul! Twas meet
That he, who brooked not Time's alow feet,
With passage thus abrupt and fleet
Should hurry hence,
Eager the Great Perhaps to greet
With Why? and Whence?
Impatient of the world's fixed way,
He ne'er could suffer God's delay,
But all the future in a day
Would build divine,
And the whole past in ruins lay,
An emptied shrine.
Vain vision * but the glow, the fire.
The passion of benign deslie,
The glorious yearning lltl him higher
Than many a soul
That mounts a million paces nigher
IU meaner goal
And power In bin, If naught besides,
In that thin ether \vheio he ildts,
Above the loar of human tides
To ascend afar,
Lost In a storm of light that hides
Ulb dizzy car.
Below, the unhasting world tolls cm,
And here and theie are victories uon,
Some diagon slain, Home Justice done,
While, through the Hkles,
A meteor rushing on the nun,
lie tiaieH and dies.
But, as he cleaveH yon ether clear
Notes ficim the unutteinpted Sphere
lie scatters to the enchanted ear
Of earth's dim throtig,
Whose illssouMiuc cloth more cndcur
The showering song
In other shapes than he forecast
The woiltl is moulded his lierie blast-
Ills wild assault upon the Past,—
These thlncs are tain ,
Revolt is transient \\hat must last
Is that pure stiain,
Which seems the wandering voices blent
Of every virgin element —
A sound from ocean ru \ernn sent,- 73
An airy call
From the pavilioned firmament
O'erdomlug all
And In this world of worldlings, where
Souls rust In apathy, and ne'e r so
A great emotion shakes the air,
And life flags tame,
And rare is noble impulxe rare
The impabbioned aim,
'Tls no moan fortune to have heard «
A singer who, if enors hi u nod
Ills sight, had vot a spirit stirred
By vast desire,
And ardor fledging the swift word
With nluiiius of fire
7(1
80
A creature of Impetuous breath
Our torpor deadlier than death
He knew not, whatsoc'ei he saith
FlashPH with life
lie Hpurreth men, he quickeneth us
To splendid strife.
And In hi* guflt* of song ho brings
Wild odors shaken from strange wings,
And unfamiliar whisperings
From far lips blown, 100
While all the rapturous heart of things
Throbs through bis own, —
His own that from the burning pyre
One who had loved his wind-swept lyre
Out of the sharp teeth of the fire lo-s
Unmolten drew,
Beside the sea that In her Ire
Smote him and slew
— William Watson
PEBCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
1329
The second stania refers to KeatB and bin poem
on Endymlon, the shepherd on Mount Latmlan.
Keats diod and was burled In Rome, In 1821 The
third stansa refers to Byron, who died at Mibso-
longhi, Greece, In 1824, while fighting for the
Independence of the Greeks. Line 80 and the last
Btania of the poem refer to the death of Shelley
by drowning, in 1822, and to the cremation of his
body While the body was burning, Shelley1* un-
consumed heart was snatched from the flames by
Shelley's faithful friend and admirer, E J Tre-
lawny.
From Pauline
•
Run-t render — life and light be thine forever ' HI
'Ihou art gone from us — years go by and bpnng
Gladdens, and the young eaith is beautiful,
let thy songs come not — other bards arise.
Hut none like thee, — they stand — thy majes-
ties, 135
Like mighty works which tell some Spirit there
Hath sat legurdlesn of neglect and scorn,
fill, its long tank completed, It hath risen
And left us, never to return and all
KuHh in to peer and pi nine when all in vain lf>o
The air weina bright with thy past presence yet,
But thou art still for me, as thou hast becu
When I have stood with thee, as on a throne
With all thy dim crcatlotiK gathered round
Like inoun tains — and I felt of mould like them, H^
And v 1th them creatures of in\ own were mixed,
Like things half-lived catching and giving life
Hut thou nrt still for me. who have adored,
Tho* single, panting but to hear thy name,
Which I l>ell<>\efl a spell to me alone 170
Scare e deeming thou wast as a star to men
—Robert Browning (1832)
"The poetic ecs>tos\ took him constantly up-
wards , and. the higher he got, the more thor-
oughly did his thoughts and words become one
exquisite and Intense unit With elevation of
meaning, and splendor and beauty nt perception,
he combined the most seai thing, the most In-
imitable loveliness of verse-musk , and he stands
nt this (lav, and perhaps will always remain, the
poet who, by instinct of verbal selection and
(harm of sound, comes nearest to expressing the
half inexpressible — the secret thing of beauty, the
Intolerable light of the anane" — W M Rossettl.
m Lives of Famous Poet* (1878).
Shelley has been immortal Ixed in the character
of Scvtbrop, in Thomas Love Peacock's Nightmare
Abbey
AST. QUE1N 1CAB
This is a philosophical poem in which Shel-
ley expresses his radical opinion about the
society and orthodox Christianity of his day
In a note on the poem Mrs Khelley says of
Bhellej "He was animated to greater leal
by compassion for his fellow-creatures. His
sympathy was excited by the misery with
which the world In burning He witnessed
the sufferings of the poor, and was aware
of the evils of ignorance He desired to
Induce every rich man to despoil himself of
superfluity, and to create a brotherhood of
property and service, and was ready to be
the first to lay down the advantages of his
birth He was of too uncompromising a dis-
position to Join any party. He did not In
his youth look forward to gradual improve-
ment, nay, In those days of Intolerance, now
almost forgotten, it seemed as easy to look
forward to the aort of millennium of freedom
and brotherhood which he thought the proper
state of mankind as to the present reign of
moderation and Improvement Ill-health
made him believe that his race would soon
be run, that a year or two was all he had
of life He desired that these years should
be useful and Illustrious He saw, in a fcr
vent call on his fellow-creatures to share
alike the blessings of the creation, to love
and serve each other, the noblest woik that
life and time permitted him In this spirit
he composed Queen Mob "
Shelley himself was not blind to the crude-
ness of the poem In a letter to the Kdltoi
of The Eraminrr. dated June 22, 1821, he
Bald "A poem entitled Quren Mab was writ-
ten by me at the age of eighteen, I daiesay
In a sufficiently intemperate spirit — but e\en
then wus not intended tor publication, and a
few copies only were struck off, to be dis-
tributed among my personal friends I ha\e
not seen this production for sexcral yea re
I doubt not but that it is perfectly worthless
Sn point of literary composition, and that,
In all that concerns moral and political specu-
lation, as well as in the subtler discrimina-
tions of metaphysical and religious doctrine,
it is still more crude and immature "
In the poem. Tanthe, tho central figure,
falls nsleep and dreams that she Is trans-
ported to the court of Queen Mnb, conceived
by Shcllej as the rulei over men's thoughts
After shoeing lanthe uslons of the past,
present, and future, Queen Mab instructs
her regarding the true doctrine of (lod and
man In connection with this poem, cf the
selections from ftc»<l\\Iiis An Engulty Con-
ccrtnnq Political Justice (pp 213 ff)
«20 03-04. And statesmen boast of ucalth'—
"There Is no real wealth but the labor of
man Were the mountains of gold and the
> alley 8 of siher, the world iiould not be one
grain of coin the i Ichor, no one comfort
would be added to the human race In con-
sequent e of our consideration for the precious
metals, one man is enabled to heap to him-
self luxuries at the expense of the necebsarles
of his neighbor, a system admirably fitted
to produce all the vaiictioh of disease and
crime, which never fall to characterize the
two extremes of opulence and penury A
speculator takes pride to himself as the pro-
moter of his country's prosperity, who em-
ploys a number of hands in the manufacture
of articles avowedly destitute of use, or sub-
servient only to the unhallowed cravings of
luxury and ostentation The poor
are set to labor, — for what? Not the food
for which they famish not the blankets for
want of which their babes are frozen by the
cold of their miserable hovels not those
1330
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
comforts of civilisation without which civil-
lied man is far more miserable than the
meanest savage, oppressed as he Is by all
its insidious evils, within the dally and taunt-
Ing prospect of its innumerable benefits as-
siduously exhibited before him. — no, for the
pride of power, for the miserable isolation
of pride, for the false pleasures of the hun-
dredth part of society No greater evidence
is afforded of the wide extended and radical
mistakes of civiliEPd man than this fact
those arts which are essential to his very
being are held in the greatest contempt ,
employments are lucrative in an inverse ratio
to their usefulness the jeweler, the toy-
man, the actor gains fame and wealth by the
exercise of his useless and ridiculous ait,
whilst the cultivator of the earth, he with-
out whom society must cease to subsist,
struggles through contempt and penury, and
perishes by that famine which but for his
unceasing exertions would annihilate the rest
of mankind" — Shelley's note
lfte-80. Cf with this passage, Cowpers
The Task, II, 1-47 (p. 14?), and The Negro «
Complaint (p. 148); also Bouthpy'a Sonntt
Concerning the Rlaic Trade (p 400)
211-1*. "I hold that the depravity of the
physical and moral nature of man originated In
his unnatural habits of life The origin of
man, like that of the universe of whhh he
Is a part, is enveloped in Impenetrable mys-
tery. Ills generations either had a begin-
ning, or they had not The weight of evi-
dence In favor of each of these suppositions
seems tolerably equal, and it is perfectly
unimportant to the present argument which
is assumed The language spoken, however,
by the mythology of nearly all religions seems
to prove that at some distant period man
forsook the path of nature, and sacrificed
the purity and happiness of his being to un-
natural appetites The date of this event
seems to have also been that of some great
change in the climates of the earth, with
which It has an obvious correspondence Tbe
allegory of Adam and Eve eating of the tree
of evil, and entailing upon their posterity
the wrath of God and the loss of everlasting
life, admits of no other explanation than the
disease and crime that have flowed from
unnatural diet " — Shelley's note
Shelley then gives a long discussion of the
necessity and the value of a vegetable diet.
Bee Shelley's Alastor, 08-106 (p 636)
TO WORDSWORTH
Wordsworth was at one time an enthusi-
astic supporter of the French Revolution, but
its excesses and failures led him finally to
Itecame a conservative. This poem Indicates
the contemporary feeling of the ardent rad-
icals toward his change of politics Ree
Browning's The Lost Leader, which also was
suggested by Wordsworth's action.
ALASTOB
'The poem entitled Altutor may be con-
sidered as allegorical of one of the most
Interesting situations of the human mind
It represents a youth of uncorrupted feelings
and adventurous genius led forth by an im-
agination inflamed and purified through
familiarity with all that is excellent and
majestic, to the contemplation of the uni-
verse, lie drinks deep of the fountains of
knowledge, and is still Insatiate The mag-
nificence and beauty of the external world
sinks profoundly into the frame of his con-
ceptions, and affords to their modifications a
variety not to be exhausted So long an it
is possible for his desires to point towards
objects thus Infinite and unmeasured, he IB
Joyous, and tranquil, and self-possessed. But
the period arrives when these objects cease
to suffice His mind Is at length suddenly
awakened and thirsts for intercourse with
an intelligence similar to itself He images
to himself the being whom he loves. Con-
versant v*lth speculation* of the Rubllmest
and most perfect natures, the vision in which
he embodies his own Imaginations unites all
of wonderful, or wise, or beautiful, which
the poet, the philosopher, or the lover could
depicture The Intellectual faculties, the im-
agination, the functions of sense, have their
respective requisitions on the sympathy of
corresponding powers in other human beings
The poet Is represented as uniting these
requisitions, and attaching them to a single
image He seeks in vain for a prototype of
his conception Blasted by his disappoint-
ment, he descends to an untimely grave
"The picture is not barren of Instruction
to actual men The poet's self-centred seclusion
^as avenged by the furies of an Irresistible
passion pursuing him to speedy ruin But
that power which strikes the luminaries of
the Morld with sudden darkness and extinc-
tion, by awakening them to too exquisite a
perception of Its Influences, dooms to a slow
and poisonous' decay tho*c meaner spirits
that dare to abjure its dominion Their des-
tiny Is more abject and inglorious as their
delinquency is more contemptible and per-
nicious They who, deluded by no generous
error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubt-
ful knowledge, duped hy no Illustrious super-
stition, loving nothing on this earth, and
cherishing no hopes beyond, yet keep aloof
from sympathies with their kind, rejoicing
neither In human Joy nor mourning with
human grief, these, and such as they, have
their apportioned curse. They languish, be-
cause none feel with them their common
nature They are morally dead They are
neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor
eltiiens of the world, nor benefactors of their
country. Among those who attempt to exist
without human sympathy, the pure and ten-
der-hearted perish through the Intensity and
passion of their search after its communities*
PEBGY BY88HE SHELLEY
1331
when £he vacancy of their spirit suddenly
make* itself felt All else, selfish, blind, and
torpid, are those unforeseulng multitudes who
constitute, together with their own, the last-
ing misery and loneliness of the world. Those
who love not their fellow-beings live unfruit-
ful lives, and prepare for their old age a
miserable grave.
'The good die first,
And those whose hearts arc dry as summer
dust, •
Burn to the socket " "
— Shelley's Preface
The lines of verse quoted by Shelley nre
from Wordsworth's The Emcurnion, ^ 500-02
(p 275) With rennet t to style and love of
nature, Aloator should be compared *ith
Wordsworth'* Linen Composed a Few Miles
Aoorc Tintcrn Atibey <p. 238)
Alastor was written on Shelley's return
from a trip up the Thames Mrs Shelley
snvs in her note on the poem • "He spent his
days under the oak-shad PR of Windsor Great
Park, and the magnificent woodland was a
fitting study to insplie the varlnuH descrip-
tions of forest-scenery wo find in the poem
"None of Shelley's poems in more charac-
teristic thnn this The solemn spirit that
reigns throughout, the worship of the maj-
esty of nature, the brood Ings of a poet's
heart in solitude — the mingling of the exult-
ing Joy which the various aspects of the
visible universe inspires with the sad and
struggling pangs which human passion im-
parts— give a tnmhlng Interest to the whole
The death *hlch he had often contemplated
during the Inst months as certain and near
he hero represented in Mich colors as bad,
in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to
peace The versification sustains the solemn
spirit whkh breathes throughout it Is pecu-
liarly melodious The poem ought rather to
be considered didactic than narrative it
waR the outpouring of his own emotions,
embodied in the purest form he could con-
ceive, painted In the ideal hues whkh his
brilliant imagination Inspired, and softened
by the recent anticipation of death "
1O1. Blr>odle*8 food — Shelley himself fa-
vored a vegetable diet See Queen If 06,
211-12 (p (WO and note, p linOu
IIWN TO INTBLLBCTUAL BBAUTT
Mr* Shelley states in *a note that this
poem was conceived during Shelley's vovage
aiound Lake Geneva, in Switzerland, \\lth
Lord Byron Shelley's idea of the Eternal
Beauty is borrowed from Plato's The 8ym-
potlvm. 211-12 Cf. the following passago
as translated by Shelley (Proae Works, ed
Forman, Vol 8, 210-222)- "lie who has
been disciplined to this point in love, by
contemplating beautiful objects gradually
and in their order, now arriving at the end
of all that concerns love, on a sudden be-
holds a beauty wonderful in its nature.
. . . It is eternal, unproduccd, indestruct-
ible, neither subject to Increase nor decay;
not, like other things, partly beautiful and
partly deformed; not at one time beautiful
and at another time not; not beautiful in
relation to one thing and deformed in rela-
tion to another , not here beautiful and there
deformed; not beautiful in the estimation of
one person and deformed in that of another,
nor can this supreme beauty be figured to
the imagination, like a beautiful face or
beautiful hands or any portion of the Inxly,
nor like any discourse nor any science Nor
does it subsist In any other that lives or is,
either in earth, or In heaven, or in any other
place , but It is eternally uniform and con-
sistent, and monoeidlc with itself All other
things are beautiful through a participation
of it, with this one condition, that, although
they are subject to production and decay, it
never becomes more or less, or endures any
change When any one, ascending from the
correct system of love, begins to contemplate
this supreme beauty, he already touches the
consummation of his labor. For such as
discipline themselves upon this system, or
arc conducted by another beginning to as-
cend through these transitory objects which
are beautiful, toward that which is beauty
itself, proceeding as on steps from the love
of one form to that of two, and from that of
two, to that of all forms which are beauti-
ful , and from beautiful forms to beautiful
habits and institutions, and from institutions
to beautiful doctrines; until, from the medi-
tation of many doctrines, they arrive at that
which is nothing else than the doctrine of
supreme beauty itself, In the knowledge and
contemplation of which at length they re-
pose. Such a life as this . . spent in
the con tempi, it Ion of the beautiful, is the
life for men to live, which If vou chance
cier to experience you will esteem far beyond
gold and rich garments and even those lonely
persons whom you and man\ others now
gaze on with astonishment, and are prepared
neither to eat nor drink so that you may
behold and live forever with those objects
of \our love' What then shall we imagine
to be the aspect of the supreme beauty itself,
simple, pure, uncontaminated with the inter-
mixture of human flesh and colors, and all
other idle and unreal shapes attendant on
mortality, the divine, the original, the su-
preme, the monoeidlc beautiful itself? What
must be the life of him who dwells with and
gases on that which it becomes us all to
seek? Think you not that to him alone is
accorded the prerogative of bringing forth,
not images and shadows of virtue, for he is
in contact not with a shadow hut with real-
ity, with \Irtue Itself, in the production and
nourishment of which he becomes dear to the
gods, and, if Fuch a privilege is conceded to
any human being, himself immortal."
1332
BIBLIOGBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
MONT BLAVC
Mrs Shelley states that this poem WEB In-
spired by a view of Mont Blanc (the highest
peak of the Alps) and its surrounding peaks
and valleys as Shelley lingered on the Bridge
of Arve on his way through the Valley of
Chamounl Shelley flays, "It was composed
under the Immediate impression of the deep
and powerful feelings excited by the objects
which It attempts to describe, and, as an
undisciplined overflowing of the soul, rests
Us claim to approbation on an attempt to
imitate the untamable wlldness and InacccRsi-
ble solemnity from which those feelings
sprang" — Quoted In Mm Shelley's note
Of Coleridge's Hymn before tiunrtae in the
VoU of Chamouni (p 362)
648.
DEDICATION TO TUB REVOLT OF ISLAM
The Revolt of Islam is a Mfcial-nolltlc al
poem embodying opinions similar to those
expressed by Shelley in Queen Mob. See note
on Queen Mob, p. 1329.
OffO. OZIMINDIAB
OzymandtaR Is an Egyptian rtatuo reputed,
according to the Greek historian Diodorus of
Sicily (1st century B C ), to be the largest in
Egypt It bore the following inscription "I
am O/ymandias, king of kings, if any ono
wishes to know what I am and where I lie,
let him surpass me in home of my exploits"
See Dlodorus's Biolwthua Ihntonoa (Lipsue,
18G3), I, 47
O51. ON A FADED VIOIBT
This poem was Rent In a letter to Miss
Sophia Stacey, dated March 7, 1*20, with
the following comment "I promised you
what I cannot perform a soiig on singing —
there are only two subjects remaining I
have a few old stanras on one which, though
simple and rude, look as if they were dic-
tated by the heart— And so— if you tell no
one vho*v they are, you are welcome to
them. Pardon these dull verses from one
who is dull — hut who in not the less, ever
yours, PBS"
LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE BUG AN BAN BILLS
Shelley state* 1n the Preface that this
poem "was written after a day's excursion
among those lovely mountains which sur-
round what was once the retreat, and where
is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch If any
one is Inclined to condemn the insertion of
the introductory lines, which image forth the
sudden relief of a state of deep despondency
by the radiant visions disclosed by the sud-
den burst of an Italian snnrlfte In autumn,
on the highest peak of those delightful moun-
tains, I can only offer as my excuse, that they
were not erased at the request of a dear
friendi with whom Added yean of intercourse
only add to my apprehension of its value,
and who would have had more right than
any one to complain, that she has not been
able to extinguish in me the very power of
delineating sadness"
The Euganean Hills are a chain of vol-
canic hills in northeastern Italy, not far
from Padua, where Petiarch (1304-74), the
great Italian poet, once lived
6B4.1 BTA&ZAB WRITTEN IN OBJECTION, JCEAE
NAPLES
"At this time, Shelley suffered greatly in
health lie put himself under tho care of a
medical man, who promlHed great things, and
made him endure nevere bodily pain, without
any good lesults Constant mid poignant
physical Buffering exhausted him , and though
he preset vcd the appearance of cheerfulness,
and often greatly enjoyed our wandeiings in
the enviions of Naples, and our e\cuislons
on its sunny sea, yet many hours weie passed
when his thoughts, shadowed by illness, be-
came gloomy, — and then he escaped to soli-
tude, and in verses, winch he hid from fear
of wounding me, poured foith morbid but
too natural buists of dlstontent and sadness
One looks back with unspeakable regie! and
gnawing leinorse to such periods; fnnolng
that, had one been more all\e to the nature*
of his feelings, and inoie attentive to soothe
them, such would not have existed And
yet, enjoying as he appeared to do every
sight or Influence of eaith or Hky, it was
difficult to imagine that any melancholy he
showed wan aught but the effect of the con-
stant pain to which he was a nmityr.
"We ll\ed in utter solitude And such is
often not the nurne of cheerfulness; for
then, at least with those who hn\e been ex-
posed to adversity, the mind broods over its
sorrown too Intently, while the society of
the enlightened the witty, and tho wise,
enables us to torpot ourseheH by making us
the shams of the thoughts of others, which
is a portion of the philosophy of happiness
Khelley never liked society in numbers. — it
harassed and wearied him; but neither did
he like loneliness, and usually, when alone,
sheltered hlmnelf against memory and reflec-
tion In a book. But, with one or two whom
he loved, he gave way to wild and Joyous
x spirits, or in more serious conversation ex-
pounded hi&tDplnlons with vivacity and elo-
quence."—Mrs. Shelley's note
O5ff. LINBB WRITTEN Dl'RINO THB CABTLERBAGB
ADMIMSTUATION
Robert Stewart (1 769-1 R22), Viscount CaB-
tlereagh, and Earl of Londonderry (1790),
had been Sccretaiy for Ireland and Secretary
of War before he wan appointed Foreign Sec-
retary in 1812 At the time of the Irish
rebellion In 1708, he was charged with en
couraging inhuman punishments of the rebel! ;
PEECY BY8BHE SHELLEY
1333
and during his whole administration he was 659.
noted for hla contempt for all persons who
did not belong to the aristocracy In 1822
lie committed suicide in a fit of insanity.
TUB MASK Or ANABCIIY
"Though Shelley's first eager desire to
excite his countrymen to resist openly the
oppressions existent during 'the good old
times' had faded with early youth, still his
wannest Bympathles were for the people He
wan a republican, and loved a democracy
He looked on all human (wings an inheriting
an equal right to possess the dearest prhi-
legea of our nature, the necessaries of life
when fdlily earned by Libor, and Intel Icctual
institution. Ills hatred of any despotism
that looked upon the proplo as not to bo con-
sulted, or protected fiom TV ant and Ignorance,
was intense He was residing near Leghorn,
at Villa Valsoiano, wilting Tin <7rnci, when
the news of thr Manchester Massacre reached
us , it aroused in him violent emotions of
Indignation and compassion The great truth
that the many, if accordant and resolute,
could contiol the few, as wns shown some
yours oftei, made him long to teach his in-
Juiocl countnmon how to resist Inspired
by these feelings, he ^vroto Y/ir M<iNk of
An (itchy, uhlch ho sent to his filend Leigh
ITunt, to !M» Inserted fn Thr Kataminrr, of
which he was then the Editor
"'I did not Insert It,' Leigh Hunt writes
in his laluublc and Interesting preface to
this poem, when he printed It in 1832, 'be-
cause I thought that the public at large had
not heroine sufficiently discerning to do Jus-
tlcc to the sincerity nnd kind hcartodncss of
the spirit that walked In thin flaming robe*
of verse* Pins of outrage nine passed away,
and with them the exasperation that would
cause such an appeal to the many to be
injuiious Without being a\iaro of them,
they at one time acted on his suggestions,
and gained the day But thev rose nbon
human life wan respected by the Minister m
power such was not the case during the
Administration which excited Shelley's ab-
horrence
"The poem was written for the people, and
Is therefore in a more popular tone than
usual portions strike as abrupt nnd unpol-
ished, but many stanras aie all his own I
heard him repeat, and ad pi rod, those begin-
ning
*My Father Time IB old and gray,9
before I knew to what poem they were to
belong. But the most touching passage IR
that which describes the blessed effects of
liberty. It might make a patriot of any
man whose heart was not wholly closed
against bin humbler fellow-creatures " — Mrs.
Shelley's note
The mask described In the poem Is simply
a procession with masks and disguises
BONG TO THE MLN OP ENGLAND
This and the following poem, England in
1819, were inspired by Shelley's interest In
the Manchester Massacre Bee The Ma*k of
Anarcliy and note, above
ENGLAND IN 1819
See note on preceding poem
OOO. ODE TO THE WEST WIND
"This poem was conceived and chiefly
written in a wood that skirts the A mo, near
Florence, and cm a day when that tempestu-
ous wind, whose temperature lb at once mild
and animating, was collecting the vapors
which pour down the autumnal rains They
begun, as I foresaw, at sunset with a violent
tempest of hall and rain, attended by that
magnificent thunder and lightning peculiar
to the Cisalpine regions " — Shelley's note
O. A?i«,/rr of thr Hprtnq — The south wind
3H-42. "The phenomenon alluded to at the
conclusion of the third stanza is well known to
ziatuialistH The vegetation at the bottom
of the sea, of rivers, and of Kikes, sympa-
thizes with that of the land In the change of
seasons, and IH consequently influenced l>v
the winds which announce it" — Shelley's
note
OG2. PROMETHEUS UNBOUND
"Promcthcv* Unbound best combines the
various elements of Shellej's ox»niu* in their
most complete expression, and unites harmo-
niously his lyrically creative power of 1m
agination and his 'passion foi reforming the
*orld* It is the fruit of an outburst of
poetic energy under the double stimulus of
his enthusiastic flreok studies, begun under
Peacock's Influence, and of his delight in the
beauty of Italy, whither he had removed for
health and rest It mniks his full mas-
tery of his powers It is, not less than Queen
Mao and Tltc Rc\olt of Islam, a poem of the
moral peifoction of man , and, not less than
Ala *1 or and Eptpttj/chidion, a poem of spir-
itual ideality lie was hlniM»lf in love with
It 'a poem of a higher character than anything
I have yet attempted and perhaps less an
Imitation of anything that has gone before
It/ he writes to Oilier, and again, 'a poem
In my best style, whatever that mav amount
to, . . the most perfect of mv produc-
tions.' and 4the best thing I ever wrote • "—
Wood berry. In prefatory note to the poem,
in his edition of Rhelley's Complete Poetical
Wotk9 (Cambridge ed , 1001)
Shelley's Preface
"The Greek tragic writers, In selecting as
their subject any portion of their national
history or mythology, emploveil In their
1334
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
treatment of It a certain arbitrary dlscre-
tion They by no means conceived them-
selves bound to adbere to the common inter-
pretation or to imitate in story as In title
their rivals and predecessors Such a sys-
tem would have amounted to a resignation
of those claims to a preference over their
competitors which incited the composition.
The Agamemnonlan story was exhibited on
the Athenian theatre with as many variations
aa dramas
"I have presumed to employ a similar
license The Prometheus Unbound of JEschy-
lus supposed the reconciliation of Jupiter
with his victim as the price of the disclosure
of the danger threatened to his empire by
the consummation of his marriage with
Thetis Thetis, according to this view of
the subject, was given in marriage to Peleus,
and Prometheus, by the permission of Jupi-
ter, delivered from his captivity by Hercules.
Had I framed my story on this model. I
should have done no more than have at-
tempted to restore the lost drama of -fflachy-
lus , an ambition which, If my preference to
this mode of treating the subjw t had incited
me to cherish, the recollection of the high
comparison such an attempt would challenge
might well abate But, In tiuth, I was
averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that
of reconciling the champion with the op-
pressor of mankind The moial Interebt of
the fable, which is so powerfully sustained
by the sufferings and endurance of Prome-
theus, would be annihilated if we could con-
ceive of him as unsaying his high language
and quailing before hU successful and per-
fidious adversary The only imaginary being
resembling In any degree Prometheus, is
Batan, and Prometheus is, In my Judgment,
a more poetical character than Satan, be-
cause, in addition to courage, and majestv,
and firm and patient opposition to omnipo-
tent force, he is susceptible of being described
as exempt from the taints of ambition, envy,
revenge, and a desire for personal aggran-
disement, which, in the hero of Paradise
Lott, Interfere with the interest. The char-
acter of Satan engenders In the mind a per-
nicious casuistry which leads us to weigh
his faults with his wrongs, and to excuse the
former because the latter exceed all measure
In the minds of those who consider that
magnificent fiction with a religious feeling
it engenders something worse. But Prome-
theus Is, as it were, the type of the highest
perfection of moral and intellectual nature.
Impelled by the purest and the truest mo-
tives to the best and noblest ends.
"This poem was chiefly written upon the
mountainous rains of the Baths of Caracalla,.
among the flowery glades, and thickets of
odoriferous blossoming trees, which are ex-
tended in ever winding labyrinths upon Its
Immense platforms and dlisy arches sus-
pended in the air The bright blue sky of
Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awak-
ening spring in that divlnest climate, and
the new life with which it drenches the
spirits even to Intoxication, were the In-
spiration of this drama
"The Imagery which I have employe* will
be found, in many Instances, to have been
drawn from the operations of the human
mind, or from those external actions by
which they are expressed This is unusual
in modern poetry, although Dante and
Shakespeare are full of instances of the
same kind Dante indeed more than any
other poet, and with greater success. But
the Greek poets, as writers to whom no
resource of awakening the sympathy of their
contemporaries was unknown, were in the
habitual use of this power, and it is the
study of their works (since a higher merit
would probably be denied, me) to which I
am willing that my readers should impute
this singularity
"One word is due In candor to the degree
In which the study of contemporary writings
may have tinged my composition, for such
has been a topic of censure with regard to
p*ems far more popular, and indeed more
deservedly popular, than mine It is Impos-
sible that any one who inhabits the same age
with such writers as those who stand In the
foremost ranks of our own, can conscien-
tiously assure himself that his language and
tone of thought may net have bwn modified
by the study of the productions of those
extraordinary intellects It is true that,
not the spirit of their genius, but the forms
in which it has manifested Itself, are due
less to the peculiarities of their own minds
than to the peculiarity of the moral and In-
tellectual condition of the minds among which
they have been produced. Thus a number of
writers possess the form, whiM they want
the spirit of those whom, it Is alleged, they
imitate, because the former is the endow-
ment of the age In which they live, and the
latter must be the uncommnnicatcd lightning
of their own mind.
"The peculiar style of Intense and com-
prehensive Imagery which distinguishes the
modern literature of England, has not beoo,
as a general power, the product of the imita-
tion of any particular writer The mass of
capabilities remains at every period mate-
rially the flame p the circumstances which
awaken it to action perpetually change. If
England were divided into forty republic*,
each equal in population and extent to Ath-
ens, there is no reason to suppose but that,
under institutions not more perfect than
those of Athens, each would produce philoso-
phers and poets equal to those who (If we
except Shakespeare) have never been sur-
passed We owe the great writers of the
golden age of our literature to that fervid
awakening of the public mind which shook
to dust the oldest and most oppressive form
PERCY BY8SHE SHELLEY
1335
of the Christian religion We owe Milton to
the progress and development of the same
spirit . the sacred Milton was, let It over be
remembered, a republican, and a bold In-
quirer into morals and religion The great
writers of our own age are, we have reason
to snppoHe, the companions and forerunners
of some unimagincd change In our social con-
dition or the opinions which cement It The
cloud of mind Is discharging It* collected
lightning, and the equilibrium between Insti-
tutions and opinions Is now restoring, or Is
about to be restored
"As to Imitation, poetry ^s a mimetic art.
It creates, but It creates by combination and
representation. Poetical abstractions are
beautiful and new, not because the portions
of ivhlch they arc composed had no previous
existence In the mind of man or In nature,
but because the whole produced by their
combination hah some Intelligible and beau-
tiful analogy with those sources of emotion
and thought, and with the contemporary con-
dition of them one great poet Is a master-
piece of nature which another not only
ought to study but must study. Ho might
as wisely and as easily determine that his
mind should no longer be the mirror of all
that is lovely In the visible universe, as ex-
clude from bin contemplation the beautiful
which exists In the writings of a great con-
temporary The pioteote of doing it would
be a presumption in any but the greatest ,
the effect, even In him, would be strained,
unnatural, and Ineffectual A poet Is tho
combined product of such Internal powers as
modify the nature of others , and of such
external Influences as excite and sustain
these powers , he is not one, but both Every
man's mind Is, In this respect, modified by
all the objects of nature and art, by every
word and every suggestion which he ever
admitted to act upon his consciousness , It
IK the mirror upon which all forms are re-
flected, and in which they compose one form
Poets, not otherwise than philosopher,
painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, In
one sense, tho creators, and, in another, the
creations, of their age From this subjec-
tion the loftiest do not escape There IK a
similarity between Homer and Hesiod, l»e-
tween JEschylus and Euripides, between Vir-
gil and Horace, between Dante and Petrarch,
between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between
Dryden and Pope, each has a generic resem-
blance under which their specific distinctions
are arranged If this similarity be the result
of imitation, I am. willing to confess that I
have imitated.
"Let this opportunity be conceded to me
of acknowledging that I have, what a Scotch
philosopher characteristically terms, 'a pas-
sion for reforming the world* what passion
incited him to write and publish his book,
he omits to explain. For my part I had
rather be damned with Plato and Lord Bacon,
than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthua1
But It is a mistake to suppose that I dedi-
cate my poetical compositions solely to the
direct enforcement of reform, or that I con-
sider them in any degree as containing a
reasoned system on the theory of human
life Didactic poetry is my abhorrence,
nothing can be equally well expressed in prose
that is not tedious and supererogatory in
verse My purpose has hitherto been simply
to familiarize the highly refined Imagination
of the more select classes of poetical readers
with beautiful Idealisms of moral excellence,
aware that until the mliid can love, and ad-
mire, and trust, and hope, and endure, rea-
soned principles of moral conduct are seeds
cast upon the highway of life which the
unconscious passenger tramples into dust, al-
though they would bear the harvest of his
happiness Should I live to accomplish what
I purpose, that Is, produce a systematical
history of what appear to me to be the gen-
uine elements of human society, let not the
advocates of Injustice and superstition flatter
themselves that I should take -JEschylua
rather than Plato as my model
"The having spoken of myself with un-
affected freedom will need little apology with
the candid, and let the uncandid consider
that they injure me less than their own
hearts and minds by misrepresentation
Whatever talents a person may possess to
amuse and instruct others, be they ever so
Inconsiderable, he Is vet bound to exert them
If his attempt be Ineffectual, let the punish-
ment of an unaccomplished purpose have
been sufficient , let none trouble themselves
to heap the dust of oblivion upon his efforts ,
the pile thev raise will betray his grave
which might otherwise have been unknown"
From Mrtt Shelley'* Note
"The first aspect of Italy enchanted Shel-
ley , it seemed a giirdeu of dcllgbt placed
beneath a clearer anil brighter beaten than
any he had lived under l>efore He wrote
long descriptive letters during the first year
of his residence in Italy, which, as compo-
sitions, are the most beautiful in the world
and show how truly he appreciated and
studied the wonders of nature and art in that
divine land
"The poetical spirit within him speedily
revived with all the power and with more
than all the beauty of his first attempts He
meditated three subjects as the gioundwork for
lyrical dramas One was the story of Tasso,
i William Paley (1743-1805) was an English
orthodox theologian and philosopher, who preached
the necessity of religion on the basis of logic T R
Malthus (lt60-1834) was an English political econ-
omist, who advanced the Idea that vice and crime
are necessary checks upon population. Essentially,
Shelley sav* that he would rather he damned with
the heretical reformers than go to heaven with the
orthodox
1336
BIBLIOGBAPHIES AND NOTES
of this a alight fragment of a §ong of Tasso
remains. The othei was one founded on the
Book of Job, which he never abandoned In
Idea, bnt of which no trace remains among
his papers. The third was the Prometheus
Unbound. The Greek tragedians were now
his moat familiar companion* in his wander-
Ings, and the fwbllme majesty of Aschylus
filled him with wonder and delight The
father of Greek tragedy does not possess the
pathos of Sophocles nor the variety and ten-
dorneaa of Euripides the Interest on which
he founds his dramafl la often elevated above
human vicissitudes into the mighty passions
and throes of goda and deml-pods auch fas-
cinated the alwtract Imaginntlon of Shelley.
"At first he completed the drama In three
acts. It was not till several months after,
when at Florence, that he conceived that
a fourth act, a sort of hvmn of rejoicing In
the fulfillment of the prophecies with regard
to Prometheus, ought to be added to com-
plete the composition.
"Ine prominent feature of Shelley's theory
of the destiny of the- human species was that
evil is not inherent in the system of the
creation, bnt an accident that might l»e ex-
pelled. This also forma a portion of Chris-
tianity God mnde earth and man perfect,
till he, by hta fall,
'Brought (loath into the \unld and all
our woe.' [Paratliac Lo*t, 1, 3].
Shelley believed that mankind hud only to
will that there should be no evil, and there
would be none. It Is not my part in these
notes to notice the aigumeuts that have been
urged aga'nst thin opinion, but to mention
the fa<t that he entertained It, and was
Indeed attached to It with fervent enthusiasm.
That man could be so perfectlniiljccd as to
be able to expel e\ll from hia own nature,
and from the gi cater pait of the creation,
was the cardinal point of hit system And
the subject he loved best to dwell on was
the image of One warring with the Evil
Principle, oppressed not only by It, but by
oil — even the good, who were deluded Into
considering evil a necessary portion of hu-
manity , a vl< tlm full of fortitude and hope
and the splilt of triumph emanating from
a reliance In the ultimate omnipotence of
Good. Bu<h he had depicted In his last
poem \TJie Rriolt of Islam} when he made
Laon the enemy and the victim of tyrants
He now took a more Idealized imnge of the
same subject He followed certain classical
authorities In figuring Saturn as the good
principle, Jupiter the usurping evil one, and
Prometheus as the regenerator, who, unable
to bring mankind hark to primitive Innocence,
used knowledge as a weapon to defeat evil,
by leading mankind, beyond the state wherein
they are sinless through ignorance, to that in
which they are virtuous through wisdom.
Jupiter punished the temerity of the Titan
by chaining him to a rock of Caucasus, and
causing a vulture to devour hia still-renewed
heart. There was a prophecy afloat In
heaven portending the fall of Jove, the secret
of averting which was known only to Pro-
metheus; and the god offered freedom from
torture on condition of its being communi-
cated to him According to the mythological
story, this referred to the offspring of Thetis,
who was destined to bo greater than bin
fathor Prometheus at laat bought pardon
for his crime oft enriching mankind with hid
gifts, by revealing the prophecy. Hercules
killed the vulture, and set him free; and
Thetis was married to Pelena, the fathor of
Achilles
"Shelley adapted the catastrophe of this
atoiy to his peculiar views. The son greater
than his fathor, born of the nuptials of Jupi-
ter and Thetis, was to dethrone Evil, and
bring back a happier reign than that of
Saturn. Prometheus defies the power of his
enemy, and endures centuries of torture ;
till the hour arrives when Jove, blind to the
real event, but duikly guessing that some
great good to himself will flow, espouses
Thotls. At the moment, the Primal Power
of the world drives him from bis usuiped
throne, and Strength, In the person of Her-
cules, liberates Humanity, typified In Prome-
theua, from the tortures generated by evil
done or suffered Asia, one of the Occanldos,
is the wife of Prometheus — she was, accord-
Ing to other mythological interpretations, the
same as Venus and Nature. When the bene-
factor of mankind la 111 >e rated, Nature re-
sumes the beauty of her prime, and is united
to her husband, the emblem of the human
race, in perfect and happy union. In the
Fourth Act, the poet ghes further scope to
his Imagination, and idealizes the forma of
creation — such a*, wo know them, Instead of
such as they appeared to the Greeks. Ma-
ternal Earth, tho mighty parent, la super-
seded by the Splilt of tho Earth, the guide
of our planet through the realms of sky;
while bis fair and weaker companion and
attendant, the Spirit of the Moon, receives
bliss from the annihilation of Evil In the su-
perior sphere,
"Shelley develops, more particularly In the
lyrics of this drama, his abrtruse and Imagi-
native theories with regard to the Creation.
It requires a mind as subtle and penetrating
as his own to understand the mystic mean-
ings scattered throughout tho poem. They
elude the ordinary roador by their abstraction
and delicacy of distinction, but they are far
from vague. It was his design to write prone
metaphysical essays on the nature of man,
which would have served to explain much
of what Is obscure in his poetry; a few-
scattered fragments of observations and re-
marks alone remain ITo considered these
PERCY BY88HE SHELLEY
1337
philosophical views of mind and nature to
be inntlnc't with the intenaert spirit of poetry.
"More popular poets clothe the ideal with
familiar and sensible Imagery. Shelley loved
to idealise the real— to gift the mechanism
of the material universe with a nonl and a
voice, and to bestow such alno on the most
delicate and abstract emotions and thoughts
of the mind. ...
"Through the whole poem there reigns a
sort of calm and holy spirit of love, it
soothes the tortured, and in hope to the ex-
pectant, till the prophecy Is fulfilled, and
love, untainted by any evil, becomes the law
of the world. . . .
"The charm of the Roman climate helped
to clothe his thoughts In greater beauty than
they had ever worn before And, as he wan-
dered among the ruins made one with nature
In their decay, or gazed on the Praxltelcun
shapes that throng the Vatican, the Capitol,
and the palaces of Rome, his soul lmbil»ed
forms of loveliness which became a portion
of Itself. There are many passages In the
Promcthcu* which show the Intense delight
he received from such Htudiex, and give back
the ImprcsHlon with a beauty of poetical
description peculiarly his own "
For the general form of the drama, includ-
ing the choruses, for the situation and
scenery of Act I, and for a few scattered
phrases and passages, Shelley Is Indebted to
JEftchylus. There are echoes also from Mil-
ton, Shakspere, and Goethe
The characters In Prometheus Unbound are
impersonations of abstract qualities — those
which were the occasion of suffering and
evil In society and those which through the
power of the spirit of democracy were to
usher In the Golden Age. Prometheus repre-
sents humanity In general Jupiter repre-
sents evil and unrighteous power, he stands
for civil and religion* institutions, all of
which Interefere with progress Thetis, the
wife of Jupiter, is arrogance, display, and
false ideal Demogorgon, the child of Jupi-
ter and Thetis, is necessity, fate, wisdom;
the force that preMdea over the destinies of
the universe. Asia IB the spirit of ideal
beauty and divine love, Panthea, the spirit
of faith , lone, the spirit of hope Hercules
is strength. The Furies are the various
causes of pain and suffering among men.
The Spirits sent by the Earth to comfort
PrometheuR are embodiment* of the happi-
ness which comes from good impulses and
good actions. The scenery also Is allegorical.
In the intricacies of the symbolism of the
drama, however, one should not lose sight
of its lyric greatness. Shelley called It a
lyrical drama, and as such it deals with
thought and emotion rather than with action
Shelley'H approach to the world-problem
as expressed in this drama should be com-
pared with Byron's as expressed in Manfred
(pp. 649 ff).
670. 54<l-06| 586-631. These lines contain a
vision of the crucifixion of Christ and of the
development of Christianity. Lines 567-77,
648-54 contain a vision of the French Reso-
lution. These events, good in themselves,
are thought of as remitting in evil.
671. 672-751. These spirits of connotation sug-
gest that evil is merely the occasion for
greater good
672. 737-51. ThU lyric has been regarded as
the most complete expression of poetic
idealism.
676. Scene II. — The forcbt scenery r< presents the
ordinary experiences of human life, as concerns
physical senses, emotions, and intellectual Im-
pulses.
«I7S. Scene 1 1 1 — The' mountain scenery represents
elevated heights of thought.
682. 72-81. Cf. Shcllej's fragment entitled To
One Stnying, * rlttcn In 1817 :
Mv splilt like a charmed bark doth swim
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing,
Far, far awa> into the regions dim
Of rapture — as a Ixmt wllh swift sails wing-
in?
Its wav adown Home run n \-\\ln ding ri\er.
Speeds through dark forests oer the waters
684. Scene II. -Ocean and Apollo have no alle-
gorical significance, they are simply classical
figures.
OtMI. Act IV — This U slmplv a concluding chorus
of rejoicing ov er the fulfillment of the prophe-
cies in the other acts
TUB REN8ITIVE J'TANT
"ThlH is pruiuiilly a descilptlve poem The
poet, with evident delight and exquisite powci,
produces hi« picture of the garden and its
mistress, and enteis into and Rjmpathires
with the Imagined life of the flowers Sec
ondarlly, this concrete picture Is svmhollc of
other things The Sensitive Plant, with its
isolation, its intensity, its j earnings, lh Shel-
ley himself The ladv of the garden Is the
mystical Spirit of Ilenuty 'whose smile kin-
dles the universe.' The change which eomes
over the garden and the Sensitive Plant at
the approach of winter tvplfles the evil and
ugly Ride of things, — death and the other Ills
which quench the Joy of life The Conclusion
(as the close of Adonaiit) suggests that this
change is transitory or unreal, that the Spirit
of Beauty abides, and that the ROU! of man
doett not altogether pass nway at death, but
is united to the one spirit whlc h Is eternal " —
W J Alexander, in tielict Forms of Shelley
(Vthenanira Pros ed , 1898).
7O3. Conclusion. — Cf. thene Htansas with Adonai*,
39 (p 735) and with the quotation from
Plato's Phtrdo, p. 1370b.
TUP noi D
"There are others, such as the Ode to tli?
SfcyZoi* and The Cloud, which in the opinion
of many critics bear a purer poetical stamp
1338
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
thrift any other of hii productions They wero
written as hii mind prompted, listening to the
caroling of the bird, aloft In the ainre sky
of Italy, or marking the cloud as It sped
acrou the heavens, while he floated In his
boat on the Thames "—-Mrs. Shelley, In Preface
to Shelley's Poetical Works (1889).
704. TO A BKILARK
"It was on a beautiful summer evening,
while wandering among the lanes, whobc myr-
tle hedges were the bower* of the butterflies,
that we heard the caroling of the bkylark,
which Inspired one of the most beautiful of
his poems" — Mrs Shelley's note
Bee note on preceding poem
Cf this poem with Wordsworth's poems on
the same subject, pp 297 and 312, and with
Hogg's poem, p 477.
706.
ABITHL8A
This poem was written to be Inserted in
Proserpine, a drama by Khelleys friend, Ed-
ward Williams Arcthusa wan a fountain in
the ibland of Ortygla, near Hy rat use, In Sicily.
Alpheus is a river in the Peloponnesus whlth
In part of its course flows underground Ac-
cording to the legend, the wood nymph
Arethusa, pursued by her lover Alpheus, the
river god, was changed by Diana into a
stream which ran under the sea and rose
again as the fountain of Arcthnsa
707. HIMV or APOLIO
This and the next poem, Wymn of Pan,
were written to be inserted in Midas, a pro-
jected drama by Shelley's friend, Edward Wil-
liams Apollo and Fan were represented as
contending before Tmolus, the mountain-god,
for a prise in music. Apollo was the sun-
god.
HYMN TO PAN
Bee note on preceding poem Pan was the
god of flocks and shepherds He invented the
shepherd's flute which he made out of a reed.
710.
THl WITCH OF ATLAS
In her notes, Mrs Shelley says of this
poem and its author* "This poem is pecu-
liarly (haracterintlc of his tastes— wildly fan-
ciful, full of brilliant Imagery, and discarding
human Interest and passion, to revel in the
fantastic Ideas that his Imagination sug-
gested
"The surpassing excellence of The Oenci
had made me greatly desire that Shelley
should Increase his popularity, by adopting
subjects that would more suit the popular
taste than a poem conceived In the abstract
and dreamy spirit of TJie Witch of Atla* It
was not only that I wished him to acquire
popularity as redounding to his fame, but
I believed that he would obtain a greater
mastery over his own powers, and greater
happiness in his mind, if public applause
crowned his endeavors. The few stansas that
precede the poem were addressed to me on
my representing these ideas to him Even
now I believe that I was in the right Shel-
ley did not expect sympathy and approbation
from the public; but the want of it took
away a portion of the ardor that ought to
have sustained him while writing. He was
thrown on his own resources and on the in-
spiration of his own soul, and wrote because
his mind overflowed, without the hope of
being appreciated I had not the most dis-
tant wish that he should truckle in opinion,
or submit his lofty aspirations for the human
race to the low ambition and pride of the
many, but I felt sure that if his poems were
more addressed to the common feelings of
men, his proper rank among the writers of
the day would be acknowledged; and that
popularity as a poet would enable his country-
men to do Justice to his character and vir-
tues , which, in those days, it was the mode
to attack \vlth the most flagitious calumnies
and insulting abuse. That he felt these things
deeply cannot be doubted, though he armed
himself with the consdouRness of acting from
a lofty and heroic sense of right. The truth
burst fiom his heart sometimes In solitude,
and he would write a few unfinished verses
that showtd that he felt the sting
"I believed that all this morbid feeling
would vanish, if the chord of sympathy be-
tween him and his countrymen were touched
Hut my permissions were \ain, the mind
could not be bent from its natural inclina-
tion. Shelley shrunk inMtiuctlvely from por-
traying human passion, with its mixture of
good and evil, of disappointment and disquiet
Such opened again the wounds of his own
heart, and he loved to shelter himself rather
in the airiest flights of fancy, forgetting love
and hate and regret and lost hope, in such
imaginations as borrowed their hues from
sunrise or sunset, from the yellow moonshine
or paly twilight, from the aspect of the far
ocean or the shadows of the woods, which
celebrated the singing of the winds among the
pines, the flow of a murmuring stream, and
the thousand harmonious sounds which na-
ture creates in her solitudes These are the
materials which form The Witch of Atlas, it
is a brilliant congregation of ideas, such as
his senses gathered, and his fancy colored,
during his rambles in the sunny land he so
much loved "
Atlas Is the name of a mountain system In
northwestern Africa
720. iripgrcHiDiov
The meaning of the title of this poem,
according to Btopford Brooke (Publication*
of the Shelley Society, 1887), is "this soul
out of my soul" (1 238). Forman (Complete
Poetical Worftft) sees no meaning in it beyond
"a little poem about the soul " The "noble
PEBCY BYS8HE SHELLEY
1339
and unfortunate lady" who inspired the poem
was Teresa Bmilla Vivlanl, the beautiful and
sentimental daughter of an Italian noble-
man of Pisa She had been placed by her
family In the neighboring Convent of 8t
Anna, where Shelley met her in 1820, became
interested in her, and idealised her as the
embodiment of perfect love and beauty of
which he was ever in search Dowden sayn
of her (Life of Khellcy, 2, 378) "Emilia,
beautiful, spiritual, sorrowing, became for
him a tjpe and symbol of all that Is most
radiant and divine in nature, all that IB mont
remote and unattainable, yet over to be
pursued — the ideal of beauty, truth, and love
She was at once a breathing and living
woman, young, lovelj, ardent, afflicted, and
the avatar of the Ideal" Shelley's interest
in her, however, soon declined into that of
mere sympathy
In a letter to his friend Gisborne, dated
Oct 22, 1821, Shelley sayi of the poem •
"The Epipsychidion Is a mystery; as to re.il
flesh and blood, you know that I do not deal
in those articles, you might as well go to
a gin-shop for a leg of mutton, as expect
anything human or earthly from me" On
June 18, 1822, he again wrote Gisborne
"The Epipayohidion I cannot look at , the per-
son ^ bom It celebrates was a cloud instead of
a Juno, and poor Ixion1 starts from the cen-
taur that wan the offspring of bin own em-
brace If you are curious, however, to hear
what I am and luue been, it will tell you
something thereof It is an Id call rod history
of my life and feelings I think one is always
in love with something or other, the error,
and I confoHs it Is not easv foi spirits caned
in flesh and blood to avoid it, consists in
necking in a mortal image the likeness of what
is, perhaps, eternal"
The poem represent** the pursuit of an ideal,
the nature of which may be gained from
Shelley's prow fragment On Love, as follows
"T/iou demanclcht what is love? It Is that
powerful attraction towards all that we con-
ceive, or fear or hope beyond ourselves, when
we find within our own thoughts the chasm of
an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all
things that are, a community with what we
experience within ourselves. If we reason,
we would be understood , if we imagine, we
would that the airy children of our brain were
born anew within another's; if we feel, we
would that another's nerves should vibrate
to our own, that the beams of their eyes
should kindle at once and mix and melt into
our own, that Hps of motionless ice should
not reply to llpn quivering and burning with
the heart's best blood This is love This IK
the bond and the sanction which connects
not onlv man with man, but with everything
which exists. We are born into the world,
and there is something within us which,
i See Glossary.
from the instant that we live, more and
more thirsts aftei It* likeness it is prob-
ably in correspondence with this law that
the infant drains milk from the bosom of its
mother, this propensity develops Itself with
the development of our nature We dimly see
within our intellectual nature a miniature as
it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all
that we condemn or despise , the ideal proto-
type of everything excellent or lovely that we
are capable of conceiving as belonging to the
nature of man Not only the portrait of our
external being, but an assemblage of the
minutest particles of which our nature is
composed, a mirror whose surface reflects
only the forms of purity and brightness, a
soul within our soul that describes a circle
around Its proper paradise, which pain, and
sorrow, and evil dare not overleap To this
we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that
they should resemble or correspond with it
The discovery of its anti-type, the meeting
with an understanding capable of clearly
estimating our own , an imagination which
should enter into and seize upon the subtle
and delicate pecullailtles which we have
delighted to cherish and unfold in secret,
with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of
two exquisite Ivres, strung to the accompani-
ment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the
vibrations of our own , and of a combination
of all these in such proportion as the type
within demands , this is the invisible and un-
attainable point to which love tends, and to
attain which. It urges forth the powers of
man to arrest the faintest shadow of that
without the possession of which there is no
rest nor respite to the heart over which it
rules ITeuce in solitude, or in that deserted
state when we are surrounded by human
beings, and yet they sympathise not with us,
we love the flowers, the grass, and the waters
and the sky In the motion of the very
leaves of spring in the blue air, there is
then found a secret correspondence with our
heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless
wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and
the rustling of the reeds beside them, which
by their Inconceivable relation to something
within the Roul, awaken the spirits to a dance
of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mys-
terious teiulerneHR to the eves, like the en-
thuHiasm of patriotic SUCCORS, or the voice
of one bcloted singing to you alone Sterne
says that If ho were in a desert he would
love some cypress So soon as this want or
power is dead, man becomes the living
sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives
Is the mere husk of what once he was"
The poem was first published anonymously
with an Advertisement by Shelley describing
the imaginary author.
728. 886. Cf. the prose fragment On Love,
quoted above.
256-66. No satisfactory identification of the
person here described has been made, nor
1840
BIBLIOGBAPHlEb AND NOTES
il any needed The passage describes sensual
love*
271. One KOS true.— This Is thought to refer
to Harriet, Shelley's first wife.
877. One stood on my pa* A.— This refers to
Mary, Shelley's second wife.
784. 808-80. The reality of the Incidents re-
ferred to here has not been determined
725. 868. The Comet, who IB to be made the
Evening Star, has not been satisfactorily
identified.
729. IMIMA VIVIANI
Shelley sent this poem to Emilia Vivian! In
return for a bouquet which ho received from
her. See note on Bpipaychidton, above.
78O. ADONXlS
The title of this poem Is evidently derived
from Adonis, the name of the beautiful youth
wh« *as loved by Venus and who was killed
by a wild boar. Shelley's belief that Keats
was killed by "ravage criticism on his Endy-
mton" makes the analogy clear
Shelley and Keats first met at the house
of their friend Leigh Hunt, in 1817, and in
1820 Shelley invited Keats to be his guest at
Pisa, Italy; but Keats did not accept the
Invitation, and they never became intimate.
Keats died in Rome on February 23. 1821,
and soon afterwards Shelley wrote the poem,
to which he later added the following
Preface
"It in my Intention to subjoin to the Lon-
don edition of this poem a crltlclfiin upon
the rial ran of its lamented object to be
classed among the writers of the highest
genius who have adorned our age My known
repugnance to the narrow principles of taste
on which several of bin earlier compositions
were modeled prove at leant that I am an
Impartial Judge I consider the fragment of
Hyperion as second to nothing that was ever
produced by a writer of the game yearn.
"John Keats died at Rome of a consump-
tion. In his twenty-fourth year, xra the [2!rd]
of [Feb ], 1821 : and waft burled In the ro-
mantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants
In that city, under the pyramid which 1* the
tomb of Ccwtlus, and the massy walls and
towers, now mouldering and desolate, which
formed the circuit of ancient Rome The
cemetery Is an open space among the ruins,
covered In winter with violets and daisies.
It might make one in love with death, to
think that one should be burled In BO sweet
a place.
"The genius of the lamented person to
whose memory I have dedicated these un-
worthy verbes was not less delicate and
fragile than It was beautiful ; and whore can-
kerworms abound, what wonder if its young
flower was blighted in the bod? The savage
criticism on his Sndymion, which appeared
In The Quarterly Review* produced the most
violent effect on his susceptible mind, the
agitation thus originated ended iu the rupture
of a blood-veHbel In the lungs, a rapid con-
sumption ensued, and the suceeding acknowl-
edgements fiom more candid critics of the
true greatnem of hit* powers were Ineffectual
to heal the wound thus wantonly Inflicted.
"It may be well bald that these wretched
men know not what they do. They scattei
their insults and their slanders without heed
as to whether the poisoned ftboft lights on a
heart made callous by many blows or one like
Kcats's composed of more penetrable stuff8
One of their associates Is, to my knowledge,
a most base and unprincipled calumniator
As to Endymion, was it a poem, whhtovei
might be its defects, to be treated contemptu
ously by those who had celebrated, with va-
rious degrees of complacency and panegjilc,
Parts, and Woman, and a Bynan Talc, and
Mrs Lefanu, and Mr Barrett, and Mr. How-
ard Payne, and a long list of the Illustrious
obscuieV Are these the men who In their
venal good nature presumed to draw a parallel
between the Rev Mr Mlliuan and Lord By-
ron? What gnnt did they strain at here,
after ha \ ing swallowed all those camels?0
Against what woman taken in adultery dares
the foremost of these literary prostitutes to
cast his opprobrious stone?' Mlseinble man*
you, one of the meanest, have wantouh de-
faced one of the noblest spedmens of the
woikmanshlp of God Nor shall it he jour
excuse, that, murderer as you me, you have
spoken daggers, but used none0
"The circumstances of the closing nce.no
of poor KcatH's life were not made known to
me until the Eltgy was ready for the press.
I am given to undei stand that the wound
which his sensitive spirit had received from
the en tk km of Endymion TUIS exasperated by
the bitter sense of unrequited benefits ; the
poor fellow Bcems to have been hooted from
the stage of life, no less by those on whom
he had wasted the promise of his geniux, than
those on whom he had lavished bin fortune
and his care He wan accompanied to Rome,
and attended In his last illness by Mr Severn,
a young artist of the highest promise, iiho,
I have been Informed, 'almost risked his own
life, and sacrificed every prospect to un-
wearied attendance upon his dving friend '
Had I known these circumstances before the
completion of mv poem, I should have been
1 The criticism of Endymion referred to was writ-
ten by J. W Croker and published in The Quarterly
Review, April. 181H (see p 013) Shelley thought
It was written l» II II Mllman (1791-1808), an
Kngllsh clergvman It wan not responsible for the
death of Keats Bee Colvln's Life of Keats, ch. 6,
and Kossetti'g Lile of K?at*, ch 5.
1 Hee Uamlct, fll, 4, 35- M. —
*\nd let me wring your heart ; for so I shall,
If it he made of penetrable stuff "
• See Matthew, 2'* 24. * See John 8 3-7.
• Hamlet III. 2. 414. Before going to meet his
mother Hamlet says, "I will speak daggers to her
but use none."
PERCY BY88HE SHELLEY
1341
tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause
to the more solid recompense which the
virtuous man finds in the recollection of hU
own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a
reward from 'such stuff ah dronniH are made
of1 Ills conduct is a golden augury of the
cucccws of Mi future career — may the vnex-
tingulshcd Kplilt of his Mutinous friend ani-
mate the creations of his pencil, and plead
against Oblivion for his name™
AdonoAa is based upon two Greek pastoral
elegies of the 3rd cent B. C — Blon's Lament
for Adoni* and Moschus's Epitaph on Bion.
Milton's Lycidus also was probably in Hhel-
ley's mind, and a number of Ideus expressed
In the poem go hack to Ilatn. Of A donate
with the following fragments of Shelley's
translation of the two Greek poems referred
to*
Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of Adonis
I mourn Adonis dead — loveliest Adonis—
Dead, dead Adonlb — and the Loxes lament
Bleep no more, Venuh, wiapped in puiplc
woof —
Wake violot-stoled queen, and weave the crown
Of Death,— 'tis Miser* talk,— for he Is
dead 5
The lovely one lies wounded In the moun-
tains,
Ills white thigh struck with the white tooth .
he ftcaice
Yet breathes . and Venus hangs in agony there.
The dark blond wanderH o'er his snowy limbs.
TTIs cyeH beneath their Hila are lustreless 10
The rose hns fled from hl« wan lips, and there
That kiss la dead, which VenuH gatheib yet.
A deep, deep wound Adonis * • •
A deenrr Venus beais upon her heart
See, his helm IK] dogs nre gutlicrlng round — li
The Oread nvniphs are winning — Aphrodite
With hnlr unbound is wandeiing through the
woods,
'Wlldcred, ungirt, unsandalled — the thorns
pierce
Her hastening feet and drink her aacred blood
Ultterlv screaming out, she is clrlxen on -SO
Through the long vales; and her Assyrian
bov,
Her lo\e, her husband, calls — the purple
blood
From his struck thigh stains her white navel
now,
Her bosom, and her neck before like snow
A In s for Cvtherea — the Loves mourn — 2i
The lovely, the beloved IR gone1 — and now
Her sacred beautv vanishes away.
For Venus whilst Adonis lived was fair —
Alas! her loveliness In dead with him
The oaks and mountains cry, Al ' at *
AdonlH 1 10
The spring* their waters change to tears and
The flowers are withered up with grief • • •
Al! al< Adonis is dead
Rcho resounds Adonln dead
Who will weep not thy dreadful woe, O
Venus ? 15
Soon as she saw and knew the mortal wound
Of her Adonis— saw the life-blood flow
From hi* fair thigh, now wabting, — walling
loud
Bhe clasped him, and cried "Stay, Adonis '
Stay, dearest ono. • • • . 40
and mix my lips with thine—
"1 The Tcmprttj IV, 1, 155-50.
Wake yet a While, Adonis-*-oh, but once,
That I may kiss thee now for the last time —
But for ab long as one *hort kit* may live —
Oh, let thy breath flow from thy dying soul 4ft
Even to my mouth and heart, that I may suck
That * • •"
Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of Bion
To Dorian woods and waves, lament aloud, —
Augment your tide, O sticanib, with fruitless
teais,
For the belovM Bion IB no more
Let every tender herb and plaiit and flower,
Front each dejected bud and di oopiug bloom. 5
Shed dews or liquid sorrow, and with breath
Of melancholy sweetness on the wind
Dlffune its languid love . let roses blush,
Anemones grow paler for the loss
Their dells have known , and thou, O
hyacinth. 10
Utter thy legend now — vet more, dumb flower,
Than "Ah r alan '"—thine is no common
grief—
Bion the sweetest singer Is no more
781. 10-11. Cf Dion's Lament for Adonis
(Lang's trans ) "He reclines, the delicate
Adonis, In his raiment of purple, and around
him the Loves are weeping, and groaning
aloud, clipping their looks for Adonis And
one upon his shafts, another on his bow
is treading, and one hath loosed the sandal
of Adonis, and another hath broken his own
feathered quiver, and one In a golden vessel
beam water, and another laves the wound,
and another from behind him with his wings
Is fanning Adonis"
14-17. Cf Moschus's Elegy On Bion
(Lang's trans ) "Ye flowers, now in <uicl elua-
teis breathe yoni selves away. Now redden, je
roses, in vour sorrow, and now wax red, ye
wind-flowers, now, thou hyacinth, whisper
the leth'W on thor graven, and add a deeper
at 04 to thy petals , he Is dead, the beautiful
singer. ... Ye nightingales that lament
among the thick lea\es of the trees, tell ve
to the Sicilian waters of Arethusa the tid-
ings that Bion the herdsman is dead . . .
And Echo in the rocks laments that thou art
Bllent, and no more she mimics thy voice
And in sorrow for thy fall the trees cast
down their fruit, and all the flowers hare
faded "
7HR. 89. Cf the closing Btanras of The tfrnftttirr
Plant (p. 70S). See also Plato's Phtrdo,
07-09
7««. 4O,O. Cf Plato's epigram on Avter, thus
translated b\ Shelley under the title of To
8t< Ua and applied to Keats
Thou wert the morning star among; the II \ Ing,
Hie thv fair light had fled ,—
Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus,
giving
New splendor to the dead.
7R7. H1LLAB
Hello* Is a lyrical drama inspired by the
Greek war for independence from the Turks,
fought in 1821. Shelley looked upon this
manifestation of a free spirit as a prophecy
of the dawning Golden Age of love and
freedom Ltfe May Change, But It May fly
1342
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Not Occupies lines 84-40 of the drama , Worlds
on World* are Rolling Ever, lines 107238;
Darkness has Dawned ir the Bast, lines 1028-
59, The World's Grea* Aye Begins Anew is
the closing chorus, lines 1060-1101
8* The Evening land, — A reference to
America.
THB WORLD'S CHEAT AGB BEGINS ANEW
789.
At the end of the "great age*' of the
ancients, the HUD, moon, and planets were
to return to their original positions, and the
history of the world would repeat itself , the
Golden Age would return and be followed by
ages of degradation and evil. Cf this chorus
with Byron's The Isles of Greece (p 690).
THB EVENING
The Ponte al Mare 1« the seaward bridge of
Pisa
74O. RBMBMBRANCB
This song was sent by Shelley with the fol-
lowing letter to hit, friend, Mrs William*,
"Dear Jane,— If this melancholy old song
suite any of your tunes, or any that humor
of the moment may dictate, you are welcome
to It l)o not say it is mine to any one, even
if you think so, Indeed, it IB from the torn
leaf of a book out of date How are you
today, and how is Williams? Tell him that
I dreamed of nothing but sailing and fishing
up coral Tour ever affectionate P. B. 8"
TO EDWARD WILLIAMS
This poem was inspired by Mary Shelley's
Jealousy of Jane Williams, the wife of Ed-
ward Williams, both intimate friends of the
Shelleys The following letter from Shelley
to Williams (Jan 20, 1822) refers to the
j poem "My dear Williams Looking over
the portfolio In which my friend used to
keep his verses, and in whkh those I sent
yon the other day were found, I have lit upon
these, which, as thev ate too dismal for me
to keep, I send you If any of tbe stanzas
should please you, you may read them to
Jane, but to no one else And yet. on second
thoughts, I had rat hoi you would not Yours
ever affectionately, P B 8"
742.
WITH A GUITAR TO JANE
Woodberry gives the following note on the
poem (Cambridge ed of Shelley's Poetical
Works) "The suggestion for the poem Is
found by Dr Garnctt in the fact that 'the
front portion of the guitar is made of Swiss
pine ' He continues 'It Is now clear how the
poem took shape In Shelley's mind The
actual thought of the imprisonment of the
Spirit of Music In the material of the instru-
ment suggested Ariel's penance in the cloven
pine , the identification of himself with Ariel
and of Jane Williams with Miranda was the
easiest of feats to his brilliant imagination;
and hence an allegory of unequalled grace
and charm, which could never have existed if
the Instrument had not been paitly made of
pine wood. The back, it nhould be added,
is of mahogany, the finger board of ebony,
and minor portions, chiefly ornamental, of
some wood not identified It was made by
Ferdlnando Bottari of Pisa in 1816 Having
been religiously preserved since Shelley's
death, it is in as perfect condition as when
made. The strings, it is said, are better than
those that are produced now
" 'This guitar is also in a measure the sub-
ject of another of Shelley's most beautiful
lyrics, The Keen Stars Were Twinkling. In
a letter dated June 18, 1822, speaking of hia
cruises 'In the evening wind under the sum-
mer moon/ he adds, 'Jane brings her guitar'
There is probably no other lellr of a great
poet so intimately associated with the arts
of poetry and music, or ever will IHJ, unless
Milton's organ should turn up at a broker's
or some excavating explorer should bring to
light the lyre of Sappho ' "
TO JANE
This poem was sent In a letter to Mrs
Jane Williams See note on preceding poem
748. CBARLBR TBE FIRST
This is an unfinished tragedy on the sub-
ject of Charles I, King of England, who was
beheaded In 1649 The song given here is
found in scene 5, 11 6-17 It is sung by the
court fool.
A DBTBNBB OF POETRY
In a letter to Peacock, dated March 21,
1821, Shelley states that this essay was writ-
ten "as an antidote" to Peacock's Four Ayes
of Poetry "Ton will see," he says, "that I
have taken a more general view of poetry
than you have
745b. 22-27. Cf this sentence with Plato's The
fiympottium, 205 (Shelley's trans ) "Poetry,
which is a genera] name signifying every
cause whereby anything proceeds from that
which is not into that which is, so that the
exercise of every inventive art is poetry,
and all such artists poets Tet they are not
called poets, but distinguished by other names ;
and one portion or species of poetrj, that
which has relation to music and rhythm, is
divided from all others, and known by the
name belonging to all "
74«b. 31*. Cf this pasrage with Wordsworth's
Preface (p 822a, 28ff ) and with Aristotle's
Poetics (Butcher's translation), 9, 1-8: "It
is, moreover, evident from what has been said
that it is not the function of the poet to relate
what has happened, but what may happen, —
what h possible according to the law of
probabllitv or necessity. The poet and the his-
torian differ not by writing in verse or in
WILLIAM SHENSTONE
1343
prow. The work of Herodotus might be put
into verse, and It would be still a species of
history, with metre no less than without it
The true difference Is that one lelates what
has happened, the other what may happen.
Poetry, therefore, in a more philosophical and
a higher thing than history , for poetry tends
to express the universal, hlstoiy the particu-
lar M
748*. 46. The passage omitted contains a his-
torical review of European poetfy and a clls-
cu^slon of the buperloiity of poetry to science
and political philosophy
740ft. 33-33. Cf. with Plato's Ion 633-34 (Shel-
loy's trans ) • "For the authors of those
great poems which we admire do not attain
to excellence through the rules of any art,
but they utter their beautiful melodies of
verse In a state of Inspiration, and, as It
were, poHsexaid by a spirit not their own
Thus the composers of lyrical poetry create
those admired songs of theirs In a state of
divine insanity, like the Coryhantes, who lose
all control over their reason In the enthublasm
of the sacred dance, and during this super-
natural poHseflRion are excited to the rhythm
and harmony which they communicate to
men . . For a poet Is Indeed a thing ethe-
really light, winged, and sacred, nor can
he compose anything worth calling poetry un-
til he becomes Inspired and, as It were mad,
or \\hilHt any reason remains In him For
whilst a man retains any portion of the thing
called reason, he Is utterly Incompetent to
produce poetry, or to vaticinate Thus, those
who declaim various and beautiful poetry
upon anv subject, as for Instance u]>on
Homer, are not enabled to do so by art or
studv , hut every rhapsodlst or poet, whether
dithjrambic, encomiastic, choiul, epic or
Iambic, is excellent In proportion to the ex-
tent of his partlc I pat ion In the dl\lne Influ-
ence and the degree In which Ihe Muse Itself
has dost ended on him In othei respects,
poets may be sufficiently Ignorant and In-
capable For tbev do not compose according
to any art which they have acquired, but
from the impulse of the divinity within them ,
for did they know anv rules of criticism, ac-
cording to which they could compose beau-
tiful verse* upon one subject, they would
be able to exert the same facultv with respect
to all or any other The God seems pur-
posely to have deprived all poets, prophets,
and soothsayers of every particle of reason
and understanding, the better to adapt them
to their employment as his minister* and
Interpreters; and that we, their auditors,
may acknowledge that those who write so
beautifully are possessed, and address us
inspired by the God A preemption in favor
of this opinion may be drawn from the cir-
cumstance of T>nntcbns the Chalctdlan1 hav-
ing composed no other poem worth mentlon-
iTynnlchus is unknown except for this reference
In Plato
ing except the famous poem which is in
everybody's mouth, — perhaps the most beauti-
ful of all lyrical tompobitlons, and which he
himself calls a gift of the Muses. I think
you will agree with me that examples of this
sort are exhibited by the God himself to
prove that those beautiful poems are not hu-
maa nor from man, but divine and from the
Godu, and that poets are only the inspired
interpreters of the Gods, each excellent m
proportion to the degree of his inspiration
This example of the most beautiful of lyrics
having been produced by a poet in other
respects the worst seems to have been af-
forded as a divine evidence of the truth of
this opinion "
WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-1763),
p. 40
EDITIONS
Poetical Work*, ed , with a Critical Dissertation,
by G Gllflllan (London, Nlsbet, 1854)
Poc/fral Worl*, ed by C C Clarke (London, Cas-
scll, 1880)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Ho wltt, W Homes and Haunts of the Moat
Eminent Brtttsh Poet*, 2 vote (London and
New York, Rontledge, 1840)
Johnson, R The Lives of the English Poets
1779-81) , 8 vols, ed by G. B. Ill 11 (London,
Clarendon Press, 1905)
Salntsbury, O In Ward's The English Poets,
Vol 3 (London and New York, Macmlllan,
1«80, 1909)
CRITICAL NOTES
4O. Till SCHOOLMISTRESS
One of the unmistakable signs of Ro-
manticism WBM the reawakened Interest in
English literature of the past, especially in
ballads, Spenser, and Milton Although Spen-
ser and Milton were never completely for-
gotten, it was not until late in the eighteenth
centurv that their Influence become a real
quickening force In English poetry, by the
time of Keats, English poets had caught the
spirit of these masters, and had reproduced
It Miccessfulh
The early eighteenth century poets did not
take Spenser very seriously They copied
his language, bis meter, and his stanza, all
of which thev used In comic verses, parodies,
and mild satires Of the numerous Spen-
serian Imitations which appeared between
1735 and 1775, Shonstouc's The Schoolmistress
and Thomson's The Castle of Indolence are
the best. Neither poem was written In any
serious vein, although both were admired for
their own sake.
"The inimitable Sohoolmittress of Shen-
stone is one of the felicities of genius, but
the purpose of this poem ban been entirely
1344
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
misconceived . The Schoolmistress of
Shenstoue has been admired for Its sim-
plicity and tenderncBB, not for 1U exquisitely
ludicrous turn-1 This discovery I owe to the
good fortune of possessing the original edi-
tion of The Schoolmistress, which the author
printed under his own directions, and to
his own fancy To this piece of LUDICROUS
FOBTBYf as be calls it, 'lest it should be
mistaken/ he added a LUDICROUS INDBX,
'purely to show fools that I am in Jest' nut
•the fool/ hla subsequent editor, who I regret
to say, was Robert Dodsley, thought proper
to bupprebs this amusing •ludicrous indei,'
and the consequence Is, as the poet foresaw,
that his aim has been 'mistaken * "— Pibraell,
in Curiosities of Literature (1791-1823)
ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843), p. 400
EDITIONS
Poetical Works, collected by himself, 10 vole
(London, Longmans, 1837-38)
Poetical Wot kg, with a Memoir by II T Tuiker-
man, 10 vote (Boston, Little, 1800) , 10 \ols
in 5 (British Poets ed Boston, Houghton,
1880).
Poems, ed by M H. Fitzgerald (Oxford Univ
Prow, 1909).
Selections from the Poems, ed by 8 R Thompson
(Canterbury Poets ed London, Scott, I8K8)
Poems, selections, ed by R Dowden (Golden
Treasury ed London, Maomlllan, 181)5)
Ballads and Othrr Poems t ed by C J Battershy
(London, Black! e, 1899)
Gorrtspondenec With Caroline Bowles, ed by E
Dowden (London and New York, Longmans,
1881).
Letttts, ed, with a Preface, by J Dennis (New
York, Macmlllan, 1881)
Letter*, selected and edited, with an Introduction,
by M H. Fitzgerald (World's Classics ed
Oxford Univ Press, 1912).
Select Prose, ed , with an Introduction, by J
Zeltlin (New York, Macmlllan, 1916)
The Life of Nelson, ed , with an Introduction,
by H. B Butler (London, Frowde. 1911)
BIOGRAPHY
Cottle, J R Reminiscences of K. T Coleridge
and Robert Boutbey (London, Houlston,
1847)
De Qnlncey, T • "The Lake Poets," Talfs Maga-
ssine, July and August, 1889 , Collected "Writ-
ing*, ed. Masson (London, Black, 1889-90,
1896-97), 2, 803, 885
Dowden, B ftouthey (English Men of Letters
Series London, Macmlllan, 1876; New York,
Harper) .
Southey, C C Life and Correspondence of Rob-
ert Routhry, ed in 6 vols (London, Long-
mans, 1849-50).
CRITICISM
Blactooood's Magazine, "Life and Correspondence,"
March and April, 1851 (69 849, 885)
Dawson, W. J The Makers of English Poetry
(New York and London, Revell, 1900).
Dennis, J Studies in English Literature (Lon-
don, Stanford, 1876)
Dowden, B. "Early Revolutionary Group and
Antagonists," The French Revolution and
English Literature (New York, Scrlbnor, 1897,
1908).
Edinburgh Review, The "A Vision of Judgment,"
July, 1821 (85 422) , "Madoc," Oct., 1805
(7 1) , "Roddick," June, 1815 (26 1) ,
"Thalaba," Oct. 1802 (1 08) ; "The Curse of
Kehama," Feb, 1811 (17429); "Wat Ty-
ler," March, 1817 (28 151).
llazlltt, W The Kpirit of the Age (London,
1825) , Collected Works, ed Waller and Glover
(London, Dent, 1902-06, New York, McClure),
4, 262.
Lockhart, J. G : Memoirs of the Life of Sir Wai-
ter Scott, Baronet, 10 vols (Edinburgh,
1839) , 3 vols (Boston, Houghton, 18K1) ;
abridged ed , 1 vol. (New York, Crowcll, 1871 ,
London, Black, 1880, Boston, Houghton,
1901).
Macaulay, T. B. : "Southoy's Colloquies on So-
ciety," The Edinburgh Review, Jan, 1830,
Critical and Historical Essays (London and
New Yolk, Ixtngmans, 1898)
Quarterly £cruu. The, "Roderick," April, 1815
(13 83) ; "The Curse of Kehama," Feb., 1811
(6 40).
Rawnsle}, II. D. Literary Associations of the
English Lakes, 2 vols (Glasgow, MacLchosc,
1804, 1906).
Itobinson, II C : Diary, Reminiscences, and Cor-
rtspondcnot, 3 vols, ed by T Sadler (Lon-
don, Macmlllan, 1869), 2 vols (1S72, Bos-
ton, Flelilb, 1H69, 1874)
Salntbbury. « Essay* in English Literature, J780-
ISbO, Second Series (London, Dent, 1895 . New
York, Scrlbner).
Stephen, L "Southey's Letters," Ntudiis of a
Biographer, 4 VO!M (London, Duckworth,
1898-1902, New York, Putnam).
Symons, A The Romantic Mortment in English
Poetry (London, Constable, 1900, Now York,
Dutton)
CRITICAL NOTE8
"Poetical criticism, whether of his own writ-
ings or of those of others, was one of Southey'*
weakest points. But while egreglously deceived as
to the absolute worth of bis epics, he obeyed a
happy instinct in selecting epic as his principal
field in poetry The gifts which he possessed-
ornate description, stately diction, invention on a
large scale — required an ample canvas for their
display. Although the concise humor and sim-
plicity of hit lines on The Battle of Blenheim
ensure it a place among the best known abort
poems in the language, there are not half a doien
of his lyrical pieces, some of his racy ballads
exempted, that have any claim to poetic diatlne*
BOBEBT 80UTHEY
1345
tton."— Qarnett, In Dictionary of National Biog-
raphy (1898).
See Byron's English Bards and Scotch Re-
viewers. 189-234 (p 488) , Don Juan, Dedication
(p. 577) , The Vision of Judgment (p 61.1), and
note, p 1226D.
Bonthey Is caricatured In Mr Rackbut In Thomas
Love Peacock's Niqhtmare Aooey
400. THl BATTLB OF BLBNIIBIU
In the Battle of Blenheim, fought at Blen-
heim, Bavaria, 1704, British and German
allies under the Duke of Marlborough and
the Austrian Prince Eugene Inflicted a severe
defeat upon the French and Bavarians.
401. TUB OID MAN'S COMFORTS
This poem Is chiefly notable as the original
of Lewis Carroll's brilliant parody In Alice'*
Adventures in Wonderland. Carroll's poem Is
as follow*
" 'You are old. Father William,' the young
man said,
'And your huir has become very white
And v«'t you imesnniitlv stand on your head —
Do you think, at your age, it U right V
"'In my youth/ Father William replied to
bl<t son, 5
'I fpancl it would injure the brain,
But now that I m peifectly sure I have none.
Why. 1 do it again and again '
•"You are old,' Mild the youth, 'as I men-
tioned befoie.
And have grown most uncommonly fat , 10
Yet >nii turned a back somersault in at the
door —
l'rayf what is the leason of that?'
"'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook
his Kin> locks,
'I kept all inv limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment — >one shilling the
bo\ — 15
Allow me to sell you a couple '
" 'You are old * said the youth, 'and your Jaws
aie too woak
For anything tougher than suet ,
Yet vou finished the goose, with the bone* and
the beak
Pi ti}, how did }ou manage to do It* 20
" 'In mv vouth,' said his father, 'I took to the
law,
And aigued each case with mv wife.
And the muscular strength, which 4t gave to
mv JAW.
Has laat jd the rest of my life '
"'You are old,' said the youth, (one would
hardly suppose 25
That your eye was as steady as ever,
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your
nobe —
What made you so awfully clever ?'
" 'I have answered ^ three questions, and that
Said hlB^father, 'don't give voumelf
airs ' >o
Do you think I can listen all day to such
stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs " "
GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKBD BISHOP
•"Here followeth the History of llatto,
Archbishop of Mentc
" 'It hapned in the year 914, that there was
an exceeding great famine In Ofiman>, at
what time Otho, surnamed the (iieat, was
Emperor, and one Hatto, once Abbot of Fulda,
was Archbishop of Mente, of the Bishops after
Crescent and Crescentlus the two and thir-
tieth, of the Archbishops after St Boulfacius
the thirteenth This Hatto, in the time of
this great famine afore-mentioned, when he
saw the poor people of the country exceed-
ingly oppressed with famine, assembled a great
company of them together Into a barne, and,
llkp a most accursed and mercllesse caltiffe.
burnt up those poor Innocent souls, that were
so far from doubting any such matter, that
they rather hoped to receive some comfoit
and relief at his hands The reason that
moved the prelat to commit that execrable
impiety was, because he thought the famine
would the sooner cease, if those unprofitable
beggars that consumed more bread than they
were worthy to eat, were dispatched out of
the world For he said that those poor folk*
were like to mice, that were good for nothing
but to devour come But God Almighty, the
Just avenger of the poor folks' quarrel, did
not long suffer this heinous tyranny, this most
detestable fact, unpunished For he mustered
up an army of mice against the Archbishop,
and sent them to persecute him as his furious
Alastors,1 so that they afflicted him both day
and night, and would not suffer him to take
his rest in any place Whereupon the Prelate,
thinking that he should be secure from the
injury of mice if he were in a certain tower,
that standeth in the Rhine near to the towne
betook himself unto the said tower as to a
safe refuge and sanctuary from his enemies,
and locked himself in But the Innumerable
troupes of mice chased him continually very
eagerly, and swumme unto him upon the top
of the water to execute the Just Judgment of
God, and so at last he was most miserably
devoured by those slllle creatures, who pui-
sued him with such bitter hostility, that it
is recorded they scraped and knawed out his
very name from the walls and tapistry wherein
it was written, after they had so cruelly de-
voured his body Wherefore the tower wherein
he was eaten up by the mice is shewn to this
day, for a perpetual monument to all suc-
ceeding ages of the barbarous and Inhuman
tyranny of this impious Prelate, being situate
in a little green island in the midst of the
Rhine near to the towne of Blngpn. and is
commonly called in the German tongue the
MOW8B-TDRN.'— Coryat'* CrvdittCB, pp. 671,
572.
"Other authors who record this tale sa>
that the Bishop wad eaten by rats"—
Sonthey's introductory note
1 avenging spirits
1846
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
408.
THB CUBSB Or KBHAMA
"In the religion of the Hindoos, which of
all fake religions ig the most monBtrooa in
its fable*, and the most fatal in its effects,
there is one remarkable peculiarity Prayers,
penances, and sacrifices are supposed to pos-
sess an Inherent and actual value, In no
degree depending upon the disposition or mo-
tive of the person who performs them. They
are drafts upon Heaven, for which the Gods
cannot refuse payment. The wont men, bent
upon the worst designs, have in this manner
obtained power which hab made them foi-
mldable to the Supreme Deities themselves,
and rendered an Avatar, or Incarnation of
Veeshnoo the Preserver, necessary. This be-
lief is the foundation of the following poem
The story is original , but, in all its parts,
consistent with the superstition upon which
It is built and however startling the fictions
may appear, they might almost be called credi-
ble when compared with the genuine talcs of
Hindoo mythology " — From Southey's Preface.
The poem takes its name from the following
curse which Kehama, an Indian rajah, or
king, pronounces upon the murderer of his
son Arvalan
"I charm thy life
From the weapons of strife.
From stone and from wood,
From fire and from flood,
From the serpent's tooth,
And the beast* of blood
From Sickness I charm thee,
And Time shall not harm thee,
But Earth which IH mine,
Its fruits «hall deny thee ,
And Water shall hear me.
And know thee and fly thee ,
And the Winds shall not touch thpp
When they paw by thee,
And the Dews shall not wet thee,
When they fall nigh thee
And thou Hhalt seek Death
To release thee, in vain ,
Thou shalt live IB thy pain
While Kehama shall reign.
With a flrc in thy heart,
And a fire in thy brain ,
And Sleep shall obey me,
And visit thee never.
And the Curse shall be on thee
For ever and ever "
—Section 2, 11 144-60
The funeral of Arvalan is celebrated In
Section 1
Alas 1 what to their memory can lack ?
Achilles' self was not more giini and
Than thousands of this new and "
nation,
Whose names want nothing but — pronuncia-
tion
Still I'll record a few, If but to increase
Our euphony thcic was Mtrongcnoff, and
Strokonoff, -
Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arslniew of modern
Greece,
And Tschitstihakoff, and Itoguenoff, and
Chokenoff
And others of twelve consonants apiece.
And more might Lie found it I could poke
enough
Into gazettes, but Fame (capricious strum-
pet).
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,
And cannot tune those discord* of narration,
Which may be names at Moscow, into
rhyme ,
Yet theie were seveial woith touiineinoia-
tion.
A a p'or was virgin of a nuptial chime ,
Soft woidH too, littecl foi the peroration
Of Londonderry1 diawling against time
Ending In "isehskln, "ousckln,* "iffskchj,"
"oiihkl,"
Of whom we ean Insert hut Rousaiuouskl
Sober ema toff ami Chroma toff Koklophti.
Koclohski Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskln,
All proper men of weapons, as e'er H< oftYil high
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin
The poem, which Southoj wrote to amuse
bin children, should he read as complementary
to the Ode Written Duumj the AVf/ottatiomi
with Buonaparte (p 4 Ob) At an early date,
Houthey was an ardent suppniter of the
French Revolution, hut Its excesses and fail-
ures ]<nl him finally to become a Torj'
4O6. THl If ARCH TO MOSCOW
In this poem Southey treats ratlrlcally
Napoleon's famous march to Moscow in 1812,
and his unfortunate retreat aftei the burning
of the city. The names used in the poem are
said to Indicate real persons For a similar
use of Russian names, cf the following stan-
las from Byron's Don Juan (7, 14-37)
4CMI. ODE WRITTEN DLRINO THl NEGOTIATIONS
WITH BUONAPARTE
Dowden characterizes this ode as "perhaps
the loftiest chant of political invective, in-
spired by moral indignation, \vhkh oui litera-
ture possesses Sou they stood erect
in the presence of power whuh he hvlleved to
be immoral, defied It and execrated it That
he dlil not perceive how, in driving the plough-
share of Revolution at toss Europe of the old
regime Napoleon was teirlbly accomplishing
an inevitable and a beneficent work, may have
beentan error, but it was an error to which
no blame attaches, and In bis fierce indict-
ment hp statPH, with ample support of facts,
one entire side of the ease The ode is In-
deed more than a poem ; it IB a historical
document ezpromlng the passion which filled
many of the highest minds in England, and
which at a later date was the Justification of
Saint Helena." — In Introduction to Poems by
Robert Southcy (Golden Treasury cd ).
The Russians now were ready to attack ,
But oh. ye goddesses of War and Glory' * Robert Stewart (1700-1822), Viscount Castle-
How shall I spell the name of each Consacque reagh and Barl of Londonderry, a British utatem-
Who were Immortal, could one tell their man See note on /,.«<•# Written during the Castle-
story? reagh Administration, p 1832b
JAMES THOMSON
1347
IIT DAYS AMONG TH1 DEAD AMI PABT
This poem IB sometimes entitled The Scholar
and In a Library According to Cuthbert
Southey (Life and Oorrtupondetce of Robert
Bonthcy, 1849), Wordsworth once remarked
that these line* possessed a peculiar Interest
as a most true and touching representation of
Bonthey's character. Bouthey's library con-
tained nearly 14,000 volume*. Bin son Cuth-
bert gays (work cited) "On some authors,
Ruch aH the old divines, he fed/ ag he ex-
pressed it, fclowly and carefully, dwelling on
the page, and taking in 1th content** deeply
and deliberately, like an epicure with his
wine, Vanning the subtle flavor* . .
For a considerable time after he had ceased
to compose, he took pleasure In reading, and
the habit continued after the power of com
prehension was gone Ilia dearly pri/ecl
bookR, Indeed, were a pleasure to him almost
to the end, and he would walk slowly round
his library, looking at them and taking them
down mechanically."
A MSION OF JUDGMENT
This Is the poem which Inspired Byron's
more famous The lurion of Judgment (Sec
p 01 a and note p. 122Gb.) Southey 'b poem was
written as a tribute to the memory of George
III, who died in 1820 In two respects
Routhey stirred the wrath of the critic* he
gave unstinted praise to George* III as sover-
eign and man, and he wrote the poem in
dactylic hexameter measure The Incidents
of the poem appear to the author in a trance.
In the portion of the jniom omitted before
the selection given here, George III in sum-
moned before the Judgment throne where tes-
timony is heard from his accusers and hid
absolvers The Spirit of Washington hns
Just stated that C.ooige III
"didst art with upright hoart, as befitted a
soveiolgn
True to his wuied trust, to his crowii, his
kingdom, and people "
41O. Till (ATAHACT OF LODOKB
Lodore is a f amour* cascade in the Derwent
Rher, t'uiuberlaiidshlrc, England See Giat's
description of It In his Journal in the Lalts,
Oct. 3, 1709 (p 74a, 10-40).
The origin of this poem IK thui. given in a
letter by Routhey to his brother Thomas, dated
Get 18, 1NO» "I hope . vou will
approve of a description of the water at
Lodore, made originally for Edith, and greatly
admired by Herbert In my mind It surpasses
any that the tourists have yet printed Thus
It runs— Tell the people how the water comes
down at Lodorcf Why It comes thundering,
and floundering, and thumping, and flumping,
and bumping, and Jumping, and hissing, and
whining, and dripping, and skipping, and
grumnllng, and rumbling, and tumbling, and
falling, and brawling, and dashing, and clash-
ing, and splashing, and pouring, and roaring,
and whirling, and curling, and leaping! and
creeping, and" sounding, and bounding, and
clattering, and chattering, with a dreadful up-
roar,— and that way the water comes down
atLodorr'"
411. TI» LIFE Or NELSON
Southey's The Life of Nelson was written
to furnibh young beamen with a simple nar-
rative of the exploits of England's greatest
naval hero. It Is usually regarded not only
as the best of Southey's works, but as the
best biography of its day. and an a model of
dlrettncsB and simplicity
JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748), p. 18
EDITIONS
Poetical Works, 2 volt, , cd by B Dobell (London,
Reeves, 1895)
Poetical Work*, 2 vols , ed by I) C Tovey (Aldlne
ed London, Bell, 1S97, New Tork, Mac-
mlllan)
Complete Poetical Works, ed by J L Robertson
(Oxford Unlv Press, 1908)
The ftraxonst The Cattle of Indolence, and Other
Poems, 2 vols , ed with a Critical Study by
E Gogbc, by II D. Roberts (Muses* Library
ed • London, Routledge, 1906, New Tork,
Dutton)
BIOGRAPHY
Bayne, W Jamcft Thomson (Famous Scots Ke-
iles Edinburgh, Oliphant, 1898)
Johnson, 8 The Lilts of the English Ports
(1779 81) , 3 vols , ed by G B Hill (London,
Clarendon Press, 1905)
Maranlay, G C James Thomson (English Men
of Letters Scries London and New Tork,
Macmlllan, 1908).
Morel, Lion Jamett Thomson so- no ft ses anvres
(Park, Hachctte, 1895)
CRITICISM
Cory, II E "Spenser, Thomson, and Romantic-
ism," Publication* of the Modern Language
Association, March, 1911 (n s 19 51)
Douglas, G B. S Scottish Poetry (New Tork,
Macmillan, 1911)
Ilailltt, W Lecture* on the English Poets (Lon-
don, 1818) , Collected Woife, ed Waller and
Glover (London, Dent, 190206; New Tork,
Mcriurc), 5, 85
Bhalrp, J C "Return to Nature Begun by Allan
Ramsav and Thomson." On Poetic Interpre-
tation of Nature (Edinburgh, Douglai, 1877 ,
New Tork, Hurd, 1878, Boston, Houghton,
1885)
CRITICAL NOTE8
"Thomson was blessed with a strong and copious
fancy, he hath enriched poetry with a variety of
new and original images, which he painted from
nature itself and from his own actual observations :
1348
BIBLIOGEAPHIES AND NOTES
his descriptions have therefore a distinctness and
truth, which are utterly wanting to thobe of poets
who have only copied from each other and ha>e
never looked abroad on the objects themselves.
Thomson was accustomed to wander away into
the country for days and for weeks, attentive to
'each rural sight, each mral sound,' while many a
poet who has dwelt for years in the Strand has
attempted to describe fields and rivers and gen-
erally succeeded accordingly Hence that nauseous
repetition of the same circumstances, hence that
disgusting impropriety of introducing what may
be called a set of hereditary Images, without proper
regard to the age or climate or occasion in which
they were formerly used Though the diction of
The Seasons In sometimes harsh and inharmonious,
and sometimes turgid and obscure, and though la
many instances the numbers are not sufficiently
diversified by different pauses, yet Is this poem on
the whole, from the numberless stroke* of nature
in which It abounds, one of the most captivating
and amusing In our language, and which, as its
beauties are not of a transitory kind, as depend-
ing on particular customs and manners, will ever
be perused with delight" — Joseph Warton, in In
Essay on the Genttttt and Writings of Pope (1750).
18. THE SEASONS
"The Seasons shows that as far as Intrinsic
worth Is concerned the poeniH are marked
with a strange mingling of merits and de-
fects, but that considered in their historical
place in the development of the poetty of
nature their importance and stilklng origi-
nality can hardly be overstated Though
Thomson talked the language of hi*, day, his
thought was a new one He taught clearly,
though without emphasis, the powei of nature
to quiet the passions and elevate the mind of
man, and he intimated a deeper thought of
divine Immanence In the phenomena of na-
ture But his great service to the men of
his day was that he shut up their books, led
them out of their parks and taught them to
look on nature with enthusiasm " — Myra Rey-
nolds, In The Treatment of Nature in Eng-
lish Poetry between Pope and Wordsworth
(189C).
The parts of this poem were first published
separately in the order— Winter, Summer,
Spring, Autumn. They were afterwards ar-
ranged In logical order. The poem is remi-
niscent of Milton and Spenser That Thom-
son was consciously at variance with the pre-
vailing school of early 18th century poetry
may be seen from the following extract from
Us Preface to the second edition of Winter
(1726) "Nothing can have a better influ-
ence towards the revival of poetry than, the
choosing of great and serious subjects, such
as at once amuse the fancy, enlighten the
head, and warm the heart These give a
weight and dignity to the poem; nor is the
pleasure— I should say rapture — both the
writer and the reader feels unwarranted by
reason or followed by repentant disgust. To
lie able to write on a dry, barren theme is
looked upon by some as the sign of a happy,
fruitful genius —fruitful indeed ! like one
of the pendant gardens in Cheapsldc, watered
every morning l>v the hand of the Aldeimau
himselt. And what aie we commonly entei-
tamed with on these occasions wive forced
unaffcctlng fancies, little glittering petti-
nesses, mixed turns of wit and expression,
which are as widely different fiom native
poetry as buffoonery is fiom the peifectlon of
human thinking9 A genius fired with the
charms of truth and natuie is tuned to a
subllmer pitch, and scorns to associate with
such subjects
"I know no subject more elevating, more
amusing, more icady to awake the poetical
enthusiasm, the philosophic ul inflection, and
the moral sentiment, than the woiku of natuie.
Where can we meet with such variety, such
beauty, such magnificence? All that eulaiges
und transports the soul f What mure inspir-
ing than a calm, wide nurvey of them? In
e\ery dress iiutuie Is greatly charming--
whether she puts on the cilmson lobos of the
morning, the strong effulgence of noon the
sober suit of the evening, or the deep sables
of blackness and tempest T How gay looks
the spring* how glorious the summer' how
pleasing the autumn' and how \cucrable the
winter! — But there is no thinking of these
things without breaking out into poetry ,
which Is, hy-the by, a plain and undeniable
argument of their superior excellence.
"For this reason the Iwst, both ancient, and
modern, poets ha\e been passionately fund of
letlrement, and solitude The wild loinantlc
country was their delight And thej seem
never to have been more happy, than when,
lost in unfrequented fields, far from the
little butty world, they were at leisure, to
meditate, and sing the works of nature"
1!>a. Note. For an account of the conditions in
Jails and prisons in the early IRth century,
see Lecky's A History of England in the Eigh-
teenth Century (New York, Appleton, 1887).
6, 255ff
82. 1004-29. With these lines cf the following
lyric from Tennyson's The Prince**, 4, 221-40 .
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they
mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise In the heart, ami gather to the eyes.
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the dayb that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail.
That brlnm our friends up from the under-
world,
Bad as tbe last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So nod, so fiesh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer
dawns
Tbe earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering
square;
So sad, so s t rangr, tbe days that are no more
HOBACE WALPOLE
1849
Dear at remember'd kisses after death
And sweet as thorn by hopeless faucy felgn'd
On lips that are for others , deep as love,
Deep ail first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death In Life, the days that arc no more.
84. Till CASTL* OF INDOIJONCB
"This poem being wilt In the manner of
Spenser, the obsolete words, ami a simplicity
of diction In Home of the lines which borders
on the ludlcious, weie necessary to make the
imitation more perfect And the style of
that admirable poet, as well as the measure
In which he wrote, are ah it were appropriated
by custom to all allegorical poems writ in
our language — just an in French the style of
Marot, who lived under Francis I, hah been
Ubed in talcs and familiar epistles by the
politest writers of the nge of Louis XIV " —
Thomson's prefatory Advertisement.
"The last piece that he lived to publish was
The Cattle of Indolence, which was many
years under his hand but was at last finished
•with great a«uia<y The first canto opens
a scene of lazv luxury that fills Ihe linaglna
tlon " — S.HIIUC! Johnson, in "Thomson," The
Line of the Km/huh Pod* (1770-81)
"It Is an exquisite nmstci piet e, with not
a grain of perishable matter in it Completely
free fioiii all of Thomson's usual faults and
lew pleasing iH'cullaritles, it is fresh, terse,
and natural, perfectly melodious, and has a
charming humor rarely displayed by the au-
thor In his other pieces"— F J Child, in
Advertisement to /'or heal Worlx of James
Thorn/ton (1S03)
Bee note on Shcnstonc's The tithoolmitttKKH,
p. 1343b.
85. 10-10. Cf this stanza with the following
from The Fan* Qu«ne, I, 1, 34
A II tie lowly hermitage it was,
Dnwne In a dale, hard l»v a forests hide,
Far fiom resort of people that did pas
In traveill to and froe a litle w\de
There was an holv <hnp pell edlfyde,
"Wherein the hermlte dewlv wont tc» nav
HiH holv thin pe« each mo me and c\entvde,
Thereby a (hristall streame did gently play.
Which from a sacred fountalne welled forth
alway.
89. 801. This line is a typical example of the
18th century habit of circumlocution
2G2-7O. "I cannot at present recollect any
solitude so romantic, or peopled with beings so
proper to the place and the spectator The
mind naturally loves to lose itself in one of
these wildernesses, and to forget the hurrv,
the noise, and splendor of more polished life "
— Joseph Warton, in An Essay on the Genius
and Writings of Pope (1750)
HORACE WALPOLE (1717-1797), p. 100
* EDITIONS
"Works, 9 VO!H (1798 1825)
The Cattle of Otranto (1705, London, Cassell,
1886).
The Castle of Otranto (New York, Alden, 1889)
Tht, Castle of Otranto, In The English Novel before
the Nineteenth Century, ed by Anette Hop-
kins and Helen Hughes (Boston, Olnn, 1915)
Last Journals Memoirs of the Reign of George
IV from 1771 to 1783, 2 vols f ed by A F
Steuart (London and New York, Lane, 1909)
Letters, 9 vols, rd by P Cunningham (London,
Bohn, 1857-59, llentley, IRRO)
Letters, 10 vols , ed by Mrs Paget Toynbee (Ox-
ford, Clarendon Press, 1903)
Litter*, selections, 2 vols, ed by C D Yonge
(London, Unwln, 1R89; Sonnenhchcin, 1891)
flomp Unpublished Letttrn, ed by Sir 8 Walpole
(Ix>ndon, Longmans, 1902)
Lit tern, selections, ed by C B Lucas (London,
Newncfe, 1904 , New York, Scrlbner)
BIOGRAPHY
Jtclloc -Lowndes, M "Madame Du Deffand and
Horace Walpole/' The Quarterly Review,
April, 1913 (218 518).
]>obson, A Horace Walpole f A Memoir (New
York, Harper, 1S90, 1910)
Crcenwood, Alice D Horace Walpole's "World
(London, Bell, 1013, New York, Macmlllan).
Ha\ens, M A Horace Walpole and the Straw-
berry If til Press (Canton, Penn , Kirgate
Press, 1901)
Morlev, J Walpole (Twelve English Statesmen
Series London, Macmlllan, 1889)
CRITICISM
Becker, C "Walpole's Memoirs of the Reign of
(Jcorge the Third," American Historical Re-
\\<w, Jan and April, 1911 (10 255, 490)
Dobson, A "A Pav at Strawberry Hill," Eigh-
teenth Century Vignettts, First Series (Lon-
don, Chatto, 1892, New \oik, Dodd)
Dobson, A "OfBcina Arbuteana," Kiyhteenth
Centuiy Vignettes, Third Series (New York,
Dodd, 1890).
MncHulav, T. B The Edinburgh Review, Oct,
1833, Critical and Historical Essays (Ix>n-
don and New York, Longmans, 1898)
More, P E "The Letters of Horace Walpole,"
tfArHwmr Essay*, Fourth Series (New York
and London Putnam, 1906).
Pearson, N ••Neglected Aspects of Walpole,"
The Fortniffhtly Review, Kept, 1909 (92 482).
82. TO AMANDA
Amanda was Miss Elisabeth Young, daugh-
ter of Captain Gilbert Young of Dumfriesshire.
Scotland. Thomson was devoted to her for
several years, but she finally married a Mr.
Campbell,
CRITICAL NOTES
1OO. TH1 CABTI B OF OTRANTO
On the Title-rage of the first edition, Wal-
pole stated that The Castle of Oh unto was "a
Story, translated by William Marshal, Gent,
from the original Italian of Onuphrio Muralto,
Canon of the Church of St Nicholas at
Otranto,"
1850
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
The following account of the story is from
Walpole's Preface to the first edition (1765) :
"The following work was found In the
library of an ancient Catholic family In the
north of England. It was printed at Naples,
In the black letter, In the year 1529 How
much sooner It was written does not appear.
The principal incidents are such aa were be-
lieved In the darkest ages of Christianity,
but the language and conduct have nothing
that savors of barbarism. The style is the
purest Italian. . .
"If the story was written near the time
when It Is supposed to have happened, It
must have been between 1095, the era of the
first Crusade, and 1248, the date of the last,
or not long afterwards There Is no other
circumstance in the work that can lead us
to guess at the period in which the bcenc is
laid the names of the actors are evidently
flctltlouHp and probably disguised on pur-
pose . . .
"Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and
other preternatural events, are exploded now
even from romances Tbat was not the case
when our author wrote, much less when the*
story itself is supposed to have happened
Belief In every kind of prodigy was so estab-
lished In those dark ages, that an author
would not be faithful to the manners of the
times, who would omit all mention of them
He Is not bound to believe them himself, but
he must represent his actors as believing
them
"If this air of the miraculous IB excused,
the reader will find nothing else unworthy
of his perusal Allow the possibility of the
facts, and all the actors comport themselves
as penonb would do In their situation There
Is no bombast, no similes, flower*, digressions,
or unnecessary descriptions Everything tends
directly to the catastrophe Never Is the
reader's attention relaxed. The rules of the
drama are almost observed throughout the
conduct of the piece. The chiratters aio
well drawn, and still better maintained Ter-
ror, the author's principal engine, prevents
the story from ever languishing, and it U
BO often contrasted by pity, that the mind
IB kept up in a constant vlclshltude of inter-
esting passions .
"Though the machinery Is Invention, and
the names of the actors Imaginary, I cannot
but believe that the groundwork of the story
Is founded on truth. The scene IB undoubt-
edly laid In some real castle The author
seems frequently, without design, to describe
particular parts 'The chamber,' says he, 'on
the right hand / 'the door on the left hand ,"
'the distance from the chapel to Conrad's
apartment ,' these and other Damages are
strong presumptions that the author had
Home certain building in his eye Curious
persons, who have leisure to employ In such
researches, may possibly discover In the
Italian writers the foundation on which our
author has built If a catastrophe, at all
resembling that which he describes, IB believed
to have given rise to this woik, It will con-
tribute to Interest the reader, and will make
The Cattle of Otranto a still more moving
story"
Walpole acknowledged the authorship of
the story, in the Preface to the second edition
(1765), and gave further comment on the
work, as follows, • "It was an attempt to blend
the two kinds of romance, the ancient and the
modern. In the former, all was imagination
and improbability; in the latter, nature Is
always Intended to be, and aornetlmew has
been, copied with fcuccchB Invention has not
been wanting, but the great resources of fancy
have been dammed up by a strict adherence
to common life "
The origin of the romance la given by Wal-
pole in a Letter to the Rev William Cole,
dated March 9, 1705 "I had time to write
but a short note with The Cue tic of Otranto,
as your messenger called on me at four o'clock,
as I was going to dine abroad Your par-
tiality to me and Strawberry have, I hope,
inclined you to excuse the wtldness of the
story. You will even ha\o found some tralN
to put you In mind of this place When you
lead of the picture quitting its panel, did
not you recollect the portrait of Lord Falk-
land, all In white, in my gallery * Shall I
even confetti to you, what was the origin of
this romance ' I waked one morning, in the
beginning of last June, from a dream, of
which, all I could lecover was that I had
thought myself In an am lent castle (a very
natuial dream for a head filled like mine
with ttothic story), and that on the upper-
most bannlbter of a great btalrcase I saw a
gigantic hand In armor In the evening I
sat down, and began to write, without know-
ing in the least what I Intended to say or re-
late The work grew on my hands, and I
grew fond of It — add that I was very glad
to think of anything, rather than politics In
short, I was so engrossed with inv tale, which
I completed in lews than two months, that
one evening I wrote from the time I had
drunk my tea, about «lx oMock, till half an
hour after one in the morning, when my
hand and fingers were HO weary that I could
not hold the pen to flnfeh the sentence, but
left Matilda and Isabella talking. In the mid-
dle of a paragraph You will laugh at my
earneHtnesfl , but if I have amused vou bv
retracing; with any fidelity the manners of
ancient days. I am content, and give you
leave to think me as idle as you please "
JOSEPH WARTON (1722-1800), p. 80
EDITIONS
Sway on the Qtniua and Writing* of Pope, 2 vols.
(1765-82, London, Cadell, 1800)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Chalmers, A. The Life of Dr. Jottrpk Wowton,
in Chalmers's English Poet* (London, 1810),
THOMAS WABTON
1351
Dennis, J.: "The Wantons," Studies in English
Literature (London, Stanford, 1870)
Pattlson, M : "Pope and His Editors," Essays,
JSffftt, 2 vols , ed. by H Nettleship (Oxford,
Oxford Warehouse, 1889)
CRITICAL NOTES
See Gray's Letter to Wharton, Dec 27, 1746,
in note on Collins, p 1244b
he tried to express them In the II Penseroso man-
ner ' — Myra Reynolds, In The Treatment of Nature
in Enghuh Poetry between Pope and Wordsworth
(1896). *
84. ODE TO FANCY
"The public has been so much accustomed
«f late to didactic poetry alone, and essays
on moral subjects, that any woxk where the
Imagination Is much Indulged, will perhaps
not be lellshed or regarded The author
therefore of these pieces Is In some pain lest
certain austere critics should think them too
fanciful or descriptive But as he Is con-
vinced that the fashion of moralizing In verse
has been carried too far, and as he looks
upon Invention and Imagination to IK? the chief
faculties of a poet, so he *111 be happy If
the following odes may be looked upon as an
attempt to bring back poetry Into ItH right
channel " — From Warton's prefatory Adver-
tisement to Odea, published in 1746
The Ode to Fancy Is Imitative of II Ptn*c~
roso
THOMAS WARTON (1728-1790),
P- 75
EDITIONS
Poetical Wot *«. 2 vols , ed , with a Memoir, by
R Mant (Oxford, Rhlngton. 1802)
Obseri atioti* on the Ftnry Qvtcn of ftpenser, 2
vols (17B4, 1H07)
The Mining of Rnqlisli Pottty, 3 vols (177481 ,
London, Wnnl and Lock, 1R70) ; 4 vols ed.
by W C naislltt (Ixmdon, Tegg, 1871, 1875)
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Chnlmeis, A The Life of Thomas Warton, B It,
in Chalmcra's Ittitlstt Poet* (London. 1810)
Dennis, J "The Wartons," studies in English
Littrature (London, Stanford, 1870)
Ker, W P Thomas Warton (Oxford Unlv Presn,
1011)
Rlnuker, Clarissa "Thomas Warton ami the His-
torical Method In Literary Criticism," Publi-
cations of the Modem Language Association,
March. 1915 (n s 23 79).
Rlnaker, Clarissa Thomav Warton A Biographi-
cal and Critical Study (Unlv. of Illinois
Press, 1916).
CRITICAL NOTES
"Warton's work Is of Interest because of the
many attractive details scattered through bin
poems, but there IB little unity of effect The
general Impression Is that he saw Nature first
through Milton's eyes, and that when he after-
ward made many charming discoveries for himself
7B. THl PLBABURia OF MELANCHOLY
With regard to title and subject, cf. this
poem with Akensldes The Pleasures of the
Imagination (p 44), Rogers's The Pleasures
of Memory (p 207), and Campbell's The
Pleasures of Hope (p 417) With regard to
subject it should be compared with n
Penseroto,
7(1 ODF ON TTTF APPROACH OT 81 MMER
In form and language, this poem Is a close
imitation of L' Allegro
77. THl CBUSADl
"King Richard the First, celebrated for his
achievements in the Crusades, was no less
distinguished foi his patronage of the Proven-
clal minstrels, and his own compositions in
their species of poetry Returning from one
of his expeditions in the Holy Land, in dis-
guise, he was imprisoned In a castle of Leo-
pold. Duke of Austria His favorite minstrel,
Blondcl de Nesle, having traversed all Ger-
many in search of his master, at length came
to a castle, in which he found there was
only one prisoner, and whose name was un-
known Suspecting that he had made the
desired discovery, he seated himself under a
window of the prisoner's apartment, and be-
gan a song, or ode, which the King and
himself had formerly composed together
When the prisoner, who was King Richard,
heard the song, he knew that Blondel must
be the singer , and when Blondel paused about
the middle, the King began the remainder
and completed it The following ode Is sup-
posed to be this Joint composition of the
minstrel and King Rlc hard " — Warton *b prefa-
tory Advertisement
ttRITTFN IN A BLINK I EAF OF DrCIDALE'B
MONASTICON
The Monastlcon Anglican urn of Sir William
Dugilale (1605-86) is a treatise on English
Monasteries It was published In three
volumes (165578)
78. WBITTftN AT STONFHRNGF
In this sonnet, Warton summarises several
legends concerning the origin and meaning of
Stonehengp. the celebrated prehistoric stone
monument on Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, Eng-
land
7ft. OBSKR\ATIONS ON THE FAIRY QUEEN OF
8PIN81R
The selections here printed are taken from
the second edition, 1762
1352
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
JOHN WILSON (-Christopher North")
(1785-1854), p. 1153
EDITIONS *
Works, 12 volb , ed by J P Perrlei (Edinburgh,
Blackwood, 1860-68)
Essays, Critical and Imaginative, 4 vote , ed by
J F Ferrier (Edinburgh, Black wood, 1866)
Nootfs Ambrosianos, 4 vols . ed by J F Ferrier
(Edinburgh, Blackwood 1864) , 5 volb , ed
by R 8 Mackenzie (New York, Wlddleton,
1872)
The Recreations of Christopher North, 2 vols
(Edinburgh, Blackwood, 1864)
BIOGRAPHY
Douglas, GPS The Blackwood Group (Famous
Scots Series Edinburgh, Ollphant, 18D7)
Gordon, Mary Christopher Aorth 4 Memoir,
2 vola (Edinburgh, Edmonston, 1862)
CRITICISM
Le Fevrc Dcumicr, J O&elHitts Anglaises (Paris,
Dldot, 1885).
McCohh, J The Scottish Philosophy (London,
Macmillan, 1874, Mew Toik, Carter, 1875)
Rawnhley, H D Literary Associations of the
English Lakes, 2 vols (Glasgow, MacLehoae,
1894, 1906)
Salntsbury, O Essays in English Literature,
J7W-18M, First Series (London, Perclval, 1890 ,
New York, Scribner)
Thomson, James Biographical and Critical Studies
(London, Reeves, 1896)
Walker, II The English Essay and Essayists,
eh 9 (London, Dent, 1915, New Tork, Dot-
ton)
Winchester, OTA Group of English Essayists
of the Early Nineteenth Century (New York,
Maunlllan, 1910)
' CRITICAL NOTES
" Poetry, sport, and revelry were three fountains
of inexhaustible Inspiration ; and It was from an
Intimate blending of the most vivid Joys of all
three that his most original and lasting work
proceeded. Tavern meetings with good cheer and
good society, long tramps among the heathery
glens — 'glorious guffawing,' as the Wllsonlan Hogg
put It, 'all night, and Immeasurable murder all
day,' — were the elements which, flung across the
rich refracting medium of his Imagination, evolved
those unique compounds of poetry, wit, humor,
drama, high spirits, and balderdash — the Noctcs
Ambrotianv"— Herford, In The Age of Words-
worth (1897)
ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OP WIN-
CHILSEA (1661-1720), p. 1
EDITIONS
Poems, ed , with an Introduction, by Myra Rey-
nolds (Univ. of Chicago Press, 1908).
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Dowden, B "Noble Authoress," Essays, Modem
and EliMbethan (New York, Button, 1910)
Gosse, B "Lady WlnchllHea*s Poenib, ' Gossip in
a Library (London, Helnemann, 1891)
Reynolds, Myra The Treatment of Nature in
English Poetry between Pope and Words-
north (Univ. of Chicago Press, 1896, 1909).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Reynolds, Myra In her edition of The Poems of
Anne, Countess of Winehilsca (1908).
CRITICAL NOTES
"It IE remarkable that, excepting the Nocturnal
Reverie of Lady Wlnchlbea and a pabMige or two
In the Windsor Forest of Pope, the poetry of the
period Intervening between the publication of the
Paradise Lost and The Reasons does not contain a
single new image of external nature, and scarcely
presents a familiar one from which It can be
Inferred that the eye of the poet had been steadily
fixed upon his object, much lesb that hit* feollngh
had urged him to work upon It In the sphlt of
genuine Imagination " — Wordsworth, In Essay,
Supplementary to the Preface (1815)
"In general feeling an Augustan, with an under-
current of real love for nature It Is In hei
fondness for country life, her love of outdoor
beauty, and her accurate descriptions of nature,
that she differs from her contemporaries In these
Important points, she may certainly be classed an
reactionary' In tendency Her octosyllabic ode
To the Nightingale has true lyric quality, and her
short poems The Tree and A Nocturnal Reverie are
notable expressions of nature-worship "— 1 'helps,
in'The Beginning of the English Romantic Move-
ment (1898).
!• THB TBBB
This poem was firat published by Miss Rey-
nolds In The Poems of Ann<f Counltss of
Wwchilsea (1903)
Till PETITION FOB AN ABSOLUTE BITBBAT
The meter of this poem Is that of Lf Allegro
59. "Johcphuh sayb that every Monday Solo-
mon went to the House of Lebanon In an
open chariot, cloath'd In a robe most dassllng
white, which makes that allusion not Im-
proper, and may give us grounds to believe
that the Illy mentlon'd by our Savior (com
par'd to Solomon In his glory) might really
be the common white Illy, altho* the com-
mentators seem In doubt what flowers are
truly meant by the lilies, as thinking tho
plain lily not gay enough for the comparison ,
whereas this garment IB noted by Josephus
to be wonderfully beautiful tho' only white,
nor can any flower, I believe, have a greater
lustre than the common white Illy." — Lady
Wlnchllsea's note
SO. "These circumstances are related by
Plutarch in bis Life of Sylla,"— Lady Win.
WILLIAM WOEDSWOBTH 1353
chllsea's note The passage referred to Is as pay him their last duty. The officer* of his
follows. regiment bore him to the grave, the funeral
"At Fldentla, also, Marcos Lucullns, one of service was read by the chaplain ; and the
Bylla's commanders, reposed such confidence corpse was covered with earth "
In the forwardness of the boldieis as to dare
to face fifty cohorts of the enemy with only
sixteen of his own, but because many of WTT I TAM WOPnRWHPTH /I77ft_iacn\
them were unarmed, delayed the onset As WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850),
he stood thus waiting and considering with "• ££>*
himself, a gentle gale of wind, bearing along EDITIONS
with It from the neighboring meadows a quan- n
tlty of flowejs, ^altered them down upon Poe^ Worka> 6 ™lh (Centenary ed London,
the army, on whose shields and helmets they „ , °£ ^i, , ^ , u
settled and arranged themselves spontaneously P°'*°* ™^^
so as to give the soldiers, In the eyes of the ™«" (London, Bimpkln, 18H2-89) ,8 volh
enemy, the appearance of being crowned with <^°n. PatCTBOn. 189fl' N™ *«* Mac
chapleth Upon this, being yet further anl- ™" J -*, , ™ t «*v , * ^ M K
mated, they Joined battle and victoriously *«** Poetieol Work., with an Introduction by
Maving riant thousand men. took the camp" * M^ey (Globe ed London and New York,
-Sec 27. 1029, Dryden's translation D J?*FS^' I 8', 19?) ,.v ^ , u »
Foi othei marvels attending the campaign Pot!ti"* *°r*i * voli' ^l w"h a JfT^iSif
of Lucullus, see Plutarch's Li/c of tooullu*. *>*teu (Aldine ed London, Bell, 1892-03,
New Tork, Macmlllan)
TO TUB NIGHTIMJALI Poetical Work*, 5 vols , ed , with an Introduction,
by T. Hutchlnson (Oxford, Clarendon Press,
12-18. Cf Shelley's To a Skylark, 00 (p. 1895)
70~>) "Our sweetest t-ongs are those that tell Poetical Works, ed by T Hutchlnson (Oxford
of smldest thought" See also Lamb's Letter TInlv Press, 1896, 1911)
to Wordsworth, quoted in notes, p 1290b, Complete Poetical Wot I*, ed , with a Biographical
line 0 Sketch, by A J George (Cambridge ed Bos-
ton, Houghton, 1904)
Pom*, 3 vols , ed , with an Introdut tloii, by N C
CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823), p. 432 fc J£5 -"? rStT^ndon, Paul,
EDITIONS 1«»)
m A . —.„.<.„, ^ Pan**, selections, ed by B Dowden (Athcnnum
Remains of the Rev Charlet Wolfe, 2 \ols, ed PPO|,B pd j^,^,, G,nn> ,897)
by J A Ru^hell (Dublin, Watson, 1825, 1829) Pwm9t ^iKtloM, ed ,' with an Introduction by
The Burial of tor John Moo,c, and Other Poemi, R A Brookpf lllustratod Dy B n NPW (Lon
Ml, with an IntrodU(toiv Memoir, bv C L doDf Methuen, 1907)
^Iklner (London, Hldgwkk, 1009) Lvncal Bfl7torfg( a Reprlnt ^ ,,y B ^^^
/*«,-r,^A. •u^-rtre (London, Nutt, 1891, 1898) t ed by T Ilutch-
CRITICAL NOTES lnhon (Ix)ndoni ^^0^, 180R, 1907) , ed.
432. TIII BIRIAI OF SIR JOHN iiooitB "»T H Lltttedale (Oxford Unlv Press, 1911)
Poem* of 1807, a Reprint, ed by T Hutchlnson
Sir Tohn Moore (1761-1809) was a British (London, Nutt 1807)
gcneial who was killed in the Battle of Pro*f Work*, S \olh, ed bv A B Grosart (Lon-
Coiunna (Spain) against the French He don. Hozon. 1876)
had the reputation of being the best trainer Prone Work*, 2 \olb, ed by W. Knight (Eversley
of men that the British aimv ever had ed Tendon and New Tork, Macmlllan, 1896)
Wolfe's poem IR raid to be based on the fol- Pi ef aces and Emmy* on Poetty, ed, with an In-
lowing parapaph, which appeared in The troductlon, by A J George (Boston, Heath,
Edinburgh Annual Rcqwter, 1808 1892)
"Sir John Moore had often said that If he Picfuxx, with Coleridge's Chapters on Words
was killed In battle he wished to be burled worth in Riographia Lttemria, ed. by A J
where he fell The body was removed at mid- George (Belles Lettres ed : Boston, Heath,
night to the citadel of Corunna A gra\o 1906)
was dug for him on the rampart there, by a Literary Oritlelsm, ed , with an Introduction bv
party of the 9th Regiment, the Aides do- N C Smith (London, Frowde, 1906)
Camp attending by turns No coffin could be Guide to the Lakes, ed , with an Introduction, by
procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped E de Wllnoourt (Oxford Univ Press. 19%.
his body, dressed as it was, in a military 1008)
cloak and blankets The Interment was Letters of the Wordsworth Family from 7787 to
hastened for, about eight in the morning, 1855, 3 vols, ed. by W A Knight (Boston
some firing was heard, and the officers feared and London, Glnn, 1907)
that If a serious attack was made, they The Prelude, ed, with a Preface bv A. J George
should be ordered away, and not suffered to (Boston, Heath, 1888, 1000)
1354 B1BLIOGBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
BIOGRAPHY CRITICISM
Bensnsan, S. L. • William Wordsworth His Homes Arnold, M. Essays in Criticism, Second Series
and Haunts (New York, Dodge, 1912) (London and New York, Macnilllan, 1888)
Cottle, J Early Recollections of H T Coleiidge, Bagehot, W "Wordsworth, Tonn>M>n. and Brown-
2 vols. (London, Houlston, 1887, 1847) ing," The National Review, Nov. 1864, Lt*«r-
De Qulncey, T. "The Lake Poets," Tout's Maaa- aty Studies, J volb , ed. by H. U. Hutton (Lon
nne, Jan.-Aug, 1880; Collected Writing*, ed. don, Longmans, 1878-79, 1895).
Masson (London, Black, 1889-90, 1896-97), 2, Bomlg, K William Wordsworth im Urteilc seiner
229, 808, 835 Zut (Leipzig, 1900).
Bagleston, A. J "Wordsworth, Coleridge, and the Biadloy, A. C English Poetry and German Phi-
Spy," The Nineteenth Century, Aug, 1908 losophy m the Age of Wordsworth (Manchra-
(64 800) t«?r, Bhirrat, 1909)
Fields, J. T . Yesterdays With Authors (Boston, Bradh-v, A O Oa/ord Lcotwts on Poetry (Lon-
Houghton, 1872) don, Macmillan, 1909, 1911)
Harper, G. M William Wordsworth, 2 vote (Now Brandes, G Mam Currents in Nineteenth Otn-
York, Scribncr, 1916) tury Literature, Vol 4 (London, Ilelnemann,
Hailltt, W.. "My First Acquaintance with Poets," 1905, New York, Macmlllnn, 1906)
The Liberal, 1828, Collected Works, e& Waller Brlmlcy, G . Essays (London, Macmillan, 1858,
and Glover (London, Dent, 190206, New 1882).
York, McClure), 12, 259 Brooke, 8 A Theology in the English Poets
Howitt, W Homes and Haunts of tht. Most Em*- (London, King, 1874, New York, Dutton,
nent British Poets (London, 1847, 1856, Rout- 1910).
ledge, 1894, New York, Dutton). Buck, P M "The Beginnings of Rnm.intl< Km
Knight, W A Coleridge and Wordsworth in the in England — Wordsworth," Nottal Fotcct in
West Country (New lork, Scribner, 1914) Modtrn Literature (Boston, Glnn, 1913)
Knight, W A The Life of William Word* with, Burroughs, J Fresh Fields (Boston, Hoiightou,
8 vols (London, Pateraon, 1889, New York, 1885)
Macmillan, 1896). Calrd, E Essays on Literature and Philosophy
Knight, W A. Through the Wordsworth Goun- (New York, Macmillan, 1H02, 1909)
try (London, Allen, 1906). Chunh, R W Dante and Other nsnays (NVw
Lee, E Dorothy Wordsworth (New York, Dodd, York, Macmlllun, 1888).
1887) Coleridge, S T Btographia LiUrana (1K17), 2
Legonls, E La Jeunesse de William Wordsworth, vols, ed by J ShawcrosB (Oxford, Clniomlon
rm-98 (Paris, 1896) , English translation by Press, 1907), thaps G, 14, 1722
J. W Mathews, as The Early Life of William COOJMT, L "A Glance at Woidswortli's Rrad-
Wordmorth (London, Drat, 1897) ing," Modem Language Notts, March and
Moorhouse, E. II . Wordsworth (Chicago, Browne, April, 1907 (22 H8, 110).
1918). Dawhon, W J The Makcts of English Pot try
Myers, F. W II. Wordsworth (English Mm of (NVw lork and London, Rwll, 1900)
Letters Series : London, Macmillan, 1881 ; Do Quint <»v, T "On Wordsworth's Pootrv," Tail s
New York, Harper). Magazine. 1845, Collet ted Writing, od Mns-
Punch, C Wordsworth An Introduction to his son (London, Black, 1889-90, 189697), 11,
Life and Works (London, Allman, 1007) 204.
Bannle, D W Wordsworth and His Circle (New DP Vorc, A Basayt, Chiefly on Po<1ni, 2
York, Putnam, 1907) VO!H (London and New York, Macmlllan,
Bawnsley, H D Literary Associations of the 1887).
English Lakes, 2 vole (Glasgow, MacLehcihO, Dicey, A V "Wordsworth and the War," The
1894, 1906). A mitten** Century, May, 1915 (77 1041)
Robinson, H. C . Diary, Reminiscences, and Cor- Dowden, E "Recovery and Reaction," The Frt nrh
respondence, 8 volfl, ed. by T. Sadler (I^on- Jfciolutwn and English Littraturc (Now Yoik
don, Marmlllan, 1869); 2 vols. (1872, Bos- and London, Sirilmer, 1807, 1908).
ton, Fields. 1869, 1874). Dowden, E "Tho Prose Works of Wordsworth."
Southey, C. C . The Life and Correspondence of Ktudics in Literature, J7S9-1W7 (London, Paul,
Rooert ftouthey, ed. In 6 vols. (London, Ixrfsx- 1878, 1906)
mans, 1849-60). Dow.len, E "The Text of Wordsworth's Poems,"
Stephen, L • "Wordsworth's Youth," Studies of a Transcripts and Studies (London, Paul, 18S8,
Biographer, 4 vole (London, Duckworth, 1898- 1910).
1902, New York, Putnam). Dunne, M A.: "Wordsworthlan Theory of Soil-
Wordsworth, C Memoirs of William Wordsworth, tude," American Catholic Quarterly, Oct, 1911
2 vols. (London, Mozon, 1851). (86 610)
Wordsworth, Dorothy: Journals, 2 vols., ed by Glngertch, 8. F. : Wordsworth, Tennyson, and
W. A. Knight (London and New York, Mac- Browning a Study in Human Freedom (Ann
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Wordsworth, D Recollections of a Tour Made in Ilarprr, G M "Rousseau, Godwin, and Words-
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Douglas, 1875, 1894). (109-689).
Wordsworth, W. : Letters, Prefaces, The Prelude.
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH
1355
Hailitt, W. . "On the Living Poets," Lectures on
the English Poets (London, 1818) , "Mr.
Wordsworth," The Spirit of the Age (London,
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(London, Dent, 1002-06, New York, McClure),
5V 156, 4, 270
Home, R. II.. "William Wordsworth and Leigh
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Hudhon, II N Studies in Wordsworth (Boston,
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Ilutton, R. H "Dorothy Wordsworth's Scotch
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"Wordsworth the Man," Brief Literary Criti-
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Hutton, R II "The Oenlus of Wordsworth,"
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Jeff ley, F Criticisms In The Edinburgh Review
"MemorlnlH of a Tour on the Continent,'*
Nov. 1822 (37449), "Poems/* Oct. 1807
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(24 1) , "The White Doe of Rylstone/* Oct ,
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Knight, W The Knylmh Lake District (Edln-
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The Fortnightly Review, May, 1912 (91 813).
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1356
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
White, W. H. : An Examination of the Charge of
Apostasy Against Wordsworth (London, Long
mans, 1898)
Wilson, John Kssays, Critical and Imaginative,
4 vols (Edinburgh, Blackwood, 1806)
Winchester, C T William Wordsworth (Indian-
apolis, Bobbs, 1916)
Woodberry, G E "Sir George Beaumont, Cole-
ridge, and Wordsworth," Studies in Letters
and Life (Boston, noughtun, 1890, Makers
of Literature, New York, Macmlllan, 1901)
Woodberry, G E . The Torch (New York, Mae-
mlllan, 1905, 1912)
Wordtncorthiana, a Selection from Papers road
to the Wordsworth Society, ed by W A
Knight (London, Macmlllan, 1889)
CONCORDANCE
Cooper, L • A Concordance to the Poems of
William Wordsworth (New York, Dutton,
1911)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
IJowden, B • In his edition of Wordsworth**
Poetical Works, Vol 7 (1892-93)
Knight, W In his edition of Wordsworth's
Poetical Works, Vol 8 (1890)
Tntln J R In the Globe ed of Woidsworth s
Complete Poetical Works (1888, 1906)
CRITICAL NOTES
From Memorial Verses
April, 18GO
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease
But one such death remain d to come,
The last poetic voice Is dumb—
Wo stand today by Wordsworth * tomb 5
And Wordsworth '—Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice '
For never has such soothing voice J3
Been to your shadowy world convey'd,
Hlnce erst, at morn, some wandetlng shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom
Wordsworth h«s gone from us — and ye, 40
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we I
He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen — on this Iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears
He found us when the age had bound 4R
Our souls in its benumbing round ,
He spoke, and loosed our heart In tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool floweiy lap of earth,
Smiles broke from us and wo bad ease , W
The bills were round us, and the breeze
Wont o'er the sun-lit fields again ,
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain
Our youth returned , for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead, &
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
The freshness of the early world
Ah1 since dark days •«}! bring te lltfht
Man's prudence and man's flery might,
Time ma) restore us In his course w
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ,
But where will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare.
And against fear our breast to steel , 6r»
Others will strengthen us to bear--
But who, ah ' who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny.
Others will front It feailessly—
But who, like him, will put It by? TO
Keep fresh the grass upon his grave
O Botha, with thy living wave *
Sing him thy best ' for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he Is gone
—Matthew Arnold
Rotha IB a river near the Grasmere churchyard,
In which Wordsworth Is buried
From Wordsworth's Qraic*
15
haclst
Poet who sleepest by this wandering wave »
When thou wast born, what birth-gift
thou then?
To thee what wealth was that the Immortals gn\o,
The wealth thou gavest in thy turn to men?
Not Milton's keen, translunar music thine;
Not Shakespeare'* cloudless, boundless human
view , 30
Not Shelley's flush of rose on peaks divine ,
Nor yet the wizard twilight Coleridge knew
What hadst thou that could make such large
amends
For all thou hadst not and thy peers possessed.
Motion and fire, swift moans to radiant ends?— Jr>
Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.
From Shelley's danllng glow or thunderous haze,
Fiom Jlyron's tempest-anger, tempest-mirth,
Men turned to thee and found — not blast and
blaie,
Tumult of tottering heavens, but peace on
earth. 40
Nor peace that grows bv Lethe, scentless flower,
There in white languors to declines and cease,
Hut peace whose names are also rapture, power.
Clear sight, and love for these ure parts of
peace.
A hundred voars ore he to manhood came 61
Song from celestial heights had wanclciod down.
Put off her robe of sunlight, dew anil flame,
And donned a modish dress to charm the town
Thenceforth she but festooned the porch of things ,
Aut at life H loii1, incurious what life meant 70
Dextrous of hand, she struck her lutes few
strings ,
Ignobly perfect, barrenly content
Unfluahed with ardor and unblanrhed with awe.
Her lips in profitless derision curled,
She saw with dull emotion — At she saw — 71
The vision of the gloiy of the world
The human masque she watched, with dreamless
eyes
In whose clear shallows lurked no trembling
shade
The stars, unkenned by her, might sot and Hue,
Unmarked by her, the daisies bloom and
fade. so
The age grew Rated with her sterile wit
HorHolf waxed weary on her loveless thionc
Men felt llfos tide, the sweep and surge of it,
And craved a living voice, a natural tone
For none the less, though song was but half
true, as
The world lay common, one abounding theme
Man jovod and wept, and fate was evei now
And love was sweet, life real, death no dream
In sad stern verse the rugged scholar-sage
Bemoaned his toll unvalued, youth uncheered, 00
HI-< numbers wore the venture of the age.
But, 'neath It beating, the great heart was
heard.
From dewy pastures, uplands sweet with thyme,
A virgin breese freshened the Jaded day
It wafted Collins* lonely vesper-chime, M
It breathed abroad the frugal note of Gray
1 From Helected Poems of William Watson, copy
right 1002 by The John Lane Company.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
1357
It flattered here and there, nor swept In vain
The dusty haunts where futile echoes dwell, —
Then,- in a cadence soft as summer rain,
And sad from Auburn voiceless, dropped and
fell 100
It dropped and fell, and one 'neath northern skip*.
With southern heart, who tilled Us father's
fit-Id,
Found Poesy a-dylng, bade her rise
And touch quick Nature's hem and go forth
healed
On life's broad plain the ploughman's conquering
share 106
Upturned the fallow lands of truth anew.
And o'er the formal garden's trim parterie
The peasant's team a ruthless furrow drew
Bright WUR bin going forth, but clondu ere long
Whelmed him , in gloom his radiance set, and
tbOBC 110
Twin morning stan of the new century's song.
Those morning stum that sang together, rose
In elvish speech the Dreamer told his tale
Of marvellous oieans swept by fateful wings —
The ffrrr st raved not from earth's human pale, us
Hut the mysterious face of common things
Ho mirrored ns the moon in Rvdal Mere
la mhrored, \\hen the breathless night hangs
blue
Strangely i emote she seems and wondrouR near.
And bj some nameless difference born anew 120
—William Watbon
The "scholar-Rage" of 1 89 IR Thomas (4 ray The
reference in 11 09-100 is to Goldsmith, whose Tlit
Dew ted Village begins "Sweet Auburn1 love-
liest villa ge of the plain " The reference in
11 100-110 is to Burns The "morning stars" of
1 111 fire Coleridge, the 7>M(im<r,and Wordswoitb,
the Xrcr. ff the aim of the Lyrical Ballad* as ex-
piessed in Colerldpi's Itioqiajrina Litctartu, 14 (p.
J72b) On 1. 104 bee ifaft/icif , 0 20-22.
For further comments and crltlclRmB on Words-
worth In this text see the following
Coleildge's Tn A Gcnthman (p 366) and Kio-
ffraphia Litcraria, 14, 17, 18, 22 (pp. 372 95)
Hymn's English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, 235-
5i (p 489).
Sbellev'H To Wordsworth (p 684).
Jeffrey's reviews of frabhc's poems (p. 884), and
Wordsworth's The firrursion (p 892) and
The "White Doe of Rvlstonc (p 902).
Lamb's Lrttcr to Wordsworth (p 918)
Landor'R To Wordsworth (p 968)
Hood's False Poets and True (p 1187).
2128. EXTRACT
These lines are sometimes entitled Dear
y at i ic Regions. They were later recast and
incorporated In The Prelude, 8, 468-75 (p.
200).
AM EVENING WALK
This poem was addressed to Wordsworth's
sister Dorothy "There is not an Image in
It which I have not obtierved. . . . The
plan of it has not been confined to a particu-
lar walk or an individual place, — a proof (of
which I was unconscious at the time) of my
unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to
the chains of fact and real circumstance. The
country Is idealised rather than described In
any one of Its local aspects." — Wordsworth's
note.
LINES LIFT UPON THE 8BAT IN A YEW -TREE
"Composed in part at school at Hawkshead
The tree has disappeared, and the slip of
Common on which it stood, that ran parallel
to the lake and lay open to it, has long been
enclosed , so that the road has lost much of
its attraction This spot was my favorite
walk in the evenings during the latter part
of my school-time " — Wordsworth's note
The poem was published In Wordsworth
and Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads, Issued anony-
mously in 1708 The volume contained nine-
teen poems by Wordsworth and four by Cole-
ridge For a list of these poems see note
p rH4b For statements of the occasion and
object of the poems, see Wordsworth's Preface
to the second edition (p. 817), Wordsworth's
note on We Arc eleven, below, and Coleridge's
ISiographia Litcrana, 14 (p. 372).
224.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
"This arose out of mj observation nf the
affecting music of these birds hanging in this
way in the London streets during the fresh-
ness and stillness of the spilng rooming" —
Word B worth's note
22B. WB ABB SEVEN
"Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798,
under circumstances Hontewhat remarkable
The little girl who is the heroine I met within
the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793
Having left the Isle of Wight and crossed
Salisbury Plain, as mentioned In the Preface
to Guilt and Morrow, I proceeded by Bristol
up the Wye, and so on to North Wales, to the
Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer
under the loof of the fathei of my friend,
Robert Jones. In reference to this poem I
*ill here mention one of the most remarkable
facts in my own poetic hirtory and that of
Mr. Coleridge. In the spring of the year
1798, he, my sister, and myself, started from
Alfoxden, pretty late in the afternoon with
a view to visit Lenton and the valley of Stones
near it; and as our united funds were very
small, we agreed to defray the expense of the
tour by writing a poem, to be dent to The
j\rw> Monthly Magasine set up by Phillip* the
bookHeller, and edited by Dr. Aikln Accord-
ingly we set off and proceeded along the Quan
tock Hills towards Watchet, and in the course
of this walk was planned the poem of The
Ancient Mariner, founded on a dream, as Mr
Coleridge said, of his friend, Mr Crulkshank
Much the greatest part of the story was Mr
Coleridge's invention; but certain parts I
myself sucgeRted • — for example, some crime
was to be committed which should bring upon
the old navigator, as Coleridge afterwards
delighted to call him, the spectral persecution,
1358
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
at a consequence of that crime, and bis own
wanderings. I had been reading in Bhel-
vock's Vofaffe* m. daj or two before that while
doubling Cape Horn they frequently saw al-
batrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of
sea-fowl, some extending their •wings twelve
or fifteen feet. 'Suppose,' said I, 'you repre-
sent him as having killed one of these birds
on entering the South Sea, and that the
tutelary Spirits of those regions take upon
them to avenge the crime.1 The incident was
thought fit for the purpose and adopted ac-
cordingly I also suggested the navigation
of the ship by the dead men, but do not
recollect that I had anything more to do with
the scheme of the poem. The Gloss with
which it was subsequently accompanied was
not thought of by either of us at the time;
at least, not a hint of it was given to me.
and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous after-
thought We began the composition together
on that, to me, memorable evening I fur-
nished two or three lines at the beginning of
the poem, In particular —
'And listened like, a three wars' child ,
The Mariner had his will'
These trifling contributions, all but one (which
Mr C has with unnecessary scrupulosity
recorded) sllpt out of his mind as they mcll
might As we endeavored to proceed con-
jointly (I speak of the same evening) our
respective manners proved so widely different
that it would have been quite presumptuous
in me to do anything but separate from an
undertaking upon which I could only have
been a clog We returned after a few days
from a delightful tour, of which I have many
pleasant, and some of them droll-enough, rec-
ollections We returned by Dulverton to Al-
foxden. The Ancunt Mariner grew and grew
till it became too important for our first
object, which was limited to our expectation
of five pound-*, and we began to talk of a
volume, which was to consist, as Mr Cole-
ridge has told the world, of poems chiefly on
supernatural subjects taken from common
life, but looked at, as much as might be,
through an imaginative medium Accordingly
I wrote The Idiot Boy, Her Bye* Are Wild,
etc , We Are Seven, The Thorn, and some oth-
ers To return to "We Are Seven, the piece
that called forth this note, I composed it
while walking In the grove at Alfoxden. My
friends will not deem it too trifling to relate
that while walking to and fro I composed
the last stansa first, having begun with the
last line When it was all but finished, I
camp In and recited ft to Mr Coleridge and
mv sister, and said, 'A prefatory stanza must
be added, and I should Rlt down to our little
tea-meal with greater pleasure If my task
were finished ' I mentioned in substance what
I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge im-
mediately threw off the stania thus —
•A little child, dear brother Jem,'-—
I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,'
as being ludicrous, but we all enjoyed the
Joke of hitehing-in our friend, James T[obin]'s
name, who was familiarly called Jem He
was the brother of the dramatist,1 and this
reminds me of an anecdote which it may be
worth while here to notice The said Jem
got a sight of the Lynoal Ballade as It wan
going through the press at Bristol, duilng
which time I was residing in that city One
evening he came to me with a grave face, and
said, 'Wordsworth, I have seen the volume
that Coleridge and you are about to publish.
There Is one poem in it which I eaincstly en-
treat you to cancel, for, If published, It will
make you everlastingly ridiculous.' I an-
swered that I felt much obliged by the Inter-
est he took in my good name as a writer, and
begged to know what was the unfortunate
piece he alluded to He said, 'It is called
IFe Are Sew*.'— 'Nay,' said I, 'that shall take
its chance, however,' and he left me In de-
spair."— Wordsworth's note
See Coleridge's comment on thin poem, p.
880a, 80 ff
The utter simplicity of some of Words-
worth's early poems lent Itself easily to Imita-
tion and ridicule The following poem serves
as an Illustration It was written by James
Smith (17751839) and published In his R<-
jected Addrewes (1812), a collection of Imita-
tive poems and other pieces purported to have
been rejected as unsuitable for speaking at the
opening of Drury Lane Theater, Oct 10, 1812.
Tnr Halt/ it Dfbvt
My brother Jack was nine in May.
And I was eight on New Year's liay ;
Ho in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last M<u>k, a doll of wax, 6
And brother Jack a top.
Jack's In the pouts, and thus It Is
He thinks mine came to more than his,
So to ray drawer he goes.
Takes out the doll, and, (> my stars' 10
He pokes her head between the bars.
And melts off half her nose1
Quite crosi, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top'H peg,
And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parloi-door
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window-pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite ;
Well, lot him cry. It serves film light.
A pretty thing forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot.
Half mv doll'* nose, and I am not
To diaw his peg-top'* tooth !
Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried. "O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt,
No Drary Lane for yon today'"
And while pnpa said, "Pooh, she may '"
Mamma said, "No, she shan't »"
Well, after many a sad reproach,
15
80
» John Tobin (1770-1804), author of The Honey-
Moon, The Curfew, and other plays.
WILLIAM WOBD8WOBTH
1359
I BBW them go • one horse wan blind ,
The tails of Goth hung down behind ,
Their shoes were on their feet
The chaise In which poor brother Bill
UMod to be drawn to Ponton ville,
Htood In the lumber-room.
1 wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopped It with a mop,
And brushed ft with a bioom.
My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came In at six to black the bhoeb
(I always talk to 8am)
So what dors he, but tako» and drags
Mo In the chaise along the flags,
And leaves me *herc I am
My father's walla arc rondo of brick,
Hut not ho tall, and not HO thick
As these, and, goodness mo'
My fathor'u beams arc made of wood,
Hut nivor, nevei half BO good
As those that now I see.
What a large floor ' 'tis like a town T
The carpet, wli«iu they lay it down,
Won t hide it, I'll be bound
And there s a row of lamps , my eVe '
How they do blaze ' I wonder why
They keep them on the giound.
45
10
5-S
At flist I raught hold of the wing,
away , but Mr T
the prornptci man
And kept away , but Mr Thing-
umbob, the prornptci man.
<«a\c with his hand my c liaise a shove,
And bald • Go on, my pretty love,
Speak to 'cm, little Man
"You've only got to Courtney, whisp-
er, hold your chin up. laut;h and Itsp,
And then you re Run- to take
I've known tne day when brats not quite 70
Thnteeii got fifty pounds a night,
Then why not Naucy Lake?"
Hut while I'm speaking, where's papa?
And there's my aunt/ nnd nhereb mamma *
Where s Jack' O, theie they Hit f 7*
They smile, tin v nod, I'll go mv ways,
And older round poor HlllyVi chaise,
To Join them In the pit
Anil now, go*Hl gentlefolks I go
To join ninnuiia, and see the show ; *0
So bidding you adieu
I courtsey, like a pretty mlRB,
And if vou'll blow to me a kiss,
1 11 blow a klsH to you
Till THORN
"Written at Alfoxden Arose out of my
observing, on the lidge of Quantock Hill, on
a stoimy day, a thorn which I had often past,
In calm and bright weal her, without noticing
It. I tald to myself, 'Cannot I by some Inven-
tion do as much to make this thorn per-
manently an Impressive object an the storm
has made It to my cyeR at this moment?' I
began the poem accordingly, and composed it
with great rapidity " — Wordsworth's note
The poem was printed In Lyrical Ballad*.
"This poem ought to have been preceded
by an introductory poem, which I have been
prevented from writing by never having felt
myself In a mood when It was piobable that
I should write It well The character which
I have here introduced speaking IH sufficiently
common The reader will perhaps hine a
general notion of It, if he has ever known a
man, a captain of a small trading vessel, for
example, who being past the middle age of
life, had retired upon an annuity or small
Independent income to some village or country
town of which he was not a native, or In
which he had not been accustomed to live
Such men, having little to do, become credu-
lous and talkative from Indolence; and from
the same cause, and other predisposing causes
by which It is probable that such men may
have been affected, they are prone to super-
stition. On which account it appeared to me
proper to select a character like this to ex-
hibit some of the general laws by which
bnperbtltlon acts upon the mind Superstl-
tious men arc almost always men of blow
faculties and deep feelings; their minds are
not loose, but adhesive , they have a reasona-
ble share of Imagination, by which word I
mean the faculty which produces Imprcbslve
effects out of simple elements , but they are
utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which
pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden
varieties of situation and by accumulated
Imagery.
"It was my wish In this poem to show the
manner in which such men cleave to the same
Ideas , and to follow the turns of passion,
always diffcicnt, vet not palpably different,
by which their conversation Is swayed I had
two objects to attain; first, to represent a
picture which should not be unimpressive,
yet consistent with the character that should
describe it; secondly, while I adhered to the
style In which such persons describe, to take
care that words, which In their minds are
Impregnated with passion, should likewise
convey passion to readers who are not accus-
tomed to sympathize with men feeling In that
manner or using such language It seemed
to me that this might be done by calling in
the assistance of lyrical and rapid metre It
was necessary that the poem, to be natural,
should In reality move slowly, yet I hoped
that, by the aid of the metre, to those who
should at all enter Into the spirit of the
poem, It would appear to move quickly The
reader ^111 have the kindness to excuse this
note, as I am sensible that an Introductory
poem is necessary to give the poem it* full
effect
"Upon this occasion I will request permis-
sion to add a few words closely connected
with The Thorn and many other poems In
these volumes There Is a numerous class of
readers who Imagine that the feame words
cannot be repeated without tautology this
IB a great error: virtual tautology Is much
oftener produced by using different words
when the meaning Is exactly the same Words,
a poet's words more particularly, ought to be
weighed In the balance of feeling, and not
measured by the space which they occupy
upon paper For the reader cannot be too
often reminded that poetry Is passion* it Is
the history or science of feelings. Now every
man must know that an attempt Is rarely
-1360
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
made to communicate impassioned feelings
without something of an accompanying con-
sciousness of the Inadequateness of our own
powers, or the deficiencies of language. Dur-
ing such efforts there will be a craving in the
mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the
speaker will cling to the same words, or
wordh of the same character There are also
various other reasons why repetition and ap-
parent tautology are frequently beauties of
the highest kind Among the chief of these
reasons is the Intel eat which the mind at-
taches to words, not only as symbols of the
paiwion, but as things, active and efficient,
which are of themselves part of the passion
And further, from a spirit of fondness, ex-
ultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates
in the repetition of words which appear suc-
cessfully to communicate its feelings The
truth of these remarks might be shown by
Innumerable passages from the Bible, and
from the Impassioned poetry of every nation
'Awake, awake, Deborah*' Ac Judges, chap,
v , verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th See
also the whole of that tumultuous and won-
derful poem " — Wordsworth's Preface, ed of
1800.
See Coleridge's comment on this poem, p.
878b, 29ff i also Jeffrey's comment, p. 887av
18ff
GOODY BLAKB AND HARRT GILL
The source of this poem was the following
passage in Erasmus Darwln'b Zoonomia
(1801), 4, 08-09 "I received good informa-
tion of the truth of the following case, which
was published a few yearb ago in the news-
papers A young farmer in Warwickshire,
finding his hedges broke, and the sticks car-
ried away dunng a frosty season, determined
to watch for the thief. He lay many cold
hours under a haystack, and at length an old
woman, like a witch in a play, approached,
and began to pull up the hedge, he waited
till she had tied up her bottle of sticks, and
was carrying them off, that he might convict
her of the theft, and then springing from his
concealment, he seised his prey with violent
threats After some altercation, in which
her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled
upon her bottle of sticks, and, raising her
arms to Heaven beneath the bright moon then
at the full, spoke to the farmer already shiv-
ering with cold, 'Heaven grant, that thou
mayest never know again the blessing to be
warm' He complained of cold all the next
day, and wore an upper coat, and In a few
days another, and In a fortnight took to his
bed, always saying nothing made him warm,
he covered himself with many blankets, and
had a sieve over his face, as he lay ; and from
this one Insane idea he kept his bed above
twenty years for fear of the cold air, tfll at
length he died "
This poem was printed in Lyrical Ballads.
Bee Coleridge's comment on if, p. 878a, 60ft
HBB BTBB ABB WILD
"The subject was reported to me by a lady
of Bribtol, who had seen the creature." —
Wordsworth's note.
The poem was first entitled The Mad
Mother. It was printed in Lyrical Ballads
See Coleridge's comment on the poem, p
893a, 8ff.
830. SIMON LBB
"This old man had been huntsman to the
bqulres of Alfoxden, which, at the time we
occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old
man's cottage stood upon the common, a little
way from the entrance to Alfoxden Paik.
But It had disappeared. Many other changes
had taken place in the adjoining village,
which, I could not but notice with a regret
more natural than well-considered. Impro\e-
ments but rarely appear such to those who,
after long Intervals of time, revisit places
they have had much plea mire In It is un-
necessary to add, the fact *as OH mentioned
in the poem , and I have, after an Interval
of forty-five years, the Image of the old man
as fresh before my eyes as if T bad seen him
yesterday The expression when the hounds
were out, 'I dearly love their voice,' was word
for word from his own lips " — Wordsworth's
note
The poem was printed in Lyntal Ballade
231. LIN18 WRITTEN IN 1ABLY SPUING
"Actually composed while T was Bitting bv
the side of the brook that runs down from
the Comb, in which stands the village of
Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxdeu It
was a chosen resort of mine The biook fell
do*n a sloping rock so as to make a water-
fall considerable for that country, and acioss
the pool below had a fallen a tree, an ash, If I
rightly remember, from which roue perpen-
dicularly, boughs in search of the light inter-
cepted by the deep shade above The boughs
iKire leaves of green that for want of sunshine
bad faded into almost lily-white; and from
the underside of this natural sylvan bridge
depended long and beautiful frames of ivy
which waved gently in the breeze that might
poetically speaking be called the breath of
the waterfall. This motion varied of course
in proportion to the power of water in the
brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited
this spot, after an Interval of more than forty
years, this interesting feature of the wene
was gone. To the owner of the place I could
not but regret that the beauty of this retired
part of the grounds had not tempted him to
make it more accessible by a path, not broad
or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who
love such scenes to creep along without diffi-
culty."— Wordsworth's note.
The poem was printed in Lyrical Ballade.
The dell described is now known as Words-
worth's Glen.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
1361
Bee Coleridge's This Lime-Tree Bower My
Prison (p. 884) and note, p 1235b.
TO MY BISTBB
"Composed in front of Alfoxden House My
little boy-messenger on this occasion was the
•on of Babll Montagu. The larch mentioned
in the first stania was standing when I re-
visited the place in May, 1841, more than
forty yearn after." — Wordsworth's note.
The poeiu was printed in Lyrical Ballads
under the title Lines Written, at a ttmall Diti-
tancc from My House and Bent by My Little
Boy to the Person to Whom They arc Ad-
dress td
Dorothy Wordsworth was her brother's
most intimate companion during the years
1705 1802 She was not only the inspiration
of many of his verses, but a most hallowing
influence in his life That she possessed a
fine poetic instinct may be observed in her
Journals, in which she wrote entertainingly
of what she saw about her See Wordsworth's
Ltwr* Composed a Few Mile* above Tintern
Abbty. 111-50 (p. 284) , It Waft an April
Momma, 3R-47 (p 273), The Prtlvde, 11,
333 5« (p 201) , Tlit Sparrow's Nest (p 281) ;
and It iA a Beauteous Evening, Calm and
Fiee (p. 2SO)
A WIIIKLBLVST PllOM BEHIND Till HILL
"Observed in the* holly-grove at Alfoxden.
. . I had the pleasure of again seeing, with
dear friends, this grove in unlmpahed beauty
forty-one \eais after" — Wordsworth's note.
EXPORT! LATION \\D PEPLT
"This poem Is a favorite among the Quakers,
as 1 ha\e leiunt on many occasions" — Words-
worth's note ,
This poem and the next, The Tables Tutncd,
were published in Lytical Ballads. 237.
of these lines to Young's Night Thoughts, 6,
426-27
Our senses, as our reason, are divine
And half create the wondrous world they see
115. My dearest friend — Ree note on To
My Bister, above.
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BBGGAH
"Observed, and with great benefit to my
own heart, when I was a child wiitten at
Racedown and Alfoxden In my twenty-third
year. The political economists were about
that time beginning their war upon mendicity
in all its forms, and by implication, if not
directly, on alms-giving also. This heait-
less process has been carried as far as it can
go by the AMENDED poor-law bill, though the
Inhumanity that prevails in this measure is
somewhat disguised by the profession that
one of its objects is to throw the poor upon
the voluntary donations of their neighbors,
that Is, if rightly interpreted, to force them
into a condition between relief in the Union
poor-house, and alms robbed of their Christian
grace and spirit, as being forced rather from
the benevolent than given by them , while the
avaricious and selfish, and all in fact but the
humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep
all they possess from their distressed brethren
"The class of beggara, to which the old
man here described belongs, will probably
soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and
mostly, old and Infirm persons, who confined
themselves to a stated round In their neigh-
borhood, and had certain fixed days, on which,
at different houses, they regularly rotehed
alms, sometimes in money, but mostly In pro-
visions " — Wordsworth's note
Ree Lamb's comment on this poem, p 9181),
llff
For Wordsworth's %lews on pauperism, see
his Pofftonpt, 1880
NUTTING
2133. LIMB COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE
TINTERN ABBE!
"No poem of mine was composed under cir-
cumstancex more pleasant for me to remem-
ber than this. I began it upon leaving Tin-
tern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded
it just as I was entering Bristol, in the
evening, after a ramble of four or five days,
with my sister Not a line of it was altered,
and not any part of it written down till I
reached Bristol " — Wordsworth's note
The poem was printed in Lyrical Ballads.
Tintern Abbey IB a celebrated and beautiful
ruin in Monmouthshire, England.
O7. Tennyson greatly praised this line, he
spoke of It as giving the aense of "the perma-
nent in the transitory "—Ree Alfred Lord
Tenryson' A Memoir by His Son (New York,
Macmlllan, 1905), 2, 70.
1O4-O7. Wordsworth noted the resemblance
"Written in Germany, Intended as part of
a poem on my own life, but strut k out as not
being wanted there Like most of my school-
fellows I was an impassioned nutter For
this pleasure, the vale of Esthwalte, abound-
ing in coppice-wood, furnished a very wide
range These verses arose out of the remem-
brance of feelings I had often had when a
boy, and particularly in the extensive woods
that still [1843] stretch from the side of
Esthwalte Lake towards Ora \thwaite, the seat
of the ancient family of Sandys" — Words-
worth's note
98H. STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HATE I KNOWN
This and the four following poems belong
to what in known as the "Lucy poems," writ-
ten in Germany in 1709 Nothing is known
of the beautiful maiden immortalised in these
verses. Wordsworth says nothing about them
in his autobiographical notes.
1362
BIBLIOGBAPHIES AND NOTES
A POBT'8 BPITAPH
See Lamb's comment on this poem, p 919a,
8-8
MATXHJRW
"In the School of [Hawkshead] Is a tablet,
on which aie Inscribed, in gilt letters, the
names of the several persons who have been
schoolmasteis there since the foundation of
the school, with the time at which they en-
tered upon and quitted their office Opposite
to one of those names the author wrote the
following lines
"Hurh a tablet as Is here spoken of con-
tinued to be preserved In Hawkshead School,
though the Inscriptions were not brought
down to our time This and other poems
connected with Matthew would not gain by
a literal detail of facts Like the Wan-
derer In The Eaocursion, this schoolmaster was
made up of several both of his class and
men of other occupations. I do not ask par-
don for what there Is of untruth In such
verses, considered strictly ab matters of fact.
It Is enough If. being true and consistent In
spirit, they move and teach In a manner not
unworthy of a poet s calling " — Wordsworth s
note
Some details of the character of Matthew
are drawn from the Rev William Taylor,
Wordsworth'* teacher at IlawkHhead, 17K2-
86 This and the next two poems are known
as the "Matthew poems"
841. LUCY GRAY
"Written at Goslar In Germany It was
founded on a circumstance told me by mv
sister, of a little girl who, not far from Hall-
fax In Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-
storm Her footsteps were traced by her
parents to the middle of the lock of a canal,
and no other vestige of her, backward or
forward, could be traced The body however
was found in the canal The way in which
the incident was treated and the spiritualis-
ing of the character might furnish hints for
contrasting the Imaginative Influences which
I have endeavored to throw over common life
with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treat-
Ing subjects of the same kind This is not
spoken to his disparagement, far from it, but
to direct the attention of thoughtful rcadeis,
into whose hands these notes may fall, to a
comparison that may both enlarge the circle
of their senslbllitieft, and tend to produce
In them a catholic Judgment " — Wordsworth's
note.
42. THI PBILUDI
The design and occasion of The Prelude
are thus described by Wordsworth ID the
Preface to The Eacumion, written In 1814'
"Several years ago, when the author retlied
to his native mountains with the hope of be-
ing enabled to construct a literary work that
might lire, it was a reasonable thing that
he should take a review of his own mind,
and examine how far nature and education
had qualified him for such an employment
As subsidiary to this preparation, he un-
dertook to record, in verse, the origin and
progress of his own powers, as far as he was
acquainted with them That work, addressed
to a dear friend, most distinguished for his
knowledge and genius, and to whom the au-
thor's intellect is deeply indebted, has been
long finished , and the result of the investi-
gation which gnve rise to it, wan a determina-
tion to compose a philosophical poem, con-
taining vleuH of man, natuie, and society,
and to be entitled The RcclUHC, as ha\ Ing for
Its principal subject the sensations and opin-
ions of a poet lit Ing In retirement
"The preparatory poem is biographical, anil
conducts the history of the author's mind
to the point when he was emboldened to
hope that his faculties were sufficiently ma-
tured for entering upon the arduous labor
which he bad proposed to himself, and the
two woiks have the same kind of i elation
to each other, if he may so expiess himself,
as the ante chapel has to the bodj of a
Gothic church Continuing this allusion, he
ma> be pennltted to add, that his minor
pieces, which have been long liefoic the pub-
lic, when the^ shall be pi openly arranged,
will be found l>j the attentive reader to have
such connection with the main wmk as may
give them claim to be likened to the little
cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordi-
narily included in those edifices"
The Excursion was to be the second part of
The Recluse
The Prelude is addressed to Coleridge, who
at the time of writing was in Malta for his
health
848. 364-S8. These lines are sometimes entitled
The Roy of Winandcr. They were written in
Germany in 1700, and published In 1SOO
WordK worth sent them to Coleridge, who
wrote in reply "That
•uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake*
I should have recognized anjwheic, and had
I met these lines running wild in the deserts
cif Arabia, I should ha\e instantly Bcrcaimcl
out, ' WordKwoi th " "
The name of the Boy Is unknown lie
has been wrongly Identified with Woids worth s
school-fellow, William Ralncork of Rayilgg,
who Words woith said took the lead of all the
boys In the art of making a whistle of blu
fingers
24O. 58-OB. See Wordsworth's Personal Talk.
51 56 (p 801), and cf with Milton's ambi-
tion to leave behind him "aomethlng the world
would not willingly let die "
2RH. OCMMM. These lines are quoted, with slight
variation, from Paradtoe Lout. 11, 203-07
Kll. 8Sn. Beloved «fafer—Ree note on To My
Bitter, p 1361a
WILLIAM WOBDBWOETH
1363
984. 142-51. Cf. the following passage from
Carlyle'B Hartor Rctartus, II, 2, 10 "In a like
sense worked the Pottwayen (Stage-coach),
which, slow-rolling under its mountains of
men and luggage, weaded through our Village .
northwards, truly, in the dead of night, yet
southwards visibly at eventide Not till my
eighth year did I reflect that thin Postwagen
could be other than borne terrestrial Moon,
rising and Retting by mere Law of Nature, like
the heavenly one , that it came on made hiijh-
wayH, fiom far citleH toward far cities , weav-
ing them like a monstrous shuttle into closer
and closer union. It was then that, inde-
pendently of Hchiller's Wilhclm Tell, I made
this not quite insignificant reflection (so true
also in spiritual things) • Any roa^ thin Aim-
file Entcpfuhl road, will lead you to the end
of the World!"
180-85. For a reverse view, see Crabbe's
The Village (p. 154).
221-78. "This passage ib the finest in
thought, and the most perfect In expression, of
any of The 1't elude It illustrates the courage
<>f the man who dared thus, in an age of supcr-
flclAlltv anil pude, to fly in the face of all
the pocthal (roods, and make the JOAB nnd
sorrows that we encounter on the common
highroad of life the subjects of his son?" —
George, in Tltr Cnmpl<t< Pottlcal Woilt of
William Woid worth (Cambridge ed , 1904)
independent proprietor* of land, here called
statesmen, men of respectable education, who
dally labor on their own little properties The
domestic affections will always be strong
amongst men who live in a country not
crowded with population, if these men are
placed above poverty But if they are pro-
prietors of small estates which have descended
to them from their ancestors, the power which
these affections acquire amongst such men is
inconceivable by those who have only had
an opportunity of observing hired laborers,
fanneis, and the manufacturing poor Their
little tract of land serves as a kind of perma
nent rallying point for their domestic feel-
ings, as a tablet on which they are written,
which makes them objects of memory in a
thousand Instances, when they would other-
wise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to
the nature of social man, from which sup-
plies of affection, as pure as his heart was
Intended for, are dally drawn This class of
men is rapidly disappearing . The two
poems which I have mentioned were written
with a view to show that men who do not
wear fine clothes can feel decplv . The
poems are faithful ionics from Nature"
270. 258. Ruhard Ba.trma* —"The story alluded
to Is well known in the country" — Words-
worth's note
273.
IT W\B AN APRIL IIORMNG
200. MICIMIL
"Written at To\\n end, Grasnieir, about the
Mime time as Tin. 11) others The sheepfold,
on whit h so nm< h of the poem turns, remains,
or rathci the lulns of it The character and
ciuuinstaufes of Luke were taken tiom a
family to whom had belonged, many years
before, the house we lived in at Town-end,
along with home fields and woodlands on the
eastern shore of Ornsmere The name of the
Evening Star was not in fact given to this
house, but to another on the same side of
the A«llcy, more to the north "—Wordsworth's
note
In a letter to his friend Thomas Poole,
Wordsworth wrote of the poem (1801) "I
have attempted to gUc a picture of a mau,
of strong mind and lively sensibility, agi-
tated by two of the most powerful affections
of the human heart the parental affection,
and the love of property (landed propcrt\),
including the feelings of inheritance, home,
and personal and family independence
In writing it I had your character often
before my eyes, and sometimes thought that
I was delineating such a man as you your-
self would have been under the same circum-
stances" In a letter to Charles James Fox,
dated Jan 14, 1801, he said "In the two
poems, The flrofftrra and Michael, I have at-
tempted to draw a picture of the domestic
affections, as I know they exist amongst a
class of men who are now almost confined
to the north of England. They are small
"Wiitten at (Jiasmere This poem was sug-
gested on the banks of the brook that runs
thiough Easedale, which i*, in some parts of
Its course, as wild and beautiful as brook
can be I have composed thousands of verses
by the bide of it " — Wordsworth's note
The poem is the first of a group of five
poems on the Naming of Places, to which
Wordsworth prefaced this Advertisement
"By persona resident in the countiy and at-
tached to rural objects, manj place* will be
found unnamed or of unknown names, where
little Incidents must have occurred, or feel-
Ings been experienced, which will nave given
to such places a private and peculiar interest
From a wish to ftlvc some sort of record to
such Incidents, and renew the gratification of
such feelings names have been given to
places by the author and some of his friends,
and the following poems wntten in conse-
quence/'
89. Uy Emma — See note on To My Stater,
p ItGla.
274. 51. Emma'* Yowr — See note above.
THI IXCIRBION
"The Title page announces that this Is only
a portion of a poem , and the reader must be
here apprised that it belongs to the second
part of a long and laborious work, which is
to consist of three parts — The author will
candidly acknowledge that, if the first of
these had been completed, and in such a
manner as to satisfy his own mind, he should
1364
BIBUOGBAPHIEB AND NOTES
have preferred the natural order of publica-
tion, and have given that to the world first;
but, as the second division of the work was
designed to refer more to passing events, and
to an existing state of thlng>, than the others
were meant to do, more continuous exertion
was naturally bestowed upon it, and greater
progress made here than in the rent of the
poem , and as this part does not depend upon
the preceding to a degree which will ma-
terially injure its own peculiar interest, the
author, complying with the earnest entreaties
of home valued friends, presents the following
pages to the public " — From Wordbworth's
Preface to the ed of 1814.
See note on The Prelude, the first part of
the "long and laborious work" referred to, p
1362a.
The selection from The Excursion printed
here IK usually referred to as The Rut tied
Cottage The portion omitted after line 87
gives an account of the pedlar' H boyhood,
education, and manner of life
See Jeffrey's re\ lew of tills poem, p. 89 J.
SI. PBLION AND OSBl
This is Wordsworth's first Ronnet It is
interesting for study in comparison with hla
more mature work in the same form Pel ion,
Ossa, and Olvmpus were mountains in Theg-
saly, Greece, famous in (iieek mythology
THB BPAIUIOW'B NBBT
"Written In the orchard, Town-end, Gra-*-
mere At the end of the garden of my father s
house at Cockermouth wab a high terra re
that commanded a fine view of the River
Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was
our favorite play-ground The terrace-wall,
a low one, was covered with closely-dipt pi 1 vet
and roses, which gave an almost impervious
shelter to birdb that built their nesto there.
The hitter of these stanxas alludes to one of
those nests " — Wordsworth's note
9. My K\*1tr Emmcltni — Bee note on To My
Sister, p I3dla
TO A BLTTBBFLY
"Written in the orchard, Town-end, Gras-
mere. My sitter and I were parted immedi-
ately after the death of our mother, who
died In 1778, both being very young " — Words-
worth'M note Hoc note on 1 0 alwjve.
Dorothy Wordsworth writes thus of the
poem in her Journal (March, 1802) "While
we were at breakfast ... he wrote the poem
To a Butterfly. . . . The thought first came
upon him as we were talking about the
pleasure we both always felt at the sight of
a butterfly I told him that I used to chase
them a little, but that I was afraid of brush-
ing the dust off their wings, and did not
catch them He told me how he used to kill
all the white ones when he went to school,
because they were Frenchmen"
II Y UBABT LBAPB UP
The last three lines of this poem were
adopted ah the motto to the Ode Inttmmttona
of Immortality (p 803)
IHety (1 9) is used here in the sense of
reverence, affection.
WEITTBN IK MARCH
This poem is sometimes entitled brother's
Watd Wurdhwoith state* that it was com-
puHed extempore. Dorothy Wordsworth writes
tlmu about the poem In her Journal (April
16, 1802) "When we came to the foot of
Brother's Water, I left William sitting on the
bridge . . When I returned I found Wil-
liam writing a poem descriptive of the bights
and sounds we saw and heard There wan
the gentle flowing of the stream, the glitter-
ing, lively lake, green fields without a living
< reature to be seen on them , behind us a
flat pasture with forty two rattle fiedlng,
to our left, the load leading to the hnnilot
No smoke there, the «un shone on the tare
roofb The people were at work ploughing,
harrowing, and sowing lasses woiklng, n
dog balking now and then; coekK crowing,
birds twittering, the snow in patches nt the
top of the hlghert hills, yellow pal DIN, purple
and green twlffK on the birchen, nwhew with
their glittering spikes, stems quite bare The
hawthorn a bright green, with black stems
under the oak The moss of the oak glonsv
William finished the poem before, we got
to the foot of Kirkstone "
TO TITB 811 ALL CELANDINE
"Written at Town end, Grnsmeic It If, re-
maikuble that thib iluwei, coming out so
early in the spring us it does, and so blight
and beautiful, and in such profusion, uhould
not have been noticed earlier lu English \tise.
What adds much to the Interest thnt attends
it Is ItH habit of shutting itself up and
opening out according to the degree of light
and temperature of the air'* — Wordsworth's
note
2N3. BBSOLFTION AND I>Diri\DlhCB
"Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This old
man I met a few hundred yards from my
cottage; and the account of him is taken
from his own mouth. I wab in the state of
feeling described in the beginning of the
poem, while crossing over Barton Fell from
Mr Clarkson's, at the foot of Ullswater, to-
wards Askham. The image of the hare I then
observed on the ridge of the Fell." — Words-
worth's note.
Dorothy Wordsworth gives In her Journal
(Get 8, 1800) the following account of the
origin of the poem • "When William and I re-
turned, we met an old man almost double He
had on a coat, thrown over his shoulders,
WlLLIAii WOBDSWOBTH
1365
above his waistcoat and coat Under this he
carried a bundle, and had an apron on and a
night-cap Ills face was interesting He
had dark eyes and a long nose. John LWordb-
worth'H brother], who afterwards met him at
Wythcburn, took him foi a Jew He was of 28J5
Scotch parents, but had been born In the
army He had had a wife, and 'she was a
good woman, and It pleased Qod to bless us
with ten children.' All these were dead but
one, of whom he had not heard for many
yearn, a bailor Ilia trade was to gather
leoches, but now leeches were scarce, and he
hiid not strength for It. He lived by beg-
ging, and wa8 making his way to Carlisle,
whore he should buy a few godly books to
soil He wild leeches were very scarce, partly
owing to this dry season, but many years they
have been scarce. He supposed It owing
to their being much sought after, that they
did not breed fast, and were of slow growth
Leeches wore formerly 2s Gd per 100; they
arc now 80H He had been hurt In driving a
edit, his log broken, his body driven over, hla
skull fnutuied He felt no pain till he re-
ccweied from his first Insensibility . It
was tben late In the evening when the light
was Just going nwav "
In a letter to friends probably Mary and
Snrn Hutchinson, dated June 14, 1802, Words-
worth writes "I will explain to you in
piose mv feelings In writing that poem . . .
I descrllte myself as having been exalted to
the highest pitch of delight by the Joyousness
and beautv of nature , and then as depressed,
o\en In 'the midst of those beautiful objects,
to the lowest dejection and despair A young
poet In the midst of the happiness of nature
Is described as overwhelmed by the thoughts
of the miserable reverses which have befallen
the happiest of all men, vtz , poets I think
of this till I am HO deeply Impressed with It,
that I consider the manner In which I was
resiued f r »m my dejection and despair almost
ns nn interposition of Providence, A person
reading the poem with feelings like mine will
ha\c been awed and controlled, expecting
something spiritual or supernatural What
is (nought forward? A lonely plate, 'a pond
by \thtch nn old man tt/aw, far from all house
or home f not nfoocf. nor aat, but wan — the
figure presented In the most nuked simplicity
possible This feeling of spirituality or super-
nnturalness Is again referred to as being
strong In my mind In this passage How
came he here? thought I, or what can he be
doing? I then dcKciibe him, whether ill or
well Is not for me to Judge with perfect confi-
dence , but this I can confidently affirm, that
though I believe God has given me a strong
Imagination, I cannot conceive a figure more
Impressive than that of an old man like
this, the survivor of a wife and ten children,
travelling alone among the mountains and all
lonely places, carrying with him his own
fortitude, and the necessities which an unjust
state of society has laid upon him.*' — Quoted
from C. Wordsworth's Memoir $ of William
Wordsworth (1851). I, 172-73.
See Coleiidge'H comment on this poem, p
888b, 47ff.
I GBIBVBD FOB BUONATABXti
"In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one
afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the
sonnets of Milton I had long been well
a<qualnted with them, but I was particularly
stnuK on that occasion with the dlgnliied
simplicity and majestic harmony that runs
through most of them, — In character so
totally different from the Italian, and still
more so from Shakspeare's fine sonnets. I
took fire, If I may be allowed to say so, and
produced three sonnets the same afternoon,
the first I ever wrote except an Irregular one
at school Of these three, the only one I
distinctly remember is — 7 grieved for Buona-
partf One was never written down the
third, which was, I believe, preserved, I can-
not particularise *' — Wordsworth's note.
COMPOSED I POX WE8TKINSTBB BBIDGB
"We left London on Saturday morning at
half-past five or six, the 80th of July We
mounted the Dover coach at Charing Cross
It uas a beautiful morning. The city, 8t
Paul's, with the river, and a multitude of
little boats, made a most beautiful tight as
we crossed Westminster Bridge The houses
weie not overhung by their cloud of smoke,
and they were spread out endlessly ; yet the
sun shone so brightly, with such a fierce
light, that there was even something like the
purity of one of nature's own grand spec-
tacle's " — Dorothy Wordsworth, In Journal,
July 1802
Westminster Bridge Is next to the oldest
biidge over the Thames at London It was
built In 1700. It was replaced by the present
structure In 1802
28O. COMPOSED BY TUB 8BA-8IDB, ZtBIB CALAIS
"We had delightful walks after the heat of
the day was passed — hieing far off in the \\est
the coast of England like a cloud crested *ith
I)OA er Castle, which was but like the summit
of the cloud — the evening star and the glor>
of the sky, the reflections In the water were
more beautiful than the sky Itself, purple
naves brighter than precious stones, forever
melting away upon the sands. . . . Nothing
In lomsnce was ever half so beautiful Now
(Hme In view, as the evening star sunk down,
and the colors of the west faded away, the
two light? of England." — Dorothy Words-
• worth, in Journal, August, 1802
IT IS A BBAI TFOC 8 F VI NINO, CALM AND 1
•'This was composed on the beach near
Calais, In the autumn of 1802."— Words-
worth's note.
1366
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
The last Biz lines are addressed to Words-
worth's sister Dorothy Bee note on To My
tfwfcr, p l,J61a
TO TOUS8A1NT [/OL \ BKTL III
TousRalnt (sui named IjOnvciture, the
Opener, because he broke through the enemy's
linen) was the noted negro liberator of Han
Domingo In 1801 he attempted to free the
Island from the control of Napoleon, but was
captured and imprisoned for life The -sonnet
wan written while he was lying in the dungeon
at Foit de 3 OUT, France He died in 1808.
287. WRITTEN IN LONDON, SBlTBUBBllj 1802
"This was written immediately after my
return from Fiance to London, when I could
not but be struck, as here described, with
the vanity and parade of our own country,
especially in great towns and cities, as con-
trasted with the quiet, and I may hay the
desolation, that the revolution had produced
In France This must be borne in mind, or
else the reader may think that in this and the
succeeding sonnets I have exaggerated the
mischief engendered and fostered among us by
undisturbed wealth It would not be easy
to conceive with what a depth of feeling I
entered into the struggle carried on by the
Spaniards for their deliverance from the
usurped power of the French Many tlnicM
have I gone from Allan Bank in Orasmere
Vale, where we were then residing, to the top
of the Raise-gap us it is called, so late as
two o'clock In the morning, to meet the
carrier bringing the newspaper from Kcswlck
Imperfect traces of the state of mind In which
I then was may bo found in my Tract on
the Convention of dntra, as well as in theso
sonnets " — Wordsworth's mite
The Convention of flntra, concluded be-
tween the French and the English in 180ft.
provided that the French should evacuate
Portugal The? were taken to France in Eng-
lish vessels
TO THE DAI 87
"This poem and two others to the same
flower, were wiltten in the year 1802, which
is mentioned, because in some of the ideas,
though not in the manner in which those
ideas are connected, and likewise even in
some of the expressions, there is a resem-
blance to passages in a poem (lately pub-
lished) of Mr Montgomery's, entitled A Field
Flower. This being said, Mi Montgomery will
not think any apology due to him ; I cannot,
however, help addressing him In the words of
the father of English poets.
Though It happe me to rehersln
That ye han in vonr freshe songis mled,
Forberlth me, and beth not 111 apaled,
Rith that ve se I doe it in the honour
Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour ' "
—Wordsworth's note (1807).
The lines quoted are from Chaucer's
Prologue to The Legcndc of Good Women,
B 18, 78-82
James Montgomery's A Field Flowct, was
written before the publication of Wouls-
worth'b poouib It Is a* follows
A Ftild Flown
On Finding Ouc in Full lllooni on rhiistmati
Day, 1804
There Is a flower, a little flower,
\Vith silver ciest and golden eye.
That welcomes tveiy changing hour,
And weatheiH eveiy sky
The prouder heautfts of the fleld 6
In gay but quick succession shine,
Kate after race their honoia yield,
They flouiish and decline
Hut this small flower, to Nature dear.
While moon and stars tholi courses run 10
Wreathes the -whole circle of the year,
Companion of the Sun
It smiles upon the lap of Mav
To sultry Auftust sp loads Its charniH.
Lights pale October on hit* via}, 11
And talnes Doc ember b aims
The purple heath and golden broom
On inoory mountains cntch the gale.
O'er lawns the* lilv bods perfume,
The violet In the \alc 20
But this bold floweret climbs the hill.
Hides in the forest, haunts the gli'ii,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox H den
Within the gardi n's cultured round 21
It shares the sweet cai nations bod,
\nd blooms on con-ociatod gioiind '
In honor of the dead
The lambkin crops its crimson goni,
The wild-bee muimuis on its breast, JO
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
IJght o'er the sky-laik'n nest.
'Tls Flora's pago, — in e\oiv place,
In every season frosh and fnu,
It opens with peronnial gum*, 3*
And bloHsoms c\et)wh<i(>
On waste and woodland rock and pin In.
Its humble buds unheeded line,
The Rose has but u sumuior mgn,
The IHisy never dies *0
Flora (1 33) was the Roman goddess of
flowers.
2OO. TO TTI* D\ISY (Bright Flovcr)
"This and the other poems addressed to the
same flower wore composed at Town-end.
Grasmere, during the earlier pait of my
residence there I have been censured foi
the last line but one — 'thy function apostoli-
cal*— as being little less than pi of a no How
could it be thought no9 The word IB adopted
with reference to its derivation, Implying
something sent on a mission , and assuredly
this little flower, especially when the subject
of verse, may be regarded, In its humble de-
gree, as administering both to moral and to
H pi ritual purposes" — Wordsworth's note.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
1367
"Written at Grasmere. These yew-trees are
still standing, but the spread of that at Lor-
ton IB much dliulniHhcd by mutilation I *1I1
heie mention that a little way up the hill,
on the road leading from Rosthnaitc to
Btonethwaite (In Borrowdalc), lay the tiunk
of a yew-tree, which appeared as you ap-
proached, bo vast was UK diameter, like the
entrance of a cave, and not a small one
Calculating upon what I have olmcrved of
the slow giowth of this tree In rocky situa-
tions, and of Its durability, I have often
thought that the one I am describing must
have been as old as the ChrlHtlan era The
tree luy In the line of a fence Gieat masses
of 1th lulus weie stirwn about, and some had
been lolled down the hillside and lav neu
(ho road at the bottom AH you approach* d
the ticc, you viere stiuck with the number
of shiubs and young plants, ashes, etc , which
hud found a bed upon the deia\ed trunk ntid
glow to no Inconsiderable height, forming as
It line, a pait of the hedgerow. In no pa it
of England, or of Kuropc, have I ever seen
a u»\\-tie«» at all appioachlng this In magni-
tude, as It must have stood. By the bve,
Iluttou, the old guide, of KeRwlck, hud been
so lmprcs\od ulth the remnlns of this tr<"
that he usc«d gnnoly to tell strangers th.»t
theie could be no doubt of Us hinlng boc n
In existence before the flood1' — Woidswoitli s
note
Kuskin (Mod(tn Painter*, l'.ut III, sec 2,
rh 4) coiihldors this poem as "the nio^t
\lgoi cms and sol mm bit of foiost landscape
e\er painted" He calls attention ospecnllv
to "the pure touch of lolm in 1 SJ1* Coli-
ildgp quotes fiom It (p OTIli) to Illustrate
Wordfworth's high linagluatho faculty
21)1 VT Till <.UVM OP BIRNB
This and the ne\t four poems belong to a
gioup of nftocn poems entitled Alt mot lain of a
Taut in Scotland Woidsworth, his sister
Dorothy, and Coleridge started the tour to-
gether on August 15, 1803 Coleridge, at th.it
time In 111 health, loft thorn at Loch Lomond
See Dorothy Wordsworth's ItcroWctwna of a
Tour Jfacff in Scotland
292. TO A HIGTIIAND qiRL
"This delightful creature and her demeanor
are paitlculmly dchcilbed In my sister's Jour-
nal The sort of prophecy with which the
verses conclude has, through God's goodness,
been realised . and now, approaching the close
of my 73d veor, I have a most vivid remem-
brance of her nnd the beautiful objects *lth
which she wns surrounded She is alluded
to In the poem of Tlif Tlinr Cottanr flhrfo
among niv Continental Memorials In Illus-
tration of this class of poems I have scarcely
anything to say beyond what Is anticipated
In my sister's faithful and admirable Journal "
— Wordsworth's note
Dorothy Wordsworth writes thus In her
IfftoUecttontt of a Tour Made tn Scotland
(Aug 28, 1803) "When beginning to descend
the hill toward Loch Lomond, we overtook
two girls, who told us we could not cross the
feny till evening, for the boat was gone
with a number of people to church One of
the girls was exceedingly beautiful , and the
flguies of Unth of them, In gray plaids falling
to their foot, their faces only being uneov-
01 wl, excited our attention before we spoke
to them , but they answered us so sweetly
that we were quite delighted, at the same
time that they stared at us with an Innocent
look of wonder. I think I never heard the
English language sound more sweetly than
from the mouth of the elder of these girls,
while she stood at the gate answering our
inqulilcs, her face flushed with the rain, her
pronunciation was cleat and distinct with-
out difficulty, yet slow, like that of a foreign
speech They told us we might sit In the
forrv houhc till the return of the boat, went
In ^ 1th us, and made a good flre as fast as
possible to diy our wet clothes. We learnt
that the taller one was tne sister of the ferry-
man, and had been left in charge with the
bouse for the day that the other was his
\\lfon sister, and was come with her mother
on a \Islt, — an old woman, ^ho sate in a
coiner l»esldc the cradle, nursing her little
giancl-chlld We were glad to lw> housed, with
our foot upon a warm hearth-stone , and our
attendants were so acti\e and good humored
that it *as pleasant to ha\e to desire them
to do nn\ thing The voungor wns a delicate
and unhealthy-looking girl , but there was an
u iccunmon mooknosH in her countenance, with
an air of premature intelligence, which is
otteri seen In sickly young persons The other
imido mo think of Peter Hell's Highland Girl
' \s light and beauteous as a squirrel,
As beauteous and as wild
I Woidh worths Petti Hill, 889-90]
She mm til with unusual activity, which was
chastened ^ery delicately by a ceitaln hesita-
tion in her looks when «hc spoke, being able
to understand us but Imperfectly . . .
"The hospitality we had met with . . gave
us voiv favoiable Impressions on this our
first entrance into the Highlands, and at this
diiy the Innocent merriment of the gills, with
their kindness to us, and the beautiful figure
and face of the elder, come to my mind when-
ever I think of the ferry-house and water-
fall of Loch Lomond, and I never think
of the two girls but the whole Image of that
romantic spot is before me. a living Image,
as It will be to my dying day "
STOPPING W18TWK11D
"While mv fellow-traveller and I were walk-
Ing by the side of Loch Kerterlne, one fine
1368
BIBLIOGBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
evening after raniet, in our road to a hut
where, In the course of our tour, we had
been hospitably entertained some week* be-
fore, we met, In one of the loneliest parti* of
that solitary region, two well-dressed women,
one of whom said to us, by way of greeting,
'What, yon are stepping westward T " — ^Words-
worth^ note
Doiothy Wordsworth writes thus In her
Recollection* of a Tour Made In ft cot land
(Kept 11. 1803) "We have never had a
more delightful *alk than this evening Ben
Lomond and the three pointed-topped moun-
tain* of Loch Lomond, which we had seen
from the garrison, were very majestic under
the clear bky, the lake perfectly calm, the
air sweet and mild I felt tnat It was much
more Interesting to visit a place where we
have been before than It can possibly be the
first time, except under peculiar circum-
stances The sun had been set for some time,
when, being within a quarter of a mile of the
ferryman*s hut, our path having Ird us close
to the shoie of the calm lake, we met two
neatly dressed women, without hats, who had
probably been taking their Sunday evening's
walk One of them said to us In a friendly,
soft tone of vofte, 'What* you are stepping
westward?' 1 cannot describe how affecting
this simple expression was In that remote
place, with the western t»ky In front, yet
glowing with the departed sun William
wrote the following poem long after, In re-
membrance of his feelings and mine"
In connection with this poem, see Words-
worth** Tht, Tto»<iLht> (p 314), composed on
the same spot 27 vears later.
2O3. THB SOLITARY REAPER
"As we descended, the scene became more
fertile, our way being pleasantly varied —
through coppices or open fields, and passing
farm-houses, though always with an Inter-
mixture of uncultivated ground It was har-
vest-time, and the fields were quietly — might
I be allowed to say pensively ?— enlivened by
small companies of reapers It Is not un-
common In the more lonely parts of the High-
lands to sec a single person so employed
The following poem was suggested to Wil-
liam by a beautiful sentence in Thomas Wil-
kinson's Tour in Scotland "—Dorothy Words-
worth, In Recollettion* of a Tour Made in
Scotland, Sept 13, IftOft
The sentence from Wilkinson Is as follows :
"PaHsod a female who was reaping alone;
she sung in Erse, as she bended over her
sickle; the sweetest human voice I ever
heard- her strains were tenderly melancholy,
and felt delicious, long after they were heard
no more*'
YARROW UNVIBITBD
The Elver Yarrow, In southern Scotland,
waa a favoiite scene of ballads and songs
by the poets. Bee Child's Bnolith and
Scottish Popular Balladtt, Vol. 4, 160-84.
Of Yarrow Utt visited, Dorothy Wordsworth
wrote thus in her Recollection* of a Tour
Made in Stotland, Bept 8, 1808 "At Cloven-
ford, being so near to the Yarrow, we could
not but think of the possibility of going
thither, but came to the conclusion of reserv-
ing the pleasuie for some future time, in
consequence of which, after our return, Wil-
liam wrote the poem" Upon receiving a copy
of the poem from Wordsworth, Rcott wrote
"I by no means admit your apology, however,
Ingeniously and artfully stated, for not visit-
ing the bonny holms of Yarrow, and certainly
will not rest until I have prevailed upon you
to compare the ideal with the real stream " —
Wordsworth visited the Yarrow In 1K14 and
again in 1881. Bee his Yarrow Visited (p.
808) and Yarrow Revisited (p 812)
OCTOBER, 1808
This sonnet and the two following were
Inspired by fears of an expected invasion
of England by the French In 1808
BHB WAS A PHANTOM Or DELIGHT
••Written at Town-end, Orasmere. The
germ of this poem was four Hues composed
as a part of the verses on the Highland Girl
Though beginning in this wny, it was written
from my heart, as is sufficiently obvious" —
Wordsworth's note
The poem refers to Wordsworth's wife.
I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
"Written at Town-end, (Irasmere The daf-
fodils grew and still grow on the margin of
Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this
day as beautiful in the month of March, nod-
ding their golden heads beside the dancing
and foaming waves " — Woidsworth's note
Dorothy Wordsworth wiites thus in her
Journal, April 16, 1802 "When we were in
the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw a
few daffodils close to the *atcr-sldo ... As
we went along there were more, and yet more ;
and, at last, under the boughs of the trees, we
saw there was a long belt of them along the
shore. . . I never saw daffodils so beautiful.
They grew among the mossy stones, about
and above them, some rested their heads on
these stones as on a pillow for weariness,
and the rest tossed, and reeled, and danced,
and seemed a* if they verily laughed with the
wind that blew upon them over tha lake
They looked so gay, ever glancing, ever chang-
ing. . . . There was here and there a little
knot, and a few stragglers higher up; but
they were BO few as not to disturb the sim-
plicity, unity, and life of that one busy high-
way."
Bee Coleridge'! comment on the poem, p*
887b, 27ff.
WILLIAM WOBDSWOETH
1369
21-22. These two lines were written by
Wordsworth's wife.
THl AFFLICTION OF MARGARBT
•'Written at Town-end. Grasmere Thin was
taken from tbe case of a poor widow wbo
lived in the town of Penrith Her sorrow was
well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my sister,
and, 1 believe, to the whole town She kept
a Hhop, and when she raw a Htranger naming
by, she was in the habit of going out into
the Htreet to enquire of him after her son " —
Wordsworth's note
Bee Coleridge's comment on thin poem, p.
893a, 2 ff.
ODD TO DUTY
"Thin ode IR on the model of Gray** Odr to
Advernltv |p 58 J, which is copied from Hor-
ace's Ode to Pot tune Many and many a
time have I been twitted by my wife and
Bister for having forgotten this dedication of
myself to the stern lawgiver Transgressor
Indeed I have l>een, fiom hour to hour, from
day to day I would fain hope, however, not
more flagrantly or in a worse way than most
of my tuneful brethren But these last words
are In a wrong strain We should be rigorous
to ourselves and forbearing, if not indulgent,
to others, and. If we make comparisons at
all, It ought to he with those who have mor-
ally excelled us" — Wordsworth's note.
297. TO A BKTLABK
Cf this poem with Wordsworth's To a Sky-
lark (p 312). with Shelley's To a Skylark (p.
704), and with Hogg's The Skylark (p. 479).
BLBOXAC STANZAS
Sir George Beaumont painted two pictures
of this subject, one of which he gave to Mrs.
Woidhworth, saying she ought to have it;
but Lady Beaumont Interfered, and after Sir
George's death hhe gate It to Hlr Uvedale
Price, In whose house at Foxley I have seen
It." — Wordsworth's note
The Feele Castle here described Is In Lan-
cashire, England. Wordsworth visited his
cousin in the vicinity of Pecle Castle during
one of his summer vacations This poem
should be read In connection with Character
of the Happy Warrior (p 298), and Elegiac
Vtrncs in Memory of My Brother
CHARACTER OF THl HAPPX WARRIOR
"The course of the great war with the
French naturally fixed one's attention upon
the military character, and, to the honor of
our country, there were many Illustrious In-
stances of the qualities that constitute Its
highest excellence Lord Nelson carried most
of the virtues that the trials he was exposed
to In his department of the service necessarily
call forth and sustain, if they do not produce
the contrary vices, But WB public life was
stained with one great crime, so that, though
many passages of these lines were suggested
by what wan generally known as excellent In
his conduct, I have not been able to connect
his name with the poem as I could wish, or
even to think of him with satisfaction In ref
erence to the idea of what a warrior ought to
be For the sake of such of my friend* as
may happen to read thih note I will add, that
many elements of the character here por-
trayed were found in my broth ei John, who
perished by shipwreck as mentioned else-
where His messmates used to call him the
Philosopher, from which it must be inferred
that tbe qualities and dispositions I allude to
had not escaped their notice He often ex-
pressed his regret, after the wai had continued
some time, that he had not chosen the naval.
Instead of the East India Company's service,
to which his family connection had led him
He greatly valued moral and religious Instruc-
tion for youth, as tending to make good sail-
ors The l>est, he used to say, came from
Rcotland, the next to them, from the North
of England, especially from Westmoreland and
Cumberland, where, thanks to the piety and
local attachments of our ancestors, endowed,
or, as they are commonly called, free, schools
abound " — Wordsworth's note
The "crime" of Nelson was his relations to
Lady Hamilton, a noted adventuress Bee
Routhey's Thr Life of Nelnoti (p 41<ia, 10 ff )
299. POWBH OF MUSIC
Wordsworth spent two months In London
In the spring of 1SOG Tbe poeni, he sajs,
was "taken from life "
IT WAS TUB MOUNTAIN BCHO
"Written at Town-end, Grasmere The echo
came from Nab-scai, when I was walking on
the opposite side of Rxlal Mere I will here
mention, for my dear sister's sake, that, while
she was sitting alono one day high up on
this part of Loughrlgg Fell, she was so affected
by the voice of the cuckoo heard from the
crags at some distance that she could not
suppress a wish to have a stone inscribed
with her name among the rocks from which
the sound proceeded On my return from my
walk I recited these verses to Mrs. Words-
worth"— Wordsworth's note
PBRBONAL TALK
"Written at Town-end, Grasmere The last
line but two stood, at flrst, better and more
characteristically, thus
'By my half-kitchen and half-parlor fire.'
My sister and T were in the habit of having
the tea-kettle In our little sitting-room , and
we toasted the bread ourselves, which reminds
me of a little circumstance not unworthy of
being set down among these mlnutte Hap-
pening both of us to be engaged a few minutes
one morning when we bad a young prig of *
1370
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
Scotch lawyer to breakfast with us, my dear
•later, with her usual simplicity, put the
toasting-fork with a slice of bread Into the
hands of this Edinburgh genius Our little
book-case stood on one side of the fire. To
prevent loss of time, he took down a book,
and fell to reading, to the neglect of the
toast, which was burnt to a cinder Many a
time have we laughed at this circumstance,
and other cottage simplicities of that day
By the bye, I have a fcplte at one of this
series of sonnets (I will leave the reader to
discover which) as having been the means of
nearly putting off forever our acquaintance
with dear Miss Fcnwitk, who nan always stig-
matised one line of it as vulgar, and worthy
only of having been composed by a country
squire" — Wordsworth's note
8O1. 25-26. Cf these lines with Heath's Ode on
a Grecian Urn, 11-12 (p 827).
51-54. These Hues are carved upon the
pedestal of Wordsworth's statue in Westmin-
ster Abbey
51-5O. Cf with Wolds* orth's The Pulttdt,
6, 52-65 (p 249)
ADMONITION
"Intended more particularly for the peru MI!
of those who may have happened to be enam-
ored of some beautiful place of retreat, in
the country of the Lakes." — Wordsworth s
note
SO2. COMPOSED BY TUB BID! OF GUASMlltl LAKB
Grasmere Lake IK in the «rantv of West-
moreland, England
80S. ODI INTIMATIONS OF IMMOKT\UT\
"This was composed during my residence at
Town-end, tirasmere Two years at least
passed between the writing of the four first
stanzas and the remaining part To the at-
tentive and competent reader the whole suffi-
ciently explains itself, but there may be no
harm in adverting here to particular feelings
or fapenenoee of my own mind on which the
structure of the poem partly rests Nothing
was more difficult for me in childhood than
to admit the notion of death as a state ap-
plicable to my own being I have bald else-
where —
*\ Mlmple (hlld,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb
What should It know of death?*
\We Are tieven, 1-4 (p 220)]
But It was not so much from feelings of
animal vivacity that my difficulty came as
from a sense of the Indomitableness of the
spirit within me I used to brotd over the
stories of Enoch and Klljah, and almost to
persuade myself that, whatever might become
of others, I should be translated, in something
of the same way, to heaven With a feeling
congenial to this, I was often unable to think
of external thingH as having external exist-
ence, and I communed with all that I saw as
something not apart from, but inherent in,
my own immaterial nature Many times while
going to school have I grasped at a wall or
tree to recall myself from this abyss of Ideal-
ism to the reality At that time I was afraid
of such processes In later periods of life I
have deplored, as we have all reason to do,
a subjugation of an opposite character, and
have rejoiced over the remembrances, as la
expressed in the lines —
'Obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things.
Fallings from us, vanishing*!,1 etc.
ill. 141-43]
To that dream-like vividness and splendor
whl<h invest objects of sight in childhood,
e\erv one, I believe, if he would look back,
could bear testimony, and I need not dwell
upon it here but having In the poem re-
gaided it as presumptive evidence of a pi lor
state of existence, I think it light to protest
against a conclusion, which has given
pain to some good and pious persons, that I
meant to inculcate such a belief It )H fur
too shadowy a notion to be leconiineuded to
faith, as more than an element in our instincts
of immortality But let us hear in mind that,
though the Idea is not advanced in re\ elation,
there is nothing there to contradict It, and
the fall of man presents an analogy in its
favor Accordingly, a pre-c\lHtcnt state has
entered Into the popular creeds of many na-
tions , and, among all persons acquainted with
classic literature, IH known as an ingredient
in Platonic philosophy Archlmeden said th.it
he could move the world if he had a point
\\hereon to rest his machine Who has not
felt the same aspirations an regards the woild
of his own mind9 Having to wield some of
its elements when I was impelled to wilte
this poem on the Immortality of the Soul, I
took hold of the notion of pre-existence as
having sufficient foundation in humanity for
authorizing me to make for my purpose the
best use of It I could as a poet" — Words-
worth's note
Cf with WordHWorth'H idea the following
extract from Plato's Phtrdo, 72-76 (Jowett'a
trans ) "Your favorite doctrine, Socrates,
that knowledge IH simply recollection, if true,
also necessarily Implies a previous time in
which we learned that which we now recol-
lect But this would be imiNwslhle unless our
soul was In some place Itefore existing In the
human form , here then is another argument
of the soul's immortality . . . And if we
acquired this knowledge before we were tarn
and were horn having It, then we also knew
before we were born and at the Instant of
hlrth not onlv the equal or the greater or the
lewi, but all other Ideas, for we are not
speaking only of equality absolute, but of
beauty, good, Justice, holiness, and all which
we stamp with the name of essence In the
WILLIAM WOBDBWOBTH
1371
dialectal process, when we ask and answer
queationB . But if, after having ac-
quired, we have not forgotten that which wo
acquired, then we must always have been
born with knowledge., and shall always con-
tinue to know as long as life lasts — for know-
Ing IB the acquiring and retaining knowledge
and not forgetting . But If the knowl-
edge which we acquired before birth wan lont
by UK at birth, and if afterwards by the use
of the senses we recovered that which we
previouHly knew, will not that which we call
learning be a process of recovering our knowl-
edge, and may not thlH be rightly termed
recollection by UR? . Then may we not
hay, Rlmmlas, that if, an we are always re
peatlng, there IH an absolute beauty, and
goodness, and essence in general, and to this,
which Is now discovered to be a previous con-
dition of our being, we refer all our sensa-
tions, and with this compare them — assuming
this to have a prior existence, then our souls
must have had a pilnr existence, but if not,
then* would be no force in the argument
There can be no doubt that if these absolute
Ideas existed before we* were born, then our
souls must him* existed before \ve were born,
and If not the Ideas, then not the souls"
Speaking of Woidsworth and this ode in
/ Jlnylifth Trait tt, ch 17, Kmeison says . "Lot
us sav of him that, alone In his time, ho
treated the humau mind \M«11 and with an
tibsciltite trust His ndhficmo to Ms poetic
creed rested on real Inspliatlons The Ode
on Immortality is the high water mark which
the Intellect has leached in this age Now
means *erc employed, and new realms added
to the empire of the muse, by his courage '
See Coleridge's comment on the poem, p
3S8a, 36ff , and 391b, 44ff
.103. <M!-7<I. Ruskln cites these lines (Mo Jon
Paint i re, Part III, sec 1, ch IS) as revealing
the woids of "ono whose authority is almost
without appeal In all questions relating to the
Influence of external things upon the pure
human soul "
304. 14.1. FalUn0H /torn ««, vaninhings— "There
was a time in my life when I had to push
against something that resisted, to be sure
that there was anvthlng outside of me I was
sure of mv own mind , evervthing else fell
away, and vanished into thought " — Words-
worth, quoted by Knight in his edition of
Wordsworth's Pom*
806. 202-08. "These lines have been often quoted
as an illustration of Wordsworth's sensibility
to external nature, in rcallt>, they testlfv
to his enriching the sentiment of nature TV 1th
feeling derived from the heart of man and
from the experience of humnn life " — Dowden,
in his edition of Wordsworth's POCIHH (Athe-
nieum Press ed., 1897)
8OO. L\ODVM!\
••Written at Rydal Mount The incident of
the trees growing and withering put the «uh-
Jcct into my thoughts, and I wrote with the
hope of giving It a loftier tone than, so far as
I know, has been given to it by any of the
ancients who have treated of it It cost me
more trouble than almost anything of equal
length I ha\e ever written'* — Wordsworth's
note
See Landoi's comment on this poem In his
Itnauinary Convcrxationtt, "Southey and Por-
son," I
Laodamla was the wife of Protenilaus, the
first Greek killed at the siege of Troy After
his death she miploied the gods to allow her
to talk with him, and Mercury (Hermes) led
him from the lower world After the inter-
view Protesllaus departed, and Laodamla died
with grief. According to another tradition,
she voluntarily accompanied him to the lower
world.
3OM.
1 VRKOW VIBITKD
"As mentioned In mv verses on the death
of the Ettilck Shepherd [sec p 315], my first
visit to Yarrow was In his company We
had lodged the night l»efore at Traquhalr,
whore Hogg had joined us and also Dr. Ander-
son, the editor of the nntinh Port*, *ho was
on a viblt at the Manse Or A. walked with
us till we came in view of the Vale of Yar-
row, and, being advanced in life, he then
turned hack The old man was passionately
fond of poetry, though with not much of a
discriminating Judgment, as the volumes he
edited sufficiently show But I was much
pleased to meet with him, and to acknowl-
edge mv obligation to his collection, which
had been my brother John's companion in
more than one voyage to India, and which he
gave me before his departure from Grasmcre,
never to return. Through these volumes I
became first familiar with Chaucer, and so
little money had I then to spare for books,
that, in all probability, but for this same
\tork, I should have known little of Drayton,
Daniel, and other distinguished poets of the
Kllftabethan age, and their immediate success-
ors, till a much later period of my life I
am glad to record this, not from any Impor-
tance of its own, but as a tribute of gratitude
to this simple-hearted old man whom I never
again had the pleasure of meeting I seldom
read or think of this poem without regretting
that mv dear sister was not of the party, as
she would have had so much delight in recall-
Ing the time when, travelling together in 8cot-
land, we declined going in search of this
celebrated stream, not altogether, I will
frankly confess, for the reason assigned in
the poem on the occasion" — Wordsworth's
note.
"We have there the true Yarrow, the truest
Yarrow that e\er was plotuied , real yet not
literal — Yarrow as it is for the spiritual sense
made keen, quick, sensitive, and deep through
the brooding over the stor|es of the yean and
living communion with the heart of things." —
1372
BIBLIOGBAPHIE8 AND NOTES
J. Veitch, In The History and Poefiy of the
Scottish Border (1878).
This poem should be read In connection with
Wordsworth's Yarrow Unvimtrd (p 298) and
Farrow Revisited (p. 812) Hee. notes pp.
1868a and 1878a
HABT THOU 8EB2k, * ITU FLASH lACBbHlNT
Thin the third of a group of poems entitled
Inscriptions Supported to bt Found m and
near a hermit's Gill
"Where the second quarry now Is, as you
pass from Rydal to Giasmero, there was for-
merly a length of smooth rock that sloped
towards the load, on the light hand I used
to call It Tadpole Blopo, from having fre-
quently observed there the water-bubbles glid-
ing under the Ice, exactly in the shape of
that creature " — Wordsworth's note
COMPOSED UPON AN BVBNTNC OF BXTUAOUIUNARY
SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY
"Felt and In a great measure composed upon
the little mount in front of our abode at
Rydal "in concluding my notices of this class
of poems it may IK* as well to observe that
among the Miscellaneous Sonnets are a few
alluding to morning impressions which might
be read with mutual benefit In connection
with these Evening Voluntaries See, for ox-
ample, that one on Westminster Bildge u*
285], that composed on a May moining, the
one on the song of the thrush [p 816], and
that beginning — 'While beams of orient llffht
shoot wide and high ' " — Wordsworth's note
310. 41 If. "The multiplication of mountain-
ridges described at the commencement of the
third stanza of this ode, as a kind of Jacob s
Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced cither
by watery vapors, or sunnv base, — In the
present Instance by the latter cause Allu-
sions to the ode, entitled Intimation* of Im-
mortality, pervade the last stanza" — Words-
worth's note
THBBB IB A LITTLB UNPUBTBNDING 11 ILL
•This rill trickles down the hill-side Into
WIndermere, near Lowwood My sister and I,
on our first visit together to this part of the
country, walked from Kendal, and we rested
to refresh ourselves by the side of the take
where the streamlet falls Into It This sonnet
was written some years after In recollection
of that happy ramble, that most happy day
and hour*' — Wordsworth's note.
B1TWIBN NAMUB AMD LIBGB
This and the following poem are from a
group of 87 poems entitled Memorials of a
Tour on the Continent. IBM Wordsworth's
wife and sister Dorothy and other friends
accompanied him on this tour Namur and
Liege are cities In Belgium.
Of the scenery described in this sonnet,
Wordsworth saw In a note "The scenery on
the Mouse pleases me more, upon the whole,
than that of the Rhine, though the river itself
IH much Inferior in grandeur The rocks both
In form and color, especially between Namur
and Liege, surpass any upon the Rhine, though
they are In several places disfigured by quai
rics, whence stones were taken fo» the new
fortifications This Is much to be regretted,
for they are useless, and the scars will remain
perhaps for thousands of years "
311 COMPOSED I* ONE OF THE CATHOLIC C ANTON b
See note on preceding poem This poem
i of era to the Cantons or States of the Svtls*-
federation
THB H1VBU DLDDON
The two following sonnets arc the fifth and
the last of a scnos of sonnets on the ttl\»r
I Hidden The following quotation is fiom
Woidswoithri picfatoiy note on th< HCUOH
"It Is with the little River Duddon as It Is
with most other ihers, Gauge.* and Mlo not
exccptod, — many springs might claim the hoiioi
of being its head In my own fancy I hn\e
fixed its lise near the noted Shire-stones
placed at the meeting-point of the counties,
Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lantaslilio
They stand by the wnjMdo on the top of tbe
Wrjnose Pass, and it used to bo ictkoned a
proud thing to say that, bv touching them
at the same time ulth feet and hands, one had
been In the thioe counties ut once At \\bat
point of its course the sticam taken the n.une
of Duddon I do not know I first lice a me
acquainted with the Duddon, as 1 have good
leason to remember, in rally boyhood Upon
the banks of the Dor went I hud learnt to be
very fond of angling Fish abound In that
large liter, not so in the small streams lu
the neighborhood of Iluwkshead , and I fell
Into the common delusion that the farther
from homo the be tter sport would be lind
Accordingly, one dny 1 at Inched myself to a
person living in the nelgbtboihood of lluwks-
hoad, who was going to try bin fortune as
an angler neai the source of the Duddon
We flalicd a gieat part of the day with \<>iy
sorry success, the lain pouilng toi rents, ond
long before we got homo*! was woin out with
fatigue, and, If tbe good man had not can led
me on his track, I must hitvo lain down under
the best shelter I could find Little did I
think then It would be my lot to celebrate, In
a strain of love and admiration, the stream
which for many years I never thought of
without recollections of disappointment and
distress
"Duilng my college vacation, and two or
three years afterwaids, Iwforc taking my
Bachelor's degree, I wan several times resi-
dent In the house of a near relative who lived
In the small town of Broughton I passed
many delightful hours upon the tanks of this
river, which becomes an estuary about a mile
from that place."
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
1373
BCCLB8IAST1CAL BONMTS
"During the month of December, 1820, I
accompanied a much-beloved and honoied
friend in a walk through different parts of
his estate, with a view to flx upon the sito
of a no* chuich which he Intended to erect
It WRH one of the most beautiful roomings
of a mild season,— our feelings wore In hai-
mony with the choilshiug Influences of the
scene, and such being oui purpose, we were
naturally led to look back upon past events
with wonder and giatitudc, and on the future
with hope Not long afterwards, some of the
sonnets which will be found towards the close
of this series were produced as a prhnte
memorial of that morning's occupation
"The Catholic question, which was agitated
In Parliament about that time, kept my
thoughts in the. same course, and It struck
me tout certain points In the ecclesiastical
hlstoiy of our country might advantageously
be piescntcd to \ionv In verse Accordingly,
I took up the subject, and what I now offer
to the reader was the result" — Woidswoith'8
note
312. TO A HK\I \RK
Pf this poem with Wordsworth's earlier
poem on tho same subject (p 2°<7) until
ShollcVh pooni (p 704) and Hogg's (p 477)
8CORV NOT Till SON NIT
"Composed, almost extempore, in a short 81 1.
walk on the westein side of Rvdal L,ike ' —
Wordsworth's note
TARROW HI VI SITED
This and tho t\\o following poems are the
1st, 2nd, and <>th of a nuuibci of poems writ-
ton as the icsult <if n toiu in Scotland in 1831,
and published under the title 1 arrow Rn tu-
tted and Otlitr /'arm* In the Preface to
these poems, Wordsworth sa>s "In the
autumn of 1831, my daughter and I sot off
from Rydal to visit Sir Walter Scott before
bis dcprfituie for Italy . . How sadly
changed did I find him from the man I had
seen so healthy, gny, nnd hopeful, a few years
before, when he said at the inn at Patcrdale,
in my presence 'I moan to live till I am
df/ftfy, and shall write as long as I live*
On Tuesday morning Sir Walter Scott
accompanied us and most of the party to
Newark Castle cm the Yarrow When *c
alighted from the cairlages he walked prett\
stoutly, and had great pleasure in revisiting
those his fnvoiite haunts Of that excursion
the verses lanow Rerwittd are a memorial
Notwithstanding the romance that pervades
Sir Walter's works and attaches to many of
his habits, there is too much pressuie of fart
for these verses to harnionlie as much as I
could wish with other poems On our retuin
In the afternoon we had to cross the Tweed
directly opposite Abbotsford The wheels of
4>ur carriage grated upon the pebbles In the
bed of the stream, that there flows somewhat
rapidly, a rich but sad light of rather a
purple than n golden hue was spread over tho
Elldon hills at that moment, and, thinking
it piobable that it might IN> the laflt time
Sir Waltei would tint* the stieam, I wan not
a little mo ve<l, nnd exproHsed Home of my feel-
IngH In the sonnet beginning— 'A trouble not
of c loudK, or weeping tain ' At noon on Thurs-
day we left Abbotsford, and In the morning
of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious
conversation tfltc-A Me, when he spoke with
gratitude of the happy life which upon the
whole he had led lie had written in my
daughter's Album, Iwfore he came Into the
breakfast-room that moinlng, a few stanzas
addressed to her, and, while putting the book
into her hand, in his own study standing by
his desk, he said to her in my presence — 4I
*honld not have done anything of this kind
but for your father's sake they are probably
the last \crscs I shall ever write ' They show
how much his mind was Impaired, not by the
strain of thought but by the execution, some
of the lines being Imperfect, and one stania
wanting corresponding rhymes one letter,
the Initial ff. had been omitted In the spelling
of hlw own name "
Cf this poem with Wordsworth's Yarrow
f/Mii«ttrd (p 293) and Yarrow Vitited (p.
ms) gee notes pp 13GKa and 1371b
ON TH> PFPARTFRF OF SIR WALTFR SCOTT
See note on piecedlng poem
THl TBOSACIIS
The Trosachs is the name given to a ro-
mantic valley in the Highlands of western
I'eithshire, Scotland
"-\s recorded In my sister's Journal, I had
first seen the Trosachs in her aad Coleridge's
company The sentiment that runs through
this sonnet was natural to the season In which
I again saw this beautiful spot , but this and
some other sonnets that follow were colored
by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir
Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on
which he was going" — Wordsworth's note
See note on Y at tow Rtvmitrd, above
Cf this poem with Stepping Wettward (p.
2«VJ), composed in the same region, 27 years
earlier
IF THOU IND1BD DIB I VI THY LIGHT FROM
HIVVIS
"These verses were written some time after
we had become residents at Rydal Mount, and
I will take occasion from them to observe
upon the beauty of that situation, as being
backed and flanked by lofty fells, which bring
the heavenly bodies to touch, as It were, the
earth upon the mountain-tops, while the pros-
pect In front lies open to a length of level
valley, the extended lake, and a terminating
1374
BIBLIOGRAPHIES AND NOTES
ridge of low hills ; so that It gives an «ppor-
tonlty to the Inhabitants of the place of
noticing the stars in both the positions here
alluded to, namely, on the tops of the moun-
tains, and as winter-lamp* at a distance
among the leafless trees." — Wordsworth's note.
"THIRB"' SAID A STRIPLING, POINTING WITH
MBIT PBIDB
This and the following sonnet belong to a
group of 48 poeinB "composed or suggested
during a tour in the summer of 1883 " Words-
worth's companions were his son John and
hit, filend H. Crabb Robinson,
Wordsworth's note on the first of the son-
nets here printed Is as follows . "Mosgiel was
thus pointed out to me by a young man on
the top of the coach on my way from Glasgow
to Kilmarnock It Is remarkable that, though
Burns lived oome time here, and during much
the most productive period of his poetical
life, he nowhere adverts to the splendid pros-
pects stretching towards the sea aiid bounded
by the peaks of Arran on one part, which In
clear weather he must have had dally before
his eyes. In one of his poetical effusions he
tpeaks of describing 'fair Nature's face'1 as a
privilege on which he sets a high value,
nevertheless, natural appearances rarely take
a lead in his poetry. It is as a human being,
eminently sensitive and Intelligent, and not
as a poet, clad In his priestly robes and canv-
Ing the ensigns of sacerdotal office, that he
Interests and affects us Whether he speaks
of rivers, hills, and woods, It is not so much
on account of the properties with which they
are absolutely endowed, as relatively to local
patriotic remembrances and associations, or
as they ministered to personal feelings, espe-
cially those of love, whether happy or other-
wise;— yet It Is not always so. Boon after
we had passed Mosgiel Farm we crossed the
Ayr, murmuring and winding through a nar-
row woody hollow His line — 'Auld hermit
Ayr strays through his woods'1 — came at once
to my mind with Irwln, Lugar, Ayr, and
Doon," — Ayrshire streams over whlih he
breathes a sigh an being unnamed in song,
and surely his own attempt* to make them
known were as successful an his heart would
desire."
816. ' TO A CHILD
"This quatrain was extempore on observing
this Image, as I had often done, on the lawn
of Rydal Mount "—Word* worth's note
•
BXTIMPORI EFFD8IOK UPON THI DBATH OF
JAM** HOOG
"These versos w*re written extempore, Im-
mediately after reading a notice of the Rttrick
Shepherd's death In the Newcastle paper, to
the editor of which I bent a copy for publi-
cation. The persons lamented in these verses
wore all cither of my friends or acquaint-
ance."— Wordsworth'n note
31U. A P01T T — III I1AT1I I'LT III8 1IIAUX TO BCHOOL
"I wan impelled to write this sonnet by
the disgusting frequency with which the word
arttstwal, imported with other Impertinences
fiom the Germans, Is employed by writer* of
the present day for artWical lot thorn substi-
tute artificial, and the poetry written 011 thin
system, l>oth at home and abroad, will bo
for the most part much hotter characterised "
— Wordsworth's note
317.
PR1FACI
Wmpwn. st 16. 1 8
• VMo*. Dtian 1, st. 14, 1 8
To William Wmpaon, st. 8, L 6.
This Preface first appeared in the second
edition of Lyncal Ballad*, published in 1800.
In subsequent editions of Wordsworth's poenm
it was enlarged and modified, as horo tflven,
anil transferred to the end of the volume Tho
phrase "sex oral of the foregoing pocuib in the
title refers to the original Lyrical Ballads,
which Included the following poems b> Words
worth .
Lines left upon a Heat in a Itw-Ttee (p.
223 of this text)
The Ftmalt laytant
Ooody Jflaki and Harry dill (p. 228)
Lint« Writ tin at a Hmall D\»tanc( from my
House (To my Bwtct, p. 231).
ftimon Lee Tfi< Old hunt*m<in (p 230).
Anctdott for Failure
We Are tfeten (p 225)
Line* Written in Early kpting (p 2J1)
The Thorn (p 225).
The Last of the Flock
7/ic Mad Mother (Her Eyi* An mid p.
229)
The Idwt Boy.
Lttus Written near Richmond, upon the
Thome* t at Eieninu
E* population and Reply (p 2(2)
The Table* Turned (p 232)
Old Man TtavcUiny
The Complaint of a Fo*»ak<n Indian
Woman.
Tht Convict.
Line* written a V<w Mile* Above Tmtern
Abbey (p 233)
Also the following by Coleridge
The Rime of the Aneyent Marlnerc (p 835)
The Potter-Mother'* Talt
The Nightingale, a GnnremaHonul Poem
(p 856).
The Dungeon.
For the other poems which appeared In tho
second odltlon of Lyrical Ballads, see tho
Glossary under Lyrical Ballad*.
8lTb. 25ff. That is, one expects a poem written
in a given period to exemplify the charac-
teristics peculiar to the poetry of that period.
EDWABD YOUNG '1375
The poetry of the age of Catullus, Terence, Johnson, 8. • The Lives of the English Poets
and Lucrrtius was less aitifldal than that (1779-81) , 8 vols , ed by G B Hill (London,
of the age of StatluB and Claudian The Clarendon Press, 1006).
poetry of tho age of Bhalwpere and Beau- Kind, J, L . Edward Young <» Germany (New
uiont and Fletcher wan characterized by upon- York, Macmillan, 1906, 1908).
tanclty and naturalness; that of Donne and Nholley, II. C UJc and Letters of Edmrd
Cowley, by cxtiavugant refinements, that of loung (Boston, Little, 1914).
Dryden and Pope, by prcdilon and conformity Texte, J "Young's Influence In France/1 Jean
to let rules. Jacques Rousseau, and the Comopolitan Spirit
3. Creation— "It is worth whllo here to in Literature, English translation by J W
observe that tho affecting parts of Chaucer Matthews (London, Duckworth, 1899, New
are almost always expressed in language pure York, Macmlllan)
and universally intelligible even to this day " Thomas, W Lc poHe Edward Toung (Parto,
— WordHWorth'B note. Hathette, 1901)
82<>b. «3. Poitrv— "I here uhed the word poetry
(though against my own Judgment) ab opposed CRITICAL NOTES
to the word prose, and synonymous with
metrical competition But much confusion As * nile, Young's verse IB hollow and formal,
hflH been introduced Into criticism by thih flnd hlh thought < omnionplacc> , >et nib theme—
contradistinction of poetry and prone, instead ttu ^"P* *™ ™nn«* and drew, etc-*nd his
of the more philosophical one of poetry and ™ <* W™* ™™ «** his work Important among
matter of fa<t, or scionce. The only strict the forerunners of RomanticlBm
antithesis to prow IB metre nor IB this, in
truth, a titnct antithesis, because linen and 88. NIGHT THOUGHTS
IMifihaROB of metre BO naturally occur in writ-
ing prone, that it would be scarcely powlble As originally published this popm was en-
to avoid thpin, even were it dcBlrable"- tltled rhf Gonplaint, or, mght Thoughts.
Wordsworth's note y°un« Prefixed to It the following Preface
322. 2Nff. (f Shelley'H A Defense of Poetry "AB «»e occasion of this poem was real, not
(p 740b, Biff ) fictitious, HO the method pursued in It was
rather mposed by what spontaneously arose
in the author's mind on that occasion, than
EDWARD YOUNG (168M765), p. 33 •**«•*« or dewntd, which will appear very
proliable from the nature of it For it differs
EDITIONS from the common mode of poetry, which is,
Poetical Wrrfar, 2 vulb, od, with a Life, by J ^m long narrations to draw short morals
Mltfonl (\ldim nl London, Hell, 1884, Here, on the contrary, the narrative is short,
1S71, Ne\v Urk, Mucmlllan) and tne morality arising from It makes the
A***, eel, with u Memoir hi W. M Bossettt bulk of the P°*m The wawn of « is that
(London, Ward and I*ck, 1871). the facts mentioned did naturally pour these
Prow ForAa (London, 17«5) moni1 ^flections on the thought of the writer "
ttflb. Rl. Speaking of Dryden, Young says "The
Ginr.RAPHv ANH CPiTieiftM strongebt demonstiatlon of his no taste for
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Eliot, 0 "Worldllnesh and Othcrworldliness rhyme, which in epic poetry is a sure disease,
the Poet Young,*' K*nau* (London, Black- in the tragic, absolute death To Dryden's
\NO(Ml, 18S8) enormity, Pope's was a slight offence As
Hazlltt, W "On Rwlft, Young, Gray, Collins, lacemen are foes to mourning, these two au-
etc ," Lecture* on the Enqluh Poets (Ixindon, thora, rich in rhyme, were no great friends to
1K1S) , roHrofcd Work*, ed Waller and thuse solemn ornaments which the noble na-
(Jlover (U)Ddon, Dent, 1002-06, New York, tare of their works required "—From Con/eo-
McGlure), 5, 104. tures on Original Composition.
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
The following glofwaiy la meant to include all the proper names occurring in the text, with
the following exceptions
1 Names explained in the text itself
Names explained m the footnotes or in the critical notes, especially names found in
titles
4
Names of imagmaiy persons and places, and of other perbons and places not identified
Names of \ery iamilUr poisons and places reloience to which is immediately clear
The glOHBuiy ai.ua to supply merely the specific inlormation that is needed in connection
with the naineb as they occui in the text
Aaron. A high -pi lest ol the Israelites, and the
brother ol MUSCJH When the twelve lods of the
tribes of Israel were placed In the tabernacle,
Aaron's, alone, budded in confu ination of his
appointment to the prlebthuod
AbBHsldeH A famous dy natty ol caliphs at Bagdad,
Asiatic Tuikey, 740-1 J'»«
AbbotMford The residence of Sir Walter Scott on
the Rlvei Tweed. Roxburghshire, Scotland
Abel The second son ot Adam He offered a more
acceptable sacrifice than his brother Cain, and
was slain by him out of Jc alousy
Abelard. 1'eter Abelard (1070-1142). a noted French
philosopher and theologian lie was the in-
strue tor and i> 11 tmour ol Heloise After their
mariiatfc. Abelard became a monk, and Heloise
retired to a con\ < nt The utorv of their love is
prcicr\ed In their letters which ha\e been fre-
quently published See Topes Eloiia to Abilaid
Aberdeen 1 — (4«I3, 40',)— George Gordon, (1784-
18110), 4th Earl nt \hrrdeen, a member of the
Athenian Society, and the author of 4« /tir/iiuy
into /At Pnimplm nf It tit tit? m (Jrctian Archi-
tecture 2 — (1114) — An important seapoit in the
county ot A be id ten, Scotland
AberdfMir A small place on the Firth of Forth,
near Edinburgh, Scotland
Aberfenlc A small vlllake In Perthshire, central
Scotland near loch Kalilne
Abora, Mount. See Mount 4 bora
Abouklr A qeaeoast village near Alexandria,
KK>pt, em the west side of Abouklr Rm Here
Admiral Nelson gained a decisive \ictory over
the French fleet. AUK 1, I7WN
Abram. First of the patriarchs and founder of the
Hebrew riuc
Abram, Height* of The scene of Wolfe's \lctory
over Mont calm, before Quebec Sept 11, 17P»M
Any don A town In Asia Minor on the Hellespont,
the scene of the romance of Hern and Lcandcr
Abtmlnla An empire In northeastern Africa
Academy of C'ompllrarntN. A popular treatise with
the sub-title Tki ttftnlr Art of CwrttMp, B<in*
tlii Ranut and Moat hjtut Way of W funny a Maid
ot Widow by Way of Dtalogur or CompHmfntal Eat-
prr«M»fi* Books of slmllai titles were published
In 10 Vi anil 1GOM
Achlllett. A Greek legendary warrior son of Pel e us
and Thetis He Is the principal character In the
Iliad, which Is largely occupied with a quarrel
with Affami mnon leader of the Greek army,
and his martial exploits Achilles was noted
for his heioism and his fierce passions Alter
defeating Hector, Achilles dragged his body
around the walls of Tioy
Achltophel A character In Drvden's Abaalom and
A<Mtophfl, representing Anthony Ashley Cooper
(1021-83). Eail of Shaftesbury, a noted English
Achray A lake in western Perthshire, Scotland,
near Stifling
Aeon. Acre (Akka). a seaport of Syria, which was
• Richard Cceur de T.lon in 1191
Iontory
chain
taken by Richard Occur de lAon in 1191
Acroceraunlan The ancient name of a promt
in Kplrus Greece formed by the end of a
of hill* called the Cera u nil Montes
1877
Acron. A Sicilian physician said to have conquered
the plague In Athens in 440 B C
Acta?a A >l\ur-goddess
~ ' _ . A hunter, who saw Diana bathing, and
who was changed by her Into a stag, and killed
by his own hounds
Actlnm A promontory on the coatt of Acainania,
ancient Greece.
Addlson. Joseph Addlson (1072-171!)), a noted Eng-
lish essayist, principal contributor to The Spec-
tator
Adelung. Johann Christoph Adelung (1732-1806), a
noted German philologist and lexicographer, au-
thor of MithndalLS, a general treatise on lan-
guage, and of a Grammatico-critical Dictionary,
regarded as superior to Johnson s
Admetuti. A mythological king of Thessaly, the
husband of Alcestls.
Adon* bee AdonlM
AdonalH. The name given by Shelley to Keat*. and
used by htm as the title of a poem See note on
Adtmai*. p 1840a
Adonis A beautiful youth, beloved by Venus He
was slam by a wild boar, and at Vcnus's request
it was decreed that he should spend half the
year in the upper world and the either h\lf In
the lower
Adrla. Adrian. The Adriatic Sea. lying east of Italy
Adriatic. A sea lying east of Italy
Adventures of the Hon. Capt Robert Boyle. A book
by W R Oheterode (1720)
.. An island lying between Italy and Sicily, and
fabled as the abode of Circe
A sea east of Greece
In Roman im thology, one of the Camenn
(Identified with the Muse*), by whom Numa was
Instructed with regard to the forms of worship
he was to Introduce into Roman temples
A m>thologlcal king of Athens The JEgean
Sea was, bv tradition, named after him because
he drowned himself in it
JEglsthns. Son of Thyestes, in Greek mythology,
slayer of Atreus, and paramour of Clytemnestra,
whom he aided In the sla\lng of her husband,
Agamemnon He was ilam bv Orestes
pas The hero of Virgil's timid, and a promi-
nent defender of Trov in Hnmer s Iliad He
was the son of Anchises and Aphrodite
rid An epic poem by Virgil relating the wan-
derings of ^EQneas from Troy to various countries
around the Mediterranean
I JEolvn. god of winds
In ancient geography, the western coast of
Asia Minor
jRollan Of or pertaining to JBolui, god of winds,
of or pertaining to Jsolla in Asia Minor The
£5ollan harp wa« a stringed instrument, usually
placed where the wind would strike it and pro-
duce music The ^ollan lyre was the lyre of
Pindar, a famous lyric poet, who belonged to the
.AGolIan division of the Gieek race
JEolm God of the winds
Eternal, lasting for eons
, (Rth century B C ) One of the great
tragic poets of Greece He left Athens for the
court of Syracuse in 468, in humiliation, accord*
1378
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
Ing to Plutarch, at being defeated for the tragic
prise by Sophocles
JEaon. In classic mythology, the father of Jason
(noted for his quest of the Golden Fleece)
Medea, the sorceress, at Jason's request, restored
aged JBson to the vigor of youth
JEsop. According to tradition, a Greek fabulist of
the 6th century B C
^Ethiopia. In ancient times, a country south of
Egypt
£2thon. One of the horses of the sun, named in
Ovid's Mlctamorphott*
JEtnean Of or resembling Mt Etna, a volcano In
Affrfco. A small stream near Lander's home in Fle-
sole, Italy It was celebrated by Boccaccio In
his NiHfale, and near It the stories of his De-
cameron were related
Afton. A small river in Ayrshire, Scotland
Agamemnon. An ancient king of Mycene? and leader
of the Greeks in the Trojan War He Is the sub-
ject of a tragedy by ASschylus, a Greek drama-
tist of the 5th century B C
Agave. Mother of Pentheus, King of Thebes Pen-
theus was discovered watching the orgies of the
BacchjB In a wood near Thebes, and was torn to
pieces by his mother and two sisters, in their
frensy
Agra. A military and commercial city in a north-
western province of India, taken by the British
In 1808
Afrlppa. Cornelius Heinrlch Agrlppa (1486-1588), a
German philosopher and student of alchemy and
magic Numerous marvels are ascribed to him
See Thomas Nash's The Unfortunate Traveller, or,
The Life of Jack Wilton (1594)
AJuMoeruM. The name of a Jewish cobbler, accord-
ing to a late legend, who refused Christ permis-
sion to rest when passing his house on the way
to Calvary The sentence pionounced by Christ
was. "Thou shalt wander on the earth till I re-
turn " The story has frequently been used In
literature and art
Allsa Rock A lisa Crag, a rocky island on the coast
of Ayrshire. Scotland
Alx A city of France, near Marseilles, famous for
Its hot saline spring used by the Romans
AJax. A leading Greek heio In the Trojan War,
noted for his slxe and strength
Alban Mount. A mountain near Rome. Italy
Moan's. See Saint Alban's.
Ubln. A poetic name for Scotland
A poetic name for England
, A town In Spain, the scene of a victory of
the British and their allies over the French, in
Albyn. Same as Albln
Alneus (fl 600 B C ) A famous Greek poet
Aleestls. A daughter of Peliaa, and wife of Adme-
tus, a king in Thessaly She voluntarily died to
save the life of Admetus, and was brought back
from Hades by Hercules, or, according to an-
other version of the story, by Proserpina The
legend is the subject of a tragedy by Euripides,
a Greek dramatist of the 5th century B C
dbiadee (1th century B C ) An Athenian states-
man and general
Alclna. A fairy In Orlando Innamorato, an Italian ro-
mance by Bolarilo (14847-04)
Alexander the Great. King of Macedonia (886-828
B C ) Immediately upon his accession he made
himself master of all Greece After conquering
Persia and Egvpt, he crossed the Indus River
(B C 827), and Invaded India
Alexandria A seaport of Egypt, near the western-
most branch of the Nile delta, on the Medlter-
AU-* oiden. See Alfoxden.
Alloway. A chuich not far from Burns' • birthplace
near Ayr, Ayrshire, Scotland
Alp, Any one of the Alps Mountains
Alpheus. In Greek mythology, a river-god, repre-
sented originally as a hunter who fell In love
with the nymph Arcthusa She fled irom him
and was transformed into a fountain, Alpheus
then became a river
Alphonso. See Alfonso X.
Ajnalak A grandson of Esau, and prince of an
Arab tribe, the Amalekltes When they at-
tacked the Israelites in the desert, the Amale-
kltes were driven off by Joshua and doomed to
extermination
Amain. A seaport of Italy, eouth of Naples
Amalthea. A nymph who nuised the Infant Jupiter
Amarlllls. The name of a rustic maiden or shep-
herdess, in various pastorals
Antasls. An Egyptian king of the 6th century B C
Axoason. One of a race of female warriors, said to
have dwelt In Scythla. famous In literature for
their contests with the Greeks
Amber. A name given by the Greeks to the Islands
In the North Sea
A character In At You LIU It
Peace of. A peace concluded at Amiens,
Frame, between Great Britain on the one hand,
and France, Spain, and the Batavian Republic
on the other
men. 1 — The ancestor of a people called Ammo-
nites, frequently mentioned In the Old Testa-
ment 2 — (1170) — Alexander the Great, King
of Macedonia (3JO-328 B C ). who boasted that
he was a son of the Egyptian god Ammon
Bret. In Spenser's The faerie Qucttn, the wife of
hlr Scudamor* She Is a type of feminine love-
Amphlon A son of Jupiter and Antiope By the
music of his lyre, he caused stones to move and
form themselves into a wall around Thebes
Amphltrlte The wife of Neptune, god of the sea
Anartvon CUb century B C ) A Greek lyric poet
Analogy. A theological treatise by Joseph Butler
(1682-1752), an English theologian The full
title IH Analogy of Religion, ftatuial and KiocaltJ,
to the Conntitutwn and t ouree of Nature*
A rlvei in Sicily
is. The title of a work by the English
wilter. Thomas Hope (1770-1831)
Anatomv of Melancholy , The. A book by Robert
Burton (1376-1040). an English divine
Anaxagoras ( 1th century B r ) A famous Greek
philosopher
Ancient Pistol See p 101 8b. n 4
Anderton's A coffee-house In Fleet St . London.
Andes. A mountain lange along the west side of
South America.
IronUMhe. The wife of Hccior leader of the
Trojans In the Tiojan War The French opera
Andromaque was written by Andre G re try (1741-
Iromeda A northern constellation, supposed to
represent the figure of a woman chained Ac-
cording to Greek legend Andromeda was ex-
posed to a sea-monster rescued bv Perseus, and
id, after her d<ath, Into a constellation
iSSS
In Virgil's second Eclooue a beautiful youth
beloved by the shepherd Corydon
Alfonso. 1— (102)— Alfonso IX, King of Castile
(1158-1214), surnamed "The Noble" and "The
Good " 2— (e2«5)— Alfonso X. King of Leon and
Castile ( 12-52-82), surnamed •The Wise" and
"The Astronomer"
Alford. Halford, a village in Somersetshire, Eng-
Alfoxden. The large mansion and park, the home
of Wordsworth In Somersetshire Bee MV Pint
Acquaintance with Poete (p 1088b, Biff )
Alfred. Alfred the Great, the famous King of the
West Saxons (871-001), noted for his generous
service to his people
an-Baae. A gray-haired bard In The Lad* of the
n?*Bob Allen, a student at Christ's Hospital,
contemporary with Lamb.
Annrbode A famous giantess In Norse mythology
AnTo. A river In central Italy It Is noted for Its
beautiful valley and waterfall, 880 ft high
aSffh+lifr A character In John Ford's 'Tit Pity
Rhe'9 a Whore (1688)
Annan. A river in Dumfriesshire, Scotland
Anne. Queen of England (1702-14)
Annecy A town in eastern France
Anson. Lord George (1607-1762) An English ad-
Antiparos, Grotto of. Antiparos Is an island of the
Greek Archipelago, celebrated for a stalactite
Antoinette, Marie. See Marie Antoinette.
Antonlne Marcus Aurellus Antoninus (121-180). a
celebrated Roman emperor and Stole philoso-
pher
trlct In Boeotla, w.vv«c
•os. In ancient geography, a rooky stronghold,
situated near the Indus, taken by Alexander the
Great from native defenders in 827 B C
ennme The central mountain system of Italy
hiodlte. At the marriage of Peleus and Thetis
In Thessaly, Greece. Parts, son of Priam, King of
Troy, awarded the golden apple to Aphrodite
GL088ABY OF PBOPER NAMES
1379
(Venus, goddess of love and beauty) as the most
beantifuf woman This pleased Ares (Mars),
the lover of Aphrodite, but aioused the wrath of
Athena and Hera (Pallas, goddess of wisdom
and war, and Juno, queen of heaven), and led to
the fall of Troy Aphrodite (Venus) fell in love
h Adonis Bee Adonis
_ j. A famous Roman epicure of the 1st cen-
tury A D
Apis. The sacred bull worshiped by the ancient
Egyptians
Apocalypse. The revelation made to the Apostle
John and recorded In Revelation
Apollonian. Resembling Apollo, noted for his
youthful beauty
Apollo. One of the great Olympian gods, son of
Jupiter and Latona He was the god of music,
poetry, and healing As god of the sun, he
was represented at driving the chariot of the
•un through the sky and as sinking Into the
western ocean at evening He slew the Python,
a monstrous serpent dwelling In the caves of
Mount Parnassus He loved a beautiful youth
named Hyacinth us, but act iden tally slew him
with a quoit He was Inspired by Cupid with
love for a maiden. Daphne, who fled his ad-
vances, and escaped him by being changed Into
a laurel tree Apollo s constant attributes were
the bow, the lyre, and the laurel wreath
Apollo Belvedere A celebrated antique statue of
Apollo In the Belvedere, a portion of the Vatican
Palace In Rome
Apollyon. The angel of the bottomless pit, in Reve-
lation
Applan. A Roman historian of the 2nd century
A D
Appleby A town In the county of Westmoreland,
England
Aquarius. A constellation supposed to represent a
man standing with his left hand extended up-
ward, and with his right pouring a stream of
water out of a vase
Arabia. A country of southwestern Asia, between
the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf
Arabian Nlsrhta, The A famous and ancient collec-
tion of Eastern stories
Arabic. The language spoken originally by the Ara-
bians
Amble; Arabv. Poetic names for Arabia
Aragon. An ancient kingdom, now a part of north-
eastern Bpaln
Arcadia; Arcadian A picturesque dHtrlct of the
Peloponnesus praised for the simplicity and
contentment of Its people, and represented as
the horn i of pant oral poetry
Arcadian K\ orators Beings who summoned up
spirits of the dead They resided in Phlgalia,
Greece
•ady A poetic name for Arcadia
itnri, Arctnms A brilliant star In the northern
hemisphere, the fourth In order of brightness In
the entire heavens
Ardalla. Bee note on Life Passes Not at Some Men
flaw, p notb
AroVn. A foiwt In A* You Lifrc It, the retreat of the
banished Duke and of Rosalind
Ardennes In ancient times, a large forest In Gaul
(modern France)
Ares. Mars, god of war Bee Aphrodite.
Arsthusa. A nymph who, while bathing, was pur-
sued by her lover, Alpheus. the river-god She
fled under the sea to the Island of Ortygla,
where she was transformed Into a fountain
Alpheus was changed into a river
MM* A political alfcpgory by John Barclay
(in82-1621), said by Cowper to be the most
amusing romance ever written
Argo The ship of the Argonauts
Argonauts. The sailors who accompanied Jason in
the Argo, In quest of the Golden Fleece
Argos. The most ancient city In Greece
Alias. In Greek legend, the guardian of lo He
was famed to have had one hundred eyes He
was slain by Hermes
" ~r*. A county In western Scotland
Daughter of Minos, King of Crete She
fell In love with Theseus, and gave him a clew
of thread to guide him o
case " " ""
with
Isle of Naxos There Bacchus found her and
AJ made her.hls wife
Ann*
Arcta
competition, he was compelled to leap into the
sea, by sailors who are said to have robbed him,
he was carried to shore by dolphins which had
gathered to listen to his music
Arleeto (1474-1588) A famous Italian poet
Aiistides. A celebrated Athenian statesman and
general who was exiled through the Influence of
Themlstocles, his rival, in 488 B C He was re-
called In 480 because of his service at the Battle
of Salami*, against the Persians
Aristotle (884-822 B C ) The most famous and in-
fluential of Greek philosophers He was the
author of a treatise on moral philosophy entitled
Nicomarhean Ethics, of a treatise on poetry enti-
tled Poetic*, and of other works
Ark Bee Qentti* 6 14ff
Armada. The fleet sent against England by Philip
II of Spain In 1588
Armlda. A beautiful sorceress who ensnared Rl-
naldo, In Tasso's epic poem JenuaUm Delivered
Arno. 1— (05)— Bee note on Finffal, p 1800b 2—
(869, 821) — A river of Tuscany, which flows into
the Mediterranean
Arplnnm An ancient town In Caserta province,
Italy, the birthplace of Marlus
Amu. An island on the west coast of Scotland,
noted for Its lofty mountain-peaks It Is the an-
cient seat of the Ham 11 tons, a noted Scotch
family
Art of Cookery. A cook-book by Mrs Rundell, first
entitled Family Rereipt Book (1810), In later edi-
tions. Domestic Cookery It was one of Murray's
most successful books He paid £2,000 for the
Artemis. Diana, goddess of the moon and the
chase. Bee Diana
Arthur. A BrltHh chieftain of the 6th century, cele-
brated In Welsh, Breton, and old Fiench ro-
mance
Arve. A river In France and Bwitscrland, which
waters the valley of Cbamounl
Arvelron A small stream in eastern France, a
branch of the River Arve
Arvlragus. Cvmbcline's son. In Shaksperc's Cystse-
linet who assumes the name of Cadwal
ATVOB. Carnarvonshire, a county in Wales, opposite
m the Isle of Anglesey
Asrabart, Asrapart A „.
mance Bevi« of Hampt.., _____ „ _____ _____
feet high He was overthrown by Sir Bevls
Ashe A small village In the county of Surrey, Eng-
land
Ashtaroth. A general name of the Syrian deities.
Het Pnra<H*r Lost. I 422
Ashnr Asshur, the highest god of the Assyrians
AsmodeisB. King of the Demons
Aspmtla. A character In Beaumont and Fletcher**
TJte Maid's TraQcdy (oltUO)
Asphaltes Asphaltltes, an ancient name of the
Dead Sea
Assyria. An ancient empire In southwestern Asia.
AstiM The goddess of Justice
Atalantls. A scandalous romance entitled Memoir*
of the New Atalantis, written by Mrs Mary Man-
ley, a popular English writer of the early 18th
century The story is an account of the crimes
of thinly- dlPRuIsed persons of high rank
Athena. Goddess of wisdom and war Bee Aphro-
dite.
Athenieiis A Greek rhetorician and philosopher of
the 2nd century A D His De1p*Q*opM*t(c Is a
storehouse of quotations
Athene. Bee Athena.
giant in the medieval ro-
ptoM, said to have been 80
,
s, and gave him a clew
out of the labyrinth In
Minotaur Having fled
he should slay the
Theseus, she was abandoned by him on the
AtlM
is. In classic mythology, a Titan, who was sup-
posed to suppoit the pillars of heaven on his
shoulders as a punishment for making war
against Zeus
Attic; Attica. Of or belonging to Attica, an ancient
kingdom of Greece
Attila. A famous King of the Huns (406T-458)
surname/! "The Scourge of God" on account of
. _ the terrible destruction wrought by his armies
Anbert. Peter. Probably Peter Auber, assistant seo-
» retanr of the Bast India Company In 1820
Anentadt. A town in Baxony where the French de-
m feated the Prussians in 1806
Angtmu. Pierre FrancoH Charles Auffereau (17BT-
4. A tricky spirit In Bhakspertfe Tie Trmpnt. 1816), a noted French marshal
See note on With a Guitar to Jane, p 1842s Augustine, flt
n. A Greek poet and musician in Lesbos Re- - -
.
turning from Sicily, after a successful musical
sttae, « Aurellus Augustlnus (8M-480). the
most celebrated father of the Latin Church, au-
thor of Confession*
1380
GLOSSARY OF PBOPEB NAMES
!•»»••». Augustus CsMar, the first Roman em-
peror (81 B C -14 AD) During his reign.
Roman literature reached its highest point Bee
note on Tibentu and PipMftto, p ISOBa
Anita. A town on the eastern coast of BoBOtia,
Greece. It was the rendezvous of the Greek fleet
in the expedition against Troy
on. Goddess of the dawn, represented as rising
from the ocean in a chariot, with her fingers
dripping dew She was attended by the Hours
She fell in love with Tithonus, the son of Lao-
medon, King of Troy She prevailed on the gods
to grant Tithonus immoi tality, but forgot to
ask Immortal youth for him He grew old, and
was changed by Aurora into a grasshopper
Aurora BorealU. A phenomenon of the atmosphere,
often seen during UK night in high northern
latitudes, called commonly "Northern Lights "
Ansonla. A poetical name for Italy
Anster. The south wind
Austral Pertaining to the south
AvenUenm. The ancient name of Avenches, a town
in Switzerland It was an Important Roman
city, destroyed by the Huns in 447. It contains
walls and other ancient remains
Avon. A river In the midland counties of England,
on which Stratford, where Shakapere lived, is
located
Axtun6 An ancient city In Abyssinia, noted for its
antiquities
A> Inner, Rose. A daughter of Lord Aylmer, a friend
of Lander's
Ayr. The name of a city and a river In Ayrshire,
Scotland
Aclnt'our Aglncourt, a village in France, southeast
of Boulogne, the scene of an English victory
over the French in 1415
Asrael. The angel of death
B. One of De Qulncey's guardians He was a mer-
chant '
Baal. The supreme divinity of the ancient Syro-
Phcenlclan nations He was also worshiped as
the sun-god *•
el 1 — (469)— The city of Babylon 2— (577)—
The tower described In Otmegis 11, during the
building of which occurred the confusion of
tongues 8 — (012, 740) — Tumult, confusion
In the Wood. The In Percy's K '
lldren who p* rished in
the Wood. The In Percy's Hehque* a
ballad of two children who p« rished in Wayland
B.b'lon
Wood, Norfolkshlre, England
'lens Babylon The capital of ancient Babylonia.
in Asia, situated on the Euphrates River For
the destruction of the city, see Ret elation, 14 8
and 18 10-21 It Is noted for its Hanging Gar-
dens, one of the se\en wonders of the world
Bacchanal, Bacchanalian Pertaining to Baccha-
nalia, the worship of Bacchus, or a festival in his
honor, usually a drunken revel
Baechle Nyra. See N>sa
Bacchus (Dionysus) The son of Jupiter, and the
god of wine His forehrad was crowned with
vine-leaves 01 ivy He rode upon the tiger, the
panther, or the lynx, and was drawn by them
In a car HI* worshipers were Bacchanals, or
Bacchantes He was attended bv Satyrs and
Sllenl. and women called Maenads who as they
danced and sang, waved In the air the thyrsus,
a staff entwined with Ivy and surmounted bv a
pine cone He gained the love of Ariadne,
daughter of King Minos of Crete
Barleuch; BueeleurS Sir Walter Scott of Branx-
holm (Branksome), In Roxburghshire, Scotland
Bacon. Francis Bacon (1501-1626), a celebrated Eng-
lish philosopher. Jurist, statesman, and essayist.
•aloe. A town and fortress in Spain, stormed by
"""EM InLrlent city in A.latlc Tnricey.
A village In the county of Surrey, Eng-
BalafnBaUr. A small seaport of Italy, west of
*Pl
end
Sha
BalleY
amln Bailey (1749-18-52). an Intimate
(1889-1402) who appear*
as a character In Marlowe's Tamburlaint «•
Great (clBSS), Racine's Baja*et (1672), and other
The prophet to whom Balak, King of
ents to Induce him to curse
he rode
blessing
Moab. sent presents to Induce him t
Israel, and who was rebuked by the ass
His utterance, by God's power, was a
bwAnancen city of Syria. Asia Minor,
famoui i for I™ i ruins, It was sacred to the wor-
ship of Baal, the sun god
A Spanish navigator who discovered the
Ocean In 1018
Bee note on Cartkun, p 1306m
._ Bee note on Jar Dtuctnt of Odm, p 1266L
Jwlo, C B Baldwin or Herbeit Baldwin, both
of whom were members of the House ot Com-
mons, 1880-88
Balk. Balkh. a region of Turkestan, in Asia
Balladof Betty Foj. A poem by Wordsworth
Baaborowe. A district in Northumberlandshlre,
England It contains Bamborough Castle, which
Is built on a high rock projecting into the North
Sea
Bangpr A city on the coast of Carnarvonshire.
North Wales
Bank, Bank of England The custodian of the
public money of Great Britain, and manager ot
the public debt, now the lazgest bank In the
world
Banks. John Banks (fl 1606) author of The V*-
happy Fa von to and other melodramatic pla>s
Bannister Jack Bannister (1700-1880), an English
comedian
moehar. A valley on the borders of Loch
Lomond, In the county of Dumbarton, Scotland
-|no A Scottish thane and general, the leg-
endary ancestor of the Stuarts, he appears In
lf-iaksperes Jfarftef*
lonle. A locality In the western part of rash-
mere, which Is bounded by Eastern Turkestan.
Tibet, and India
Barbara A child mentioned In Wordsworth s 'Tin
Said That Some Hai c Dted for Lori' Not to bo con-
fused with Barbara Lowthwaite, mentioned In
Wordsworth's Tkt P<t Lamb
Barbary The Mohammedan countries on the north
coast of Africa, not including Ef»pt
Barhloan A street In London, so called from a for-
mer watch-tower whlrh stood on It
Barclay. John Barclay (1582-10J1 ) a Scottish poet
Harden. A moor In Cumberlandshirt , England
Bardie clan. Bards, or poets
Barker's A former bookshop In what Is now Rus-
sell Street. London
Barleycorn. John. The personification of malt liq-
uor, as being made from barli >
Barnesdale A woodland region in the western part
of Yorkshire, England
Barnet A village in Hertfordshire, north of Lon-
don
Barnwell. George A character In George Llllo's
tragedy Tftr LondVm M< reliant or th< Uisttny of
Oror<j< rttnnicill (1731)
Barrett, Ellraheth An English poet (1800-01 )
Barrow John Barrow (1704-1848), an English
writer and traveler
Barthollnus Thomas Bartholln (1010-80), a Danish
ivniclun and scholar
ew, Bt One of the twelve apostles
William Bartram (1780-1823) on Ameri-
can botanist and ornithologist, who wroti Ttai
rl* Tnrtntok North and flout h Caiohnat Georgia, En*t
and Went Florida, etc
Basques. A race of unknown orlfrin Inhabiting the
Basque provinces and other parts of Rpaln In the
neighborhood of the Pynnots
Bateable Land. Debatable Land a reRlon on the
border of England and Scotland formerlv
claimed by both kingdoms it comprised about
SO square miles north and tast of the mouth ot
the River Esk
Bath A town In Somersetshire, Enrlaml It Is one
of the leadlng> watering places of England, and
is noted for its hot springs
Bathvllus. A poem by Anacrcon, a Greek Ivrlc poet
of the Hfth century B C
Battle. A town In the county of Sussex -which re-
ceived Us name from the Battle of HantIngR,
fought there in 1OA6
Battle Abbey A large Benedictine monasterv. built
by William the Conqueror in 10A7 on the spot
where Harold's banner had been planted In the
Battle of Hastings
Battle of Hexham. A comedy by George Col man
the Younger (1762-1886).
Bavins. An Inferior Roman poet of the first century
B C ; an enemy of Virgil and Horace
Bearen-hlll. A prominent hill near Penrlth, Cum-
berlandshlre, England
Bear. The Great. Ursa Malor, a large northern con-
stellation, containing the seven conspicuous stars
called the Great Dipper
Seattle James Seattle (1781-1808), a Scotch poet.
essayist, and philosophical writer See p 119
GLOSSARY OF PROPEB NAMES
1381
Beatty. Mr. Sir William Beatty (d 1842), an Eng-
llsh Burgeon, lor many yeaia in the seivice of the
navy
Minont. Francis Beaumont (1584-1016), an
Elisabethan dramatist, collaborator with John
Fletcher
inmont, Sir George (1758-1827) An English
landscape painter and patron ot art
to (078-785) A celebrated English monk and
ecclesiastical wiiter
Iford. John Plantagenet (1889-1483), Duke of
Bedford, an English gencial and statesman
He abetted the execution of Juan of Aic In 14.il
Item. The hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem in
London, founded about 1247 On the suppres-
sion of religious houses by Henry VIII, it was
incorporated as a hospital for the insane, in
1*547
Bedlamite* — (264 >— Dim harped inmates of Bed-
lam Hospital, llcmitcd to beg
Bedouin Arab One of the nomadic Arabs of Syria,
Arabia, and northern Africa
Beelxebub. The prince of the demons, the devil
~ timan Jacob Uohman (1375-1624). a noted Ger-
man m\stic
a A town In the district of Lais, in southeastetn
Baluchistan went of India
Belcher. Tom Btlcher (1788-1 814). younger brother
of James Be k her, a will-known pine-fighter,
who kept a tavern in Holborn, a district in the
central part of London
Belial The anclrnt Hebrew personification of reck-
leHHnms 01 lawlessness, htnce, thi de\ll
Bellarmlne Timlin il Roberto Bellarmlno (1142-
10121), an Italian divine
Bellini. Vine en/o n< lllnl ( 1802-85), a famous Italian
operatic cnmpnncr
Bemho, Cardinal (1470-1547) An Italian cardinal
and writer
Ben-sin A mountain north of the Trosachs, a valley
of wisltin Ptithshlie Scotland
Benherula, Island of \n Island of the Hebrides,
betucin Notth I'lst and South List, wist of
^cotliincl
Bengal A province In northeastern British India
Benledl. A mountain In Perthshhe, Gotland The
nnme hljcnlfles VfWHtnln of tiutl
Ben-ltomond. A mountain in Stirlingshire, Scot-
land
Benmore. A mountain near Loch Katrine In Perth-
shire, Scotland
Benvenue. A mountain In Perthshire Scotland
Bent olrllch. A mountain In IN rthshlre Scotland
BerkHe>. George Berkeley (1085-1758), an Irish
bl*shop and philosopher
Berkeley Cantle A Norman stronghold Gloucester-
shire England Here Edward II was murdered
In H27
Bermoothes. An old form of Brrmndas
Bermudas A British HI and group in the North
Atlantic Ocean
Bernard. Abbot of rinlrtnnx (1001-11'S) A cele-
brntfd Frinch ecdonloitlc
Berwick-Law North Beiwl<k Law. a prominent
height in TToddlngtonshlre Scotland o\erlook-
ing the Firth of Forth
Bewi, Oneen Elisabeth. Quern of England (1558-
10O8)
Bethlehem. An ancient city in Palestine, th«> birth-
place of Christ
Betterton. Thomas Bettcrton (1035 '-1710), a noted
English actor
Bey. A title given to nons of Pashas and to the
nobility Tt Is conferred by the Sultan
Bev Oglon The title of a Turkish nobleman
Blffod. Ralph. John Fenwlck, an earlj nineteenth
century editor His life was full of misfortune*
Lamb borrowed the name Riand from the old
family name of the Earls of Norfolk
Billet, Mr. Lamb's "poor relation "
Blrlcberk. George B Irk bock (1700-1841), a London
physician, founder of Mechanics' Institute, Blrk-
beck College and University College. London
Birmingham A Inrge manufacturing city in War-
wickshire, England
Bluhonimte The principal entrance through the
northern wall of Old London
Black. John Black n7R8-1fr>5), a distinguished
Journalist, editor of Tkr Uomlnq Chronicle, a
prominent London paper, from 1810 to 1848
Black Prince, The. Edward. Prince of Wales (1880-
76), a son of Edward TIT of England, BO named
by "terror of his arms "
Blaekwood. 1— (412)— ««r Henry Blackwood (1770-
1882) an English naval captain 2— (80S, 1085)
—William Blackwood (1770-1884), a Scotch
is a rank Toiy
magazine of Edinburgh,
edited by William Black -
publisher and bookseller, founder of The Edin-
luigh Mayagine He was a rank Toiy
Btakwood's Magazine. A magai
Scotland, lounded and edited 1
wood (1770-1834).
Blake, Robert Blake (1508-1057), a famous British
admiral who won notable victories over the
Dutch and Spanish He died at sea, and was
bulled in Westminster Abbey
Blanc. Mont bee Mont Blanc.
Bland, Mm Mai la Theresa Bland (Dorothea Jor-
dan) (1760-1838), a well-known Irish actiess
Blenheim. 1— (400)— hee Note on Tht Battle of Blen-
heim, p 1845a 2— (1027)— A \illage In Oxford-
shire, England It Is the seat of Blenheim
Palace, noted for Its fine apartments
Bloomflcld. Robert Bloomfleld (1700-1823), an Eng-
lish pastoral poet
Bloomsbnry. A noted district in London Lamb
never lived there
Blue Anchor. Probably the name of a hill near
Mini hi ad, in Somei nctshire, England
Bine Bonnets. Scotchmi n, so calkd from the broad,
flat cap of blue wool which they wore
Bluebeard. The hero ot a populai story, who gave
his wives, in turn, a key to a certain room, and
toibade their opening It on penalty of death
Bobby, Master. A charactet in The Life and Opinion*
of Tnttntm Shandy (v, 7), a novel by Laurence
Sterne U718-OH)
Boerace, Boccaccio Giovanni Boccaccio (1818-75).
a noted Italian writer
BoehaHtle. A moor in Perthshire, Scotland
Bodleian The library ot Oxford Lnlvcrslty. named
after Sli Thomas Bodhy, who re-established it,
1 VI7-1002
Boeotian. Bi longing to or having the traits of the
Inhabitants of Bo?otla, Greece, proverbial for
their dulness
Boetlus Uoethius (47V524). a Roman philosopher
His most famous work is the De Consolations
PsfroMjiMfr
Bolleau Nicholas Bolleau-Dcspreaux (1080-1711),
a famous Fn nch critic and poet
Bollnghroke. Henry «U John (1078-1751). Loid
Bollngbroke, an English statesman, political
writer, and Delstlc philosopher
Bolton Prior* An abbey in the western part of
Yorkshire, England
Bond-street. In the West End of London, the fash-
ionable shopping district
BonnUard. Francois de Bonnlvard (1400-1570), a
French reformer who aided theOemvese agnlnut
C harles of Sa\oy He was Imprisoned at Chlllon
Boreas. The god of the north wind
Borgia Cesare Boigla (1478-1107), an Italian
cardinal, soldier, and ad\cnturer, noted for the
murder of his brother and as an adept in pei-
fldlous politics
Borgia. Lmretla See note on On Bering a Hair of
Lurrrtia Itornia, n 1304a
Borrodale. Borrowdale, a romantic vale In the lake
country, Cumberlandshlre, England
Borrowgate. A small place in Cumberlandshire,
England
Borysthenes The ancient name of the River Dnie-
per, In Russia
Bosnlae. A pottle nnme for Bosnian Bosnia Is a
province of Austrla-IIungarv
BoHwell. James Roswell (1740-1705). a Scotch law-
yer, biographer of Samuel Johnson
Botany Bat. An inlet nn the east coast of New
South Wales Australia It was formerly used
bv the British as a convict station
Bothwellhaugh. See note on Caff VOIP Castlr, p 1820a
Bowles. WIlllRm Lisle Bowles (1702-lRr»0), an Eng-
lish clergyman and minor poet He published
in edition of Pope in 1WO Pee p 104
kllnn A beautiful cascade In the River Kettle,
near Callander. Perthshire Scotland
emar The highland portion of the district of
Mar Aberdeenshire, Scotland It is famed for
Its deer nnd its forests
Brahma The creator In Hindu mythology
Bramlnn.
Br.ol",,
Members of the first of the four castes of
India
Branksome Ha; Branxholm. A cattle and an estate
three miles southwest of the village of Hawlck,
in Roxburghshire Scotland It was the resi-
dence of the Buccleuch family
Bratha Head. The source of the River Brat ha,
which flows through the county of Westmoreland
Into Lake Wlndermere, England
Renose College A college of Oxford University,
•n named from the sign of the former Braxenose
Hall, a braten nose
1382
GLOSSARY OF PBOPEB NAMES
rmlrf
BrMdalbane. A district In Perthshire, Scotland,
north of Loch Lomond
Btaatft. A river of northern Italy, flowing into the
Gulf of Venice
Brentford. A town In the county of Middlesex.
England, on the Thames, nine miles west of
London
Brian. King of Dublin In the eleventh century
Briareos. A ion of Uranui and GSM, a monitor
with a hundred armi
Bridie of Sighs. The covered bridge in Venice lead-
Ing from the Doge's Palace to the state prison,
so called because condemned prisoners formerly
passed over It from the judgment hall to the
place of execution
Bridie Street Junto. Bee p 1088a, n 2
Brldgewmter. A seaport In Somersetshire, England.
Brlgg of Turk An old stone bridge over the Turk,
a small stream in Glenflnlas Valley, in Perth-
shire, Scotland
Brinsley. Richard Brlnsley Sheridan (1751-1816), an
Irish dramatist and politician
Bristol, Bristowa, A town In Gloucestershire, Eng-
land
A poetical name for Great Britain.
Irfux. See Fairfax.
iseum. A national Institution In London
It contains collections of antiquities and a
library of more than 2,000,000 books
Britomart. A lady knight In Spenser's The Faerie
ff, representing chastity
y. A seaport In Glamorganshire, Wales
One of the Harti Mountains In Saxony,
famous for Its "specter" caused by the shadow
cast upon the clouds
' A title of Lord Nelson
Lord. Fulke Greville (IV*- 1628), Lord
Brooke, an English poet and philosopher
a. Henry Peter, Baron Brougham and
_ (1778-1868), a celebrated British states-
, Jurist, and scientist He became Chancel-
lor In 1830 He was one of the founders of The
Edinburgh Review. In 1802
Bronghton. Jack Brought on (1704-89), a prise-
fighter, he fought with George Stevenson in
iwn. Tom Brown (1668-1704), an English satir-
ical poet and prose writer
wne. sir Thomas Browne (1605-82), an English
nhysldsn. author of Jtehgio tfrdlri, Vrn Burial, etc.
re. Robert de Bruce (1274-1820), King of Scot-
land, he defeated Edward II of England at
Bannockburn in 1814
BranetMre. Ferdinand Brunetle.ro (1849-1006), a
French literary critic
St. An eleventh century monk, founder of
order of Carthusian monks, at Chartreuse,
_ Thomas Burnet (1685-1715), an English
writer, noted chiefly as the author of Tetturit
Them to Bucra, remarkable for Its vivid imagery
and purity of style
n-mlD. A meadow in the Yarrow Valley, Sel-
kirkshire, booUand
Urn. Robert Burton (1377-1640), a noted Eng-
lish writer, author of The Anatomy of Ueloneholii
An enchanter In Spenser's The Faerie
Irk. A duchy in Germany
A city In Turkey, Asia Minor
_-- a. Capital of the kingdom of Belgium In
1R30 It *as the scene of the outbreak of the Bel-
gian Revolution
Brutus. The legendary king and founder of Britain
Bryan and Perenne. A West Indian ballad, founded
on an actual occurrence, which happened in the
.^Island of St Christopher, about 1760
.•mwieiieii See BaPleuoHt
The war-horse of Alexander the Great,
Bate. John Stuart (1718-92), Earl of Bute, an Eng-
lish statesman and leader of the party of
George III
Butler. Bishop Joseph Butler (1672-1752), an Bul-
lish theologian
Byzantine. Of ancient Byiantlum
Bysantlnn. An ancient Greek city on the site of
modern Constantinople
Cadiz. A seaport of southwestern Spain
Cadnura forest. A forest near Cadmela, the cita-
del or acropolis of Thebes, in Bceotia, Greece
Cadmus. The reputed founder of Thebes In Bosotla,
Greece He brought the old Phoenician, or Cad-
menn, alphabet of sixteen letters to Greece
Cadwallader td 708) The last king of Wales, the
ht rp of Welsh poems
An ancient Welsh poet
_. See Cecilia, Saint.
>, Augustus. See Augustus.
'. Julius Cesar (100-44 B C ), a famous Ro-
man general, statesman, and writer He was
assassinated by Biutus, Casslus, and others
CsMMrean. Belonging to Julius Casar
Caf. Tn Mohammedan mythology, a mountain, con-
sisting of a single emerald, said to surround the
whole earth
Cain The eldest son of Adam and Eve, and the
murderer of his brother Abel He was con-
demned to be a fugitive for his sin
Cairo. The capital of Egypt, on the east bank of the
Nile
Calais. A fortified seaport on the north coast of
France
Calantha. A character in John Ford's tragedy Tie
Broken Heart (1688) She drops dead of a broken
heart after an extraordinary ballroom scene dur-
ing which, with apparent calm and while con-
tinuing her dance she listens to the announce-
ment of the deaths one after another, of her
father, lover, and brother
Catenas. In Greek legend, the wisest soothsayer
who accompanied the expedition against Troy
Calcutta. The capital of Bengal, India
' ler, Mr Robert (1745-1818) A British admiral
who fought an indecisive naval battle with the
Franco-Spanish fleet In T80S, and was severely
blamed for not continuing the action to the
finish
CtJdenm. Pedro Calderon (1600-81), a Spanish
Caleb Williams A famous political novel by Will-
lam Godwin (I7BO-1830). published In 1794
Cmledon , Caledonia : Caledonle. Ancient and poetical
names for Scotland
Caliban. A deformed savage slave of Prospero, In
Shakspere's The Tfmpett
Calidore. A courteous knight in Spenser's The Faerie
Hence, anv saddle horse
Buchan (1729-1805), a Scottish
Buckingham, an Inland county of England.
Buffemalco. Buonamlco Buffalmacco (c 1262-1840),
a Florentine painter, celebrated in Boccaccio's
Decameron
Bon. -(930)— William Ball (1738-1814), Lord
Mayor of London in 1778
BolL John A name that stands for England or an
Englishman
Bilwvr-Lytton. Edward Robert, Earl of Lytton
(1881-91), an English poet and diplomat
Bunbury, H. Henry William Bunbury (1750-1811),
an English artist and caricaturist
Bond*. John. 8«e John Bnnrle.
BorTord Bridge. A small village near Dorking, in
the county of "Surrey, England
Bftrver. Gottfried August Bflrger (1748-94), a noted
German poet
Bnrgoyne. John Burgoyne (1728-92) an English
general In the American Revolution
Bamody. A former province in east-central
France., famous for its wines
Bnzke. Edmund Burke (1729-97), an Irish orator.
emperor (87-41 AD)
__ to Wiltshire .A mvstlflcHtlon for Ottery St
Mary In Devonshire, England, the early home of
Coleridge
Calpe. The ancient name of Gibraltar
Calvary. The place where Christ was crucified
Csjlypao. A nymph of Ogygla, the Island on which
Ulysses was shipwrecked She detained him
seven years, and promised him immortal youth
if he would remain there, but he refused
Cambria. The ancient name of Wales
Cambridge. Capital of Cambridgeshire, England,
and the seat of Cambridge University
Cambro-Brlton. A Welshman
Cambronne. Baron Pierre Jacques de Cambronne
(1770-1848), a celebrated French marshal, who
commanded a division at Waterloo
Cambnamore. The estate of a family named Bu-
chanan, near Callander, Perthshire, Scotland
Cambyses, An ancient king of Persia As a char-
acter In several dramas, he became proverbial
Camlfta. A^WtfliTrfove" bv Madame D'Arblay
(Frances Burner. 1752-1840), published In 1796
Luis de Catnoeni (1824-80). a noted Por-
provlnoe In Italy
GL088ABY OF PBOPER NAMES
1383
Campbell. Thomas Campbell (1777-1844). a British
poet, critic, and miscellaneous writer Bee p.
.. A powerful Highland Scotch family, the
Descendants of Colin Campbell, flist Earl of Ar-
gyle (d 1498)
•an. The part of Palestine between the Mediter-
ranean and the Dead Sea
•JT. Islands in the North Atlantic Ocean, north-
west of Africa, famous for their wines
icer. A constellation lepresented by the form of
a crab, and showing the limits of the sun's
course northward in summer
Candlemas. The feast of the Purification of the
Virgin Mary, or presentation of Christ In the
Temple, celebrated Feb 2, with the burning of
many candles In England this was one of the
customary dates for nettling debts
Canldla. A sorceress reviled by Horace in Kpode 5
Canncr A village in Italy where Hannibal defeated
the Romans, 216 B C called "The Field of
Blood " from the heavy loss suffered by the
Cannlnff!anGeorge Canning (177O-IR27). a British
Tory statesman, famous for his foreign policy
of non-Intervention His wit made many believe
he was insincere
Canoble A village near the Eak River In Dum-
friesshire, Scotland
Canongate The principal thoroughfare In the Old
Town of Edinburgh
Canopns. The second brightest star In the heaven*
Canota Antonio ranova (1757-1822). an Italian
sculptor
Caasonl Italian song
Cape ftt Vincent Soc flt Vincent
Capitol, The. 1— <«0. 21O, 01)1 )— \ temple of Jupiter,
In Rome, called the rapltollum It stood on the
rapltollne Hill 2— <r>44)— The part of the Cap-
Itollne Hill occupied b> the temple of Jupiter
Cararrl, Annlbal niffO-HKW) An Italian painter,
calibrated for his colling decorations in the
Farnese Palace, Rome
Carador. Caractacun <1^t century A D) a king
of a British tribe In South Wale*
Carasman Carasman Oglou, the principal land-
holder in Turkey The line of Caraaman dat«s
back to the fourteenth century
Cardigan A county In Routh Wales
Carla An ancient division of Asia Minor
Carlisle A city In Cumbc rlandiihlre. England
C arlo Dolce See Dolce
Cannanlan waste A frightful salt desert in Cai-
rn an I a, an ancient pro\ime of Asia, on the Per-
sian Gulf
Carrael. A famous mountain in central Palestine,
near the Mediterranean
Carnarvonshire A count* In Wales
Carr. Sir John Carr (1772-1832) author of several
books of travel, one of which The Rtrntitjrr in
Itclnmt wa* ridiculed bv Edward Du Bols by the
publication of his MH Pnrlct Bnolc (1R07) An
unsuccessful suit for damages resulted
Carrlck. The southern dlstilct of Avrshlre, Scot-
land It is qouth of the River Doon
Carterhaugh An oxt<ns!\o plain near the Junction
of the Ettrlck and Yarrow rivers In Selkirkshire,
Scotland
Carthage An ancient city and state in northern
Africa, famous for Its wars with Rome, called
the Punic Wars
Cartoons Seven drawings done by Raphael, an
Italian painter, In 1111-10 for Leo X, to be re-
produced in Flemish tapestry
Carr. Sir Lucius (1810.48) An English politician
and writer
Cashmere. Vale of A beautiful and fertile valley
In the state of Kashmir a native state bounded
by eastern Turkestan, Tibet and India It Is
now a part of India
Caslmlr King of Poland (1040-SR) He is called
"The Restorer of Poland "
Caspian An Inland salt sea between Europe and
Asia
Cassandra. 1— (49«. 607)— In Greek legend a
prophetess the daughter of Priam and Hecuba
By command of Apollo (whose advances she
had repelled), her predictions though true weie
always discredited She was made a sla\e by
Agamemnon after the fall of Trov 2 — (1081 ) —
A French historical romance by La Calprenede
(1810-08)
Castalla A fountain on Mt Parnassus near Delphi.
Greece, supposed to give Inspiration to those
who drank of It It was sacred to the Muses
' " A poetical name for Castalla
Castile. A former kingdom In the north central
A native of Castile. Spain
tra. The. A drama presented at Drury
me theatre In 1797
._ bill. A hill In Cumberlandshire. England
Castlereswh. See note on U*t* u Htten During t*9
Caitlcroagk Administration, p 1332b
In Gi
._ _reek mythology, twin brother of Pol-
The brothers were placed In the heavens
constellation. Gemini
Castor.
lux
as a constellation. Gemini
Catalanl. Angelica Catalanl (1779-1849), a noted
Italian singer
Cathay. A Chinese province, it Is a poetical name
lor China
Catiline (1st century B C ) A Roman politician
and conspirator He Is the subject of plays by
8 Gosson (1B79), H Chettle (1508), Ben Jon son
(1811), and O Croly (1811)
Cato. Marcus Poiclus Cato (284-149 B C ), a Ro-
man statesman, general, and writer
Cattrsrth's vale. A valley in Yorkshire. England
rattrsath may be Catterick. a town in Yorkshire
Catullus. Caiua Valerius Catullus (87-46* B C ).
a famous Latin lyric poet
Caucasus A mountain rango between the Caspian
and Black seas
Cave. Edward Cave (1891-1764), a noted English
printer and bookseller
Cavendish. The name of a family of the English
nobility
Cecil. Earl of Sallsbarr Robert Cecil (1588-1812),
,
KnAiB,h.Bta.te-man' mincer to Queen Ellsa-
beth, 151)8-1008. and to James I, 1803-12
Cecelia, Saint (third century AD) A Christian
martyr, she Is generally regarded as the patron
saint of music, particularly church music
Cecroplan port Athens Cecrops was the tradi-
tional first king of Athens
Celt. A member of the western European branch of
the Ar>an family that Includes the Irish. Welsh.
Cornish, and Low Bretons
rhreas A small seaport In Greece, southeast of
Cenr ______
^ C'oilnth
Cenrl. The. A tragedy bv Shelley dealing with the
story of Beatrice Tend (1 '577-1199), an Italian
wpman^beheaded for taking part in the murder
Cents. Montf sVe Moat Cenls
Centaur. A fabled mobster having the head. arms.
and body of a man from waist up. united to the
body and legs of a horse
Cephlsus. A river In Attica, Greece
Cerberus. In classic m> thology the sleepless watch-
dog at the entrance of the infernal regions,
usually represented with three heads
Cereate, The rustic home of Marluss childhood.
near Arpinum
Ceres. l--(ei. 828. 840. 117f)— In classic mythol-
ogy. the goddess of corn and harvests 2— (798)
— An asteroid discovered In 1801
Cert antes. Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616), a noted
Spanish writer
Cethegus Galus Cornelius Cethegus (1st century
B C ), a Roman of the most corrupt and prof-
ligate character, one of the accomplices of
Catiline
Ceylon. An Inland south of India, noted for its
pearl fisheries
Chaldean An Inhabitant of Chaldea. an ancient
kingdom at the head of the Persian Gulf
Chaldee land. Chaldea
Chamberrr. A city In southeastern France
Champunl A beautiful valley at the foot of Mont
Blanc on the eastern border of France
Chancery-lane. A street in London leading from
Fleet Street to Holborn. and passing by the Inns
of Court
Channel The English Channel, a strait between
England and France
Chantrr Sir Francis Chantry (1781-1842). a noted
English sculptor and portrait painter He exe-
cuted the bust of Wordsworth about 1820
Chaos The first state of the universe In Greek
mythology, the most ancient of the gods
Chapman George Chapman (cl569-1884). an Eng-
lish poet dramatist, and translator
Great
Emp
,
Charles the
of France, and
(742-814). the
great King of France, and Emperor of the West
01111 /ffoic /oT'4^)'TSSa>r_l*f,u1' . *lnJli of "ntfand
(1825-49) 2 — (484) — Charles Edward, (<The
Young Pretender" (1720-88), who headed an
Insurrection to recover the British crown for
his father, called James III At first he wag
1384
OL088ABY OF PEOPEB NAMES
successful, but finally was routed at Culloden,
In the county of Inverness. Scotland, In 1746.
8— (1105)— Charles II. King of England (1049-
85)
Charlotte. Princess. Charlotte Augusta (1790-1817).
daughter of George IV of England In 1810. the
mairled Leopold Duke of Saxe-Coburg, after-
wards King of Belgium (1831-00)
Charon. In classic mythology, the ferryman who
transported the souls of the dead over the Styx,
a river In Hades
Chartler, Alain. A French writer of the fifteenth
century
Chartreuse, La Grande. A former monastery In Isei e
department, France, altitude 40UO feet, it was
founded by St Bruno in 1084
Chatham. William Pitt 11708-78), first Earl of
Chatham, a famous English Whig statesman
and orator
Chatterton. Thomas Chatterton (1712-70), an Eng-
lish poet who committed suicld* in a fit ot
despondency See p 125
Cheap; Chempsld*. The central, east-and-west thor-
oughfare of London
Chenarft. Isle of Probably an Island in the ancient
Lake of Cashmere. India
Cheops. A king of Egypt (fourth century B C ).
said to have built the first pyramid, at Glzeh,
near Cairo
Chepntow Castle. A famous castle in Chepstow, a
town in Monmouthshire, England
Cherhonese An ancient name of sivcial Europe an
peninsulas tho Malay Peninsula, Jutland (Den-
mark), Crimea (Russia), and (lalllpoll (south-
ern Turkcj )
Cherubim. A high order of angels, excelling in
knowledge
Cher well's flood. A small rl\or In England, which
loins the Thames at Oxford
Cheshire A countv In western England, noted for
its dairy products
Chester The capital of Cheshire, England
Che\lot Hills A mountain range between Scotland
and England
Chllde Harold See page B23
Children In the Wood, The A comedy bv Thomas
Morton (1700.18*18) It was also the title of an
old ballad Included in Percy's Riliquea of Annint
hnqhak Poetry
Chlmvra In Greek mvthology. a fire-breathing
monster variously described as a combination of
lion, goat, and serpent
Chirk A small town in Denbighshire Wales
Chltty. Joseph Chit ty < 1770-1841) a noted English
writer of legal troUlsts
Chorasmlan shore Chorasmla. or Khiva, a portion
of central Asia in Russian Turkestnn The
countrv Is almost wholly n sandy desert
Christ's Hospital A famous charitv school for bo\q
founded in ITS 2 bv Edward VI in the buildings
formerly belonging to the dissolved ordi i of
Orey Friars
ChryMMffoin. Saint John Chrysnstomus (fourth c« n-
tury). a celebrated father of the Greek church,
the author of Commentaries
Chvvlat. Same as Cheviot
Clbbrr Theophllus Clbber (1708-68). an English
actor and dramatist
Cicero. Marcus Tulllus Cicero (106-43 B C ), a
celebrated Roman oratoi, philosopher and
statesman, the author of a treatise on moral
philosophy entitled /J< Ofllrtift (Of Dutiet)
drill*. Hnlnt* See Cecelia, Ratat
Cimmerian. Pertaining to the Clmmerll, a mythical
people mentioned by Homer as living In perpet-
ual darkness
Clnrlnnatns. Lucius Qulnctlus Clnclnnatus (fifth
century B C ) a Roman legendary hero He
distinguished himself In 402-4*4 as an opponent
of the plebeians in their struggle against the
patricians He was appointed dictator In 4ftft
caufclan Pertaining to rircassla, a former coun-
try northwest of the Caucasus Mountains, now
part of Russia
dree. The sorceress in the Odv**ty who feasted the
mariners and then turned them Into beasts
Clmnn. Bewitching like Circe
Cirrus. A large enclosure used frequently for gladi-
atorial combats In Roman times
Clalr, St. Bee St. dalr
Clarendon.
Edward Hyde (1008-74), Earl of Clar-
endon, an English royalist statesman and his-
torian
«ns. A village in Swltserland, situated near the
east end of Lake Geneva It Is celebrated as
the scene of Rousseau's La Vtntvfttc fftMae
Clarissa, Clarissa Harlowe. A novel by Samuel
Richardson (1089-1701). It takes its name from
the leading character
Clarke, baxnuel Clarke (1075-1720) a celebrated
English philosopher and theologian
Clarktton. Thomas Clarkson U760-1S40), an Eng-
lish philanthropist, devoted to the abolition of
Slave-trade
Claud. —(440)— Lord Claud Hamilton, son of the
Duke of Chatelherault, he was a 103 al suppoiter
of Queen Mary and her cause
Claude. Claude Lorraln < 1000-8 J), a celebrated
French landscape painter
Claudian. Claudius Claudianus, a noted Latin poet
of the fourth centurj
— '"- Soe note on Bonny Dundee, p IBiT.b
1 — (83"i) — A town In Greece, souths (St of
Corinth 2— <OU4)— A friend and correspondent
of Aspasia, In Lander's Prnrltg and A*JM*UI
Cleopatra. Queen of Egypt (0')-30 B C )
Clevedon. A town in Borne roe tshne, England
Clluknmbell A humorous naim tor a btllnian
Clinton Sir Henry Clinton (173S-IH), an Eiiftli*h
~... *encial in the American Rexolullon
CUtumnus. A river of Umbrla Italy It Is ctl<-
bra ted for Its sanctity and beaut*
Clotho. In Greek mythology, one of the three Fatos
she spins the thread ot life
Clide A river In southwestern Scotland
tljdPftdale The valley of the Rlvei Clyde in south-
AM stern Scotland, noted lor its hoiseii
Chmene. In Gieek mvthology. a daughtu of Oc c»-
anus and Tethys, mothei of Atlas and 1'iome-
theus
Cobbott. William Cobbett (1702-183'.) an English
politician and wiltei who was continuillv get-
ting Into trouble bt cause ol tin vie.ws hi ex-
pressed In his political publications H< was
the author also of an English grammar *-«i
P 1002
Coblents \n Important citv in Prussia It suffered
in thi Thirty Ycais War and in the wais ot
Louis MV
Cloven ford A fishing station on the road fiom
Edmbuitfh to Silkltk, Scotland, within a f t w
miles of the Yarrow and Ettrlck rivers
<lw*d A river In North Wales
Coetrrane, Thomas Lord A Scottish noble and Brit
Ish naval com man dor (177'i-lNOO), noted for his
brilliant service against Spanish and Punch
vessels In 1M4, he was accused of sttirting lot
persona] gain, a report ot Napoleon s death
was Imprisoned, fined, and expelled from the
navv and finm the House of Commons He was
exonerated from the charge s m 1S3J
Corkfthnt A hill in Cumberlanclshlrr. England
C odrl. Codrus was an alle ged author of a trageeh on
tho subject of Theseus See Juvenal s tfatiit*,
Cnplebs* H If e. A novel bv Hannah More (1SOO)
Coplns The ak\ father of Satuin (Cronos)
COMIN One of the Titans a famllv of giants
Coliseum An amphilhf Her In Rome, the greatest
architectural monument left In the Roman*
injrwood. Lord Cuthhert < olllngwood (17"0-
1810), an English admliul, second in command
at Trafalgar
Collins. Anthony Collins (1070-1720) a noted Eng-
lish deist, a frlind of To] in Locke
Colloquies A Latin *ork bv Desiderlus Eranmus
(1400-1130). a Dutch scholar and theologian
hi A London prlntseller of the eighteenth
century
ColonMT. An island of the Inner Hebrides In Ar-
gyllshire, Scotland It Is noted for Its ecclesias-
tical antiquities
Columbia A poetical name for America
Columbian. Pertaining to the United States
Columbus Christopher Columbus (1440 1%00). an
Italian navigator, discoverer of America
Comberbatch. Silas Titus Comberbatrh, the name
assumed by 8 T Coleridge when he enlisted In
the 1Mb Light Dragoons, in 1708
Commons. A college boarding-hall
Complaint of a Poor Indian Woman, The A poem
bv Wordswoith
Comnleat Angler. The A celebrated work by Isaak
Walton (1598-1088), an English writer
Comns The evil spirit in Milton's Com** who, like
his mother, Circe, the enchantress, could trans-
form human beings Into swine
Cond* Prince de Conde (1130-00), a French gen-
eral, leader of the Huguenot army, who was
captured In IBfll) nnfl treacherously shot after he
surrendered his sword
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
1385
Condorcet. Marquis de Condorcet (1748-1)4), a cele-
brated French philosopher and mathematician.
Conduit In Cheap A leaden cistern built in the mid-
dle ot Cheapside btreet, London, In 1285, for
holding water brought underground from Pad-
dlngton. a western division ot London In times
of public festivity the conduit ran wine instead
of water
Confucius 031-478 B C ) A celebrated Chinese
philosopher, founder of the Confucian religion
Congress. A meeting for deliberation and negotia-
tion
Congress of Vienna An assembly, held at Vienna.
Austria in 1814-1815, at which the rulers of
Austria, Bavaria, Denmark, Prussia. Russia, and
other states settled the affair M of Europe after
the Napoleonic wars
Congreve. William Congreve (1070-1720), an Eng-
lish dramatut
Constantlne Cone tan tine I, surnamed "The Great"
U7J-3.J7), the first Christian Emperor of Rome
Conwa> 1 — (US) — \ picturesque river in Ninth
Wales 2— (J2"i)— An anchnt walled seaport In
Carnarvorishlie, Wales
Cook, Captain James Cook (1728-79), a celebrated
English navigator He discovered the Sandwich
Islands In 1778
Coomb In England or Scotland, the name for any
short steep valliy or hollow
Copenhagen. The capital of Denmark, it was bom-
barded by the British fleet undti Parker and
Nelson In 1807
Coptic. Language of the Copts the name given to
the Christians who lived In Epnpt at the time of
the Mohammedan conquest, 6,1')
Cordara, (Julllo (1704-81) \n Italian poet and hls-
trlographer of tht Jesuits
Cordelia In Shakspere s Atn? Lear, Lear's youngest
and best loved daughter
Corln. A con\entional name for a shepherd In pas-
toral poetry
Corinth \n ancient fortified city In Greece
Corinthians Inhabiting of Coilnth, Greece
Corlolanus V tiieedv by Shakspen
Cornlnh. Of nr or longing to Cornwall a southwest-
em county In England
Corn wall A counU In Miuth western England
Cerulean Napoleon, who was born in Corsica, an
island in the Mediterranean Sen
Corter Hernandn Cmtcr (lisri.1p>47) a famous
Spanish soldier who conquered Mexico and dH-
cn\eied California
Coninna A MI nport on tlu northweMt coast of Spim
Cordate. Thomas Con ate (1V77-1017), an English
traveler, author of f uryalc v rruditlf*
CortbanteN Thi attendants of the goddess Cybele
In ancient Phr\gla, whose ritis were conduct* d
with wild re veh v
Condons Corydon Is a conventional name for a
shepherd In pastoral pontn
Cossack A member of the race Inhabiting eastern
Russia on the lower Don and Dnieper HVCM
Cottle, Amos (1708-1800) An English writer, elder
brother of Joseph Cot tie
Cottle, Joseph (1770-18".3) An English bookseller
and poet, a friend of Coleridge Southev, and
Wordsworth, and the publisher of several of
their works
Cotton. Charles (1030-87) A minor English poet,
author of T*f .Veto 1 «rr
Cottns In Greek mythology, a giant having a hun-
dred hands He was the son of Uranus and Geea
Covenanters Scottish Presbyterians, who In 1088-
48 engaged In a struggle against the Pope and
prelacy
Covent Garden. A square In the center of London,
famous for Its fruit and flower markets
Cot entry. A town of Warwickshire England
Colgate. A street in the village of Mauchllne, Ayr-
shire, Scotland
Cowley Abraham Cowley (1018-67), an English
poet, one of the founders nf the Royal Society
Cowper. William Cowper (1731-1800). a noted Eng-
Coxe" AYehdeaeonf PWIllIam Coxe (1747-1828), Arch-
deacon of Wiltshire, an English historian and
writer of travels His Jfrmofc* of t*e Duke of
Varftornupli appeared in 1817-10
Crabbe George Crsbbe (1754-1832), an English
poet See p 1R4
Cramer. Thomas Cranmer (1480-1(118). an English
Protestant divine and reformer, burned at the
Crashaw Richard Crashaw, a seventeenth century
English poet Dmlgamork. The name of a romantic spot near the
Craven. A district In western Yorkshire, England Nlth, a river In Ayrshire, Scotland
. A Jm£n town ln northern France, where
1840 °f England defeated the French in
Creollu negro. A negro born in Africa
Cressld Cresslda, the heroine of several medieval
stories and later dramas, depicting the love bi -
tween her and Troilus, a noted Trojan hero
Cretan. A native of Crete
Crete An island in the Mediterranean Sea
Cretts. A Titan, probably a divinity of the sea
Crlbbs. Tom Crlbbs (1781-1848), an English cham-
„_. Pjon pugilist
Crtffel. A mountain In the county of Kirkcudbright,
Scotland
Crimea A peninsula In southern Russia extending
into the Black Sea
Crlpps A young painter in whom Keats and his
^ friend Haydon were interested
Cnrsus. King of Lydla, Asia Mine*. noted for his
fabulous wealth
Croljr. George Croly (1780-1800), an Irish poet, di-
vine, novelist, and miscellaneous writer
Cromwell, oilvi r Cromwell, Lord Protector of Eng-
land (1058-68)
Cronus Bee Ha torn.
Crosthwalt Church. A church in Langdale, West-
moreland, the burial-place of Southey
Crow -nark. A hill in Cumberlandshlie, England
Crusade. Third. A w arllke enterprise undertaken pv
Christians agalnst^the Saracens late in the 12th
centui>
Cnesta. Don Gregorlo dello Cuesta A Spanish gen-
eral In the Napoleonic wars He refused to fol-
low Wellington s advice with regard to the part
that he should play preparatory to the Battle of
^ Talavera, Spain, 1800
Cnlloden A village In InverncsH-shlre, Scotland, the
scene of the bloody defeat of the Pretindti
Charles Edward by the Duke of Cumberland,
Cumoran shore. Cumee, an ancient city in Campa-
nia, Italy Near by was Llturnum, the native
country seat of Sclplo Africanus, who retirtd
there in 181 B C , after a life of warfare
Cumberland 1 — A county In northwester n England
2— (3SO) —Richard Cumberland (178J-1811), an
English dramatist and essayist
Cumbria An anchnt British kingdom, which com-
prised what is now the greater part of Cumber -
landshlrc
Cunningham. The noithcrn division of Ayrshire,
Scotland
Cupid. The god of love
Curll Edmund Curll (1075-1747), a notorious Lon-
don bookseller and piratical publisher
Currle. Doctor Janus Cunle (17")G-1805), a Srottlsh
physician
rurteis, Mr One of the members of Parliament fm
Sussex whose political policies were held in
contempt bv Cohhett
Curtis Sir Roger Curtis (1746-1810) an English ad-
miral who defeated the French before Gibraltar
Sept 18, 1782
Obele Mother of the Olympian gods She was
represented In art with a turreted crown
Ctclades A group of islands m the JEgeu.n Sea
east of Greece
Cyclops One of a race of giants having but one ey<
and said to assist Vulcan, the blacksmith of tht
. One of the names of Artemis, or Diana
the moon-goddess Her birthplace was Mt
Cynthus. in Delos, an Island In the JEgean Sia
east of Greece
Cyprus An island In the Mediterranean, south of
Asia Minor
Cims (Oth century B C ) Surnamed "The Great",
tbe founder nf the Persian Empire
Cvthemi In Greek nrvthologv the surname of
Aphrodite, one of whose shrines was on the
Island of Cythera, south of Greece
Hftcre, Lord. Thomas Fiennes (1517-41), Baron
Da ere. an English nobleman He engaged In a
poaching expedition which resulted In the death
of one of the keepers and was condemned to
death for murder
Itodallan wings. Daedalus was a legendary sculptor
noted for the wings, made of wax with which
he and his son Icarus escaped imprisonment
from the labyrinth See Icarus
D'Alemberr. Jean le Rond d'Alembert (1717-88) a
noted French philosopher and mathematician
Cynthia.
1886
GLOSSARY OF PBOPEB NAMES
Dalston. Formerly a suburb of London, now an
outlying district of the city Itself
Damascus. A city of Syria, famous for its silks and
Damocles. A courtier of the 4th century B C , who,
having praised the pleasures of kingly estate,
was placed, by order of Dionyslus, at a banquet
with a sword suspended over his head by a
•ingle hair, that he might learn the Insecurity
of such happiness
men (5th century BO An Athenian musician
and sophist, a teacher and close friend of Peri-
cles
ia£ In Greek mythology, the daughter of Acrl-
sius and Bury dice, beloved of Zeus and by him
mother of Perseus
Daniel Samuel Daniel (1562-1610). an English poet
and historian
Dante. Allghlerl Dante (1265-1821), the most fa-
mous of Italian poets
Danube. A river of Europe flowing through Ger-
y, Austria, Hungary, and Roumania to the
iL Sea
r In Greek mythology, the daughter of the
river-god, Peneus She was changed to a laurel
while fleeing from Apollo
D*Arblay. Madame d'Arblay (Frances Burney,
1752-1840), an English novelist
Dardan. Trojan
Dardanelles. The strait between Europe and Asia,
connecting the Sea of Marmora with the Mge&u.
Sea. In ancient times known as the Hellespont
Darten. Another name for the IwthmuH of Panama
~ tent Sir William Davenant (1605-68), an
ngllsh poet and dramatist
. Second king of Israel (1051-1015 B C ),
noted in his youth for his playing on the harp
Davles. Sir John (1169-1626) An English states-
man and poet
Dewlish. A seaside resort In Devonshire, England
Dead Sea. A salt lake In Palestine
Death of Abel. The. A prose Idyl Der Tod Abcto
(1758), by Solomon Gessner (1780-88), a Swiss
poet and painter
Deborah. A Hebrew prophetess who helped to free
the Israelites from the Canaanltei, and who
celebrated the victory In a famous song of
triumph See Judges, 4-1
Decalogue. The Ten Commandments
Dee. A river on the boundary of Denbighshire,
De Foe. Daniel De Foe (1661-1781), an English
political writer and adventurer, author of Hob
inaon Cru»oe
Delra. An Anglian kingdom extending from the
Humber to the Lees, it included about what is
now Yorkshire
Dells. Turkish soldiers who form the forlorn hope
of the cavalry, always beginning the action
Delphi. In ancient geography, a town in Greece
situated at the foot of Mount Parnaiwus, the
seat of a world-renowned oracle of Apollo
Delphic. Renting to the oracle of Apollo at Delphi
Delos. An Island off 'the coast of Greece
Demetrius. An Ephesian silversmith who assailed
Paul
Demenitns. A famous Greek philosopher (5th cen-
Demogorgon. An evil spirit or magician See note
on Prometncus Inbound, p 1887a
Den. A promenade between Telgnmouth and the
* Devonshire, England
A county In Wales
e, England
_ . nty In Wal
____ . John Dennis (1657-1784). an English critic
He Incurred the enmity of Pope and was ridi-
culed by him in The Duneiad
Derwent. A river of Cumberlandshlra, England
Derwentwater, House of The earls of Derwent-
water, zealous supporters of the Stuarts James
Radcliffe (1689-1710), 8rd Earl of Derwentwater,
was a leader In the Jacobite rebellion of 1715
He was captured and executed in 1716
callon becoming men and those of Pyrrha.
women
Devn. The old Latin name for the River Dee. in
North Wales
Devon. Devonshire, a county in southwestern Eng-
land.
Devonuort. A fortlfled seaport In Devonshire, Eng-
land
Devonshire. A county in southwestern England
Dian, Diana. Goddess of the moon and the chase
She fell in love with the shepherd boy Endy-
mlon, found sleeping in a cave on Mt Latmos,
Asia Mlnoi
Dickie of Dryhope A member of the Armstrong
family who assisted in the rescue of Klnmont
Willie He lived In Llddesdale, Dumfriesshire.
Scotland He was outlawed In 1008
Dido. The Queen of Carthage, who killed herself
for love of -fflJneat. See Virgil's JSneid, Books 1
and 2
Diogenes. A Greek cynic philosopher (4th century
B C ). who Is said to have lived in a tub He
searched Corinth with a lantern to find an hon-
est man
ned. Diomedes, one of the bravest of the
Greeks In the Trojan War
the Younger A tyrant of Syracuse (867-
^ f-(967)— A fountain on Mt Cltheron, near
Thebes. Greece It took its name from (2)
Diree*— (068)— wife of Lycus, King of Thebes
She was put to death by the two sons of
Antlope. divorced wife of Lvcus. her body was
thrown Into* the fountain which bears her name
According to another legend, her body was
changed by Dionysua Into the fountain
Bis. Pluto, god of the lower world, who bore away
Proserpina, daughter of Demeter (Ceres)
Dives. 1— (148, 144)— Evil spirits of Persian myth-
ology 2— (988)— The rkh man who, when he
died, looked up from hell and saw Lasarus the
^ beggar In Abraham's bonom (Lvkr 10 10-81)
Dnieper. A river In southwest« rn Russia, flowing to
the Black hea
Dodder. Robert Dodsley (1708-64), an English
bookseller and playwright He was the pub-
lisher of A Btlert Collection of Old Playa, 12 vols
Dog of Darkness. Cerberus, the watchdog at the
entrance to Hades
Doge The elective chief magistrate, holding
princely rank in the republics of Venice and
Genoa. Italy
Dolce. Carlo Dolce (1616-86), a Florentine painter,
best known through hli Madonnas The paint-
Ing referred to on p 1084a, 24. Is CJkruf Breaking
Dolor One of the Titans, who warred against the
Olympian a-nds
Domdanlel In Tkr Arabian Tales a seminary for evil
magicians and a renort of evil spirits, It was an
Immense cavern "under the roots of the ocean"
off the coast of Tunis, In North Africa
Domenlchlno. Zamplerl Domenlchlno (1681-1641),
DesaU. Louis Charles Desalx (1768-1800), a noted
French general killed in the Battle of Marengo,
Italy.
lemon*. The beautiful white wife of Othello
the Moor, In Bhakspere's Othello
Bfc*L Madame de Stall (1766-1817). a cele-
brated French writer
fallen. In Greek mythology, a king of Thessaly
He and his wife, Pyrrha. survived a nine days*
deluge, their ark grounding on Mount Parnassus
To replenish the earth, an oracle commanded
them to cast stones behind them, those of Deu-
De BfctiO.
. _ - in Domingo, an Island republic
of the West Indies Under the negro leader
Toussalnt L'Ouverture. the island rebelled
against the French In 1801, but was subdued by
Napoleon
u A river of Aberdeenshlre. Scotland, which
flows Into the North Rea
Donald. —CJ27)— Donald Cameron (16057-1748).
a Scottish Highland chieftain known •• "Gentle
Lochlel " He wnn a descendant of Sir Evan
Cameron of Lochlel
Donne. John Donne (1578-1681) an English divine,
founder of the so-called metaphysical school of
poetry
Den Quixote The gaunt hero of Don Outoote, a
Rpanlsh romance by Cervantes (1547-1616)
Doon. A small river in Ayrshire, Scotland, flowing
into the Clyde
Dorian; Doric. Relating to the Doric race, which
originated in Doris, an ancient province In
Deris. — (806)— In Greek mythology, a sea-goddess,
the daughter of Oceanus. and mother of the
. 1^(455)— James Douglas (d 1488). a
tlsh nobleman, who headed the rebellion
against James II of Scotland. 1452-55. as a re-
It of which he was banished 2— (466)— See
Douglas.
Scot
note Lon U*«i ofTffte IA~fH*g of f*e
Hou*e of Rttrrlfvtl, p 1823b
of fftf
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
1887
Douglas Tower. A ruined castle in Douglas a vil-
lage in Lanarkshire, Scotland
Dove. A river of England forming part of the
boundary between the counties of Derby and
Stafford
Dover A fortified seaport in the county of Kent,
Drachenfels.' A mountain in the Siebengebirge, a
mountain range on the Rhine, in Germany
Drayton. Michael Drayton (1568-1681), an English
poet
Dnmthetm. Trondhjem. a province and eeaport on
the weit coaet of Norway
Druid. A priest of religion among the ancient Celt*
of Gaul, Britain, and Ireland The Druids were
supposed to have some knowledge of geometry,
Drumnood, Wutam1* 1586- 1640) A Scottish poet
of Hawthornden. near Edinburgh
Dnfry-lne. A street In London near the Strand
Dryad. In Greek mythology, one of the nymphs of
trees The life of each Dryad was bound up
with the tree, usually an oak, in which she lived
Drvades. The Dryade »
Dryborongh. A beautiful monastic ruin on the River
Tweed, In Berwickshire, Scotland
Dryden. John Dry den (1681-1700), a noted English
poet and dramatist
Dryope A shepherdess In Greek mythology, the
playmate of the Hamadryads, changed by them
Into a poplar
Dock. Stephen Duck (1705-56), an English farm
laborer who won some distinction HH a poet
Dnddon. A river In the counties of Cumberland and
Lancashire, England
Dudley, Earl of Leicester. An English statesman
and soldier (1588-ftft), the favorite of Elisabeth
DmnferltasT. Dunfermllne, a town In Flfeshlre,
Scotland It has a noted abbey and was formerly
a royal residence
- — In Shakspere's Macbeth, King of Scotland,
murdered by Macbeth
Dnnriad. A satirical poem by Alexander Pope
flOflft-1744)
Dundagel. A castle near the shore of Cornwall,
England
Dunedln. A poetical name for Edinburgh Scotland
Dungeon -g>lL A steep narrow valley at the head of
Langdale Vale In the countv of Westmoreland,
England See Wordsworth's The Idle Shepherd-
UMAM
Dunmail Raise, a pass in the Lake
district of England, on the borders of the coun-
ties of Westmoreland and Cumberland
lining. John Dunning (1781-88), an English law*
yer and politician
Donster. A town In Somersetshire, England.
Difod An old British name for a region in south-
western Wales
K. One of De Qulncev*s guardians He was a rural
magistrate in a populous district close to Man-
chester
KMedale A valley in the county of Westmoreland,
England
East Kverly. A small town In Wiltshire, England.
Erhelles. Les Bchelles, a village in eastern France,
near the Italian border It Is named from the
stairs which formerly existed there and have
now been replaced by a road
Echo. A nymph who by her prattling kept Hera
from surprising her husband Zeus In the com-
pany of the nymphs For this, she was pun-
ished by being compelled never to speak first
and never to be silent when anyone else spoke
She pined away to an echo for love 01 Narcissus
Eden. 1— (192, etc ) — Tn Biblical history, the Gar-
den of Eden 2 — (448) — A river In the counties
of Westmoreland and Cumberland, England It
Is 8 miles northwest of Carlisle
Kdgeworth, Minn. Maria Edgeworth (1764-1849). an
English novelist
Edlna. A poetic name of Edinburgh
Edinburgh Review, The. A literary and political
' urnal. founded at Edinburgh In 1802 It was
e organ of the Whig Party
- - e Confessor. King of the West Saxons
King of England (1272-1807)
King of England (1807-27)
King of England (1827-77).
King of England (1461-88)
.Jna, an Island of Greece In the Gulf of
.XCfrlna, on the east side of Greece
Bgrcniond. Bgremont. a town In Cumberlandshire.
England
Kgremont, Lord. Sir George O'Brien Wyndham
(1751-1887), an English patron of art. much in-
teiested in agriculture
Bgrfpjo. A former name for Chalets, a seaport of
Eubos Island, Greece
Ehreobreltstein. A town and fortress in Prussia.
Germany It was taken by the French In 179U
Blldon-hllls. Three conical peaks in northwestern
Roxbui ghshire, Scotland
Klrln Ireland
Klamltee. People of an ancient kingdom, now pait
of Persia
Elba. An Island on the Tuscan coast of Italy
Kibe. A river of Germany flowing from the Bohe-
mian Alps to the North Sea
Blblngerode. A town In the province of Hanover,
M Prussia, situated In the Harts Mountains •
Eldon. John Scott (1751-1888), 1st Earl Eldon, an
English Jurist, twice Lord Chancellor
Elector of Hanover. One of the seven great princes,
who. from the 12th century to the dissolution of
the Holy Roman Empire In 1806, had the right
of electing the emperor
Eleetra. The heroine of Electro, a Greek tragedy by
Sophocles (5th century B C )
Elfins. Elves, tiny spirits in human form, without a
soul
Elgin. Thomas Bruce (1777-1841), Earl of Elgin, a
British diplomat He collected the "Elgin Mar-
blea," ancient Greek sculptures brought from
the Parthenon in Athens Greece, in 1811, and
now in the British Museum
Ell*. The pseudonym of Charles Lamb (1775-1884)
in his essays contributed to The London Magazine.
beginning in 1820 The name was borrowed
from an Italian. Lamb's fellow-clerk at the
South -Sea House
Ella, Bridget. Charles Lamb's sister Mary
Ella, Junes. Charles Lamb's elder brother
Elijah. A Hebrew prophet of the 9lh century B C
Kllott. George Ellott (1717-90), an English general
He defended Gibraltar against the Spaniards
_ and French In 1779-88
EUsha. A Hebrew prophet of the 9th century B C
«... ^y111 the attendant and successor of Elijah
Elisabeth. Queen of England (1088-1608)
Ullot. Sir Gilbert —(442)— One of the rescuers of
Kinmont Willie
Elliston, Mr Robert William Elllston (1774-1881).
a noted English actor and theatrical manager
Elpenor One of the companions of Odysseus In
Homer's Otfyuey
Klsloore. A seaport near Copenhagen It was at
the entrance of the sound where the Battle of
__ Copenhagen was fought April 2. 1801
Slwtoa. A character in P'rry, a tragedy by Miss
Hannah More (1745-1888) , it was first acted in
Of or pertaining to Elysium
. The abode of the blessed after death
See note on KjilpsvrhiMnn, p 113Kh
A name given to Wordsworth's sister Doro-
Kmmet. Robert (1778-1808) An Irish patriot,
leader of the United Irishmen He attempted
an uprising In 1808 and was hanged
Empedorlee (490-480 B C ) A Greek philosopher,
poet, and statesman
eladns. In Greek mythology, a giant with one
hundred arms He was killed by Zeus and
burled under Mt ^Stna
tor. A village in Palestine, where Saul consulted
the female soothsaver (witch of Endor) on the
eve of his last battle with the Philistines At
Saul's request she called up Samuel to advise
Saul regarding the battle
— iloa. A beautiful youth, a shepherd of Mt
itmus. in Car la. Asia Minor, who was beloved
_. Selene (Diana), the moon-goddess
Rnfleld. A suburb of London
Kngaddl. Bngedl. In scriptural geography, a place
abounding in caverns, situated on the shore of
the Dead Sea, southeast of Jerusalem In the
desert of Engedl. David hid from Saul
«. An ancient city in Sicily It was from a
flowery meadow near this place that Pinto, ruler
of Hades, carried off Proserpina, daughter of
KBtraneVof Christ Into Jerusalem, The. A famous
painting by Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786-
1846). a noted English painter.
See JCollu.
. Of Ephesus, a city In Asia Minor
(1st century AD) A noted Greek Stole
philosopher; he was born a slave In Phrygla,
Asia Minor
Endynloa.
Latmui
bv Selc
1388
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
Epteveu. Pertaining to the Greek philosopher
Epicurus, or to hli doctrine
KplcBrus (842-270 B C ) A Greek philosopher who
taught that pleasure ii the only good and the
end of all morality
Epfras. An ancient country In northwestern Greece
Kplthalaminm. A lyric poem In celebration of a
marriage
nun. A town In the county of Surrey, England,
famous for its mineral spring and its race-
course.
ismns. Deslderlus Erasmus (1460-1586), a fa-
mous Dutch classical scholar
sbm. A place ot utter darkness between the
earth and Hades
A poetic name for Ireland, ear, tar, west, and
, an Island
la. In Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, the hero-
ine, who goes in armor with her lover Tancred
to Jerusalem
je. The language of the Celts in the Highlands of
Scotland
Er>manthns, A mountain of An ad la in Greece
Bsan. The oldest son of Isaac, who sold his birth-
right to Jacob (Genesis 25 25)
Kskdale. The valley of the Esk River, in Dumfries-
shire, Scotland
Bike A river In Dumfriesshire, Scotland, near the
English border
Bssev. Robeit Devereux (1167-1601), 2nd Earl of
Essez, a favorite of Queen Elizabeth
Etherege. Sir George Etheiege. a seventeenth cen-
tury English dramatist
Ethiop. Archaic for Ethiopian , a native of Ethio-
pia, an ancient country south ot Egypt
Esthwnlto A lake and valley south of Hawkshead,
in Lancashire, England
in A town on the Thames, opposite Windsor, in
Buckinghamshire, England, the seat of Eton
The ancient Inhabitants of Etrurla, the
modern Tuscany, in Italy
Kttrlrk A river In Selkirkshire, Scotland, which
joins the Tweed near Selkirk The wood ad-
joining it was formerly known AM Ettrlck Forest
Euclid (c 800 B C ) A famous Greek geometri-
cian
Enganean Hills. A chain of volcanic hills in north-
eastern Ttaly
Eugene, Prince Francois of bavoy (1668-1780), an
Austrian general
Knmenldes. Originally, a euphemistic title of the
Furies
Euphrates. A river of Asiatic Turkey
Enphues. In John Lyly's Eunhua (1578-70), an
Athenian youth who embodies qualities of ele-
gance, beauty, and amorousness
Euripides (fith centurv BO One of the greatest
tragic poets of Greece, a friend of Socrates
Euros. The god of the east wind
Eurydlee In Greek mythology, a nvmph the wife
of Orpheus After her death, her husband was
allowed to follow her to the lower regions, and
lead her thence on condition that he should not
look around at her during the passage He vio-
lated the condition and she was returned to
Hades
ine The Black Sea, an Inland sea bounded by
Russia, Asia Minor, European Turkey, and Bul-
garia
Evan. 1— A river in Scotland, it merges with the
Clyde near Greenock, in the country of Ren-
frew 2— (627)— Sir Evan Cameron (1029-1710),
a noted Scottish Highland chieftain of Lochlel.
the head of the Cameron clan
andale A wooded region In the valley of the
River Evan, Scotland
ander. A son of Hermes, and the leader of an
Arcadian colony Into Italy, some years before
the Trolan War
ins. William Evans, a clerk in the South-Sea
House, who became deputy-cashier In 1702
•miner. The. A weekly liberal and literary Jour-
nal, established in January, 1808 Leigh Hunt
was at one time editor
rieeman. A tax officer who collects duties on do-
mestic goods and guards against violation of the
tax laws
The capital city of Devonshire, England
d. A member of the titled Cecil family,
at Burlelgh House, Stamford, Ldncoln-
eUno da Romano (1104-1200), an
Italian tyrant who conquered Verona, Padua,
and other Italian cities His name became pro-
verbial for cruelty.
Mrfax, British. Edward Fairfax (1580-1685), an
English writer and poet, translator of Tasso
Fsllero Marino Fallero, the hero of Byron's trag-
edy Marino Falicio He was a doge of Venice,
beheaded for treason In 185R
Falklrk. A town In Sterlingshlre, Scotland, where
Chailes Edward, The Young Pretender, deflated
the English In 1740
Falstaff. A fat, witty, and bibulous old knight In
Shakspere'i The Jfoiry Wives of Windsor and
Henry IV
Fanny, Lofed. Lord John Hervoy (1000-1748). an
English writer and politician, called "Lord
Fanny" on account of the effeminacy of his
habits
Faraham. A town In the county of Surrey, England
Fates In Greek mythology the goddesses Clotho,
LacheRls, and AtropOH, vtho were supposed to
cnntiol destinies
Fatlma. A common name of Turkish women
>anns In Roman mvtholoRy, deities of the woods,
n presented as hall -human, with pointed cuts, a
tall, and goat's fei t
FaunuM A mythical king of Latlura, worshiped as
a god of agriculture, sometimes identified with
the Area tl Ian Pan
Fawcett, Henry Fawcett (1883-84) a noted English
statesman and political economist
Fa>s Fairies
ieLnagle Gregor von Femafflc (170ri'-lR10). an in-
vtntor of a system of lules to assist the rmmon
lenelon (1051-1711) A Frcmh c<tleslasil< and
writer
Fenton Elijah Fenton (16SM780), an EnRllsh ver-
sifier, who was associated with Popn in tiain-
latlngthe Odytucy, he edited the works ot Milton
and Waller
dhuuid A character In Shakspere's T*c Tcmpett,
In love with Miranda
Robert Fergusson (1750-74), a ScotllHh
poet
Fernet. A village In France, near the Swiss border
the reside me of Voltaire
Ferragns. A plant nl<hi,ited in medieval romnme
He appeal B as Ferrau in Arlosto's Orlando Fun-
fw>, un Italian romance of the 10th rcntuiv
Fes. An anchnt province and city In Morocco,
North Africa
Flametta. Maria, daughter of the King of Naples,
beloved bv Boccaccio
Flrhte. Johann Flchte (1702-IM4). a German phi-
losopher, one of the founders of transct ndental
FIdentla. A town In northern Italy, the s«ene of
the victory of Luculluq, a noted Roman general,
over Carbo, the leader of the civil war against
Sulla the dictator, In 82 B ('
Field. Barron Field (1786-1H40). an English lawyer
and friend of Charles Lnmb
Flelden. John Flelden (17*4-1840) a radical re-
former who because of hh pertinacious advocacy
of factory legislation was called, "The fcelf-
artlng Mule"
Fielding. Henry Fielding (1707-54), an Enffllnh
novelist and diamatlst
Flesole A small village on a hill near Florence.
Italy Lander lived there for sorm jears
life. A county on the east coast of Scotland
Filial. Saint. A Scottish abbot of the 7th centurv
His name was given to several towns and to
many chapels and holy fountains in Scotland
Flngal. See note on Finnul, n 180Gb
Finn An Irish politician who took an active pnrt
In attacking and breaking up the Orangemen an
anti-Catholic organisation
Fltsgmld William Thomas Fitzgerald (1710-
1828), a minor British poet
Fltajaraes, June*. James V, King of Scotland
(1518-42)
Fltsroy. The name of a titled family in England
SeeGraftom
HTM Court. A place for playing fives, a game sim-
ilar to tennis
Xtarrm. Calus Valerius Flaccus (1st century AD),
a Roman poet
Flatman. Thomas Flatman (1087-88), a well known
lawyer, painter, and poet
Flmvlua. A steward of Timon, In Shakspere's Tinum
of At*fiu
Fleet Street. A prominent street In London
Fleming. A native of Flanders, an ancient district
now divided among France, Belgium, and Hoi-
Fleteher John Fletcher (1R70-162R), an English
dramatist and poet, collaborator with Francis
Beaumont
GLOSSARY OF PBOPEB NAMES
1389
nor*. In Roman mythology, the goddess of flowers
and spring
Horace. A large city In north-central Italy, noted
tor ItB art treasures and lormer pi eminence in
literature
Florentines Inhabitant* of Florence. Italy
FlorlseL A prince In Shakapere's The Winter's Tale,
in love with Perdita
Flower Pot, The. An Inn In Bfohopsgate Street, the
starting place oi coaches for the north ot Lon-
don
Flatter, Hlr Fopllng. An affected and fashionable
fop in George Etherege's comedy, The Man of
Mode (1676)
Ford. John Ford (1580*-1G30), an English drama-
tilt
Forth. The Firth of Forth, a bay on the east coast
of Scotland
FortlnbruH. The warlike Prince of Norway In
Khak ape re's Hutu If I
Fortunate Blue-Coat Bo*p The. A romance (1770)
which Rhuus ho\\ a Blu< -cout boy marries a
rich woman of rank
Fox. Charles James Fox (174') -1800), a celebrated
English statebinan and orator
Franche-Conitti (i f . free count} » The old County
of Buigundv. in eastern Trance
fYuulfl I — (012 >— King of France mn-47), con-
queror of Milan (Hll) and Burguntl* (1144)
Francis, Hlr Philip (1740-1818), an English political
writer
Frank A member of one of the Germanic trlhea
\\hlch conqueied Gaul in the Gth century, and
from whom the country was named Frame In
the Oihnt, any European
Franklin T)«.n|amln Franklin (1708-00). a noted
A nun can printer and diplomat
Irederhk Harbarosmi Frederick I the most nottd
empeioi of the Holy Roman Empne ni"-«'M
I>een* Friars
Irlar Baton The Frlnr Roger Bacon, on Engliqh
philosopher and M lentist of the 13th century.
the hero of popular legend
rrlull An anclrnt durhv in northern Italy, now
pnitlv Included In Austria
Fuller Thorn is Fuller fl 008-01 > an English
preacher author of UMury of tin Hor/Atr* of
Fntjlnnd
Furl** The goddesses of vengeance sonn time* sy-
nuntinouH with Fate*
FurneNH-fellft rpland tracts In north* rn Lanca-
shire Knglimd
FusHL Tnhn Hi nry Fusell (1741-18ir»>, n Swias
painter and ait critic
G. One of De Qulncev1* guaidians He uas a
banker In hlncolnshlrt
(•Belli Belonging to the Celtic Gaels or Highland
htotch nt theli language
Gslavr Popularly known as the Milky Wnv
Gulrsufl An Italian river famous for fine-fleeced
she op
Galilee A sen In Palntlne frequented h\ Christ
and his disciples It is nearly 700 feet bilow
sea-level
Galileo (1104-1042) A famous Italian physicist and
nstronoimr
Galla Water A small «<lienm rn Roxburghshire.
Scotland , it flo\\«« Into thi* T\\erd near Abbots-
ford ^cott'* home
da Hlr Pertaining to ancient Gaul, modern France
(•alllian land France
Galston Mulrs. The moorlands near Galston, a
small town In Ayrshire Scotland
flam eh n The hero of a medieval tale, once attrib-
uted to Chaucer
Gamester, The A tragedy by Edward Moore (1713)
depleting the honors of gambling
Ganges A river In northern India, venerated by
Hindus
Ganymede. The beautiful youth who succeed* d
Hebe as cup-bearer to the gods
Gaol Snme as tail
Garamant Frrxan, a province In northern Afilra
Garrlrk, Dnvld Garrick (1717-70), a noted English
ni tor and dramatist
Garlh Ramuel Garth (1061-1710). an English phy-
sician and poet
Gasrolgnp Bamber Gascolgne (1721-011 a British
Member of Parliament from the county of Esiex
Gate Mark. A passage among the Lowther hills on
the border of Dumfriesshire Scotland
Gath. A Philistine city In Judah
Gaol. Ancient Gallia, which in the time of the Ro-
mans Included what is now France, northern
Italy, Belgium, and parts of Switzerland, Ger-
many, and Holland
Gay. John Gay (1685-1782). an English poet
Gelra. One of the Fatal Bisters
GelL Sir William Gell (1777-1886). a writer of
travels and topography, especially of Gi eece and
Troy
Gene\a The name of a canton, a city, and a lake
in Switzerland
GenlL Tutelary spirits
Genoa. A seaport and province in Llgurla. Italy
Genoese. A native of Genoa Italy
Gentile A non-Jewish people
George. — (4HOa, 67)— See Lambe, George.
George Barnwell A tragedy by GeoigeLlllo (1693-
1789), an English dramatist
George 1 King of England (1714-27)
George II. King of England (17J7-6O)
Cteutfje 111. King of England (17UO-1820)
George IV. King of England ( 18JO-30)
George Rex George III, King of England (1700-
Ih20)
George, St. (d 803') The patron saint of England
beorglca A Latin poem treating of agriculture,
trees, animals, etc , written by Virgil about 85
Ger*on. A fabulous monster with three heads it
was killed by Hercules
Ghent A. promtmnt commercial and manufactur-
ing city of East Flanders. Bi Igium
Giant Despair The owner of Doubting Castle In
John Bunvan's Pih/rim n Priori** (107S-84)
Giant M A mythological race ol monstrous beings,
who assaulted the gods and were imprisoned by
thorn
Giant's Cans** a*. The A famous rock formation
on the north coist ot Inland
Gibbon. Edward Gibbon (1 737-04). an English his-
torian, author of Thr //isfoiy of tht Decline and
full uf the /toman /m/i/ic
Gibraltar A fortified lock and town on the south-
ern coast of Spain a British possession since
Gideon \ Judge of Israel Ai a sign that Israel
should be suvtd through his hand Gideon asked
that (rod should let dew fall upon a fleece of
\\iHil and not upon the earth around It
GleriiMlemme Liberal a J<ru*(ilrm Jtdnncd an
Italian epic potm b\ Torquato Tasso (1R44-01)
on the dellxernnce of Jerusalem bv Godfrey of
Bouillon, leader of the First Crusade (1000-
f.leta A loval sublect of Charles XII, King of Swe-
den n«'»7-i7is)
Glfford Williim Clifford (17r»C-1R2C), editor of Tke
Qunrlnly Itcinv he was hostile to Kfits His
satin*. r*< Jldi KIC/ and The Vaiittd. uere pub-
lished In 1707
(.llbert Sir William Schwenck Gilbert (1830-1911),
•in EnglHh poet and dnmatist
Gllpln The hero ol William Cowpcr's poem The
fHKitinq m^rtry of John Ollpin (1782)
Gllpln Homer. See Homer
Gkuannl 1— (022)— A character in John Ford a
'/in Pity Ahc * a Whoir (1033) 2— (096)— The
Christian name of Boccaccio (1318-7"). a great
Italian poet
Glraldnn Camhremls A Welsh ec < le^iastlc and his-
torian of the early 13th century
Glaborne A town on the western border of York-
shire
Glaramara. A nipped mountain In Borrowdale Val-
ley, in the western part of Cumber landshlre,
England
Glasgow The Industrial and commercial metropo-
lis of Scotland It Is the seat oi the University
of Glasgow founded In 1451
Glasse, Mm Hannah Glasse author of The Art of
Conlcfv (1747 >, and similar works
Glaneus A sea god, originally a fisherman, who
became Immortal by tasting magic grass
r*«lm Jnhann W Glelm (1710-1808) a German poet
Glen Fruhu A valley southwest of Loch Lomond, In
Dumbartonshire. Scotland
Glen lass. A valley southwest of Lorh Lomond, in
Dumbartonshire Scotland
GlenaUon A character In John Home's tragedy,
Dwlae (1716)
Glenartner. A forest In Perthshire. Scotland
Glen calm, Karl of. \ staunch supporter of Regent
Murray of Scotland
Glenftnlas. A tr*ct of forest ground In the High-
land* of Perthshire Scotland
Glo'ster —(OS)— "Gilbert de Clare surnamed the
Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-
law to King Edward "—Gray
1390
GLOSSABY OF PROPER NAMES
Gloucester. A city in Gloucestershire, England
Gloucester, Dvke of. Later Richard III, Kin* of
England (1488-80) On the death of Edward
IV, his older brother, Richard, Belied the young
Bdward V and, In 1488. assumed the crown, the
death of Bdward V and his brother In prison
being announced inertly after
Gnldos. Cnidus, an ancient city of Carla, Asia
Minor, a seat of the worship of Aphrodite
Godwin. William Godwin (1706-1886), an English
noveliBt and political writer Bee p 218
Godwin. Barl. An English statesman (9907-10B8).
chief minister of Edward the ConfeMor
Godwin. Mary Wollstonecraft. An English author
(1797-1801). daughter of William and Mary God-
mln. aecond wife of Bhelley
Goethe. Johann W Goethe (1749-1882), a famous
German poet and dramatist
Go* Mid Magog. Fabulous giants, names of two
wooden statues In the London Guildhall sup-
posed to represent the survivors ot a race of
glanti which formerly Inhabited Britain
Golconda. A town In India, once famous as a dia-
mond market
Golden Age. A mythical period of perfect Inno-
cence, peace, and happiness In Roman litera-
ture, the period (81 B C -14 A D ) of the great-
est classical writers, Virgil, Horace, Llvy, O\id.
and others
Golden Square. A prominent square In London
Goldsmith Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74), an Irish
poet, novelist, and dramatist
Gononla. One of the Fatal Bisters
Gorge*, Tjrb. Theobald Gorges, a knight of an an-
cient family near Bilitol He appeared as an
actor In Chatterton's JElla and Ooddvun
rgon A fabulous female monster said to Inhabit
the Western Ocean The name is usually ap-
plied to Medusa, whose hair was transformed
Into seipents so teinble that all who looked
upon them were turned to stone She wa* slain
by Perseus and her head set on the shield of
Goshen * The district in Egypt allotted to the Chil-
dren of Israel for their residence
Goalar. An ancient city in the province of Hanover.
Prussia
Goth; Goths A low German tilbe that overran the
Roman Empire In the Srd and 4th centuries
They founded kingdoms In Italy Spain, and
southern France The name Is uwd of any bar-
baric or uncivilised person or people
;ham. A village In Northamptonshire. England,
famous for the proverbial follies of Its Inhab-
itants Irving applied the name to New York
Gothic. Pertaining (1) to the ancient Goths or
their language, (2) to the no-called pointed types
of medieval architertuie (3) —(97)— to the
Middle Ages In general, or (4) characterised by
display
Gowder crag A rocky eminence In Cumberland-
shire, England
Gnomes. The old and powerful family of Graham,
which held extensive possession!! In the counties
of Dumbarton and Stirling, In Scotland
Grace. One of three goddesses embodying and con-
ferring grace, beauty, and Joy and represented
a* attending on Venus The names usually given
them are Euphromrne, Aglala. and Thalia
Gmfton. A H Fltsrov (178V1R11), Duke of Graf-
ton, an Engllah political leader during the reign
of George III (1760-1820)
Gimhmme. James Qrahame (1760-1811) a Scottish
poet, whose chief work Is Tlie fifffttafft <1ft04)
Granmatlrus, Bant. A Danish historian of the 12th
and 18th centuries
Grunby, Marqal* of John Manners (1721-70), a
British general
Grande Chartreuse. Bre Charrreafle
GrandlHon. Ladv. A character In Samuel Richard-
son's Tike HMorp of *'r Cftr/rfc* Orandl*** (1714)
Granlcns. A river In Mysla. A*la Minor the scene
of Alexander the Great's vlctor> o\er the P*»r-
sians in 884 B C
Grant. Charles Grant C 1778 -1866), a very unpopu-
lar statesman In 1827 he entered Canning s
last ministry as President of the Board of Trade
and Treasurer of the Navy
Granvllle. George Granvllle (1667-1 785), an Eng-
lish poet, dramatist and politician
GrasBMre. A village In the county of Westmoreland,
England, at the head of Grasmere Lake
Grass Market. The place of executions In Edinburgh
In the 17th century
GrassinL Josephina Granlnl (1778-1850), • famous
Italian opera singer
Grmttaa. Henry Grattan, Jr (1746-18X0), an Irish
Member of Parliament who was noted for his
quarrels In regard to legislation
Gray. Thomas Gray (1716-71). an English poet. See
p 57
Great Bear, The. See Beat.
Grecian. — (887, 939) — A name given to students of
the first class who were preparing lor a uni-
versity
Greenhead Ghyll. A small valley near Grasmere, In
the county of Westmozelund, England
Grenada. Granada, a province in southern Spain
Grenvllle. W W Grenvllle (1759-1884), an English
statesman, Secrctaiy of Foreign Affairs In Pitt's
ministry (1791-1801)
Greta Woods. A wood along the River Greta in
northern Yorkshire. England
Grotry. Andifi G retry (1741-1818), a French opera
composer
GrevlUe. Fulke Grevllle (1034-1628), Lord Brook,
author of poems and tragedies, and a Life of blr
Philip Sidney
Grey Friars. A school established on the site of the
old Grey Friars' Monastei). London Christ's
Hospital, founded on this site by Edward VI, was
moved to Hoi sham. Sussex, In 1(102
GrlbHIn. Simon Grlbelln (1661-1788). an engraver.
wlio In 1707 diew plHtes of the Cartoon ft of llapknel
(1483-1520), the Italian pamtei
Griffin A fanciful creature, half lion and half
eagle
C.roafg House, John o'. See John o* Groat.
Gros\enor Place A fashionable nquart in London,
It has been the residence of man* famous men
eared as an Grotto off Antlparos See AntlparoH
Iroup from the Slstlne Chapel. Th< _
tine, chapel is the private chapel of the Popi
Gr
The Sistlne, or Six-
Its walls and ceilings are decorated with paint-
ings, most noted of which arc picture* of the
Creation, the Deluge, and the Judgment, by
MichelanK* lo
Grub Street. A London stieet (now Milton Street)
formerly noted as the residence of poor and
needy authors
Guadalquivir A river In southern Spain
Guardian, The An 18th century periodical pub-
lished by Addison Rtcelo. and others
Gnelphs (Guelfn. Welfs) A powerful family In
Germany and Italy from the t>th to the 15th
centur\
GnlldenMtern A courtier In Shaksperes Hamlet
ttulldford A town In the county of Surrey, England
GoJIdhalL The corporation hall of the city of Lon-
don, England
Guinea The coast-land of westein Africa
Gulliver's Travels. A social and political natlie in
the form of a book of travels, written by Jon-
athan Swift (1726)
Gully Tohn Gully (1783-1868), a price-fighter and
spoilsman
Gi»»neth North- Wales
G}gea A son of Uranus and Gasa. one of the giants,
he was killed by Hercules
Hadrian PublluH JRllu* Hadrlanus a Roman i m-
peror (117-188) He constructed a wall against
the Plcts and Scots In northern England be-
tween Solway Fiith ami tht mouth of tho
River Tyne
of Endor See Xndor
Hagar Concubine of Abraham
Halrlbee. A place of execution near Carlisle, Cum-
berlandshlrc , England
Haldon. A range of hills In Devonshire, England
Hallam. Henry Hallam (1777-1830), a noted Eng-
lish historian
Hallowell, Captain. Benjamin Hallowell, a British
naval captain with Nelson at the Battle of Tra-
falgar (1803)
Hamadryad** See note on Tkc Jftrmtufryntf, p 1804b
Hamelin. A town In Hanover province, Prussia
Hamet. Cld Hamet Benengell, the Imaginary
chronicler from whom Cervantes said he got the
account of Don Quixote Byron states that
Hamet promises repose to his pen, In the last
chapter of Don Qttirote
Hamilton. —(489, 441)— See note on Catyow Cattle,
p 1820a
Hamilton, Gavin. A Scottish painter and antiquar-
ian (1780-97)
Hamilton. Lady.— (411, 416)— Emma Lvon Hamilton
(C1761-1815), the wife of Sit William Hamilton,
a British Ambassador at Naples She was the
mistress of Lord Nelson whom she met In
Naples In 1798, and the cause of his separation
from his wife
GL08SABY OF PBOPEB NAMES
1891
The leading character in Shakspere's Ham-
npden. John Hampden (1594-1648), an English
patriot and statesman who refused to pay ship-
money exacted by Charles 1
Hampshire. A county in South England
Hampetead. Bee note on To Hampatead, p 1278a
Handel. George Frederick Handel (1 685-1759), a
famous German musical composer, he lived in
London for some years
Hanging- Gardens of Babylon. A four-acre terraced
garden. SOO feet high, built on a raised base sup-
ported by pillars It was constructed by Nebu-
chadnezzar (6th cent B C ). and is known as
one of the seven wonders of the world
Hannibal. The famous general of Carthage He
overcame Marcel lus, the Roman general, In
southern Italy, in 208 B C
Hanover. A province In Prussia
Hanway, Jonas (1712-80) An author and tourist
He was a vehement opponent of tea, over which
he got into conflict with Samuel Johnson, an in-
veterate tea drinker
Haram. Harem
Hardy. Sir Thomas Hardy (1769-1880), an English
rear-admiral
Harfleut. A seaport in northern France, taken by
the English, Sept , 1415, retaken by the French,
1440
Hanner-hlll A prominent hill on the road between
Wem and Shrewsbury In Shropshire, England
Harmodlu..R|See fi 604a. n 8
i Al Raschfd (Haroun the Just) Caliph or
Prince of Bagdad (786-809) He Is an Important
character In The Arabian Night*' Anltrlainment
Harrington. Charles Stanhope (17.18-1820). Third
Earl of Harrington, an English general, aide-de-
camp of Buigoyne in the American Revolution
Harriott John Harriott, author of Strvvales Through
Life (1807), a work which contains an in-
teresting account of the author's adventures In
New England
Harrison. John Harrison (1008-1776* a noted Eng-
lish mechanician and watch-maker
Henry the V. Henry V. King of England (1418-22)
Harta Mountains. A mountain range In Brunswick
and Anhalt, Germany, and In the piovlnces of
Hanover and Saxony In Prussia
Harvey, Captain. Sir Ellab Harvey (1750-1880), an
English Admiral
Haseombe A hill In thr county of Surrev England
Hassan. An Arabian prince of the 7th century He
was the grandson of Mohammed
Hathaway. Mr Mathlas Hathaway, steward at
Christ's Hospital from 1700 to 1H18
Hawkfthead. A \ Illagi in northern Lancashire, Eng-
land
Hawthornden. A town In the county of Edinburgh,
Scotland. It Is famous for Its caves
Haydon Benjamin lloucrt Haydon (1786-1846), a
noted English historical painter
Hayley. William Havlev (1741-1R20) an English
writer, author of The Triumph* of Temper (1781),
The Triumph nf ilutir (1804), and various biog-
raphies
Haslltt. William Hailltt (1778-1880), an English
author and critic See p 1007
Hebe. The cup bearer of the gods
Hebrld Inlenj Hebrides A group of Islands on the
west count of Scotland
Herat A goddess of the Infernal regions, teacher of
witchcraft and sorcery
Hecla. A volcano In Iceland
Hector. In Greek legend, the son of Priam and He-
cuba, and the leader of tne Trolan* In the Trolan
War He was slain by Achilles He Is a promi-
nent < haracter In Homer's I tout
Hela The goddess of death, who presided over
Nlflhelmr. the hell of the Gothic nations
Helen. 1— (064. 1075)— Helen of Troy, wife of
Menelaus, King of Sparta, carried off on account
of her beautv bv Paris son of Priam, King of
Troy She was the Trolan war heroine of Hom-
er's Wad 2— (U04n) Julia Flavla Saint Helen
(247-828) mother of Constantine
Helicon. A part of the Parnassus, a mountain range
in Boeotla. In Greece It had two springs. Aga-
nippe and Htppocrene. sacred to the Muses
Heligoland. An island and fortress in the North
Sea
loft. The sun-god, called Hyperion by Homer,
later he was identified with Apollo
Greece
Halle. The Hellespont See Hellespont
A group of poems on Greek topics
Hellespont The ancient name of the Strait of Dar-
danelles, between Europe and Alia It took its
name from Helle (daughter of Athamas and
Nephele). who was drowned in it
Heloise. —(70)— A French abbess of the 12th cent
See Abelard.
Helots. The slave class of Laconia. or Sparta,
Greece
HelveHyn, A mountain in Cumberlandshlre, Eng-
Helvetla The ancient Latin (now poetical) name
for Swltserland
Hengest. A nfth century chief of the Jutes, founder
of the Kingdom of Kent, In Britain
Henry. The name of a number of English Kings
I, 1100-83, II. 1154-80, III, 1216-72, IV. 1809-
1418. V. 1418-22, VI. 1422-61, VII, 1485-1500,
Henry vkll. A chronicle-history play, partly writ-
ten by Shakspere
Herarlea. An ancient Greek city on the coast of
Asia Minor
Heracles, bee Hercule*.
Heraelltus (fl 500 B C ) A Greek philosopher of
Ephesus, surnamed "The Obscure" became of
his style, he was known also as "The Weeping
Philosopher" because of the solemnity of his
bearing and the hopelessness of his view of life
Heralds' College. A body of officials. Instituted In
1484 to determine rights and titles In heraldry
and to regulate the use of heraldic devices
Herbert William Herbert (1778-1847), a translator
of Icelandic and other poetry One of his prin-
cipal pieces is entitled Bong on the Recovery of
Thur*n ilammet
Herrulanenm An Italian city buried with Pompeii
in 79 A D, by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius
Herculean Resembling Hercules in strength; re-
quiring great strength or labor
Hercules. The son of Zeus, he was noted for his
gigantic strength, hero of numerous mighty la-
bors, one of which was the securing of the girdle
of the A mason queen Hippolyta
Herr>nlan forest A forest near the Rhine In south-
ern and central Germany
Here. Queen of heaven See Aphrodite.
HennaphrodltUM. The fabled son of Hermes and
Aphrodite, combining; both sexes In one body,
having been joined to Salmacis, a nymph presid-
ing over a fountain near Halicarnassus He is
regarded as an emblem of Indissoluble marriage
Herme*. The messenger and herald of the gods
Hero. 1— (502, 764, 780. 704)— A priestess of Apb-
rodlte, beloved by Leander, who swam nightl>
across the Hellespont from Abydos. Asia Minor,
to meet her Leander was drowned during a
storm, and Hero. In despair, threw herself into
the sea 2 — (780) — A character in Shakspere's
ifurh Ado About NnthinQ
Herod Surnamed "The Great," King of Judea
(40-4 B C ) He Is alleged to ha\e ordered
tho massacre of the Infants In Bethlehem, in or-
der to kill the child Jesus Bee Herod* * Lament
for Ufarlamnf (p 512) and note, p I221b, also
Stephen Phllllps's Herod, a Tragedy (1000)
Herodotus (5th century B C ) A noted Greek
historian
Herrr the fourth. Henry IV, King of England
Hertford " A branch of Christ's Hospital School, for
eils, located In Hertford. Hertfordshire, Eng-
nd
Hertfordshire. A countv In the south-central part
of England
Hertha. (Nerthus) A German goddess of fertility
and growth
Her\ev, William. An English soldier and nobleman
of the earlv 17th century
Heslod (8th century B C ) A celebrated Greek
poet
Keeper, Hesperus The evening star In Greek my-
thologv
Hesperean. Of or pertaining to Hesperus, the even-
Ing star
Hesperides. The maidens who guarded the golden
apples In the garden of the g:ods, also, the gar-
den itself, on the borders of eternal darkness
Hessey. James Augustus Hessey A member of tho
publishing firm of Taylor ft Hessey, Keats'! pub-
Heywood. Thomas Hevwood. A noted English
dramatist of the early J™» Cent'u_r7
Hibernian Htrangford. See Rtrangford.
Hierarrh. A leader of celestial hosts
Hlgh-Born Helen. Thin poem appears as Helen
In most edltloni of Lamb'! worn
1392
OLOB8ABY OF PBOPEB NAMES
_ A fut stage coach
e. A suburb of London
id Mary. A name given by Burns to Mary
ramp bell and to Maiy Morison
Hilda. One of the Fatal Sisters
Hlmera. An ancient town in Sicily.
an. Of HInckley, a town in Leicestershire,
England
du. A member of one of the native races of
Hindustan, the central peninsula of Asia
Hlndhead. A ridge in the southwest part of the
inly ot Surrey. England
«. HlnnonVs Vale. The ancient valley of Hln-
nom, south ot Jerusalem It was called also
Gehenna and Tophet. and in later times It be-
came the prototype of the place of punishment,
and was regarded as the mouth of Hell
Hlpplas. Son of Pislstratus. he became ruler and
tyrant of Athens in 527 B C and was expelled
In 510
Hippocrates A celebrated physician who served
Athens at the time of the great plague, 420 B C
He was a native of Cos, an Island in the ^Ugean
Sea
Hlppocrene. A fountain sacred to the Muses, on
Helicon, a part of the Parnassus, a mountain
range In Boeotla, in Greece The table was that
the fountain gushed out where the hoof ot Pe-
gasus strut k the ground
Hlpnolrtn. See note on The* cut and Hlppolyta, p
Hobb* Thomas Hobbs (1K88-107D). a celebrated
English philosopher
Hodnr. See note on Gray's The Descent of Odin, 07h,
W-BO, p 1200b
Hodges. A student at Christ's Hospital with Lamb
Hoel. The son of Prince Owaln cjwynedd of North
Wales, he was a poet and a warrior
Hofer. Andreas Hofer (1707-1810) a Tyrolese pa-
triot and insurgent leader, executed by the
French under Napoleon
Hogarth. William Hogarth (1097-1704), a noted
English painter and engraver
, James A Scottish poet (1770-1833) See p
Hog-lane. A disreputable street In London, now
Middlesex Street
Hog'» Bark A mountain ridge in the county of
Surrey, England
Holcroft. Thomas Holcroft (1741-18011). an English
dramatist, actor, and miscellaneous writer
Holland. Henry Richard Vassall (1773-1H40), 3rd
Lord Holland, who Byron thought wrote the
hostile attack upon his Hour* »/ ItUcnrtm Byron
says that Holland was "applauded for dinners
and tianslatlons"
Holy Alliance. An alliance made in 1811 by the Em-
perors of Austria and Russia and the King of
Prussia, subsequently loined bv all the. European
sovereigns except the Pope and the King of Eng-
land
Helyhead. A seaport in Anglesea. Wales
Holy Paul. — (084)— St Pauls Cathedral, London.
It contains a statue of John Howard (1720-90),
the prison reformer
Holy Roman Empire Certain portions of the old
Rom din Empire together with the Prankish pos-
sessions of Charlemagne who was crowned Em-
peror at Rome, 800 by Pope Leo III In 902 the
real Holy Roman German Empire began It be-
came extinct In 1800 when Frincls II resigned
for the hereditary crown of Austria
Holy Thursday Thursday of Holy Week — I 0 , the
week before Easter
mer. An ancient Greek poet, variously assigned
to the 8th to 12th century B C the reputed au-
thor of the Iliad and the OdjtKvev and of the so-
called Homeric hymns According to tradition
he lived In Smyrna and on the Islands of Chios
and log In the JGge&n Sea, and In hit old age
was blind
Honorable Society of the Middle Temple Bee Tem-
Hoofir! Richard Hooker (1FWS-1COO), a noted Eng-
lish divine
Horace. Qulntus Horatlus Flaccus (OB-8 B C ), a
noted Roman lyilc and satirical poet
Horatio. A character In Bhakspere'* Hamlrt
Homer. Gllnln The goblin page In Scott's The Lay
Morale. flThe devil* ™ *
Horton. Lady Wllmot. Anne Beatrix Horton. wife
of Byron's second cousin, Robert John Wllmot
(17R4-1841) She died In 1R71
HofJMlow. A town In the county of Middlesex, Eng-
land
Houris. The beautiful damsels who, according to
the Moslem faith, ate to be companions of the
faithful In Paradise
Hours. Mythological beings represented as accom-
panying Venus, and as bringing the changes of
the season
House of Commons. The lower legislative body of
England
House of Tudor An English dynasty, descended on
the male side fiom Owen Tudor, on the temale
side from John of Gaunt through the Beau torts
It comprised the sovcielgns, Henry VII, Henry
VIII, Edward VI. Mary, and Elisabeth
Houses of Parliament. The legislative body of Eng-
land consisting of the House of Commons, and
the House of Lords
Howard. 1— (381, 934)— John Howard (1726-00), an
EnKllsh philanthropist noted lor his efforts in
behalf of prison reform 2 — (4N2) — See note on
V Ktmman, p 1272b 8— (527)— 800 p 627b, n 2.
Howard. Earl of Nottingham —(220)— Charles
Howard (1530-1024), an English admlial
Howe. William Howe (17JU-1814), a British general
In the American Ke\olutlon
Hoyle. Edmund Hoyle (1072-1700), an English
wrltei on whist and othei caid games
Hubert, Halnt (GTiO»-727> A bishop of Liege, Bel-
glum the patron saint of hunters
HuftTurnot. The Huguenots were French Protestants,
who sufftied great persecution during the te-
llgious wais of the Tilth and 17th centuries
Hull. A seaport on tlfo east coast ol Yorkshire,
England
Hnmboldt F 11 A Hum bold t (17dO 181')), a Gei-
man naturalist and stauunmn
Hume, Du%ld (1711-70) A famous Scottish philoso-
pher and historian
Hume. Joseph ( 1777-1 8Vo An English politician
who devoted himself to financial question* anil
was Indefatigable In i \poslng extinvagame and
abuse Hitunrkmcnt wi« hln wntchuord
Hun One of an obscuri \maiii nomadic and war-
like race liting between the I i il and th« Volga
abciut the dawn of tht Christian era — (420) —
Austilans
Ilungerford. A cltv in wi stern lit rk shire England
llunf James Henry Leigh Hunt (17N4-1K"I», an
Englinh port and essayist Sec p H«»d
Hjaclnlh, Hiarlnthus A beautiful \outh beloved
of Apollo and aecidentnlK killed b\ him uhlli
playing at dm us- throwing From the blood of
Hyacinthus sprang the flown called hv.it Inth
Hihla An indent town ol Htilv turnout r<»r its
honev
HtdanprM The ancient name of the Rlvi i Jhclum
In India
Hide Park Corner Hvde Park Is a park In West-
minster, London, on< of th« largest of the Lon-
don pa*ks
Hvmen The god of marriage
Hyperion A Titan father of Helios the nun -god
also the sun-god himself, the Incarnation of
light and beauty
lago The villain In Rhakspere's Otlirllo
Ian the Sophia Jane Switt. La n dot • early sweet-
heart Her first husband <lied in 1S1J and she
soon aftfrwaids married M fit Molancli They
went to live In Pail* whete hi i fucond husband
died She HPC nt two >ears (IH2')-.I1> in Flor-
ence, and passed thi rtmalndtr of In r life be-
tween England and France She died in Paris
In 1811
Ittpetus A Titan, father of Prometheus and Atlas,
and fabUrl ancestor of the human rnci
Iberian Of Iberia, the ancient name ol th< Spanish
peninsula
Irarns A vouth \\ho flying with his father,
aluq on wings fastened with wa\, soared so
,
high that the sun melted thcwax and he fell
Into the Icarian Sea and *as drowned
Irolmklll lona. an Island of the inmt Hebrides on
the west coast of Scotland
Ida An ancient mountain In the Island of Trete.
southeast of Greece, con nor tod with the worship
of Zeus
Idalla. A town In the Island of Cyprus. In the
Mediterranean, containing a temple for the wor-
ship of Venus, goddem of love
Ulad A Grerk epic poem rlenllng with the story of
the siege of Ilium (Troy) It Is ascribed to
Homer
lion See Troy.
" ---- A small river In Attica, Greece
See Troy
A character In Shakspere's
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
1393
— (616)— Indus, a river in India 2— (800)
— -India
The London headquartei s of the East
India Company, a trading company formed in
16UO to carry on commerce with the East In-
dies It became aUo a great political powtr,
until in 1808 it practically governed India
Indostan. India
Indus A river in India
Inferno.
The flrst part of Dante's The Divine Comedy,
describing the poet's Journey thiough hell under
the guidance ot Viigil
Inner Temple See Temple
Inquisition. The Roman Catholic court for exami-
nation and punishment ot heretics It cam* into
being in 1231, and took its most seveie form In
Spain where torture, as a means of eliciting evi-
dence, was gineiall} employed
Inverlochy. A place In Argyllshire, Scotland, wheio
James Graham (1012-CO), Earl ol Monti ost, de-
feat id the Scottish Covenanters In 104"i
Inverness A county in norlh-centtal Scotland
lnveruie>de. A village* in htirllngshire, Scotland,
near the head of Lot h Lomond
Io. A beautiful nymph beloved of Jupiter, she
aroused the jealousy of Juno
lona. Inland of One of the Inner Hebrides, off the
west toast of Scotland
Ionian, Ionic Pi rtalnlng to Ionia the ancient n ime
of the coast dlsttict and islands of western Asia
Minor, peopled b> Greek colonists
Iphigeneia See note on OH His Own Agamemnon and
7/jftir/rnf w, p 1404s
Iran Persia
Iris. The pet snniflcation ot the rainbow, regarded
as the swift mesbi nicer nt tht gods Shi was
supposed to loostn the. hair of dying pel sons so
that their spirits might depart
Irlhh Rebellion A irlxllmn fostered In 1798 bv the
hocietv of rnitcd Irishmen lor the avowed pur-
pose of separating Ii eland trom tht Bntlsh Em-
pire
Iron Age In Oioik rmtholopv the last and most
degraded period of tin ngis prectding the hu-
man eta Opposed to Golden Age
"Iron Mask" An all ml on to the Man in thr Iron
Maqk.' a nrvbtenous flguie of the laic 17th cen-
tury In Italy He lias bt<n Id* TI tilled as < nunt
Mjttloli Secretary of state at the Court of (ton-
saga, L)uk< of Mintua
Irthlng A river In the northeastern part of Cum-
berland Oil te Enplnnd
Isalab A Hi brew prophet (740-701 B (' )
Iscamm A boon companion of Canyng ITe ap-
pears as an art or in i hattf rton's JVllu and Uodd
nun
Isw A river In Havana Germ inv
Iftle of Man. An Island In the Irish sea
Islington A parish In northirn London
Ihinall. A town of Runs! i former Iv a Turkish for-
tress The masMat.it \ihlch followed the storm-
ing of the olt\ bv the Russians In 17<IO was one
of the bloodiest events in the annals of Europe in
warfan
Israel. The kingdom of the noi thorn tribes of the
Israelites, who seceded Irom the sou the in tribes
in the reign of Rohoboam OM B r
Israel's sons Children of Israel descendants of
J.i c oh
Isfambol. Istambul or Istamboul, a Turkish name
of Constantinople
Italia. The ancient name of Ttaly
IttiHca An Inland of the Ionian group Greece in
classical It gend tin home of Odysseus
Iilon In Greek legend, a king of a wild people of
Thessalv Greece, in the heroic age He made
love to Hera, hv whom (In the fnim of a cloud
sent bv Zeus) he became father of the Centaurs
For boasting of the fa\ors of Hera, Ixlon was
bound to an endlessly revolving wheel In Tai-
tarus
Jack The conventional name of a sailor
Jack Cade. Jack Cade was the leader of "Cadi's
Rebellion," a political uprising In Kent, in 14"»0
Jack Homer. An old nuiser\ ihvme the hero of
which "sat In a corner eating his Christmas pie "
Jackson. John Jackson ( 1700-1 845). a well-known
pi lie- fighter
Jacob The son of Isaac and ancestor of the Israel -
Jacobl" Frledrich Heinrich Jacobl (1748-1810) a
noted German philosopher
Jaffa. A seaport of Palestine It was stormed bv
the French under Napoleon In 1799
Jambllchus. One of the Neo-Platonlc philosophers
of the 4th century
Janus. An ancient Roman deity, god of gates and
doors He was lepreaented with two faces look-
ing in opposite directions, thus seeing the past
and the future at the same time
James. 1— (448)— James VI, King of Scotland
(1507-1025) and— (827)— King of England as
James I (1608-25) 2— (455)— James V, King
of Scotland (1 > 13-42) 8— (107fM— James &. King
of Scotland (1400-87), 4— (11 5U)— King ot Eng-
land (1085-8M
Jam*, the Hkottishc Kjng —<11G>— James I, King
of Scotland (1400-37)
Jason. See Medea
Jean. Burns's wife
Jeffrey. Francis Jeffrey (1778-1830), a Scottish
critic essayist, and lunst He was editor of Tko
RdiHlumh Herirw See p SM
Jenkins A dissenting mlulstti in Whitchurch,
Shropshire, England
Jcphthah. A judge of Israel who sacrificed his
daughter In tulllllment of a vow that if he sub-
clued the AmmonlliB hi would kill whatever
came out of his house to meet him on his return
Jericho An ancient walled city ot Pale stint
When attacked b> the invading Israelites und« r
the command of Joshua, its walls wiic raliaeu-
Inusly destroyed
Jerome bt Jerome (c340-42<M one of the fathers
of the Latin Church Ht published a Latin
version of the Bible known as the Vulgate
Jesuit One of a Catholic rtligloiih order founded by
Ignatius Loyola in 1VU undi i the title of The
<*oclttv of Jesus, \t hem e its mine — Ic suits
Jen el. John Jewel (J52J-71), Bishop of Salisbury
an English divine
Joan of An "The Maid of Orleans" (1412-81) the
French natlonil hrroine Mit won a gieal bat-
tle against the English in 14-"»
Jock of Harcldcan A traditional billad hero
Job The ch'ef personage in the book of Job, in the
Old T« otament
John Buncle A novel bv Thomas Amory (1601 9-
17**8> an English humorist ami moralist Tht
In ro John Buncle is noud for his amorousness
he was married seven times
John o* Groat's llonsc A building near Duncansby
Head the nor theinmost point ol Scotland, said
to hive been erected by John o Groat, u Dutch-
man \v ho probablv settled tht re about 118W
John. Saint One of the twthe aposths, authoi of
the book of Jo fin
Johnson Samuel Johnson (170'!-84), a celebrated
English essayist and It \icofrraphcr He uroti
In the conventional c lasile-U manner
Jonathan. — muo)— SM Bull, John
Jonson Ben Jonson (cl "73-1(137), a celthiatcd Eng-
lish poet and dramatist
Josephus. Flavlus Josephus (37-90 *) a cehbratid
Jewish historian
Joshua. A leader of the Israelites who conqueitd
Canann He to the mibji c t of the book of /O«AMU
Jo\e Same as Jupiter or Zeus
Jotlnn Resembling Jo\e
Judah The tribe descended from Tudah, or the ter-
ritory In Palestine assigned to It
Judaism. The Jewish cf\il and religious law
Judas Judas Iscarlot, the betrntr of Christ
Judean Of Judoa a southern division ot Palestine
in the Roman PC nod
Julian, Count The hi ro of Lander's dramatic poem
Count Julia*
Julian, Emperor. Emptier of Home (8G1-3<»1)
Juliet The heroine in 9haksp< ro * Konirn anrt Juliet
Junsjfrau. A high mountain of the Alps In Switzei-
Jnnlus The signature of an unknown writer of let-
ters attacking the British government, pub-
lished 17CO-7L'
Juno. The wife of Jupiter and queen of heaven
She *aq identified with the Greek goddess Hera
See I&lon
Junot. Andoche Junot (1771-1813). a French gen-
eral
Jupiter. The supreme deltv In Roman mvthologv
He was worshiped on the Capttolme Hill at
Rome His weapon was the thunderbolt, the
eagle was snered to him
Jura A chain of mountain* In eastern Fiance and
western and northern Pwltserl ind
Juvenal (c55-12S) A Roman satiric poet
Kaf Tn oriental legend a mountain range consisting
of a single emerald, said to surround the world
1394
GLOSSARY OF PEOPEB NAMES
Kaff. Caucasus, a mountain system in Russia, be-
tween Europe and Asia
Kaltbarn. The sword of Kin* Arthur, which Monk-
lib historians Bay oame into the possession of
Richard I, and was given by him. in the Cru-
sades, to Tancred. King of Sicily, as a royal
present, about 1190
Kant. Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), founder of the
•o- called Critical System of Philosophy
(Cathay) A poetical name for China
A lake in the western highland! of Perth-
shire, Scotland
Lancashire. A county In northwestern England.
Lancaster. 1— (64, 182, 221)— The name of a line
of English kings descended from John of Gaunt,
B88S.
•hire, -.——-._--_
Kean, Mr. Edmund Kean (1787-1888), a celebiated
English actor
Keats, George and Gcorglana. George Keats waa
the brother of John Keats the poet. Georglana
wai George Keats's wife
ible, Mr. John Philip Kemble (1757-1828), a
noted English actor
idaL A town in the county of Westmoreland.
England
Kensington. A western section of London
Kent. 1— (81)— William Kent (1684-1748), an Eng-
lish painter, sculptor, architect, and landscape
gardener 2— (287, 294)— A county in south-
eastern England 8 — (958) — The servant of
Lear In King Liar
Kentish Town. A district in the northwestern part
of London
Keppel. Augustus Keppel (1720-80), an English ad-
miral
Keewick. A town in Cumberlandshlre, England, the
burial-place of Southey
Kevmer. Mr Keymer, a London bookseller
Kllda (8t Kllda) A small Island outside of the
Hebrides, west of Scotland
Klbnarnork. An ancient mining and manufactur-
ing town In Ayrshire Scotland
r of Day. Hyperion, god of the sun
of Terrors. Death Bee Job IK
_ j College. A coll e Re of Cambridge University,
Cambridge. England
KlopstockT'Vrled^ch ^Gottlieb Klopstock (1724-
1808). a German lyric and epic poet, author of
Tie JfrMto*
ox. John Knox (1105-72), a celebrated Scottish
reformer, statesman, and writer
The Mohammedan sacred scripture
See note on Kotktvtko. p 1284b
F. Madame Barbara von VIetlnghoff-Bcheel
(1764-1824), Baroness of Knidener, a Russian
mystic, friend of the Csar, Alexander I (1775-
1825)
Kjrkesly; Klrfcless A priory In western Yorkshire
Labrador A peninsula between Hudson Bay and
the Atlantic Ocean In northeastern Canada.
Lady, Blanch. A picture known aa Modrtti and
Laertes. A character In Shak spore's Hamlet
~ ~iore. An Important trade and educational city
In India, annexed by the British In 1849
Ian. Lalus. legendary King of Thebes, upon
learning from the oracle that he would be killed
by his son, who would wed his own mother, left
his Infant son CEdlpus In an exposed place The
boy was rescued, and later slew his father un-
wittingly
_e District; Lakes. The region in northern Eng-
land Including the counties of Lancaster. Cum-
berland, and Westmoreland, so called because
of its beautiful lakes
Lake Lemaa. See Leman.
Lakers. A name given to Wordsworth, Coleridge,
Bouthcy, snd others because of their residence
In the Lake district of England
Lamb. Charles Lamb (1775-1884), a noted English
essayliit Sec p 911
LambTMIss. Charles Lamb's sister Mary (1764-
Lamb. 1— <486a. 55)— William Lamb (1779-1848).
2— (486% 57, 486b, 82, 498, 496)— George Lamb
(1784-1884) Both were cousins of Byron's wife
George Lamb was a contributor to The E<H*b*rffk
Review, and the author of an unsuccessful farce,
WMafZe /or It. At the time of Byron's separa-
tion from his wife, George Lamb supported
Byron, the wives of George and William Lamb
supported Lady Byron William Lamb sup-
Duke of Lancaster, third son of Edward III In
the 15th century, the House of Lancaster con-
tested for the throne with the House of York,
descendants of Edmund, Duke of Tork, fourth
son of Edward III, In the War of the Roses, so
called from the red rose and the white rose,
badges of the adherents of the respective houses
2--(1120)-- A city In Lancashire, England
Lane's novels The novels published by William
Lane at the Mlner\a Press, In London
Langdale Pike. A hill in the county of Westmore-
land, England, at the head of Langdale Vale,
near Ambleslde
rota. An antique group in marble representing
the death of the Trojan priest Laocoon and his
two sons, who are represented as crushed by
huge serpenta
Laodamla. Bee note on Laodamia, p ISTla
La Place. Pierre La Place (1749-1827), a French
astronomer and mathematician
land. A region In the northern parts of Norway,
Sweden, and Russia
•Ian. -
j— (506)— Lambros Kationes. a noted
jk revolutionist and pirate, of the late 18th
century 2— (605)— Raldee's father, In Byron's
Don J*0a, probably Identified with 1
.-.-.- — — Belonging to Lapland
Lara. 1— (93)— See note on Fingal, p 1806b 2—
(906)— A poem by Byron
Last Supper. A famous painting by Leonardo da
Vinci (1452-1510), In Milan, Italy It was fin-
Ished In 1498
Latlan Of or pertaining to ancient Latlum In Italy
Latlmer. Hugh Latlmer (148Ji-l%n5), an English
Protestant martjr, bishop of Worcester.
Latlum. An ancient country in Italy, between Etru-
rla and Campania, the home of the Latin or
Roman people
Latmian Endymlon. a shepherd on Mt Latmus.
Asia Minor. *ho was loved by Diana
Latmos. Latmus. a mountain In Carla, Asia Minor,
where Diana found the shepherd boy Endymlon.
sleeping
Latona Same as Leto mother of Apollo and Arte-
mis Rhe personifies night
Laura The sweetheart of Petrarch, Immortal lied
In his sonnet*
\ city In Switzerland
, Jr. Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830),
a noted portrait painter
Lawsoa. Dr. The Master of Manchester School
when De Qulncey was a student there, in 1800
La* bach (Lalbach) A city In Austria
Lasarm. The beggar "full of sores" who desired to
be fed with the crumbs from the table of the
rich man Dives (Luke 16 19-81) See Dives,
Lea A river In Bedfordshire, England, famous for
Its fish
Leadenhall Street. A street in London on which
was located the East India House, where Lamb
served an a clerk from 1792 to 1R25
Leader Haaghs Lowlands along the River Leader,
which joins the Tweed, near Melrose, In Rox-
burghshire. Scotland
Leander See Hero (1)
Lear. King Lear In Shakspere's King Lear
Lebanon. A mountain range In Syria, once famous
w for its forests of cedar
Leboo, Prince Jean Louis Joseph Lebeau (1779-
1868). a Belgian diplomat, who carried on 1m-
port ant negotiations with England, 1830-81
Leda. Zeus. In the form of a swan, made love to
Lcda, and from this amoui, according to ono
legend, were born Castor and Pollux. Helena and
Clytemnestra
ershlre. An inland county of England
Mrs. Bvron's half-sister Augusta
The largest city In Saxony Germany
A seaport of Scotland, near Edinburgh
Leman. Lake. Lake of Geneva, Switzerland
Lemnos (LImno) An Island In the /BCgean Sea, be-
longing to Turkey
Lennox. A district at the lower extremity of Loch
Lomond, in the county of Dumbarton, Scotland
It was the residence of the Lennox family, and
was frequently raided bv the mountaineers
Lenny. A pass from the village of Callander, Perth
shire, Scotland, to the Highlands
Leat. A fasting period of forty days immediately
preceding Easter
Leopold. Prlaee. Duke of Raxe-Coburg (1790-1865).
afterwards. Leopold I. King of Belgium (18B1-
65) He married Princess Charlotte, daughter
. of George IV of England, In 1816
Lepaato. A naval battle fought In the Bay of Le-
pinto, on the west coast of Greece, between the
fleet of Turkey and the allied flftts of Spain and
GLOSSARY OF PBOPER NAMES
1395
Italy, Oct 7, 1571 The Turki wore defeated
Leasing!1 ^tthSd" E Letting (1729-81),
brated German critic and dramatist
a cele-
An Important itr
my banks
Bee Locta Lomond.
rtant itreet in London oo-
L>B*rang?. Sir Roger L'Eatiange (1616-1704), an
English Journalist and pamphleteer
, Lethean. Lethe was the river of forgetful-
ness in Hadefl
Leurtra. A village In ancient Bceotia, Greece, the
scene of a victory by the Thebani over the Spar-
tans, In 871 B C
Leven-glen. The valley of the River Leven, which
connect! Loch Lomond with the River Clyde In
Dumbartonshire, Be otland
Leviathan. A large unidentified animal mentioned
In the Bible, hence, anything huge or tulossal
Lewi*. Monk Lewis. Matthew Giegory Lrwla (177V
181K). an English novelist and dramatist, author
of the romance Amtrotin, or the Monk (1705)
Ubs. The west-southwest wind
Llb» an Of ancient Lybla, a part of northern Africa
Llddtsdale /'valley in Dumfriesshire. Scotland, on
the English border
Life and Opinions of Tristram Bhandv, The A dls-
no\el by Lawience Sterne (1718-68), an
English novelist and humorls*
Lilliputian Vety small, like the people of Lllllput,
an imaginary Island In Swifts GtlUver't Travel*
Llllo Geoige Llllo (101)3-1789), an English drama-
tist, author of Qrtnar Bnrnvcll and other plavs
Lima A elty and piovlnce in Peru. South America
Limbo-lake. The ' pit" of Hi 11
IlneolB A rlu In Lincolnshire England
Llneoln green* A cloth made In the city of Lincoln,
and worn bv huntsmen
Ilohenllnden, a village in Bavaria, Ger-
many
idnav Lord Llmlsav, a staunch supporter of
Regent Murray of Scotland He was not*d for
his fierceness and biutalltj
LJnllthgvw A town In the county of Llnllthgow
(West Lothian), Scotland t M
Llnton A parish near Cambridge, in Cambridge-
shirr, England
Lion —(813 \— The constellation Leo
Lion of 8t Mark \ winged lion holding an open
book with the inscription "Pax tlbl Marce.
Evangelista mcus' the national emblem of
Venice It was cast in the 12th century
Lisbon The capital of Portugal
Llthgow. William Llthgow (11R2-1641*). a noted
English traveler He Is nald to have walked
over 30,000 miles thiough Europe, Asia, and
Africa He !• the author of a book of tiavrl
and of other works
Little A pseudonym of Thomas Moore (1779-1*12).
an Irish poet See p 424
Little John A lieutenant of Robin Hood, noted for
hi* skill with the bow
Liverpool A large seaport in Lancashire. England
Llvia The wife of Augustus Caesar, Emperor of
Rome (81 B C -14 A D )
Llvr. Titus LIvlus (BO B C -17 A D ), a famous
Roman historian
Llanirollen. A town In Denbighshire, Wales
Lie well* n A Welsh prince noted for his mild tern-
por amen t
Lloyd Charles Llovd (177 VI 889) a minor English
poet Charlei Lamb and Llovd were classed
with Coleridge and Southey, In The Anti Ja robin,
as advocates of French socialism
Loch-Aehrav. A small lake In Perthshire. Scotland
Loehard. A small lake neai the village of Abcr-
foylc. In Perthshire Scotland
Lochgrle. A partially land-locked arm of the sea
on the west coast of Scotland
Loohlel. The chief of the Camerons See note on
LocMrl'* UantiHi. p 122Sh
Lorn Lomond The largest lake of Scotland situ-
ated In the counties of Stirling and Dumbarton
It Is noted for scenes of grandeur and beautv
Lothltai The Gaelic name of Scandinavia
Locke, John (1082-1704) A noted English phlloso-
Ben-Lomond Is a mountain in Stirling-
shire, Scotland . West of it Is the beautiful lake
Loch Lomond
The. The official government
tper of London
Lagaxlne, The, A monthly magaalne
founded In London in 1820 under the editorship
of John Scott In 1821, It passed Into the
ownership of the publishing firm of Taylor and
Hesnev Among Its contributors were Lamb,
Haxlltt, De Qulncey, Hood, Keats, and Carlyle
don Tower. Originally a royal residence and
citadel, situated on the River Thames, In Lon-
don It was long famous as a state prison for
political offenders It is now a national arsenal
•Inns Dlonyslus Casslus Longlnus (2187-278).
a Greek Platonic phllosophfi and critic '
Longman, Messra A long established English pub-
lishing house
e. Lope de Vega (1562-1635), a celebrated Span-
ish poet and dramatist
Lord Lieutenant of the County. A deputy of the
sovereign who had wide military powers
Lords and Commons Membcis of the upper and
tower houses of Parliament
Lords of Convention. The. Scottish Parliament
Lorano. —(8ff>— Probably Philip. Dukr of What ton
(1608-1731). an English political intriguer noted
for his piofligacy
Lorraln. Claude Gelee (1600-82), a celebrated
ilnter
valley in Cumberlandshire,
French landscape painter
Lortoo Vale. A small val
England
Lothbnn. A street in London, near the Bank of
England, It Is frequented by businem men and
c lerks
Lothian. The county in which Edinburgh is situ-
ated
Louis XIV King of France (1648-1715)
Lowe Sir Hudson Lowe (1760-1844). a British gen-
eral, governor of 8t Helena during Napoleon's
Ixmth.PtDr!y Robert Lowth (1710-87), an English
scholar and theologian
Lowther Park. A small place on the River Lowther,
Jn Cumberlandshire, England
Lucan. Marcus \nnssus Lucanus (30-06), a Roman
poet and prone writer, author of Pkartalia
Lucifer. Satan, the prince of darkness, so called
from the Impression the church fathers had that
he had fallen from heaven Also, the morning
LucretlUs A hill near the farm of Horace, among
the Bablne Hills, cast of Rome
Lucretius. Titus Lucretius Taius (c05-55 B
c<l t bra ted Roman poet and philosopher
Lurnllus Lucius Licinlus LuculJus (ell 0-57 B C ) ,
a Roman general and consul He defeated
Carbo, the leader of the civil war against Sulla
the dictator, in 82 B C, and other noted gen-
erals He was famous for his wealth and
luxury
Lugar. — flTB) — A small stream near the village
of Lugar In Ayrshire Scotland
Lnnardl. VJncenxo Lunardl (1700-3*00), a famous
Italian aemnaut. who made several successful
ascents In England and Scotland In 1784-86 He
was secretary to the Neapolitan ambassador In
England at the time
LUSH. A small village on the west shore of Loch
Lomond, In the county of Dumbarton, Scotland
Luxor A winter resort on the Nile River In upper
Egypt, the site of ancient Thebes It Is famous
foi Its antiquities
Lycean, Mount Lycssum a mountain In Arcadia,
Greece the chief seat of the worship of Pan,
Rod of flocks and shepherds
Lyeldt Lycldai In Milton's LydoVri, a name
• ^ iward K
C).
to Milton s friend Ed*
the poem
Lyneome. See Lincoln
King, lamented In
rldurt. J O Loekhart (17M-18-M). a SrottHh
critic and biographer, son-in-law of Sir Walter
Lo-door banks. Crag-like heights In Cnmberland-
Lodore.™' A famouH cataract of a branch of the RUer
Derwent, In Cumberlandshire. England
Lara. John Logan (1748-88), a Scottish lyric poet
Lei (Lokl) In None mythology, the god of dis
cord and evil
dls-
tvnn. A seaport In Norfolkshlre. England
L>ODH (Lyon) An Important city in the Depart-
ment of Rhone, France
Lyrical Ballads A collection of poema by Words-
worth and Coleridge published in 1798 For
contents of the first edition see p 1874b The
second edition, published in two volumes in
1800, contained all (of the poema of the first
«.. .?."•_ .or . • ,. _•_ faJjJjJJJjKii.
1396
GLOSSARY OF PROPEB NAMES
r«0 Old Cumberland Bsoyar (p 234),— bj Words-
worth, and Love, by Coleridge
Jjjrslrratf*. See Monument of Lyslcrates
Littleton. Lord George Lyttleton (1709-78). an
English author and politician*
Mab. A fairy queen who delivers dreams from men
See Romeo and Juliet, I, 4
Macartney, Lord. George Macartney (1787-1800).
an Irish diplomat. Governor of Madras, a prov-
ince In India
Macassar A former kingdom in one of the East
India Islands
Macbeth A character in Shaksperc's Uaibeth
MaccaronlM, Fops or dandies The word came
into use in England between 1750 and 1773
Horace Walpole tells about the Maccaroni Club,
composed of "all the traveled young men who
wear long curls and spylng-glasbes "
Macculloch. John Ramsay Mac c ulloc h (1789-1804),
Professor of Political Economy, London Univer-
sity (1828-82)
Macedonia. An ancient county In northern Greece,
the most powerful seat of emplie of its time,
under Alexander the Great (4th century B C )
Maefartane A clan of Scottish Highlanders at-
tached to the Regent Murray They resided In
Lennox, the ancient name of a district compris-
ing parts of the counties of Stirling Perth, Ren-
frew, and the county of Dumbaiton
Marhlavel. Niccolo Machlavelll (140«»-1527). a cele-
brated Italian statesman and political wtltei
Mackenile Dr James Maekenrie (d 1837), a prac-
ticing physician at Mauchllne Irvine, and Edln-
buigh, Scotland He *as cine ol Bur nan wann-
est friends
Mackintosh. Sir James Mackintosh (170V1812), a
Scottish philosopher and historian, he published
Vwduitr QulHrir in 1791 in answer to Burke'i
Jtffft(tinnn on tkt Rf volution in Ftann
cnefl Hector Macnell (174A-1818), a popular
Scottish poet
con An obsolete form of Ualutund, often used as
a name for the devil
Macpherson lames Macpherson (1738-00), a Scot-
tish writer and politician, translator or author
of Ossian See p SO
Madeira. A Portuguese island northwest of Africa,
It Is noted for Its wlms
Madison, James. President of the United States
(1800-17)
Madoc. A legendary Welsh prince, sold to have dis-
covered America about 1170
donna An old Italian form of address equiva-
lent to Viidum Also, an Italian designation of
the Virgin Mary
Mjpaad A priestess or female votary of Bacchus,
hence, a woman given to revelry and de-
baucheiy
Mcrnaluh A mountain In Aicadla Greece, the fa-
vorite haunt of Pan, god of flocks and shep-
herds
Mjeande* In ancient geography, a winding rher
which rose In Asia Minor and flowed Into the
Sea near Sam OB Its modern name IB
Menclerei
Wilde*. A poetical epithet of Homer from his
reputed nathe place, Meeonla the ancient name
of Lydla, a distrlc t In Asia Minor
vlwi. An Inferior Roman poot of the* first cen-
tury B r, an enemy of Virgil and Horace
Magdalen. Marv Magdalen traditionally regarded
as the repentant sinner forgiven by Christ Pee
frrtr 7 30
Magi, Magian The learned and priestly caste of
the ancient Medes and Persians, the keepers of
sacred articles tutors of the kings, philosopheiB,
augurs, and astrologers
Magog See Gog
Mara Zoroaster See Zoroaster.
Mahomet. See Mohammed
s. The eldest of the Pleiades, and mother of
Hermes She was Identified bv the Romans
with an old Italian goddess of spring
•no. Benedetto Malano (14 24 '-OS), an eminent
Italian sculptor and architect
d Marian. A companion of Robin Hood, a Itg-
endary medieval outlaw hem
denhead. A borough In Berkshire, England, sit-
uated on the Thames
___ The name* of a city and a province on the
southern coast of Spain
Malaprop, Mrs. A character In Richard Sheridan's
TtoJHvah (1775)
Malay. The most southern portion of continental
Asia The name is also applied to Inhabitants
of the country
Mallet. David Mallet (1705-65), a Scottish poet and
author See p 15
Mammon. The god of riches and the personifica-
tion of wealth He Is one of the fallen angels
in Milton's Punidttc /Mat
Man, III* of An island In the Irish Sea
ManasBth One ol the t«n tribes ol the Hebrews
dwelling along the Joidan Rivet, named Horn
Manasseh, the eon of Joseph
Mam neuter A laige manufacturing city in Lanca-
shire, England
Mandarin. A Chinese public official
Mandeilllr. Sir John Mandevllle the leputed au-
thor of a 14th c< ntur> book of travels
Manners. The name ol a titled English famlh,
prominent in the ISth ctnturv
Manning Thomas Manning < 1774-1840), an EnRllhh
linguist \\ho spmt a numbci of yearn in Tlbtt
and China
Mantuan. A surname of Vligll, a native of Mantua,
in Lombaidy, ItuI*
Marathon A plain In Attica Gieece, the seine of
the Battle of Marathon, in which the Athenian
gvneifil Miltlailts defeated thu Persian urniv
and saved Greece. 4rio B ('
Marreau Pramols Marunu (17G»-%), a general of
the Fiench Republic, kilhd In a battle, at Alten-
k Ire hen, Prussia
Mairellns. A famous Roman general Soe Hunnlbal
Marengu. A village in north wt stein Itah tlu scene
of Napoleon's victoiv oxer the Austrlans on
lune 14, 1800
Mareotld Mareotls is a lake In the hoithwestern
put of Lower ER\pt
Margaret 1— < l!7G-L»7«l, K«W)- The Wea\er«« A\lfi In
Book 1 of Words woith P Tft< I.KHIWH 2— (140)
— The wile of H.imilton of Itolhwcllhauph in
Scott s fffr/v»to Vuttlr A — (414 »-— A character In
Scott s 7*t iMtlu of tfif Lnlt 4— (M1S»— I nlUen-
tlfled V- (lOtlM — T)i Quince a wile
Margaret of Anjon Queen ol lltnrj M, Kink of
England (14J2-01)
Marian, Maid hee Maid Marian.
Marie Antoinette Daughtei of Emperor Francis ]
and Maria Theresa, of Austria Qu< c n of Franc r
and *ife of Louis XVI, King of Trinee (1774-
'I2), she was c \prute el In the Jacobins In 1703
Marinas Mailnus of Flaila Neopolis, in Palestine,
a philosopher nncl rhetorician nl the Alh cen-
tury A D He w IB a dlsrlplr of Pine I us
MtfrlUM, Calm. \ Roman ffrncuil ol tlio Jnd century
B ^ He scr\eil In the siege of Numuntla a
famous cltv in ^paln, 132 li C , under Sciplo
Afrkanus tho Yminpre i
Mark, Ht See HI Mark
Marlboronajh , Marlbni 1— (400, nOM—Tutm Church-
Ill (1«-)0-172'J> Duke of Marlhoi ough, a famous
English gential nncl statesman He defeated
the French In the Battle of Dlenhplm in Bavaria.
In 1704 2— (1007»— A temn In \\llt8hlre Eng-
land 1— (lIlli-V foi«st ncai the town of
Marlbni ough Wiltshire
Murlone. rhflstophcr Mnrlowe H -ft 4 -03), an Eng-
lish dramntlst, who developed blink \rrse
Marmadukr Thompnon Ste Thompnon
Marmlon The heio of Scott's tale l/rumta*
Maro The family name of Virgil (Publlus VlrglllUB
Maro. 70-10 B C ), a famous Latin poet
Marr*. Marr WHS the name of a famlH murdereel
by the notorious John Williams In the early 10th
century See De Qulnrev's Postscript to On
Murder CrmiHdtrrd nit One of ttir Fine Art*
Mara 1 — God of War 2— (711)-— One of the plan-
ets
Marshal Nry See Nev
Marston Moor. A plnln in Torknhire, England, the
scene of a victoiv of the Parliamentary fotces
and Scots over the Royalists, Julv ° 1A44
Martial Marcus Valerius MartlaIN (1st century
A D ), a Latin poet, author of 14 books of
epIgiamH
Martin. —(1016)— Jack Mnrtln. a prlie-flghteV
Martin, M An author of books of truxela, born In
the Inland of Skye, west of Scotland He died
In 1719
Martinmas A festival in honor of St Martin of
Tours, France (4th eenturv AD), that took the
place of an old pagan festival It was cele-
brated Nov 11
Man el Andrew Marvel (1021-78), a minor English
poet
Marr. 1— nt8)— Ree note on Tn Mary, p 1250a 2—
(108, 202)— Mary Campbell, see note on Thou
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
1397
,
Mary Queen of Hoots. Maty fotuart (1642-87)
laid claim to the English thione in 1558, as
great-granddaughter of Henry VII, on
'
Untfring Star, p lUlBa 4— (440)— S<e note on
The Maid of Ncidpiitk, p 1821b 0— (tt4l), 3004)—
Mary II, wife of William III, and Queen of
England (HWMtt)
MMT Mother, MM? Queen. —(381), 572)— The Vir-
gin Mary, mother ot Christ
She
the
, the
Kiound of Elizabeth's illegitimacy She was be-
headed by Queen Elizabeth in 1B87
Mascot*. Members of an old and extensive secret
older or Iratcrnlty dating finm the Middle Ages
Masolnger. Philip Masslnucr (1583-1040), an Eng-
lish dramatist und poet
Matilda — (41)4 >— Probably Rosa Matilda, author
of The Libertine, 4 vuls (1807), and Tin PaHaiona,
4 vols (1K11)
Matthew. BIG note on Motlkcir, p 1802a
Maurhllne A small town in Ayishue, Scotland
Burns Ihed there eleven voars
Manrhe. The Rev Thomas Miunce (1754-1824), an
English i lergMnan, scholtr, anil poet He wmlo
various wuiks on India ills Hitting of 4n<nnt
find Undent IJindontnn was severely attacked In
The Kdmbwqk Kcvicw
Meander. See M.eandrr
Mecca. A citv In \rabla As the birthplace of
Mnhammod, It Is a sacred clt\ ol Mohamme-
dans, and the object ol pilgrimages to Kauba,
the shilne ot Air tea
flea \n emhanticss the daughter of the King
of Colchis Slip aided her lovci Jason to get
the fcolrtin fleet e and fled with him tn Thessalv,
prt \intliiK her fathit, who puisutd them from
o\ PI taking them \t\ stm&lug the sea with the
limbs of hit \nung brother She lestorcd
Jason's fitlur JRuon, b\ replacing his blood
\iilh ma*J( liquid Jason dtseittd hi r for
Cnusa Pi in rt SB of Coilnth, and Medea took
vcngianco upon h»i rnal b\ sending her a poi-
soned robe hhe also killed her own chlidien,
si t flre to the palnie, and thi n fled to Athens
Medrn. '1 he people ot an ancient kingdom, now part
of Pi i si a
Medoruh Probnblx Medoro n beiutlful Moorish
touth In Ailostns lomance Oilando Furiovn Ills
i lop« mi nt with Angelica causis the madness of
Orlando
Medutta. MM> Gorgon
Mejnoun The Ideal lo\ir of Persian legend For
tlu storv of ' hell i and Mulnoon " see Fram Is
Glndulns tianslatlon ot Saadl's Tin Civilian, ot
K<*< (Inrrif* Talc ID (Jtonton, 18Vi)
Melbourne House Ilie house of Penlnton Limb
(174S-1H1»»» VlMount Milhouini tin father ol
\\illlam and George Lamb, cousins of Lidv
Byron
Melpomene. A musi of tragedy, usually lepresentcd
as bfirliiK a trifflc misk
Melrose Abbev The turns of a famous monastery
In Mcliow. a villain In Roxburchshnc, Scotland
The abbi \ vtas found* d in 11*W
MehlHe'H Sound Me Mile Ba\ is an Inlet of north-
Mi stern Greenland
Memnon Memnonlan A namo gl\en to a colossal
statue oi Amenhottp ITT, an Egyptian king, who
feigned about lino R r Si c p Rish, n 1
Memphlan Of or peitainlnr, to Mtmphls
MemplilN An am lent capital of EMpt, on the
Lower Nile It Is now In ruins
Menai A nairow strait separating the Island of
Anglesey fiom Wain
Menander A Creek dramatic poet who flourished
in the 2nd and 3rd centuries Tl C'
Menenlus Momnius Agilppa, n Ro nan senntot and
a filend of ('orlolnnus In Shakspi re's ronotosmi
Mentelth A dlstilct noith of Loch Lomond, In
Perthshiie, ^cotlind
Merrhes. Pame as Marches, or borders
Mercury The herald and messenger of the gods
Ulrrlonethshlrr. A county in western Wale*
Merlin. A famous magician in medieval romance
especially in the ode of etories dealing with
King Arthur
Mermaid In the Zodiac. The sign of the Virgin In
the Zodiac
Merlon. A village in the county of Surrey, England
MeHtflstatUo. Assumed name of Pictro Bonaventura
TrapassI (1098-1782), a noted Italian poet und
dramatist
Methnflelah. The oldest man mentioned in the
Bible He lived MO years fee Gr*r*t* D 27
Moton (Rth century B r ) A famous Greek astron-
Meuse. A river In France, Belgium, and the Neth-
erlands
— aaeJ. 1— (184, 617, 088, 991, 1104)— An archan-
gel mentioned In the Bible, regarded as the
leader of the host of angels by the Roman
Catholic Church, he Is considered as tepresenta-
tive of the church triumphant Ills feasi oc-
curs on Sept 29 A noted Church of bt Mlchac 1
is in Coventry, a city in Warwickshire. England
2— (1'IJ) — An archangel In Pntadise Lout (Book
6) sent to wage battle against Satan and his
angels 8— (378) — Ihe hero of Wordsworth's
Michael
Michael's Hold. —(1110) — Pt Michael's Mount, a
lofty pyramidal rock In Mount Bay, off the coast
ot Coin* all, England It was once a fortified
A famous Italian painter and sculp-
tot (1475-11(14)
Midas, Lord. A iro thologic al King of Phrygla, who,
upon being piomised an> thing ht might ask,
asked that < verything he touched might turn
to gold For his decinlon in a musical contest
between Pan and Apollo in fa\or ot Pan Apollo
changed Midas's eais into ass's ears His bar-
ber disc o\c red them und to lelievc himself of
the secret, dug a hob Into which he whispered,
"King Midas has ass s ears,' and then filled it
up A reed, however giew thtie and betrayed
the fcecret b> its whispeis
Middle Temple See Temple.
Mlddlrton, Thomas Fan.haw (1760-1822) An Eng-
lish divine He was made Bishop of Calcutta in
Midgard Serpent, The. The world-serpent, hidden
In the ocean, whose culls gird the whole earth
Milan A city In northern Italy, noted for its man-
ufacture* of steel and other products
Miletus A coast cit> In Carla, Asia Minor
Milky- Way. An irregular luminous band encircling
the heavens, consisting of numberless stars too
small to be seen separately by the naked eye
Miller 1— (180)— Alexander Miller (d 1*04), a
parish preacher in Ayrshire, Scotland J— (486)
— ' Jot.' Miller (1CN4-17-.8), an uneducated man,
noted for his many Jokes These were compiled
after his death, bv John Mottley 8— (4SH)—
William Miller (1760-1844), a London publisher
and bookseller
Millwood An ad\entuif r in George Llllo's The to*
don Merchant or tke History of George Barnwll
(1751)
Mllman Henry Hait Mllman (1701-186S), an Eng-
lish cleif,\man and author, ht. was Professor of
Poetij at Oxford Unl\eit>lU
Mllttaden (5th century BO A celebrated Athe-
nian general, tyrant of Chersonesus Being un-
able to pay a fine of 50 talints Imposed because
he failed In an expedition agiinst Paros, an
island In the ^Egcan Sea, he was Impiisuned,
and died without btlng freed
Mlnelo A river In northern It ih
Mlnehead. A small seaport ol Somersetshire, Eng-
land
erva The daughter of Jupiter the goddess of
invention, thought, and Intelligence fine was
ultimatel> identified with the Greek goddess of
wisdom, Pallas oi Athena
Minos A king and lawglxcr of Crete, an island in
the Mediti Iranian, after death hi was made a
Judge In TTados
Mhister-nqnare Tim portion of a city adjacent to
a monastery church
Mlrmnda A chair- ter in Shakspere's The Tcmpnt
Mlrandula. Giovanni Pico del la Minndola (1468-
04), a young Italian nobleman of refined charac-
ter and extraordinary Intellect and accomplish-
ments
Mberere A musical setting of the list Psalm, be-
ginning "Miserere mel, Domlne" (Have mercy
upon me, O God1)
Mtflta. One of the Fatal Sisters
MlthrMafrs 1— (1068)— See Adelnng 2— (1184)—
King of Pontus, Asia Minor (120-48 B r ) He
subjugated the nations around the Black Sea,
and mide himself master of nearly all the
Roman possessions In Asia Minor He was de-
feated by Lucullus in 69 B C , and by Pompey
in 66 B T
>nuMvne. The goddess of memory, daughter of
Heaven and Earth, and by Zeus, the mother of
the MuseR
A large lake of ancient Egypt
Mohammed (670-682) The founder of the Moham-
medan religion
1398
GL088ABY OF PROPER NAMES
„ Anglesea, an Island and county of North
Yale*, northwest of the mainland
Monan's rUL St Monan was a Scotch martyr of the
4th century No stream of this name has been
identified
aelra. A name given to a brook In Glenartney
forest, in the Highlands of Perthshire, Scotland
Moat Blanc. The highest mountain of the Alps,
situated on the boundary of Fiance, Italy, and
Swltserland
at Cenls. A summit of the Alps between France
and Italy
Mont Saint Jean. A village near Waterloo, Bel-
gium, which sometimes gives its name to the
"attic of Waterloo, in which Napoleon «as de-
Amara. the name of a hill In Abyssinia and
the seat of a terrestrial paradise like that de-
scribed in Coleridge's Kuala Khun (p 859)
Mneuln. A public crlei, in Mohammedan countries,
who calls the falthlul to prayei At the appointed
hours
Mulbern -Gardens. A noted London pleasure resott
of the 17th century, containing a number of mul-
berry trees planted by James I, King of England
(1608-25) The Gaiden occup* " "
kccupied the
i and Garden
present
,
English poet and hymn writer, bitterly reviled
by The Edinburgh Rtview
Montmorencl. A river In the Province of Quebec,
glur
Bat
feated by Wellington, in 1815
ntagn. —(123)— John Montagu (1718-92), an
English politician He was Secretary of State
in 1770. and flrst Lord of the Admiralty. 1771-82
Montague, Lady Mary Wortley (1689-1762) An
English author and letter writer
Montague, Wortley Edward Wortley Montague
(1718-76 )b an English author, son of Lady Mary
Wortley Montague
Montgomery. James Montgomery (1771-1854), an
English j - - - -•- — ••--
— — n£]MAfMnd
Canada, noted for its torrent and its waterfalls',
265 feet high, near the city of Quebec
Montrose. James Graham (1612-50), Earl and Mar-
quis of Montrose, a noted Scottish statesman
and soldier As a royalist supportei. he led an
attack on Scotland In 1650, was captured, and
executed
nnment of Lyslcrates. A celebrated monument in
Athens. Greece, erected by the chorus-trainer
Lyslciates as the result of a victory by his musi-
cians In a Dlonysiac festival at Athens, 831 B C
The monument was in honor of Dionysus (Bac-
chus), god of wine
Moodle, Alexander Moodle (1722-99). a Scottish
clergyman at Rlccarton. a small town in Ayr-
shire, Scotland He was noted for his strict
enforcement of law
or. 1— (505, 579)— A member of the mixed Mau-
ritanian-Arab race Inhabiting Morocco or other
North African states 2— (542)— Othello, In
Shakspere's Othello
ore Thomas Moore (1779-1852), an Irish poet
Drish. Of or pertaining to the Moors, Inhabiting
North African states
rat. A small town In Swltserland, celebrated for
the victory of the forces of the republic over
the Invading tyrant Charles the Bold. Duke of
Bergundy (1488-77), on June 22. 1476 Fifteen
thousand men were killed In the engagement
Moray (Murray) -—(421 454. 482)— A Scotch name
common In Border warfare and poetry
Mbrderal. A Jew who accepted a position at court
In order to be near his adopted daughter Esther,
who had been raised to the rank of queen
Haman, the court favorite, was distressed when
he came to the queen's banquet at seeing Mor-
decai sitting at the gate Bee Rtfkrr, 8-5
B, Dr. Henry (1614-87) An English theologian.
B. Sir Thomas (1478-1581) An English states-
man and author, beheaded on a charge of trea-
son
•ana. A fairy In Orlando Innamorato, an Italian
romance by Boiardo (1484 '-04)
nine Post. A London newspaper started in 1772
Sir J Mackintosh and Coleridge were among
Its contributors
e. El Moro, the castle at Santiago harbor, Cuba
It was stormed by the English In 1762
phean. Of or pertaining to Morpheus, the son
of Bleep, and god of dreams
s. The
•s. The son of Sleep, and god of dreams
William Morris (1884-96). an English poet,
decorative artist, and socialist
Mortimer. Roger Mortimer (1287T-1880), Earl of
March, a favorite of Isabella, Queen of Edward
II of England
Mosoovyi Museovy. A name given to Russia, de-
rived from Moscow, the ancient capital
Meses. The great Hebrew prophet and lawgiver
who led the Israelites out of Egypt and through
the wilderness to Canaan
Moslem. Mohammedan
Mpsarlel Farm. The home of Burns in Ayrshire,
Scotland
— ant Abora. Apparently a mountain of Coleridge's
Imagination Professor Lane Cooper (Mod Phil .
Jan, 1906) suggests that It is a variant of
site of Buckingham Palace i
Mulelber. A surname of Vulcan, the blacksmith of
the gods
Munich. A city, capital of Bavaria, in Germany
Mulrklrk. A manufacturing town in East Ayrshire,
Scotland
Murlllo. Bartolome Eateban Murlllo (1617-82), a
Spanish painter, chiefly of teliglous subjects
Murray. 1— (440)— James btuart (1388-70), Earl of
Murray, Regent of Scotland He was half-
brother of Mary Queen of Scots See note on
Cadjfow Catitle, p J320a 2— (488, 568, 618, 1083)
—John Murray (1778-1848), a famous English
publisher, foundei ot The Edinburgh Review He
was the publisher of Byron s works
Muse. 1— One of the nine goddesses who preside
over poetry, art, and science Calliope muse of
epic poetry, Clio, muse of history, Etato, muse
of love poetrj . Euterpe, mum of lyric poetr> ,
Melpomene, muse of tragedv, Polymnla, muse of
aacied poetiy Terpsichore, muse of dancing,
Thalia, muse of comedy. Urania, muse of astron-
omy 2 — The Inspiring power of poetry
Museum of the Capitol. A famous museum at
Rome
Musset, Alfred do (1810-57) A noted French poet,
novelist, and dramatist
Mussulman A Mohammedan
Myrm. An ancient city in Argolls. Greece
MirhaeL See Michael (1)
Mysteries of Udolpho, The A Gothic romance by
Anne Radcllffe (1764-1823), an English novelist
Naiad. One of the nymphs believed to llvt in lakes,
rivers, springs, and fountains, and to give lile
to them
Nals A naiad, a il\er nymph
Namnr. A strongly fortified city of Belgium
Narcissus A beautiful youth, who, having relerted
the lnvo of Echo, Is tabled to have fallen In love
with his own reflection In the *altr. to ha\e
pined away and to have been changed into the
flower which bears his name
Naseby. A parish in Northamptonshire, England,
the scene of the Battle of Naseb\, In which the
forces of Charles I were defeated by the Pai Ma-
men tary armv In 164r»
Nash Thomas Na*h (1107-1601 ), an English author
and satirist He wrote The Unfortunate Tmvtlir,
or Jot If Wilton
Naxos (Naxla) An Island belonging to the Cvc lades
group, In the -flffigean Sea. southeast of Gretce
Nasureth. A city of Galilee In northeastern Pales-
tine
polltans. O!tlienn of Naples. Italy
Mm Horatio NelHon (1758-1801), the greatest
of English naval commanders He was kill* d on
board his ship. In the Battle of Trafalgar. 1801
He was burled In St Paul's Cathedial (See p
Nemesis. An ancient goddem of retributive Justice
Nee-Platonic. Relating to Neo-Platonlsm. a svatem
of philosophy In the third century which en-
deavored to reconcile the teachings of Plato and
Aristotle with Oriental mvsticlam
plane; Neptunus God of the set
bearing a trident for a scepter
Neptune; Neptunus God of the sea, represented as
Nereids. Sea nymphs attendant upon Neptune, god
of the sea
Nero. Lucius Domltius Nero (87-68). a Roman Em-
peror (54-68) notorious for his profligacy and
cruelties
Ness. A promontory near Telgnmouth, a seaport in
Devonshire, England
Nessus. A mythical character shot with a poisoned
arrow by Hercules for making love to Hercules*s
wife Delsnira In compliance with the laat
request of Nessus, Delanlra steeped her hus-
band's shirt in the blood of Nessus, as a love
charm, but the shirt poisoned Hercules, caus-
ing such agony that he killed himself
Nestor. Counselor of the Greeks In the Trolan War
Netherby. A village near the northern boundary of
CumberlandsMre, England ,
Nether-Btowev. A town In Somersetshire, England.
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
1399
A river near Petrograd, Russia
An island of the Leewaid group, British
West Indies
Now Bastile. —(1144)— Probably a name given to
the state prison
New Elolse. A Ftench novel by J J Rousseau
(1712-78).
New River. —(081)— An artificial stream that
brings water for the supply of the City of Lon-
Newark. A manufacturing city In Nottinghamshire,
England, situated on the River Trent It con-
tains the ruins of a 12th century castle in which
King John of England died, in 1216
Newbnry. A city In Berkshire, England, the scene
of ,t wo battles between the forces of Charles I
and of the Parliamentary Party, Sept , 1648.
and Oct , 1644
Newcastle. A laige manuf actui Ing city In North-
umberland ah ire, England, on the River Tyne
Newcastle, Margaret Margaret Cavendish (1024-
SI), Duchess of Newcastle, an eccentric Restora-
on noblewoman She entitled her life of her
husband The Life of the Thrire Noble, High, and
Pnimtant Prince \\ \lliam < avindith and Earl of
Newraitlc, bv the Thrice Noble, Ulustriou*, and
Kf (client PnnteM, Margate* Ihuhena of Newcastle,
hit Wife
Newland valley. A small valley in Cumberland-
shire, England
Newman. John Henry (1801-90) An English divine
and philosopher He is the author of Lead,
Kindly Liqkt
Newstead Abbey The home of Lord Byron, the
poet, an estate In Nottinghamshire, England,
bestowed by Henry VIII on Sir John Byron In
1588
Newton. 1— (1B4>— John Newton (1729-1807), an
English cletffvman, a friend of Cowper, and
associated *lth him in writing the Olnty Hym**
2 — (186) — A Ullage in Ayrshire. Scotland, at
the mouth of the River Ayr 8 — (827. 680,
912. 980, 1039 1108)— Sir Isaat Newton (1647-
1721). a celebrated English mathematician, sci-
entist and natural philosopher
Noy. Marshal. Michel Key (1769-1S1B). a famous
French marshal He commanded the rear-guard
in the retreat from Moscow In 1812 He was de-
feated by Wellington at Quatre-Bras. Belgium,
June 16, 1815, arid at Waterloo two days later
When summoned to capitulate, he IB alleged to
have said. "A marshal of France nevei surren-
ders" (See p HOSb n 6 )
Nicholas. St. A noted bishop of Myra, Asia Minor,
of the 4th century He is a prominent saint of
the Greek churc h
Nick A name of the devil
Niger. One of the chief rivers of Africa
Nile*. The god of the River Nile
Nlmrod A grandson of Ham. a mighty hunter
See Oencnis 10 R
Nineveh An ancient city, the capital of Assyria,
noted for its vast royal palaces,
Nlobe. A mythological chaiacter noted for her
pride In her twelve children, which led her to
compaie herself with Leto. the wife of Zeus,
who had only two In punishment. Apollo and
Artemis, Lcto's children, slew Nlobe's children,
and Nlobe was changed > » Zeus into a rock,
and In that form she continued to weep her loss
Nlthsdale A dale along the River Nlth In Dum-
friesshire, Scotland
Noah A patriarch who built an ark to save his
family and representatives of all living crea-
tures at the tlmo of the Flood See Genem*.
n-10
Nomlnls Umbra. See p 628a. n 8
Norfolk. A county on the east coast of England
Norfolk, Puke of. Thomas Howard (1478-ir">4), an
English general, diplomat, and statesman
Norfolk Island. An Island in the South Pacific used
by England as a penal colony
Norman. Pertaining to Normandy, In northern
France The Norman Conquest was the subju-
gation of England by William of Normandj, In
Notus. The south wind
Nox. The goddess of night
Nubian. A native of Nubia, a region in eastern
Africa
Nueeus. Joseph Nutt, an 18th century apothecary at
Hlnckley, a town in Leicestershire, England
Numa. Numa PompIIius, the legendary second King
of Rome (715-672 B C ), and reputed founder ot
many Roman Institutions
Numantla. A famous ancient city in Rpaln, taken
^ and destroyed by the Romans in 188 B C
Nnmidlan. Of Numidla, an ancient country of North
Africa, corresponding to modern Algeria
Nymphs. Inferior divinities of nature represented
as beautiful maidens dwelling In the mountains,
forests meadows, waters, etc
Nyna. In am lent geography, the birthplace of Bac-
chus Of several cities so named, the chief city
was in Caria. Asia Minor
Oban's bay. A beautiful bay on the west coast of
Argyllshire, Scotland
Oberon. The king of the fairies
Oeenn Isle. England
Ocennus. The god of the stream Ocean us, believed
to encircle the earth
Octavius. Augustus Csssar, the first Roman emperor
(81 B C -14 A D )
Odin The supreme deity of Scandinavian mythol-
ogy, same as Woden
Odysseus Ulysses. King of Ithaca, one of the Greek
heroes In the Trojan War He Is a leading char-
acter In Homer s Iliad, and the hero ot Homer's
Odytaey He was famed for his wisdom and
craftiness
Odjssejr. An epic poem by Homer, recounting the
adventures of Odysseus (Ulysses), one of the
Greek heroes of the Trojan war
CEdlpus. A legendary king of Thebes, an ancient
city of Bceotia Greet e See LsJan.
OhmpJan. Inhabiting Olympus
Obmplans The gods who were said to inhabit Mt
Olympus
Olympus. A famous mountain In Thessaly. Greece
the home of the gods It Is often celebrated In
Omphale. A queen of Lydla. Asia Minor, whom
Hercules was compelh d to serve for three years,
wearing female apparel and spinning with the
maids, while she wore his lion skin
O'Neill. MlsH. Ellia O'Neill (1780-1872), a noted
Irish tragic actress
Onondngm. A tribe of North American Indians
whose chief seat was In the vicinity of Lake
— laga. New York
A character in Shakspere's Hamlet
A district in Portugal
The goddess of agriculture, the harvest, and
plenty
Oran, St. (6th century AD) A friend and fol-
lower of 8t Columba (021-97), a Celtic mission-
ary in Scotland According to legend, Oran con-
sented to be burled alive In order to propitiate
certain demons of the soil who hindered fo-
lumba In building a chapel A chapel and a
cemetery In Icolmklll an Island west of Scot-
land, were named after him
Oreads. Mountain nymphs
Orestes A son of the Greek king Agamemnon and
Clytemnestra who slew hi« mother and her
lover JEglsthus, in revenge for their murder of
Orfoi^Lord.n°Horace Walpole (1717-97). 4th Earl
of Orford, an English author See p 100
Orion. A famous hunter of giant stature, beloved
by the goddess Artemis, but accidentally slain
by her, and after his death transformed Into a
constellation
Orknejr. An Island group north of Scotland
Orlando Fnrloso A romance by Arlosto (1474-1588),
a famous Italian poet
Resembling Orpheus,
or possessing the
the llth oenturv
Norrii, Randal
. I (1701-1827) A friend of Lamb For
many years he was Sub-Treasurer and Librarian
of the Inner Temple, London Bee Temple.
NorthombarUuidei Northumberland. A northern
county of England
Norton. Wcbard. The head of a 16th century Eng-
lish family loyal to Mary Queen of Scots.
Nottingham. An east-central county in England
In the western part Is Sherwood Forest, the
haunt of Robin Hood and his followers
Orphean.
quality of his lyre
Orpheus. A mythological poet and musician whose
lyre could charm beasts and move trees and
stones When his wife Eurydice died, Orpheus
descended to the lower world and gained per-
mission from Pluto to lead her back to the
upper world on condition that he should not look
back at her until they had reached the upper
air Orpheus broke the condition, and Eurydice
vanished
Ortygian. Of Ortvgla, an ancient Island near Sicily
Osemr. — (72) — The name of a warrior la Macpher-
» son's OMtoft
1400
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
Osirian. Belonging or relating to Osiris, the moat
popular of Egyptian gods
MB. The name of a line of Tuikiih valiant trac-
ing to Osman I, who founded the Ottoman Em-
pire about IrfOO
Oaman Be>. The nobleman Oaman
Osslan. 1— A semi-fabulous Scottish bard of the 3rd
century, said to be the son of Flngal, King of
Morven 2 — A pretended translation ol the
poems of OsBian. published by James Macpher-
aon in 1763 bee p 86
Ostend. A noted seaport of Belgium
O«we*try. A town In bhiopBhlre, England
Otahelte Tahiti, the principal Island of the Society
Archipelago In the South Pacific Ocean
Othello The chief character in Bhakapcre's Otktllo
Otter. A rivet In Devonshire, England
Ottomlte. A native of Turkey
Otwa> Thomas Otway (1651-85), an English tragic
dramatist
Onse. A small river In Sussex county, England
Ovid. Publlus Ovidius Nasco (43BC-1T V D ), a
famous Roman poet He was banished by
Augustus and died in exile
Oxford. The county town of Oxfordshire, England,
the seat of Oxford I nlversltv
Oxonian Of or pertaining to Oxford, England, or
its university
OXUB Amu -Dana, a ilver in central Asia
Pacha Same as Pasha
Padua. The capital of Padua province, Italy, seat
ot the University ot 1'adua
Paine, Tom Thomas Paine (1737-1800), an English
political wilttr, author of Vummtm ti(nm, and
The KUjkts of Man
Palsle> A manufacturing town in the county of
Renfrew, Scotland
Palestine. A country in southwestern Syria Its
capital is Jerusalem
Palet William Paley (1743-1805), an English or-
thodox theologian and philosopher
Palladlan. Introduced by or in the pompous Renais-
sance style ot Andrea Palladio (1518-80), an
Italian architect and author who had much
influence In shaping the modem Italian school
ot architecture
Pallas Pallas Athena, goddess of wisdom and war
Palm Jnhann Phlllpp Palm (1766-1800) a German
publisher, shot heiause of the publication ot a
pamphlet against Napoleon
Palm Hunda*. The Rundiv before Eastci
Palme*. John Palmer (1742-1818), noted for his
tefoim in the mall service of England
Palmerston John Temple Pal morse on (17H4-180T).
an English statesman, the enemy of slavery, In-
justice, and oppression In private llfi his per-
sonality made his opponents foiget their differ-
ences
Pan. An Arcadian woodland spirit and Rod of hills
and woods, flocks and herds He Is represented
as horned goat- footed, playing on his pipes,
and as exciting sudden fear It was because
they believed him to have caused the panic
among the Persians at Marathon that the Athe-
nians instituted his worship on the Acropolis
lama. Bay of. The Gulf of Panama on the west
coast of Panama
adlon. An early king of Athens
Pandora A beautiful but deceitful woman sent to
earth by the gods to bring misery upon the
human rare In revenge for Promethcus's theft of
flre from heaven Rome say that she brought
with her a box from which escaped all human
Ills, hope alone remaining Others say that she
brought blessings all of which, when she opened
the box, escaped and departed excepting hope
Pantheists Believers in pantheism, a doctrine
which Identifies the universe as a whole and God
Pantheon. 1— (299, 1060)— A building In Oxford
Street, London, formerly a concert hall 2 — (897
1121) — A circular temple at Rome with a fine
Corinthian portico and a great domed roof, orig-
inally built bv Airrlppa, 27 B O Tn its present
form It represents the building; by Hadrian
Panhlan. Of or belonging to Paphos
Paphos. Paphos was an ancient city on the Island
of Pyprus containing a temple of Aphrodite,
goddess of love and beauty
Parrae The three Fates of the Greeks See Fates.
opposite the Island of Paxos
Parga. A seaport of Turkey, In Bplrus on a rocky
height opposite the Islr '
Pariahs. See p 1086b, n 1
Parian Of or pertaining to Paros, an Island In the
JBgean sea, noted for Its white marble •
Parkhead. George Douglas of Parkhead, a staunch
supporter of Regent Murray of Scotland
nasmia. A mountain range in Bceotla, Greece,
celebrated as the haunt of the Muses of poetiy
and music
Paroles. A son of Pericles
Parrj. Captain. Sir Edward Parry (1700-1855) He
made unsuccessful attempts to find the North-
west Passage in 1819, 1H21. and latci He passed
the wlntei of 1819 on Melville Island, In the
Arctic Ocean
Parthenon. The official temple of Pallas in Athens
Parthenope. Om of the sirens who, unable to charm
_ _*?]*•*«• by her singing, cast herself Into the sea
Partisans. People of an ancient kingdom, now part
Pasha. The title of a high official or prince in Tur-
key and Egypt
Fastorella. A character in Spenser's The Facru
Paswan 'passwan Oglou (1758-1807), a famous
rebel of Wlddln, a department in northwestem
_ Bulgana
Patmoff An Island of the Sporades, off the we it
coast ot Abla Minoi belonging to Turkey
Paul and Virginia. A Fiench story by Beinardln dc
Saint Pieire (1737-1814)
Paul Potters See Potters
Panl. 8t 1— <noj. 010, 034, 1004)— \n apostle of the
Uentilis iaho \\as culled, before his conversion.
Saul of Tarsus 2— Sir Paul (1146) and Tully 8t
Paul (1140) are unidentified
Paulet William Pawlett, Marquis of Winchester.
an English courtlet of tht ibth ccntun
Paulas (d 100 B <" ) A noted Roman general and
consul
Pa\nlm Mohammedan
Fearork Thomas Lovi Peacock (17«r.-l«06). an
English no\« list and poet See p »»8
Peebles Thi Rev William Peebles minister at
«- N'wton-on-Avr Ayrshiie. Scotland
Peele Castle V castle on the Isle of Man west of
England
PegasuH A winged horse fabled to ha\c sprung
from the bodv of Medusa at h< r death With a
blow ot his loot he caused Hlppncicne th« In
spiring fountain of the Muses, to spilng from
Mount Helicon Hence h< Is associated with
poetic Inspiration
P*g*v A coivtntlonul name for a Scottish sheii-
heuleMS
Pelasglan Thr IMasfrlnm. were prehlstoilc Inhab-
itants of Gicece
PeleiiH. A klnE of Thessah, father of Uhllles
I'ellon A mount lin of Thessaly, Greece, famous In
rnvtholom
Pembroke Hall A college of rambrldfre University
rambrldgo, England
I'endragon An ancient British chief, the father of
King Arthur
Peneus A rl\tr In Arcadia, Greece
Pennant. Thomas Pennant (1720-9H), an English
naturalist and antiquary
Pentameron, The See note on The Pcntamrrnn. p
Pent land A range of hills In the counties of Pee-
bles. Lanark and Edinbuigh Scotland
Fenfontllle A district In the north central part of
London
Peona The sister of Endymlon in Keats's Kndy
mlnn
Periran Of Pera, a city in Greece, noithenst of
rorlnth
Perrv. Henrv Percv Earl of Northumberland H
distinguished English military leadei of th<
early nth centuiy
Perdlta. A character In bhakspere's Tkc Witttct'*
Talf
Perl An Imaginary being like a fairy, original^
regarded as e\ll, but later regarded as benev-
olent and beautiful
Pericles. A celebrated Athenian statesman of the
nth century B C See Aspitsla
Peris. See Peri
Perry John Perry, steward at Christ's Hospital
from 1701 to 1785
Pen*. See Percy.
Perseus. A famous hero of classical mythology
Perth. The capital of Perthshire Scotland
Peter Bell A poetical tale by Wordsworth (IftlA)
It was burlesqued by Shelley In Peter Bell fftr
Tftfrrf
Peter, St. One of the twelve apostles
Peter Wllktos. Tie Life and Advnitnn* of Peter
WiJkint (1760), a grotesque romance by Robert
Pal took
GLOSSARY OF PROPEB NAMES
1401
Peterborough. A city in the counties ot Noithamp-
ton and Huntingdon, England It is noted (or
the iamous Cathedral of Peterborough
Petra. An ancient city in the rocky legion of north-
Giovanni Battista Plranesl (1720-78), an
Italian engraver, who was especially interested
In restoring in engravings the ruined archltec-
. .... ture of Rome
western Arabia Pisa. The capital of the province of Pisa, Italy
Petrarea; Petrarch. A famous Italian poet of the Plscator. A character In Walton's The Complete
"" Angler (10W)
Flslstratos (Oth century B C) A tyrant of Athena
14th century
Peironltts Arbiter A Roman aatlrlit of the lit cen-
tury A D He arranged the entertainments of
Nero, and hence was known as at biter elegant
Phssdrus. A Latin writer of fables in the lit cen-
tury A D He was originally a slave
Phaeton. A mythical son of Helios, the sun god
He was allowed to guide foi one day the chai lot
of the sun, he lost contiol of the steeds, was
killed by Jupiter with a thunderbolt, and fell
Into the River Po
Pharaoh (B). A line of kings of ancient Egypt, under
whom the Exodus took place
~~ .. A district of Thessaly, ancient Greece
Of or refiembling Phidias
A celebrated Greek sculptor of the Bth
century B C
Pnigalia. An ancient city of Greece, modern Pav-
lltxa in MesBenia
Philip Philip II (382-830 B C ), King of Macedon,
and fatht r of Alexander the Great
PhUIppl. An ancient city of Macedonia, the scene
of the victory of Octavlus and Antony over
Brutus and CassiuB, 42 B C
Pbfllls. See FhilliH.
Philomel. Philomela The nightingale Philomela,
daughter of Pandlon, King ot Athens, was vio-
lated and deprived of hei tongue by Teieus, the
husband of her Bister Pioeni In revenge, the
slaters served up Teieus B own son to Teieus as
a meal and fled As Tercua pursued them, all
thiee weie turned Into bird* Philomela into a
swallow, Procne Into a niKhtlngule, Ten us into
a hiwk Ac curding to Ovid, Philomela was
turned into a nightingale
Phoebe 1— (81 )— A poetic name lor a shepherdess
or lustic maiden 2— (2"i2>— A diaiacler in
ShakBperea An l»u Ltlr It 3-(K07 10J4)— A
Hurname of Dluna, goddess ol the moon Ste
Phoebus!* An epithet of Apollo Sec Apollo
Phoenicia. An ancient countiy In Asia Minor
Phorrus. The old man of the sea in cln&aic mythol-
ogy , the father of the Gorgons and the Hts-
pcrldes
I'h}llit. A poetic name for a shepherdess or rustic
maiden
Ph>ilan Jo>e. Jupiter Ftaiius, the protector of
exiles
Pirradllb The girat thotouithfare In London be-
tween Hyde Park Coiner and the Haymarkrt
Picliesru. Charles Plihegiu (1761-1804), a distin-
guished French genual, said to have been
assassinated In prlhcin because he engaged In a
conspiracy against Napoleon In 1803-04
PlftlBh Scottish The Picts were an early race
Inhabiting the Highlands of he otlancl They car-
ried on bolder waii with the Romans
Piedmont A province In noithcrn Italy
Pierre The hero of Thomas Otwa\'s tragedy Vttnrr
Pimmd (1882) Ho was a favorite chirarter
of gteat actors Byion was an admirer of
Otwav
Pigmies An African race of d warts
Plgott, Jack. Peter George Patmoie (1780-1855), an
active Journalist and write i In London, and an
Intimate friend of Haslltt and Lamb
Pilate A Roman governor nf Judea of the lit cen-
tury A D When Christ was tried before him.
Pilate allowed him to be condemned and washed
his own hands as symbolical of Innocence of
guilt See JffiHfteiD. 27 24
Pilgrim'* Progress. A religious allegory by John
Bunyan (1628-88)
Plllans. Jamca PlllanB (1778-1R04), a Scottish edu-
cational reformer, at one time a private tutor at
Eton, later, Professor of Humanity at Edinburgh
University He was the ruppoaed author of an
unfriendly review of a translation of Juvenal,
bv his friend Francis Hodgson (1781-1852) The
review wns published In Tftf J?rfm6iir0» Jfrifno.
April, 1808 Plllans was an Intimate friend of
Pindar (Bth century B C ) A celebrated Greek h ric
Plndai6 A range of mountains in Greece between
Mois?^?™ HoWBhtr Lynch Salusbury, 1780-
1821), an English author
Plnr*m The seaport of Athens.
Pistol, Ancient See p 101 8b, n 4~
Pitt. William Pitt (1750-1800), a celebiated Eng
liih statesman and oialor He was premier,
1700-08
Plane UH. Lucius Plancus, a profligate Roman poli-
tician, who was a pai tisan of Caesar in the Civil ,
War He was consul in 42 B C
Plato (427-847 B C > A celebrated Greek philos-
opher
Pleiad One of a group of small stars In the con-
stellation Taurus
FunUimnon. A mountain in Montgomer>&hne and
Cardiganshire, Wales
Pliny, Calus Pllnlus Secundus (23-79), a celebrated
Roman naturalist
Flotlnus (3rd century AD) A Gieek philosopher
who founded the Neo-Platonic school ol philos-
ophy, a system of refined Platonic doetrlncs
combined with Oriental myBtieism
Plumer. Richard Plumer, deputy-set retaiy In the
South-Sea House in 1800
Plntairh (let century AD; A famous Gnek his-
torian, celebi u ted as the author ol a number of
Lives of Gieeks and Romans
Pinto In Roman my thology, the god of the infernal
regions
Fo. The largest river of Italj It empties into the
Adriatic feea
PolrtlerH Poitiers, the capital of the department of
Vlennc, Fiance, the scene of an Engliih vic-
tory over the French in 1350
Pollux See Cantor
Folonlus The father of Ophelia, and the king's
chamberlain, in Shakspere B Hamlet
Poltava. Capital of the government of Pultowa,
RuBBia, where the Russians defeated the bwcdes
in 1709
Folyblas (204-125 B C ) A celebrated Groek hls-
toilan
Folyriptes Tyrant of Samos (530-r>22 B C) He
was a pat ton of literature and ait
Poh pheme«. In Homer's 0<f«my, the one-eye d giant
who imprisoned Ulysses
Pomona. In Roman m> thology, the goddess nt
Irult-trees
Pompeii. An ancient city ot Tiart. buried by an
eruption from Mt Vesuvius In 7«i A D
Fompn. CneluB Pompelua Magnus (100-48 B C ), a
famous Roman gent>ral
Poiitus. An ancient country in \sla Minor south
of the Blaek Sea
Poole. Tom (176V 1837) A wealth* tanner Cole-
ridges friend, correspondent and patrun. who
lived at Stowey He was noted for his kindness
to authors
Pope Alexander Pope (1688-1744), a famous Eng-
lish pott
Forptnrlon In Greek m>thnloff.\ the fire-king of
Portland* &W?llIam Henry C avcndish Rontlnck (1788.
1800), Duke of Portland, tin English Whig states-
man, prime minister, 17^3 and 1807-09
Portsmouth. A seaport In Hampshire, England, Bit-
uated on the English Channel
Poft+ldon In Greek mj tholngv, god of the sea and
brother of SScui
Poslllnpo A hill west of No plea Italy
Potlpfiar One of Pharaohs officers who bought
Joseph
Potter's liar A \lllage in Hertfordshire, England
Potters, Paul. Painting* bv Paul Potter (lC2r,-M),
a noted Dutch painter of landscapes and cattle
• ht Paul
Gaapard Poussln (1013-75), a noted Italian
painter
Powle, 8*>nete. See Seyncte Powle
Pottle* The Re\erend George Croly, DD (1780-
1800) at one time a dram a tie critic of Tkc Lon-
don Tim iff
Prague The capital of Bohemia, Austria, seat of a
university founded by Chailes IV In 134*»
Pratt. Charles Pratt (1718-04), Chief Justice and
Lord Chancellor of England
Praxltflean. Of or relating to Praxiteles
Fraxttrifs (4th century BO A Greek sculptor.
noted for the grace and naturalness of hit
feminine figures
1402
GLOSSAEY OF PEOPEB NAMES
Seventy-two kings OP sultans.
each said to govern a distinct species of rational
beings before the existence of Adam
Preston, l— (64)— Prestonpana, a imall town In
Haddlngtonshlre. Scotland, the scene of a Jacob-
ite victory over the English In 1745. 2— (1120)
—A city in Lancashire, England, noted as an
industrial center
itonMllL — (
Qnmrles. John Quarlet (1824-66), a minor English
Quarterly) Quarterly Review. The, A periodical
started in 1809 In opposition to Tk* IfcHsourf *
eview, the organ of ine TTU
Oifford was the first editor.
party. William
-(475)— A rustic village in Dumfries-
shire. Scotland
am. Legendary King of Troy, a city of Asia
Minor
Frlapos. The god of frultfnlness and prooreatlve
power^of horticulture and vine-growing.
Prior. Matthew Prior (1664-1721), an English dip-
lomat, and lyric and humorous poet
Frinll. A character In Venice Preserved, a tragedy by
Thomas Otway (1661-85)
Fractal (412-485). A Greek philosopher and relig-
ious commentator
Promethean. Of or pertaining to Prometheus.
Prometheus. In Greek mythology, regarded as the
founder of civilization, and the benefactor of
mankind. For an act of deception by Prome-
theus, Zeus denied mankind the use of fire, but
Prometheus stole fire from heaven and carried
It to eaith In a hollow tube For this act he
was chained, by order of Zeus, on Mt Caucasus,
where a vulture fed dally upon his liver, which
grew again at night The vulture was finally
slain by Hercules, and Prometheus released
Propontle. The present Sea of Marmora, between
European and Asiatic Turkey It is not subject
to tides.
Proserpina, Proserpine. The wife of Pluto, and
queen of the lower regions While gathering
dowers In the Valley of Enna, Sicily, she was
carried off by Pluto Zeus allowed her to sptnd
half of her time on earth with her mother,
Ceres
Prospero. In Shakspere's The Tempest, the banished
Duke of Milan He is shipwrecked on an island,
where he works enchantments, and after six-
teen years of exile raises a storm to shipwreck
the usurper of his rightful title
Protagoras (5th century B C ) A famous Greek
philosopher
Protean. Pertaining to or characteristic of Proteus
Proteus A sea god in the service of Neptune, god
of the sea Proteus had the power of assuming
different shapes T
Prowse, Captain. William Prowse (1752 T -1826)
A famous English naval commander and rear-
admiral
Pryocles. A character In Sir Philip Sidney's pas-
toral romance Arcadia (1590)
Paellas. Michael Michael Oonstantlnus Fsellus
(llth century) A celebrated Greek writer and
scholar He was born In Constantinople
Psyche. In classical mythology, the name given to a
personified soul She was beloved by Eros, god
of love She Is represented in art as a maiden
with the wings of a butterfly
Qnatre-Bras. A place in Belgium, near Brussels
It was the scene of a battle between the French
under Ney and the Allies under Wellington. In
1815, Ney was forced to retreat
Queen Bess. See Bess.
Queen of Numbers. The goddess of poetry.
Queen of Scots. Mary Stuart (1542-87), who was
beheaded by Queen Elisabeth
Quixotic. Resembling Don Quixote, an adventurous
knight, the hero of Don Quvoole. a Spanish ro-
mance by Cervantes (1547-1616).
.„«.«-«. Of Ptolemy (2nd century A D ), a cele-
brated Egyptian astronomer and mathematl-
Pttlrl.aiLulgl Pulcl (1482-87), an Italian romantic
poet
Pnltowa. See Poltava.
Pule War, Reroad (218-201 B C ). A war waged
between Carthage and Rome By the peace
Carthage was forced to cede her possessions In
Spain and the Mediterranean, and to pay a
heavy tribute
Pye. Henry James Pye (1745-1818) A minor Eng-
lish poet
Pygmalion. In Greek legend, a sculptor. King of
Cyprus, who fell In love with a statue he had
carved and which came to life
Pynnees. A mountain range between Spain and
France
Pyrrhic. Pertaining to Pyrrhns (818 T-272 B C ).
King of Eplrus, Greece
Pyrrho (860-270 B C ) A Greek skeptic and philos-
opher
Pythagorean. Referring to Pythagoras (6th century
B C ), a Greek philosopher of Samos, an Island
west of Asia Minor
Pythfan. Referring to Python
Pythoa. In classical mythology, a sooth-saying
spirit or demon The serpent Python delivered
at Delphi before the coming of Apollo,
__ Jess. Janet Gibson, the half-witted daughter
of Mrs. Gibson or "Poosle Nansie', being fleet
of foot, she often ran errands
Bacbel. In the Old Testament, the wife of Jacob
Hadcleves. bame as Radcllffe
BadcUffe. Mrs Anne Radcliffe (1764-1823), a pop-
ular English lomantlc novelist
BadleaL A member of a political party holding the
most progressive views, opposed to Cvttcnwftic
Bagnsan Of Ragusa, a seapoit of Dal mot la, Aus-
tria-Hungary, situated on the Adriatic
Rajah. A Hindu prince In a tribal state in India
Ralph. James Ralph, a minoi English poet of the
eighteenth century
Rama. A place near ancient Bethlehem, Judca
Ramsay. Allan Ramsay (1685-1758), a Scottish
poet See p 7
Randall's. Jack. A tavern, known as "The Hole In
the Wall," in Chancery Lane, London, kept by
Jack Randall, a noted pugilist
Raphael (1488-1520) A noted Italian painter
Rapp, General Count Jean Rapp (177J-1821), a
noted French general who accompanied Nupo-
leon on the march to Moscow
RatrlUfa Highway A public thoroughfare in a ills-
reputable quarter of eastern or nautical London
Ravenna. A rlty and province of Italj
Ravensheoch. Castle. A lai ge castle on the Firth of
Forth, Flfeshlre, Scotland It \tas given to
William Bt Clair by James III in 1471
Reading. A city In Berkshire, England
Rebewa, Rebekah. The wife of the patriarch Isaac,
and mother of Jacob and Esau
Bed Cross Knight A character In Spenser's The
Faerie Queine (Bk I), who personifies St George,
patron saint ot England, and typifies Christian
Red Rowan. "Red Rowy Forster," one of the res-
cuers of Klnmont Willie He lived about 1550
Red Hem. An inland sea between Egypt and Arabia,
Joined to the Mediterranean by the buei Canal
Redl Francesco Redl (1626-OR) an Italian poet
Land or uses the name (070) for himself
Reform Bill. An electoral reform bill passed by the
British Parliament in 1882 for the correction and
extension of the suffrage
Reign of Terror, The. In French history that period
of the first revolution (1708-04) when the faction
In power recklessly executed persons obnoxious
to their measures
Rellglo Medlrl. A religious treatise by Sir Thomas
Browne (1605-82), an English physician and
author
Rembrandt (1606-60) A celebrated Dutch painter
Real, Gnldo (1575-1642) An Italian painter
Here- cross. A fragment of an old cross on the sum-
mit of Stanmore, a ridge which divides the
mountains of the counties of Cumberland and
Westmoreland, England The cross was orig-
inally Intended as a landmark
Reynolds, J. H. See note on Kent*'* Lfttart, p 1208b
Reynolds. Sir Joshua Reynolds (1728-02) An
English portrait-painter
"IMS. A ion of Zeus, and a Judge In
Hades.
stlan. Of or pertaining to an
province of the Roman Empire.
•. See Ops.
ancient Rhsjtla, a
oracles at Di
who stow It
The chief river of Germany
An Island In the JRgean Sea, southwest of
Asia Minor
A river In Switzerland and France
es en Blenheim. r»r Battle of Utoisefm. Bee
p 400
Rlalto. A bridge over the Grand Canal, In Venice,
Itsly Bvron uses the word (542) figuratively
for Venetian commerce.
OLO8BABT OF PEOPEB NAMES
1403
James Rice, a London solicitor of the early
10th century, a friend of Keats and J H Rey-
Blchard, Jfincunb. Richard I, surnamed "The Lion-
Hearted/' King of England (1180-98)
hard 1. king of England (1180-90)
hard 1L King of England (1877-90)
hard III. 1— King of England (1488-85) 2—
(925)— King of England in Shakapere's JHofcaid
Btohards. George Richards (1767-1887), author ol a
poem, Aburfffinal Jinttnu, and a governor of
Christ's HosplUl
Blcbardson. Samuel Richardson (1680-1761), an
m English novelist
Blchmond. 1— (405, 491)— A town In the county of
burrey, England It is built on a hill 2 — (980)
—Chailvs Lennox (1783-1806). 3rd Duke of
Richmond, an Engllbh politician 8 — (1016) —
Bill Richmond, a veteian colored boxing teacher
of the eaily lUth century
Rimini. Bee note on The Htoty of IHmini, p i276b
Blon. Captain Edward Rlou, commander ot the
filgates and smaller craft in the Battle of Copen-
hagen, April <it 1801 He was killed in that
battle
Bob Roy (Red Rob) Robert McGregor (1671-1784),
a b<otih freebootei and outlaw Ho took the
name of Campbell after he was outlawed, In
bbera. The. A German drama by Schiller (1759-
1800)
tort. The husband of Margaret in Wordsworth's
The Extortion
Bobort Boyle. A story by W R Chetwood, an 18th
tent my English dramatist
Robin Good-fellow. A meiry and mischievous sprite
of folk-lore
Robin Hood A legendary medieval hero in Eng-
land, celebrated as a bold, chivalrous, and gen-
erous outlaw
Boblnaon Crusoe A novel of adventure by Daniel
Deioe (1661-1731)
Rockingham. Charles Went worth O730-8J), Mar-
quis or Rockingham, Prime Minister o{ England
(1705-60)
Boderlr. bald to have been Prince of all Wales In
the 10th century
Roderick Random A noxel by Tobias Smollett
(17J1-71), a BrltlHh novelist
Rogers. Samuel Rogeis (1768-1855), an English
poet hi« p 207
Roland de Vaux Bee Trjermalne.
Borneo. The lover of Juliet in Shakspere'n Romeo
and Juliet
Bomilb Sir Samuel Romilly (1767-1818) An
English lawyer and philanthropist
' 'or Rosa " '
1 -1830). .„
?. "£?£„ Meyer Roth.ohlld «T77-
188*) 'a rich financier In London founder of
the English branch of the banking house of
_ bslvator Rosa (1615-78) a famous Italian
palntei of histoiy, landscapes, and battles He
was partial to desolate, wild, and romantic
scene ry
" ' A character In Bhakspere's As You Like It
d'a Pond. A pond In the southwest corner
of St James's Park. London, It was the scene
of many suicides of unhappy lovers, before it
was filled up In 1770
iroe. Mr. Will Urn Roscoe (1758-1881), historian.
banker, and Whig Member of Parliament (1800-
07) , a strong advocate of peace with France
Rosenberg, Mount Rossborg, a mountain in Swlticr-
lanrt A landslide from it burled the village of
Goldau in 1806, killing over 4r>0 persons
Bosenrrans. A courtier In Bhakspere's Hum/ef
Boots, Wars of the. In English history, the pro-
longed armed struggle between the rival houses
of Lancaster and York, beginning about 14RB
and ending in 1485, so called from the red rose
and the white rose, badges, respectively, of the
followers of the two families
Rodin The family seat of the Bt Clalrs near
Hawthorndcn, In the county of Edinburgh,
Scotland Roslin Castle stands on a woody
bank of the North Esk River Wordsworth
and his sister Dorothy visited it In 18O3 For
the account of the visit and a description of the
scenery, iee Dorothy Wordsworth's Rcoollerhnn*
of a Tour Jforfr In flroflaurf, Bopt 17, 1808
A valley on the western border of Loch
BOUSSOBU. Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712-78), a cele-
brated Swiss-French philosopher and writer on
educational subjects
Rowe, Mr. A Unitarian minister at Shrewsbury,
later at Bristol, Somersetshire, England, in the
early nineteenth century
Rowe, Mrs. Elisabeth Rowe (1674-1787). daughter
of a Dissenting minister in Somersetshire, Eng-
land, author of a number of poems aad treatise*
Bowlele, Thomas. A fictitious priest of Bristol, in-
vented by Chatterton
Rowley. William. An English dramatist of the
eAily 17th century
Rowley Powley. 8ee Fowley.
Rubens. Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640), a Flemish
painter
Budeahelmer. A famous Rhenish wine named after
Rudeshelm. a town In Prussia, in which it was
made
Bnssfi. Lord John (1702-1878) A famous English
statesman and author
soil, Black. John Kussel (1740^.1817), a minis-
ter In Kllmarnock, Ayrshire, Scotland He was
a Calvlnist of the steinest type
Both. A Moablte woman who was married to Boas
Her story is the subject of the book of Ruth
Bylstone. The property and tesldence of the Nor-
ton*, a 16th century English family loyal to
Mary Queen of bcots
Rjmer. Thomas Rymer (C1641-1718), a noted
English antiquary and critic
8. T. C. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sackville. The family name of the English noble
family of Dorset
Badl (el 100-1291) A celebrated Persian poet and
moralist
fiatot Alban's. A cathedral city hi Hertfordshire,
England
St. ABB. A river of Quebec, which empties into the
St Lawrence
St. Augustine, see Augustine
St. Bartholomew. One of the twelve apostles
St. Bruno, See Bruno, bt.
St. Clalr A noted Norman family which settled in
Scotland in the llth century
Habit I- Ulan See Flllan, M
St Ueorge See George, St.
Saint Hubert See Hubert.
8t Helena An Island in the South Atlantic belong-
ing to Great Britain
8t John, i— See John. St. 2— Bee BoUngbroke,
St John, Henry. See Bolingbroke.
St. Kits. An abbreviation for 8t Christophers, an
Island in the British West Indies
Bt. Loons. 8t Leon, a novel by William Godwin
(1756-1886). written in 1700
St. Mark. 1— (212)— at Mark's Square, the princi-
pal square In Venice It contains St Mark s
Church, near it aie the Ducal Palace, the Bridge
of Sighs, etc 2— (542)— Fit Mark's Church, a
famous Venetian basilica, the most superb piece
of architectural coloring In the world 8 — (848) —
See note on The Eve of Bt Mark, p 1292b
St. Martln's-le-Grand. A monastery and church
formerly in London, dating from very early
times
fit. Mary's Lake. A lake at the source of the River
St. Mm
T arrow in Selkirkshire. Scotland
'" ;nrlr* • * - - -
Michael See'MUhael
An abbey in the town of St
Swltserland, it was founded in the 6th century
Maurice,
a name applied to the eastern
portion of the Turkish dominions in Europe
St. Neots. A town In Huntingdonshire, England.
Bt! Oran. Bee Oran
Bt. Pant Bee Paul, Bt.
Bt. Peter. Bee Peter, St.
St. Peter's Field. The scene of the Manchester
massacre, Manchester, England. August 16, 1819
Bt. Preux. A character In Rousseau's La Nouvclto
J/rtotflr
Bt. Sebastian. A seaport on the north coast of
Spain
Bt. Vincent. Capo. The southwest extremity of
Portugal
Sakride. Deputy to Lord Scroop, the warden of the
West-Marches of England, In the late 16th con-
Saladln3 (1187-08) Sultan of Egypt and Syria, he
defended Acre for two years against the Cru-
saders
Balamanem. A famous British victory over the
French and Rpanlan,_fought In the province of
—- - • 1R12
the Gulf of JBgtaa,
isalem.
amanca,
.__—• An Island of
west of Athena
An ancient name of Jei
1104
GLOSSAEY OF PBOPEB NAMES
HaUsbury. A town in Wiltshire, England
Ballsbury Plain. A legion In Wiltshire, England
It contain! Btonehenge, a famous prehistoric
ruin „
Salt, Samuel (d 1792) A friend of the Lambs He
waa Instrumental In get ting Charles Lamb Into
Chrlit'a Hoapltal and Into the Eaat India Houae
He gave Charlea and Mary Lamb the freedom of
narah. In hie notes on Vatkek, Henley says that
Samarah is a city of Babylonia, supposed to
have atood on the lite where Nlmrod elected his
tower
Samarkand. A city of Turkeatan It !• noted for
ita ailver and gold wares, leather goods, silks,
wine, and pottery
ftamlan. Of or relating to the laland of Samoa
bamoa. An laland In the <ffigean Sea, weat of Aila
Minor
Samson Agonirtes. A drama by Milton
MamneL A Hebrew Judge and prophet
San Bealto. Tne yellow garment worn by persona
condemned by the fepamsh Inquisition The
name Is derived liom the robes worn by mem-
bers of the order ot fct Benedict, lounded about
529
iffho The Ignorant but clever squire In the Span-
ish romance Do* QuUute by Cervantes (1547-
1010)
Handham. 1 — A town on the Isle of "Wight, south of
England J— (1)42) — An imaginary residence
Hanfrlda One of the Fatal Sisters
" >pho (7th century B C ) A Greek lyric poetess
ot Lesbos, she was known as the Tenth Must
•area In general, a Mohammedan or other
enemy of medieval Christians
Harmatla. The ancient name of Poland
Hatnrn. A Roman deity, supposed to have ruled in
the golden age He was Identified with the
Greek Cronus, father and predecessor of Zeus
Saturnalia. In Roman antiqultj, the annual festhal
of bat urn held at Rome In mid-Dec* mber a
form of harvest-home, an occasion of riotous
Indulgence
Hatarnlan Pertaining to the god Saturn, hence,
characterized by simplicity, virtue, and happl-
Same as Saturn
tetym In Greek mythology, woodland deities In
the train of Dionysus, god of wine they arc
depleted as shy c features with ir»<it-llke oars,
tall, and home, and delighting In music and
n velry
Haul First king of the Hebrews (1053-1033 B C )
Savoy. A former duchy, now divided Into the de-
partments of Savoie and Haute-Savole in
Fiance
Hawbrldge John hawbndge (1732-85), Lord Mayor
of London in 177*1
Saxon The people that formerly dwelt in the
northern part of G< rmany and invaded England
in the Rth and flth centuries, hence, the English-
speaking peoples
Scamandet. The ancient name of a river In Mysla,
Asia Minor, the Meander, now known as the
Mendere The river Is mentioned by Homer In
the Jfarrf (Bk 21 )
Scarlet Will Scarlet, one of the companions of
Hob In Hood
gchelUng. F W Schelllng (1771-18,14), an eminent
German philosopher
Schiller Johann C F Schiller (17*10-1805), a fa-
mous German poet and dramatist
Brio (Chios) An Island in the Agoan Sea, west of
Asia Minor, formerly celebrated for its wlms
and flgs
Btlplo 1— (27)— Publiua Sclplo Afrlcanus Major
(c234-lR8 B C ), a famous Roman genrral,
who. after a life of warfare, retired in 185 B n
to his native seat near Cumna. a cit\ in Cam-
pania, Italy 2— (990)— Publlus Sclplo Afrlca-
nus Minor (rl 85-120 B C ) a famous Roman
general who captured Carthage in 140 and Nu-
mantla, Spain, In 188
SrfplofT Tomb. A group of ancient Roman tombs
•ituated on the Applan Way, near Rome
Scone. A village in Perthshire, Scotland, the coro-
nation place of Scottish kings from 1153 to 1488
gcott. 1— (818? etc )— Sir Walter Scott (1771-1882),
a famous Scottish poet and novelist Seep 481
2— (864)— John Scott (17R1-1R88), an English
Jurist. Lord Chancellor of England, 1801-00, and
1807-27
Sewgins. Jack Scrogglns, a well-known prize-
fighter
ScroQpe, Lord. Warder of the West-Marches of
England, late in the 10th century
Scjllm The monster Inhabiting Bey 1 la, a rock on
the coast of Italy opposite Sicily, fohe^was be-
loved by Glaucus, and from Jealousy was
changed by Circe into a monster sunounded
with barking dogs
ficythla in ancient times, the whole north and
northeast of Europe and Asia, called such by
the Greeks
Scythian The bcythlans were a nomadic people of
Europe and Asia, expert In hoisemanshlp and
archety They often made raids upon nelghbor-
Ing peoples
BoaHons, The A poem bv James Thomson, an Eng-
lish poet of the 18th centurv bee p IS
Sceva (Siva) The usual name of one of the gods of
the Hindu triad He represented the destruc-
tive powci ot natuie
Seine. A river ot France which empties into the
English channel
Selkirk The capital of Selklrkshlie, Scotland
bennachtrlb King of Assyiia (70VUS1 B <_ >, well
known In Biblical history Ho was engaged In
numerous wain
Hermphlm One of the highest ordeis of angels, ex-
telling In wisdom and In «al in the fceruie of
God
fteaostrla. A legendary king of Egypt, said to have
conquf ted the \u>ild
hestos A ruint.il town in European Turkey on the
Dardanelles
Seven Dials A locality in London, notoiiouf, for its
poverty and irlmu It took its name ftom a
column which stood at the mm lion of seiin
streets and which bore a sundial facing caih
street
beven Hleepern RIVIMI Christian joulhs said to
have hidden in u c i\t neat Kphesus Asia Minor,
during the pi r si cut ION under Declus <24'Mi1
AD), and to ha\e (alien asleep, nut awaking
till two or thiec humliid yeais later, when
Christianity had bunme established
Be\era. \ river in suutlwislf rn UngUnd
Seville A cltv In southwestern Spain
Bejnrte FoYrle. — (12'h— bt Paul's CMthedrtl. Lon-
don
Aforra. Ludoilro (14"i1-niO) Duke oi Milan Ttih
Hnarklewell Foiimilv a iubuib of London, now an
outlying district ot the cltv Itself
Hhadwell. Thomas hhnilwi II (1C4U-'»J) a Id stora-
tion dramatist, sitnlzed b> l)i>ilen In Jtfcic
Flrrlnne and in Abvalom nnH Adiitopkcl
Idon A village on the River Ti lj?n, ac i OB* from
Tcignmoulh, Devonnhire, England
nklln. A aeailde nsnrt on the coast of the Isle
of Wight, south of RtiKland
Pheerar (fehlrax) A city in Persia
Sheffield 1— (4M1) — John Sheffield (1048-1721),
Duke of Buckingham, an English statesman and
author 2 — (1160) — A mnnuJtic turmg tnun in
Yorkshire, England, famous ii>r Us works in
steel and cutlc f\
Hhelburae. William Pr tty (1787-1805), Eai I of Sh< 1-
burne, an English statesman
Bhem The son of Noah, and reputed ancestor of
the Hebrew, Arabic, and othet Semitic races
See Otacfffa I) 27
ShenHtone. William Sh<nntone (1714-08), an Eng-
lish poet See p 40
Sheridan It Jc hard Bilnsley Sheridan (1711-1810),
a noted IrlHh diamatlst, oiatoi, and politician
Sherwood A forest in Nottlnffhamshlrf, England,
the principal scene ol the legendary exploits of
Robin Hood
Shrevtabui? A town in Shropshire England
Hliropfthlre An Inland county ol Rnglind. horder-
fnff on Wales sometimes called Salop, Irom the
T.atln name Halojna
Hhylork. The Jew In Shakspere's Ttie Mordant aj
Slam A kingdom in southeRstern Asia
Siberia A country of Asiatic Russia, It is noted
for its mines ,
Hlblr. Rlbeila
Blb>l. In ancient mythology, one of m voral women
reputed to possess powers of propherv 01 rllvi-
natlon They spoke theli utterances In n frcn-
. tied state
Blcllv. An Island In the Mediterranean, belonging
to Italy, situated southwest of the mn Inland
Biddons, Mm Sarah Kentble Slddnns (17,-5V1831), a
noted English actress
Sldmonth Henry Aldington (17R7-1R44), Viscount
flldmouth, nn EnglHh politician noted for his
repressive measures
GLOSSARY OF PBOPEB NAMES
1405
_. 1— (267. 880J— Algernon Sidney ((,1022-88),
an English politician and patriot 2— (417, 02 J,
1029. 10B2)— bir Philip Sidney (1054-80), an
English author and geneial His chief works
are A/catfw and Thi ,/M/c/m of Poety
Sidney. Brno*; Bee Smug Sidney.
Bldon. An ancient city In Asia Minor
fildonlwi ApolliniwltM (U30-482) A Christian au-
thor ,
Sieve of Corinth, The. A narrative poem by Lord
Byron, published In 1816
Sienna (Siena) A city and piovlnce In central
Italy, noted for its works of art
•am. In ancient geography a promontory and
town in Alia Minor, at the entrance to the
Hellespont It waH the legendary itatlon of the
Greek fleet In the Trojan War
Higtr\gg (Rlctryg) Sec Gray's Preface to The Fatal
Hittcm. p UdCa
Ailenl Woodland nymphs, companion! of Bacchus,
god of wine Sic Hlltniih.
SIleniiB The * Ideal ot the batyrs, sometimes re-
garded as the ion of Hermes, or ot Pan Ue
was the fostrrei and laur the companion oL
Bacchus Ilr was represented us a jovial old
man, corpulent, bald, uml commonly tipsy lie
carried a wine bag In hiH hand and rode on an
ass Ue was fond ot Bleep, musk, and dancing
Hi IB Botm Unit s said to be the Inventor ol Pan'a
pints bet Pan.
SIlluH lUlleuB dl 100 AD) A Roman poet, init-
iator of Virgil, the author of Punita, a dull
poom giving an account of the Second Punic
BImolH A small river in Asia Minor.
Simoom. A hot dry wind of the desert
Hlnbad Rind bad, a ihuucter in the Arabian OTffhf*'
Lnlntammintg lie *<IB mice shipwrecked on
on islind whore tlu Old Man ot the Sea a mon-
ster, got on hlB back anil would not dismount
until finally Slndbid succeeded In killing him
felon (Zion) A hill on which was situated the old
city of .Tf ruBili m
Sir C'harle* UrandUon A no\«l written by Bamutl
RlchudBun CH.SM.i7dl)
Hirtn one of thi sea n\mpha said to Inhabit an
Island near Ital>, and by their singing to lun>
manncra to <1< sti uc tlon
Hlntlne Chapel The 81st Inc. or Six tine Chapel is
the pdptl prlv.itt chapel built b\ Popi Sixtui
IV in 1473 Its A\ ills ind ceilings ate cov«i<d
with magnlfli ent paintings, ot which the most
faniouM uro thoso bv Muh< lingelo. ot tho Cn a-
tlon, tin Dclugt, and tin Judgment
SIsyphiiN. A hgcmlaiy character condemned in tho
lower worltl to roll up i hill, without ceasing a
huge Btone which when h< leuhed the top al-
ways rolled lm(k to thi \ illt\
Bklddaw. A mountain in ( umbt rlandahire, Eng-
land
Rk><r). A roiky, mountainous i Bland off the west-
ern coast of Scotland the largiat ot the Inmr
Hebrides
igh. A town In the count\ of Buckingham, Eng-
land
Smith, Attorn <1723-«K)) A celebrated Scottish po-
litic al economist
Rmlthflpld \ locality In London near 8t Paula, it
waB foimcilv UBtd na a recreation jatd
Smug Mdne> The Rex Sidne\ Smith (1771-184".)
a Canon of St Paul's, om of the foundeis and
editor* of 7'Ar rf/<nbuff/ft l^ittu/
don. The highest mountain in Walia
floun, Knlglit of lame^ V of Scotland who
chose this name to disguHe his Identity Rnow-
rloun refers to Stirling Castle, one of the Scot-
tish ro>nl pnl ices
Roar* A rher In Lclceutt rihlre, England
Hoclety of the Middle Temple. F< e Temple
"
note on Tke South Boa Huiue,
Cfith century B (" ) A famous Greek phl-
loaopht i
8oho Hqus^e. A square in London, south of Oxford
Rtro« t
Hoi. The sun
Rolomon. A king of Israel famous for his groat
wisdom
Holway The Rolway Firth, a large inlet of the
IrlBh Sea, paitly separating England and Scot-
land
flomrntrtfthlrf. A county in southwrMern England
Aophla. The capital of Bulgaria, formerly a por-
tion of the Turkish Kingdom
Rophorltft Clth century B O ) One of the greatest
tragic poets of Greece
floftnto; Aomnto A town on the west rnait of
Italy, across the bay from Naples
Sotheby. William Botheby (1757-1889), an English
scholar and poet
Bonlt. Nicolas Jean de I5leu Soult (1709-1851), a
French marshal He was engaged in many im-
portant battleb, and was ambassador at the cor-
onation of Queen Victoria in 1838
South Robert South (1084-1716), a celebrated Eng-
lish divine
.South-Sea Home. See
p 12U7b
Spartan. Pertaining to Sparta, capital of Laconla
in ancient Greece, hence, resembling tho bpai-
tans in discipline or courage
Spectator. An 18th centuiy periodical published by
Addlson, Bteele, and others
bpey A ilver in northern bcotland
Sphinx. In Greek mythology, a winged monster
lepreacnted with a woman's head and a lion's
body, she sat on a high rock by the roadside in
Thebes. Bo?otia, and killed all passers-by who
could not guess a riddle which she piupoaed
When CEdlpus finally guested the riddle she
cast herself down from the ro<k and was killed
bplnos*. Baiuch de Splnosa (1032-77), a famous
Dutch Jewish pantheistic philosopher
The namt umlei which Lord John Hervey
(1606-174J), an English writer and politician,
WHB satirised b> l'oi>e in hlH hpistlt to J*r Arbuth
not, JOS ft
Atamboul. Constantinople
Staneahaw-bmnk A place on the River Eden, in
Cumbcrlandshlre, England, near the Scottish
border
Stanhope, Lord See p llSOb, n 5
A ridge which divider the mountains of
"
the counties of "Webtmon land and Cumberland,
England
Statins. Publlua Paplnlus Statma (00-100), a Roman
Stanbaeh. A famous waterfall in the canton of
Berne, Switzeilaml
Steel*. Sir Richard Steele (1072-1720), an English
essayist, contributor to T*c Rjmtator
Strrnr l^durence Rteine (1713-Oh), an English nov-
tlist and humorist authoi of Irixtram 8\a*dy
Stemhold Thomas Btornhold dl 1541)), an English
writer
StmenHon, George- An 18th century English pugi-
list He fought with Jack Broughton In 1771
Stewart, Mr. Dugald Stewart (17'*3-1HJ8), an emi-
m nt bcottlsh phllOBophi r
Stirling A t Ity and county in Scotland, noted for
its picturesque buildlngb
8tobs, Laird of Sir Gilbert Elliot, a Scottish Bor-
der-Warrior of the Kith cmtur\ lie lived near
Tlawick, UoxburghBhlie, Scotland
Htonehenve A famous pr« hi«tnrn stone ruin in
Sillhburv Plain, Wiltshire. England
Stothard Thomas Rtothard (170.V1N34). an English
painter anil Illustrator
Siott. Robert Stott, a minor English pot* of the
early 19th century He contributed articles to
Tht Vwninq Pout, umlt r the name of "Ha1l7
Stow Rtowe. a village In Buckinghamshire, Eng-
land, noted for Its castle and park
Stowed. Nether 8towc\, a village in Someisetshlie
England
8trabo (cd*t B 0 -24 A D ) A Greek geographer
and historian
Strand A long prominent London street running
parallel with tho Thames
Btrangford, Hibernian P r Smvthe (1780-1HV>>,
Viscount btrangfonl, an Irish diplomat, and
translator of poems of ramncn* a noted 10th
century Portuguese poet In a note on one of
the love sonffs Strangford snld that "eyes of
blue have been ever dear to the sons of song"
8t>*lan Pertaining or belonging to the River Styx,
01 to the Infcinal regions In general
Btjx A fabulous river In Hades over which all
newcomers were ferried hj Charon Before It
the most solemn oaths wtre swoin Violation
of such oaths was punished by deprivation of
nectar and ambrosia, and by loss of all heavenly
privileges for ten years
flurkllns;. Captain Kir John Suckling (1609-42), an
English poet and soldier
Suetonlm Caluu Tranqulllus Ruetonlua (cTO-140),
a Roman historian
Bull A mountainous district in Albania, European
Turkey
Halt an. A Mohammedan sovereign ruler
flunlmn. In ancient geographv, the promontory at
the Bouthea stein extremity of Attlcn, Greece,
now known as Cape Pol on n a
1406
QLOSSABY OF PBOPEB NAMES
-Tne£i1Se)6dy by a~w Oo"n*B>
, . ._ A county in southeastern England
An ancient city In Asia Minor
~, A county In southeastern England
Jonathan Bwift (1667-1745), a celebrated
English satirist and man of letters
ByUlline Leaves A. collection of poems by Cole-
ridge, published in 1817
•- 9. Algernon Sydney (1622-88). an eminent
-nglish Republican patriot
Byrrans. Fabled spirits or deities of the wood
fiyxaplegades. Two island rocks on the Strait of
Constantinople (or Bosphorus), a narrow pas-
sage which separates Europe from Asia
Syracuse. A province in the southeastern part of
Sicily It was conquered by Marcellus In 212
B C
Syrlae. The language of Syria, a country In Asiatic
Turkey
in. Pertaining to Syria, a country In Asiatic
Turkey
tnx In Greek mythology, a nymph who was
pursued by Pan and who was changed into a
reed, out of which Pan then constructed his
musical pipe See
. One of the legendary heroes of
d in the struggle foi independence
Is that Tell, having refused to salute
Cornelius Tacitus (56-117?). a celebrated
Roman hlstotlan and legal orator
Talavera. A town in the province of Toledo, Spain
Near It in 1800, the allied English and Spanish
army under Wellington and Cuesta defeated the
French under King Joseph
, — *- Tttlletln a ^ymric or welsh bard said to
have lived in the 6th century
Tallejrand. Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Peri-
gord ( 1764- 1838), a famous French statesman
and diplomatist
Talymalpeu A small bay on the northeast coast of
Anglesea. an island of Wales in the Irish bea
1— (960. 10H8)— The brother of Gebir _
(1150) — A river on the border of Cornwall and
Devonshire, England
Tame. Thomas A deputy-cashier in the South -Bea
rfouse In 1708
Tamerlane (1886-1405) A Tartar conqueror of
India and Asia
Tanagra In ancient geography, a town In Boaotla,
Greece
Tanered. One of the chief heroes of the First Cru-
sade 1006-99 His virtues are celebrated In
TMSO'S Jerusalem Delivered
italns. A mythological king, punished for be-
traying the secrets of the gods, by being placed
In the midst of a lake the waters or which
reached to his chin but which leeeded when-
ever he attempted to drink
ra A place In the county of Meath, Ireland It
was famous In the early history of Ireland as a
royal residence
Tarbai (Tarbet) The name of a village and a nar-
row neck of land between Loch Lomond and
Loch Long, forming the northern end of the
county of Dumbarton, Scotland Tarbat Is Gaello
for M*m*9
The Tartars were mixed tribes Mongolian
or Turkish, inhabiting Russia and Central and
Eastern Asia They were warlike tribes, noted
for their skill In archery
tarlan. Of or pertaining to the Tartars or Tar-
tary, a name formerly applied to the middle
portion of the Euraalatlc continent
Tartarly. In the manner of a Tartar,— 40, sav-
agely
Tartarus, The lowest portion of hell the place of
punishment for the spirits of the wicked
Tartary. A name formerly applied to the middle
portion of the Euraslatlc continent Its people
were warlike tribes
Torquato Tasso (1544-91) a celebrated Ital-
ian epic poet
Tfcto. Nahum Tate (1652-1715), an English poet
and dramatist
TJrantan A town hi Somersetshire, England
Tay. The longest river of Scotland, It empties Into
_ or JePemy TayK,,. (1618-67), an Eng-
and theological writer, author of
(1650), Holt Dving (1651), and other
.he valley of the River Tees In northern
_., J, It flows into the North Sea
TrfiSJiiielith A bathing resort in Devonshire, Eng-
TefltlL A small river chiefly In Perthshire, Scotland
In Greek legend, the ion of OdyMtnj
and Penelope He slew the suitors of Penelope
while his father was away from home
Tell, William. ~ - ~ • '
Switzerland
the cap whlch~the Austrian governor had placed
in the market place for that puipose was or-
deied to shoot an apple from his little son's
head He did so successfully
Tellus. A Roman goddess, the personification of the
earth
Tempe. A valley In eastern Thessaly, Greece It
has been celebrated from ancient times for Its
beauty
Temple. Originally, a lodge of the medieval relig-
ious Order of Knights Templars After this
Order was abolished in 1812, the property passed
to the crown and thence to the religious mili-
tary Ordei of Knights Hospitalers, who in 1346
leased part of It to the students of law On its
site now stand two Inns of Coui t, known as the
Inner and the Middle Temple These aro occu-
pied by barristers, and are owned by the Socle-
ties of the Inner and Middle Temple, which have
the right to admit students to the bar The
Inner Temple is so called because It Is within
the old City of London, the Middle Templt was
between the Tnner and the Outei Temples The
Outer Temple became a part of the Exeter
Buildings, used for religious, charitable, and
other assemblies
TenerUT. The largest of the Canary Islands, In the
Atlantic Ocean, northwest of Africa
Tenos An Island ot the Cyclades in the ACgean Sea,
southeast of Greece
Terence. Publlus Teientlus Afer (C185-150 B C ).
a noted Roman m rlter of comedies
Termaawrat A name given In medieval romances
to the god of the Saracens
Tethis. A sea-goddess, the wife of Oceanus
Tetlot. A river in Roxburghshire. Scotland
Tevlotdalt. Roxburghshire Scotland so called from
:he River Tevlot, which flown through It
A town In GloucesternhlH , England
_je hero of Tknlaba, an Oriental epic by
Robert Southey (1744-1843)
Thalia. One of the Muses, she Inspired gaiety, and
favored rural pursuits and pleasures
Thamondocaiui. A town of Africa near the border
of the Sahara Desei t
Thebes 1— (897. 667. 789)— The chief city of Boao-
tia, Greece 2 — (686) — The ancient capital of
The personification of divine lustke, rep-
resented as the wife or companion of Zeus In
art Themis is repiesented as cariylnR scales In
one hand and a horn of plenty In the other
Theocritus (3rd century B C ) A famous Greek
Idyllic poet
Tbennodon. A river now Thermeh In Pont us, Asia
Minor, the reputed home of Hlppolyta
Thermop>lK» A pas* in northern Greire, famous
for the valiant stand made there In 480 B C by
Leonidas and his bund of Spartans against the
Persian host of Xerxes
Thesdds The Tkesetd Is a tragedy on the subject of
Theseus, of which Codrus Is the alleged author
sens. A legendary hero of Attica, Greece In
his exploit against the Amaxons, he carried oft
_ B C) An Attic poet, the re-
puted founder of tragedy
Theaaallao. Of or pertaining to Thessaly
Theesaly. A province In northern Greece
Thetis. The chief of the Nereids, the mother of
Achilles, whom she dltfped In the River Styx,
thus making him Invulnerable except In the
heel, by which she held him The story of the
marriage of Thetis and Peleus King of Thessalv,
Greece, was a favorite subject In early paint-
Ing, especially on vases
mas. Holv. Bt Thomas Aquinas (1226-74). a
noted Italian divine
imoa. James Thomson (1700*48), a British
poet See p 18
Those, Wife of. Pplydamna, daughter of Zeus
Bee the Otfystey, 4, 220 fl
Thor. Tn Scandinavian mythology, the god of thun-
der, always represented as carrying a hammer.
Thorn, The. A poem by Wordsworth Ree p 225
Thrace In ancient times a name applied by the
Greeks to the regions northeast of Macedonia,
and later to the greater part of the eastern half
of the Balkan Peninsula.
GLOSSARY OF PEOPEB NAMES
1407
Thrace*
(5th century B C )
A celebrated Greek
A town In the county of Surrey, England
-men. Conlston l*ake, west of Hawkshed,
(804)— The hero of Shakspere's TroiJw and Orsa-
Lancashire, England
Thynuk A common name In literature for a rustic
069. 1128— Pertaining tnclent
0, 1040) —The Trojan War,
the
or shepherd
Tiber. A river of central Italy which enters
Mediterranean below Rome
Tiberius. Bee note on Tito tea and VipMirfa, p 1805a.
" kler. "Timothy Tlcklei," an Edinburgh lawyer
named Bym, an uncle of John Wilson's wife
non. A typical hater of mankind. In Bhakspere's
TimoH of Atkmt
Tlatada-el. Tlntagel, a Ullage In Cornwall, England
Near It Is the ruined Tlntagel Castle, celebrated
In Arthurian legend as the birthplace of King
Arthur
Tlpp, John. An accountant In the South-Sea Home
about 1794
Titan. One of a mythological race of giants, aald to
have piled mountain upon mountain to scale
Reeembllng the Titans, a race of glanU
_J Street. A prominent street In London
Tlthon, Tithonns. A legendary chaiacter loved by
Aurora, who prevailed on the gods to grant him
Immortal life, but lor got to ask for him Immor-
tal youth He grew old and shriveled, and wag
changed by Aurora Into a grasshopper
Titian. Tlzlano Vecelll (1477-1576), a famous Vene-
tian palntei
Tltyrns —(ICQ)— A freedman In Virgil's Xclogvea,
to represent Virgil himself
Trojam. 1 — (8
Troy. 2— (980, 1040) —The Trojan War, the ten
years' war between Greeks and Trojans, de-
scribed In the Iliad
Trollope, Mrs. Frances Trollope (1700-1868), a pop-
ular English novelist
Troppan. A city In Austria
Trosachs; Trossorhs, A romantic and beautiful val-
ley between lakes Achray and Katrine In Perth-
shire, Scotland
Trout Hall. In The Complete Anglei, a treatise by
__ Isaak Walton (1598-1688), an English writer
Troy. An ancient city In Troas, Asia Minor, the
tm__ scene of Homer's Iliad
Tryermaine. A fief of the Barony of Gil si and. In
Cumberlandshire, England Roland \aux was
the name of successive owners of Tryermaine
during the 14th and 15th centuries
Tulllbarduie. The name of an old seat of the Hur-
rays, a powerful family of Scotland, near Stir-
ling In Stirlingshire See Murray
Tura. A castle of Ulster, North Ireland
Turin. A city of Italy, capital of the province of
Turin
Turkish 8p>. The An Italian romance by Giovanni
Paolo Marana (1084) Defoe wrote a continua-
tion of It
ner, Ned A well-known English pugilist of the
early 19th century
Tnrtl
le, Tom. John Thurtell (1704-1824). an English
pilse-flghter. gambler, and murderer
. A mountain lange In Asia Minor
James Webbe Tobln (d 1814), an English
lawyer See note on Wordsworth s We Arc Bcvcn,
p 1857b
Tolbooth. The principal prison In Edinburgh Many
criminals were executed in front of it
_ Thumb. A legendary diminutive personage
celebrattd In English literature
•s, Jo. Joseph Parkes (1796-1865), a Radical
politician
ison, Jarob (01650-1730) A prominent London
publisher
Tooke. John Home Tooke (1726-1812), an English
politician, phllowphei, and philologist, he op-
posed the war with Ameilca In 1776
Torfaras. Thormodr Toifaiion (1686-1710), an Ice-
landlc antiquary and historian
Tory. The Tories, In English history, were mem-
bers of one of the two great political parties
which arose at the end ol tho 17th century
The> favoied conservatlxe principles In church
and state
Tonlmln. Dr Joshua Toulmin (1740-1815), a Dis-
senting historian and theologian He preached
at Taunton, ftomersetshlre, England, for neatly
40 >eais
Toulouse. A cltv In southern France the scene of
massacres of Huguenots In I"i02 and 1172
Tourneur Cyril Tourneui. an English tragic poet
nf the early 17th century
TonsftsJnt 1/Ouverture. (I743-1HOS) A Haitian revo-
lutionist anil liberator He was captured by the
French and Imprisoned for life
Tower i Tower of London. An ancient palace-cita-
del near the eastern wall of London It was
long a prison for political offenders, It Is now a
national arsenal
Towy A river In Carmarthenshire, South Wales
Trafalgar. The name of a lamous British naval
victory over the French and Spanish, oft Cape
Trafalgar, on the southern coast of Rpaln, 1805
See p 411
Trajan. Marry s TTlplus Trajanus, a famous Roman
emperor (08-117)
Trent A river flowing through the counties of
Stafford, Derby, Nottingham, and Lincoln. Eng-
land
Trevelyan. Raleigh Trevelymn (1781-1865), a mis-
cellaneoua English writer
Trimmer, Mrs. Sarah Trimmer (1741-1810). whose
original name was Klrby, the author of various
Juvenile and educational work* of great merit
Tristram Shandy. The hero of Trittnm Bkandv, a
novel by Laurence Sterne (1718-68). an English
novelist
One of the sea gods, son of Poseidon
1 — (780) — In medieval romance, a son of
Priam, King of Troy, lover of Cresslda 2—
A territorial division of west
central Italy
Tweed. A river on the border of England and Scot-
land
2>grt*. Tigris, a river In Asiatic Turkey
Typhon Typhoeus, a giant monster with a hun-
dred snake-heads He contended for the throne
•of the lower world with Zeus, who cast him Into
Tartarus, or. according to another account
_ burled him under Mt JEtna
Tyre One of most Important cities of Phoenicia,
noted at one time for Its magnificence and lux-
ury Alexander the Great reduced the city after
a nine-months' siege
TyrlaB Of or pertaining to Tyre
Tyrolese. The Inhabitants of Tyrol, an Austrian
Alpine province
Island off the west coast of
A Greek poet of about 680 B C, who In-
spired the Spartans by his patriotic elegies and
war songs
Uam-Var. A mountain In Mentelth, a district In
Perthshire, Scotland
Ucalegon A close companion and counselor of
Priam. King of Troy
Ulst Either of two Scottish islands of the Outer
Hebrides, North Ulst or South Ulst
Ukraine. The former name of a region of European
Russia, lying In the valley of the River Dnieper
Ulysses. Bee Odysseus.
Viva's Isle A small is
Scotland
Uls-water. Ullswater a large lake between the
counties of Cumbeiland and Westmoreland,
e Probably Sir Robert de Umfravllle (d
I486). Earl of Angus, a member of an influen-
tial Norman family in Northumberlandshlre,
England He 1 ought on the side of Henry IV
and Henry Perey (Hotspur) against the Scots
The Uxnf ravllles and the Percys were closely re-
lated
Una. In Spenser's The Faerie Qnecne. a beautiful
maiden, the personification of truth
Upton. A town In Worcestershire. England, mld-
wav between the cities of Worcester and
Gloucester
Urania. The Muse of aitronomy The name was
applied also to Aphrodite as the goddess of
spiritual love
Uranus. With the exception of Neptune, the outer-
most of the planets
Uriea. An ancient Welsh poet, nothing is extant of
his works
Uftopm. An Imaginary Island having a perfect po-
litical system, described by Sir Thomas More In
a romance entitled Utopia. (1516)
Valdarno. A beautiful valley near Florence, Italy.
Valerius Maxlmus (1st century AD) A Roman
historian
1408
QL088ABY OF PBOPEB NAMES
Vallombrosa. A famous monastery east of Florence,
Italy
Vandals. A Teutonic race formerly inhabiting the
•outhein shores of the Baltic
Vandyke*. Pain tinge by 8li Anthony Vandyke
(1GOU-1041), a FlemlBh portrait painter
Vane. Sir Henry Vano I HI 12-62),, an English Puri-
tan sta teaman, one time Governor ot Maasachu-
,, a noted
hpanlsh painter
Yennaehar The "Lake of the Fair Valley," In
Perthshire, Scotland
Venta Venta Belgirum. the ancient name of Win-
cheater, a cltv In Hampshne, England
Venus The god dew of love and beauty See Aph-
Venu* del Medici. A beautiful marble statue of
Venus, In the Ufflzl Gallery, Florenc e It IB tht
work of the Gieek aculptor Cl come net (3rd
century Be')
Verona. The capital of a piovince In northeast
Italy
Yerrlo Antonio Verrlo <cl68»-1707), an Italian
painter He was emp loved by Charles II of
England to paint frescoes in tht royal residence,
Wlndaor rattle
Veraalllea A city In France, near Paris
VerlumniiM A god of the changing seasons who
presided over oichardi and gardens
Vesper. Venus when an evening a tar, also, the
evening
Venta a he Roddeaa of the hearth
Vemivla Vesuvius, a mountain of southern Italy,
the only actl\e volcano in Europe
Veve>. A town on Lake Geneva Rwititrland
Vlmr of Wakefleld. The A novel b> Oliver Gold-
amith (172S-74)
VUleneave Pierre fharles Jean de Vllleneuve
(1763-1800). a French admiral who commanded
the French fleet at Trafalgar
Vlnrl, da Leonardo rla Vlnel (14ri2-lB10) a noted
Italian painter, sculptor. archititt, and engi-
neer
Viola The heroine of Bhakspere's Twilftfi m^t ,
•he was shipwrecked on the coast of IllVila a
region In the Bnlkiin peninsula
Virgil PiibUiiR YinrllliM Miro (70-19 B C ), a fa-
moua Iloman epic, didactic and Mvlllc poet
Virgin's picture. The picture of the Virgin Mary
Vlttorla A famouh British victory o\ei thi French
and Spanish at Vlttorla, a cltv in northern
Spain, in 1813
VittorlM Corombona A tragedy written hv John
Wehstei n580*-lG2lS*). an English d ram a tie t
Voltaire. Francois Voltaire (1044-1778), a famous
French writer and skeptic
Vulcan. The blacksmith of the gods
Wakefleld. A small town In the south-central part
ot iorkshirc. England
Wallace. William Wallace <cl 270-1 8<r>), a cele-
brated Scottish hcio and patriot His achieve-
ments have been a favorite theme with Scottish
poets and writers of r«>minte
Walla-crag A roc ky eminence in fumberlandshire.
England
Waller Edmund Waller (1006-87), an English poet
Walpole Horace* Walpole H 717-1)7), an English
author and wit Bee p 100
Waltbam. A subuib of London
Walter. Hlr Sir Walter Scott (1771-1882)
Walton. Traak Walton (151)3-1688), an English
Wandering; Jew. The shoemaker Ahaaucrun, fabled
to be condemned to zander on the earth till the
end of the woild for driving fhrlst from his
door when he rested there while bearing the
cross
Wapplng. A quarter of London along the Thames,
frequented by sailors
War of the Second Coalition. The war conducted
by the allied European powers against Napo-
J.on. 1709-1H01
Warden The title of a chief executive officer
Ware. A town In Hertfordshire England
Warsaw The capital of the Kingdom of Poland.
from 1600 to IRIS -
Wat Tvler A re\olutlonarr epic by Robert Houthcy.
dealing with the English rebel Wai Tyler and
the Insurrection started by him in 1881, becaune
of the levying of a capitation tax
Waterloo. A decisive victory gained by the Allies
over Napoleon at Waterloo, a village near Brun-
«eli, Belgium, on June 18 I81B
elleslcy (170D-1852),
Water-Monarch. Neptune, god of the sea
Waterton, Mr.. Charles Waterton (1782-1865), an
English naturalist
M'ebate*. John Webster, an English tragic dram-
atist of the early 17th century
Medgewood, Tom An Englishman who. with his
brother Joslah (17dO-IJfi), paid Coleiidge an an-
nuity of L150 as the reault of his preaching In
Shrewsbury, Shropshire. England
Welrdlaw HI1L A hill In the JCttrlck Valley, Sel-
kirkshire. Scotland
Welborn. A character In Philip Masainger'a A Aaw
Wetf to Puf Old D&btt (1682)
Wellington. Duke off. Arthur Well
a celebrated British gmfral
Wem. A town In hhropuhiri'. England
Went. A small river in the southern part of York-
shire, England
Wesley. John Wesley a 703-01), a distinguished
__ religious reformer, founder of Methodism
Weatall Richard Wc*tall (170o-lN80), a prominent
historical paJntei
West brook, Harriet. The first wife of the poet
Hhc HPV
Westminster Abbey. A famous church in Weatmln-
__ ster Ijondon
WeNtmlnater Bridge The oldest bridge but one
built over the Thames at London
Westmoreland A northern county oi England
Meat Riding. The western illusion of a county
Wharfe. A river flowing through the central part
of Yorkshire. England
Wheat hampatead A trniall station near Hackery
End in TiVrffrircl shire. England
Whigs In English hlstoi} members of one of the
two great political parties which HI one at the
end of the 17th century They proUssid more
liberal print iplts than did the Turk*.
Whlnfleld. A pluce In Cumherlandnhlie, England
Whltehnreh A small town north of Wtm in Shrop-
shire, England
White. Henry Kirkc Whiti (178 VI HOG), a minor
poet, who died at ramhiMw a* a result of too
much i \ojtion in the pursuit oi studies which
increased his tendency to epllepB3
White Horse Cellar. Probablv the n«irne of a Lon-
don ta\ern
M hltechanel A rllHtrlct In London Inhabited by the
poorer classes and criminals
Whitehall in merit rn T^ondon, the main thorough-
fare between Trafalgar Stiuaic and th« Houiie*
of Parliament On it Is Whitehall Chapel for-
merly a ro\al palace
Whole I>at> of Man. A once popular ethical treatise
of unknown authorship, published in li»Vi
Mlddln A town in Bulgaria, situated on the Dan-
ube It was formerly an important lortreis
Wllkes, Jaek John Wllkea (1727-N7). an Kngltnh
politician publicist, and political agitator
Mill o* the M|H» An Ignis fatuus
M'llllam 1— (B4, 1004)- William of Orange King
of England (16N«M702i 2— (28-M— William
Wordsworth
Williams, Mr. John William* an English seaman
and a noted murderer of the earh llith centuiv
See De Quince> s postscript to On Muidet ton
*tdcud ff« Our iif thf Pint Art*
Wllmot John Wllmot (1710-1815), an Englhh poli-
tician and author
Mllaon. Thomas Wilson (16(18-1711), a noted Eng-
Ire. An Inland countv of England
Wlnander Wlndermere a large lake on the borders
of the counties of Westmoreland and Lancaster
England
Winchester A cltv In Hampshire, England
Wlndhnm William Wlndham (1750-1810), an emi-
nent English orator ami ata teaman
Mlndsor A town in Berkshire England situated
on the Thames, 23 miles from London It con-
tains Wind nor Pastle, a famous rnval residence
founded bv William the Conqueror Nearly
opposite the castle la Eton College
Wlnkfleld. A village In Wiltshire. England the
seat of a private school attended by DP Qulncev
Wlrt embers; fiamo as Wflrtemberg* a kingdom of
southern Germany
Wlthara-romman. Wltham Is a town In the countv
of Esaex. England
Withers George Withers (1588-1607), a minor Eng-
lish poot
Wittenberg. A town In the province of Saxony,
Prussia
Wollstonerraft, Mary (17R9-97) An English author,
wife of William Godwin, and mother of the
GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES
1409
second wife of Bhelley Her chief work is Vto- Xanthippe*. A son of Pericles
•^^".Ti^^WSt-. -5 */_... MTU*. Xenophon (480-837 B C ) A celebrated Greek his-
secon we o ee
dication of the Mgktt of Women (1792).
Mi KUled wtthKlndBew. A tragedy by Thomas
HcywoodTan English dramatist of the early 17th
Matthew Wood (1768-1848). an English
political reformer, a consistent and strenuou«
supporter of the Whig ministries
Wood Street. A itreet in London, it li off Cheap-
side, the leading east and west thoroughfare
Woodhooi. Robert Woodhouse (1778-1827), an
English aitronomer and mathematician
WoodboaStoe. A barony belonging to Bothwell-
haugh, along the bank* of the Elk River, in
(1060-1788). an Bn.-
torian and essayist, author of the Anabatis and
the JffMorubtZta.
Xerxee (col 9 -465 B C ). King of Persia
Yardley. A parish in Worcestershire. England
Yarrow. A river in Selkirkshire. Scotland
York. 1— (78, 908, 1114)— A city In Yorkshire. Eng-
land 2— (221)— A branch of the English royal
dynasty, descended from Edmund, Duke ot
York, fourth son of Edward 111, King of Eng-
land (1827-77)
York. Duke of. —(878)— Frederick Augustus (1708-
18J7). second son of George 111. King of England
Yule. Christmas time (from A 8 geol, December)
W<.
Wrexbam. A town In Denbighshire, W
Wright! John W Wright (1769-1805). an Irish
naval officer He was captured by the French In
1804. and confined In the Temple at Paris In
1805 he was found dead In prison, and it was
suspected that he had been murdered
Wye. A river In Wales and England, noted for Its
Wn&ermere. Lake Windermere, on the borders of
the counties of Westmoreland and Lancaster.
one of the finest and largest lakes of England
(8rd century B C ) A Greek philosopher,
founder of the Stole school of philosophy, known
for the sternness ot Its doctrines
Zephyras. The West Wind regarded as the mildest
of all the sylvan deities
Zens. In Greek mythology, the chief of the gods
Zimmerman. Johann Georg von Zimmerman (1728-
9"i), a Swiss philosopher and physician, who
wrote a book entitled On HoHtude
Zloa. A hill on which was situated the heavenly
Jerusalem
Zoe. Haldee's maid In Byron's Don Juan
Zoroaster (fl 000 B P ) The traditional founder of
the ancient Iranu-Persian religion
CHIEF ENGLISH, GERMAN, AND FRENCH WRITERS,
1720-1840
ENGLISH
Pope (1688*1744)
Thomson (1700-1748)
Richardson (1689-1761)
Johnson (1709-1784)
Collins (1721-1759)
Gray (1716-1771)
Macpherson (1738-1796)
Burke (1729-1797)
Gibbon (1737-1794)
Percy (1729-1811)
Chatterton (1752-1770)
Beckford (1759-1844)
Cowpcr (1731-1800)
Crabbe (1754-1832)
Blake (1757-1827)
Burns (1759-1796)
Rogers (1763-1855)
Godwin (1756-1836)
Wordswoith (1770-1850)
Coleridge (1772-1834)
Southcy (1774-1843)
Campbell (1777-1844)
Moore (1779-1852)
Scott (1771-1832)
Hogg (1772-1835)
Byron (1788-1824)
Shelley (1792-1822)
Keats (1795-1821)
Hunt (1784-1859)
Jeffrey (1773-1850)
Lamb (1775-1834)
Landor (1775-1864)
Peacock (1785-1866)
Austen (1775-1817)
Hazhtt (1778-1830)
DeQuincey (1785-1859)
Beddoes (1803-1849)
Hood (1799-1845)
Praed (1802-1839)
Wilson (1785-1854)
Elliott (1781-1849)
GERMAN
Gellert (1715-1769)
Leasing (1729-1781)
Klopstock (1724-1803)
Kant (1724-1804)
Herder (1744-1803)
Wieland (1733-1813)
FRENCH
Voltaire (1694-1778)
Rousseau (1712-1778)
Diderot (1713-1784)
Saint-Pierre (1737-1814)
Goethe (1749-1832)
Schiller (1759-1805)
Richter (1763-1825)
Klmser (1752-1831)
Schleiermacher (1768-1834)
Hardenburg (Novalis) (1772-
1801)
Fichte (1762-1814)
Kleist (1777-1811)
Hoffmann (1776-1822)
A W. Schlegel (1767-1845)
F Rchlegel (1772-1829)
Hegel (1770-1831)
Amdt (1769-1860)
Tieck (1773-1853)
Arnim (1781-1831)
Brentano (1778-1842)
Goires (1776-1848)
Schelhng (1775-1854)
J Grimm (1785-1863)
W Grimm (1786-185'))
Eichendorff (1788-1857)
Uhland (1787-1862)
Ruckeit (1788-1866)
Heine (1797-1856)
Ch&iier (1762-1794)
de Stael (1766-1817)
Chateaubriand (1768-1848)
1411
Beranger (1780-1857)
Stendhal (1783-1842)
Laraartine (1790-1869)
Balzac (1799-1850)
de Vigny (1797-1863)
Dumas (pfcre) (1802-1870)
Sand (1804-1876)
Hugo (1802-1885)
de Musset (1810-1857)
Gautier (1811-1872)
IMPORTANT HISTORICAL EVENTS, 1730-1850
ENGLAND "
GERMANY
FRANCE
1710
GBOBGS 11 1727 60
Wai of the Austilan But
caution 1741 48
Jacobite lit hellion In Bout
land. Headed by Oharlex
Edward 1745 40
Battle of Cullodeu 1740
Fnnch and Indian Wai 1750 01
GBOBfci in 17001820
FHLDXXiric n (The Great)
King of Prussia 1740 HO
War of the Austrian Hue
ciwiion 174148
FBAM in i. Emperor of
German* 1741 60
Seven Tean>( War 17GO 03
JohKi'H n, Emiieior of
Germans 170^ 00
War of the PolNh Siiccea
„ Hlon 1733 M
War of the Austrian Sue
repiJon 1741-48
Seven YearV War 1758 83
1770
Lord North's Mmintry 1770-82
War with American Col
omen 1773 83
War with Franco 1778 83
War with Hpain 1779 (M
Anti Slavery Agitation 17HO IS 13
William Fitt'f Minlhtn 17SJ-1S06
Flrvt Partition of Poland 1772
\Vni of the Bavarian Sue
c rs«ion 177H-78
l<ii»i>ruiiK WILLIAM n.
King of Praaala 178007
LOLIH xvi 1774
French Revolution 1780 OC
Formation of National AH
nemblv 1780
Destruction of the Baatlle 1780
1790
Birmingham Riots 1791
Society of United IritOi
men 1781
War With 1'ranct , Fliat
Coalition (K n g 1 n n d.
Geiiuan> AuMtilu. Pru».
•la, Holland Him In
NapletO 17011*7
War with Spam 170(1
Bank of England Hub
pends Hpecle Payment 1707
Great Irish Rebellion 179S
Rattle of the Nile 179S
Beu^O-Httan «-•*.„„
Li< 01*01 D ii, Empiror of
<lermany 1700 02
War with Frame 1701
*HANrm n. Emi)eiiir of
(}<>miam 1702 1800
Vlrat ('oalitlon against
Frame 170MI7
Second Partition of Poland 171K
Third Partition of Poland 17U6
FBBIH.RKK WILLIAM 111
King of PruhMa 1707 1840
Second Coalition a gal nut
France 1790 ISO 1
War tilth Austria 1792
Activities of the JacobliiH 1702
EVKWtlon if Lniiln x\i 178J
\^ar of the Firnt Coall
tlou 1703 07
Itclgn of Terror 1701
Fall of Roliesplerre 1704
NaiKilenn'M Invasion of
Austila and Venice 1707
NaiNilpon In Rome. Fxtab
llMluni nt of Helvetic Re
pnMI< 170S
Battle of the Nil* 170N
Napoleon Uade Flint Consul 1700
War of the Htcond Coall
tlon 1700 1H01
1800
Union of Great Britain
and Ireland 1HOO
Battle of Copenhagen 1S01
I'eace ot AinliUH 1M)2
War with France 180 i
Irlhh ft hellion (Emmet) 180J
Third Coalition against
France IMffi
Batth of Traf algal 1SOD
Fourth Coalition agalnat
France 1HOO 07
Abolition of Hlave Trade 1M)7
Convention of ( mtra 1808
Fifth Coalition against
Fiante 1800
Third Coalition agalnat
*iame 1SOO
Fourth Coalition against
Fntnot IKOfl 07
DlsMlntlon of the Hoh
Roman Einpln 1KOO
Battle of Marengo 1HOO
Na|M)leoii Piehhlent of the
Italian Ri pnblli 1H02
Peace of \uiiens 1802
NafNilenn CIOVMIW! Em
perm of the *nnch 1N04 15
NafMilenn Pn>clalmed King
of Italv 1S05
Wai ol the Third Coall
tlon 1805
War of the Fourth Coali
tlon 1SOQ07
Wai of the Fifth Coalition 1800
1810
The Regcno 1MO
War with United 8 tat PR 1812 14
Sixth Coalition against
France 1SH n
Peace of Paila IN] 4
Battli of Wattrloo 1M3
Agricultural and Weaving
Biota Agitation for Par-
liamentary liefoim 18101H
MancluHter Ifahaacre 1S10
Napiilenn Annexe^ North
German* 1H10
Sixth Coalition aganmt
l«ranc*e ISDlt
Battle of Leijtrlg 1MJ
<"ongrehH of \unnH 1814
Russia Piunhia and Aim
tna Fonn the Holv Al-
liance 1814
Diet of the German Con
federation 1810
Wai with Russia, Burn-
ing of MOHCOW Retieat
of Fnnch 1H12
War of the Sixth Coali
tion 1813 1ft
Battle of Lelpslg ISIS
1 01 IB xviii. King of
France, the First Res-
toration 1814
Napoleon Abdicates 1814
Battle of Waterloo 1816
Hpcoml Restoration of Louis
XVIII 1H11
Napoleon BanlHhed to Rt
Helena 1815
18*0
<»n>K<* iv I* JO )<>
Cato Street Conspliaci 1H20
Bank of England IU
mnueH Hpecle PaxmeutH 1H21
Catholic Emancipation 1KJ1)
WILLIAM iv 183037
Manchester-Liverpool Ball
way 1S10
FlrMt Beforin Dill 1830 12
Abolition of Blaverv 1833
(ongm* at Vienna 1K20
CongiehH at Lavbach 1821
Involution In BninHwIck 1880
The Zollverejn 1884
CHARIFH \ King of
France 1824-30
Bourbons Overthrown 1830
Louis I'HILIPPB, King of
the French 1830 4R
1885
VlOTOEIA 1S17-1001
Birmingham Rlotn 1*»3S
Chartist Agitation 1S38
Antl Corn-Law League 1MH
Repeal of Corn lawn 1840
Irish Rebellion 1848
TBCnLRK K WlLl 1AM IV
King of PniMHla 1N40 01
Revolutlonan Movement* 184N
Conntltatlon of German
Empire Completed 1840
Louis Philippe Abdicate** 1848
Louis NAIIILKON BUNA
PAKTB Elected Prefddent
of the RepuMIc 1848
Louis Napoleon Made Em
neror of the French as
Napoleon in 18A2 70
1412
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES
In the following Index, the name* of authors represented lii thin text are printed in heavy
type; the titles of selection* are printed In Italics; and llrst line* of poems are printed in ordi
nary Roman type Poems having titles and flrst lines identical are entered only under titles.
PAGE FAGI
A chief tain, to the Highlands bound 421 AJtrrThought 311
A cypren hough, uiid a rose wreath sweet .1181 Age (Landor) 982
Aflg for those by law protected 184 Agct To (Lnndor) 981
A flock of sheep that leisurely pasu by.. 302 Aged Carle, The (Why tiitt'st Thou by That
Agood Rwoid and a trusty hand' 1150 Ruin'd Hall') 467
A green and hilent spot, amid the hills 353 Aged Man Who Lo\cd to Dose Away, An . . 085
A Highland lad my lo\e was born ... 182 Ah f County Guy, the hour it nigh . . . 471
A Ho! A IIo! 1130 Ah, gentle shepherd, thine the lot to tend. .. 17
A little black thing among the snow 171 Ah me1 full sorely is my heart forlorn . 40
A little fairy comes at night 1144 Ah, Sunflower . 171
A lovely form then* ha to beside my bed 8(19 Ah, sunflower, weary of time 171
A lovely morn, so still, HO \ery still 1172 Ah, what avails the sceptred race 968
A I'ott'-ire Hath Put If is Heart to School 316 Ah, what can all thce, wretched wight . 829
Apoitnl as of shadowy adamant 710 Ah' who can tell how hard it Is to climb .. 120
A rainbow's aich stood on the sou 072 Ailna Rorl, To H25
A robe of seeming tiuth and trust ... 185 Akeniide, Hark (1721-1770) 44, 1201
A Sensitive TMtmt in n garden grew 690 Alas, Ilov> Noun the Uour* Are Over 974
A simple child 22ft Alaittor; or, The Spirit of Solitude 635
AHlumber Did My Hpmt Krai 239 Alfred Tcnnjwn, To . . ..1153
A spade' a rake* u hoc1 1143 All* on' 8 Ewaya on the batute and Princi-
A still, serene, soft daj , enough of sun 972 pics of Ta*tr, Prom Jeffrey's Review of . . . 887
A Kunny Rhaft Did I Behold . . 3CG All Is Not Over While the Shade 983
A tale of the times of old ' The deeds of days AH Nature seems at work Slug* leave their
of olher years' . .... 86 lair ,%S
A thing of lK»nuty is u Jo> forever 707 All Tender Thoughts That E'tr Powjw'rf . 90 J
A thousand miles from land are we .. 1169 All thoughts, all passions, all delights 359
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain 314 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom.. .. 423
AWidoir Jliid Sate Moutmng for Her Love 743 Allegory, An ... .710
AWctt, To Jowph 9G9 Mien- A -Dale 4GT.
Abou ttvn Adhcm and the Anqrl 869 Allen A -Dale has no fagot for burning. . 4GT>
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe Increase) 869 Amanda, To . ..32
Abatvoc (Howies) 1(15 An aged man who lo\«l to doze away.. . 985
Abu-nee (Landor) 964 An Allegory 710
Accountc of IF. ffw/jwew Ffcuf, The 130 An Essay on Cnftr/vm. From 1176
Addle** to ffci- /In/ 101 An Kwy on Man, Fioni 1178
AddrcM to the Vneo Quid; or. The Rifftdly An Ewmnq Wall. From 223
Righteous . . . 193 An Ewlrnte Balade of ChariHe 132
4ddnwcd to ttcnjanin Robert Haifdon.. ,. 763 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king 659
Admonition ., 801 Vn Orphan1 an Orpheus' jm, Pnith may
AdtmtUK An Elgy on the Death of John grow bold . .. ,299
Keats . . . . , 730 A n Thou Were My Aln Thing . . . 9
4*i fr r to lounti Men, From . 1281 Auoicnt Ballad 0} ChnyChwc, Thr 112
Ae Fond Kit* 201 And a rt thou cold and lowly laid 462
Ae fond kiss, and then we Never .... 201 And did those feet in ancient time 174
Xlla: A Tragycal Enterlude, From. . . 180 And is thin- Yarrow '— 77rf* tho sti earn. . . 308
Affliction of Childhood, The . . , 1089 And like a dying lady, lean and palp 709
Affliction of Margaret, The 295 And the weak day weeps 697
After Dark Vapors Have Opprm'd Our And this place our forefather* made for man ' 885
Plato 764 And What Though Winter Will Pmeh flcwre 468
1413
1414 INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND JPIB8T LINES
PAGE
Angelica bee wroghte to bee of neidher kynde 180 Bard's Epitaph, A 198
AUM, Oonntem of WlnohilMa (1661- Bards of Passion and of Mirth 826
1720) 1, 1J52 Barefooted Fnar, The 468
Another on Fame . . 880 Battle of BeaV an Duine 460
Another year '—another deadly blow » 802 Battle of Blenheim, The 400
Answer to a Child's Question 864 Battle of the Baltic 422
Anticipation, October, 1803 ... 204 Battle of Trafalgar, The 411
Antiquary, From The 407 Battle Song 116B
Approach of Summer (Bowles) 166 Battle's Opinions on Whist, Mrs 940
Approach of Hummer, Fiom Ode on the (War- Beacon, From The 474
ton) . 76 Beatifloation, The 409
Are They Aot All Ministering Spirits? 1153 Beattto, James (1735-1803) . 110, 1201!
Arethusa . 706 Beaumont, Ft anas 922
Arethuna arose ... 706 Beokford, William (1759-1844) .. 134, 120.'<
Ariel to Miranda —Take 742 B«ddo«», Thomas X,or«U (1803-1849) 1120,1204
Artthon a statist In the van 239 Befoio those cruel T*inn, \vhom at one birth 711
Art thou pale for weariness 709 Behind a tree upon the plain . ... 9
Artemldora ' God's invlbible 907 Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows 175
ArundclJ, To E 982 Behold her, single In the field 298
As flies the unconstant sun 411 Behold, within the leafy shade . . . 281
As from the Darkening Gloom a. Silver Dove 754 Belle of the Ball-Room, Tht 1147
As T lay asleep ln»Italy .. 6o5 Betts, Ostcnd, The . . 164
As In the soft and bweet eclipse . . 697 Ben Battle was a soldier bold 1180
As late I Jonrney'd o'er the extensive plain 328 Beneath the Cypress Shade . 998
As once, if not with light regard 49 Beneath thebe fruit-tree boughs that bhcd 290
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn 165 Beneath yi n birch with silver bark .... 358
As alow I climb the cliff's ascending side 1(14 Bereavement . . . 164
As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold 696 Betwwn Namur and Liege 810
As when far off the warbled strains are heard 829 Biid of the wlldemess . .... 477
Aspasia to Glcone . . 994 B\rks of Endcrmay, The . . . .15
Aspasia to Pericles (6) .. 993,994 Btogtaphia Ltterarta, From 372
Assr To a Young .. 828 Blair. Bobert (1699-1746) 37, 1205
At midnight by the stream I roved 852 Blake. William (1757-1827) 1«0, 1205
At summer eve, when nea\en's ethereal bow 417 Blue wat* the loch, the clouds were gone 209
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight Boat Song ... 455
appears 224 Bob Southey ' You're a poet — Poet-laureate 577
At the Grave of Chatlea Lamb tn Edmonton 12')7 Boding Dreams, The . .. 1132
At the Grave of Burns 291 Bonir Doon (Ye Flowery Banks) . . 201
At Tynemouth Priory 164 Bonnie Kllmeny gued up the glen . . 477
Auguries of Innocence 172 Bonny Dundee . ... 471
Augusta, Epistle to 519 Book of Thel, The . 168
Augusta, Stanzas to 518 Border March . . 469
Auld Lang Byne 195 Borgia, thou once wert almost too august . . 008
Auld Neebor, I'm three times doubly o'er your Borough, From Thi ... 160
debtor . . 177 Bound for holy Palestine 77
Autobiographic Sketches, From . . . 1089 Boirlca, To thi Ifrverend W. L . 829
Autumn (Hood) 1137 BowlM, William Ual* (1762-1850) 164,1208
Autumn, From (Thomson) 21 Boy, call the gondola, the sun IH bet 211
Autumn A Dirge (Shelley) 709 Boy of Sgremond, The 210
4utumn, To (Kcatb) 800 Boy's fiong. A 482
Awake, -Eolian lyre, awake . . 61 Braes of Yarrow, The . ... 13
Away, my verse , and never fear 968 Break the dance, and scatter the song GUI!
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses* 484 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead. . 444
Bndet Feo 17, 1840, To a . 972
Baby'* Debut, The 1358 Bride of Abydos, The 496
Bacchus, On a Bust of 880 Bride's Tragedy, From The 1129
Back to the flower-town, side by side .. . .1301 Bridge of SigJis, The 1142
BaJIlie, Joanna (1762-1851) . 474, 1202 Bright Be the Place of Thy 8oulr . . 485
Balade of Charitie, An Evoelente . . 182 Bright clouds float in heaven . . 691
Ballad (It was not In the winter) 1188 Bright Flower ' whose home is everywhere . 290
Ballad of Chcvy-Cliote, The Ancient . . . 112 Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast 40 Thou
Ballad of the Dark Ladie, The 358 Art 861
Bamborough Cattle 16^ Brignall Banks 464
Bard, The . ... 68 Bring the bowl which you boast 478
Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius Brother mine, calm wanderer 695
made 1200 Biotlicr's Water (Written in March) ... . 282
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND WEST LINES
1415
PAGE
Browning, To Robert . .... 975
Bruc^s Address to His Army at Bannockburn
(Scots, Who H ae) . . ..203
Buonaparte, Ode to Napoleon . 510
Bunal of Bir John Moore at Oorunna, Tike 482
Bark*, Bdmnnd (1720.1797) 1186, 1208
Bum*. Bobovt (1769-1796) 175. 1210
Bubk ye. busk ye, my bonny bonny bride . 13
Bust of Bacchus, On a. 880
Butterfly, To a (Wordsworth — I'\o watched
you now) .. . 282
Butterfly, To a (Wordsworth — Stay near me) 281
Byron, Ocorg* Vod Gordon, &ord
(1788-1824) 484, 1217
Byron ' how sweetly Bad thy melody ' 752
Byron, To . 752
By the blue taper's, trembling light . 5
By the power which hath broken . 561
Cadyow Castle 439
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel 223
Calm on the bo&oin of thy God 1160
Cambridge and the Alps . . 249
Campbell, Thomas (1777-1844) 417, 1228
Can rehtlebsnebs mull the cold hepulchied head ' 424
Can there be a moon In heaven tonight 1238
Canadian Boat bony. A 425
Caradoo ... .68
Carthon A Poem 86
Castaway, The 154
Castle of Indolenot, The . 24
Castle of Otranto. From The 100
Cataract of Lodore, The . 410
Cavalier Kong (And What Though Wintet
Will Pinch tiertte) 468
Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free 602
Celandine, To the (To the flame Flown) 283
Celandine, To the Xmall . 2K2
Chapman, George 922
Chapman's Jlomer, On First Looking into 753
Chataottr of the Happy Wat nor 298
Oharaetenxtitti of a Child Three Years Old 805
Characteristics of Shakspeare's Dramas 895
Characters of Dramatic Writers Co a tempo? at y
with Shakspeare, From 920
Characters of Bhakcap car's Plays, From 1007
Chailca ' m> slow heart *as only bad, when first 931
Charles The First, From 748
Chase, The .. ... 448
OhAtterton, Thomas (1732-1770) 125, 1229
Chatt€rton, To . . 752
Cheiy-Chase, The Ancient Ballad of 112
Child, lb thy father dead? . . 1105
Child of a Day, Thou Knou est Not 96t
Child, To a . . 815
Childr Harold's Pilgrimage, From (Byron) 528
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Third
From Jeffrey's Review of ... . 904
Childhood 916
Chimney-Sweeper, The . . 171
Chorus of Northumbrians 1824
Ohristabcl . 348
Christian Forbearance (A Poison Tree) 171
Christian Tear, From The . . 1188
Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Tears Ago 981
975
82
48Js
764
972
970
302
811
287
Chrysolites and Rubies Bacchus Brings, The 982
Circassian Love-Chant, The (Lewti). 852
Circling of the Mead Horns, The . . 1000
Citation and Eaamination of William Bhaks-
pcare, From The. ... . 966
Clarion .... . ... . 468
Clod and the Pebble, The 170
Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds 917
Cloud, The ....... . . . 703
Clouds, lingering yet, extend In solid bars 302
Clovetty ............... 1150
Oobbott, William (1763-1835) . 1002, 12 10
Col«rldf«, Kurttey (1796-1849) . 1171, 1J*U
Colorldfft, fhunncl Taylor (1772-1834) 3J8, 1212
ColliM, William (1721-1 7ri9) 48, 1J44
Come, a.11 ye Jolly hhepherdH 47<>
Come back, ye wandering Muses, come back
home . .
Come, deal Amanda, quit the town
Come from the sea . .
Come hither, all sweet maidens, soberly
Come, Sleep* but mind yef If you come with-
out ... ..
Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile*.
Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, Au-
</u*t. J80i
Composed by the Side of Orasmere Lake
Composed in One of the Catholic Cantons .
Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the
Day of Landing ..
Composed upon an Evening of Eatraordlnury
Rplcndor and Beauty 309
Compost d upon Westminster Bndgt, Septem-
ber S, 1002 283
Conan . d8
Conan's name, my lay, rehearse 08
Conceal not Time's mtadceds, but on my brow 972
Confessions of an English Opium Eater 1043
Conjectures on Original Composition, From 36
Contented «H' Little. . . .204
Contented wl( little, and cantle wlv mair 204
Cortnna 1o Tanagra, From Athtns 967
"Cornwall, Barry" (B. W. Procter) (1787-
1874) 11GK. 1315
Coronach ...... . ... 456
Corpses are cold In the tomb — . 655
Cottu's Saturday Night. The .. 188
County Guy ... .......... 471
Couplet (Great things are done when men
and mountains meet) . ... 174
Cowpor, William (1731-1800) 143. 1246
Orabb*, O«org« (1764-1832) 154, 1250
Crabbc's Poems, From Jeffrey's Review of 884
Cradle Song, A 172
Oroksr, John Wilson (1780-1857) 913. 1202
Crotch* t Castle, From 1001
Crusade, The . ... 77
Cuiloo, To the (Wordsworth — Not the whole
warbling grove In concert heard) . 812
Cuckoo. To the (Wordsworth— O blithe New-
comei ' I have heard) , 294
Ouniagfcam, Allan (1784-1842) . . . 475, 1262
Curse of Kehama, From The 403
Cuthullln sat by Tura's wall ........ 92
Cyolamen, To a . ........ 988
1416
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIB6T LINES
PAGB
Daffodils, The (I Wandered Lonely As a
Cloud) . 295
Daury, To a Mountain (Barns) 104
Daisy, To the (Wordsworth— Bright Flower*
whose home lg everywhere) . ... 200
Dotty, To the ( Wordsworth — In youth from
rock to rock I went) 288
Z>at»y, To the (Wordsworth-— To the Same
Flower) 289
Dark, deep, and cold the current flown . 1168
DartneM . , ' 521
Darknen Ha» Downed in the Kant 788
Daughter of Jove, relentless power.. 58
Davic, To . ... 177
Day glimmered in the east, and the white
moon 210
Day, like ow souls, Is fiercely dark 1105
Day Returns, My Natal Day, The 974
Days of Old, In the . 1001
Dear Alice* you'll laugh when you know it 1140
Dear Brook, farewell ! Tomorrow's noon again 228
Dear child of Nature, let them rail ' 298
Dear Harp of My Country 4128
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I
found thee 428
Dear is my little native vale 209
Dear native regions, I foretell 228
"Dearest Endymion ' my entire love'" . 806
Death (Shelley— Death is here, and death IB
there) 700
Death (Shelley— They die— the dead return
not) . 6GO
Death is here, and death Is there 700
Death of Artcmidora, The . 907
Death of Colcndge, The . 909
Death of Uocl, The 68
Death of Mr. Thornton, Ode on thr 52
Death Kong 1152
Death Stands oboi e Me. . . .982
Death stands above mo, whispering low . 982
Death, tho* I see him not, is near 982
Death-Bed. The 1140
Death-Boat of Heligoland, The . . 424
Death's Jest Book, From . . .... 1180
Dedication to the Ntcond, or Edinburgh Edi-
tion oj liurttu'8 Potmn 200
Dedication to Tht Ret olt of Islam 648
Deem not devoid of elegance the sage... 77
Deep In tho shady sadness of a vale. . 840
Defense of Poetry, From A ... . 748
Deil'a Ana it*' th' Exciseman, The 201
Defection An Ode .. 360
Demands of Poetry, The S79
Departing Yeai, Od? on the ... 831
Departure of Mr Walter Scott, On the . 814
!>• Qnlnoay, Tbonuui (1785-1859) . 1043. 12ft*
Desoent of Odin, Tht, 67
"Describe the Borough"— though eur idle
tribe 100
Dertntctton of Sennacherib. The 518
Detheof Syr Charles Bawdin, The.. .. 125
Dtrcc 968
Dirge, A (Hemanfl) ... . 1100
Dirge, A (Shriley) 743
upon Roast Pig, A . ... 948
of the Holy Alhanee, The . . 430
PAOV
Distant Prospect of Eton College, Ode on a 57
Diiinc Image, The . . 167
Do you ask what tho birds say? The Spar-
row, the Dove 864
"I)o you remember mo? or arc you proud Vf 965
Does the eaghj know what ib in the pit . 168
Don Juan, From . ... 577
Doom of Dcvrrgoll, From The. . . * . 471
Doomed as we arc our native duht 311
Dream, A . 168
Dream of Boccaccio, The 996
Dream of Eugene Aram, the Murdcter, The 1188
Dream of the Unknown, A (The Question} 707
Dreamt* on the Boidct* of the Land of Poetry,
From ... .879
Drtam Children 94<>
D team-Fugue . . .. 1125
Dream-Pedlary . ... .1132
Drcaty Change, The 468
Droub of bloody agony flow . 670
Dull Is My Tcr*e Not Eien Thou 972
Dungeon, The . 835
Duty, Ode to 296
Dysr, John (1700-1768) Hi, 1260
Dyer, To the J'ott, John 1260
E Arundell. To . 982
Earth has not anything to show more fair 285
Earth, Grain, Air, bvlc>\(><1 brotherhood' 6J5
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, *lnds, thy
star 5T.1
Ectlcftiastical Sonncta, From 311
Et hex*? we llbtcn r 076
Kdom o' Got don 117
Edirard William*, To 740
Elqjiac titansax 297
Elegy on the Death of Adont* 1341
Kh<tu on the Dtatli of It ton I 141
Klet/y Written in a Country Churchyard 59
Elgin JUarolts, On Kccmy the 70r>
Blliott, BtaMMT (1781-1849) 11(15, 1260
Emilia \ it mm, To 729
Enchanter of Erin, whom* magic haw bound
UK 1308
Enchantress, farewell, who HO oft hunt deco> 'd
mo . 471
Endymwn (Keatb) 767
Endymton. A Poetic Romance, CroLcr's Re-
new of 918
England in 1W .... 659
England's Dead 1160
Engltoh Bard* and Scotch ReiicwcrR. From 485
Engluh Jf a it-Coot A, Tht ... . 1103
Enquiry Concerning Political Jutticc, From
An 213
KnttiuitiaHt, The, or, The Loi cr of Aature . 80
Eollan Harp, The. . . . S2t>
Ep*pftycJit<Uoii 720
Eputtle to Augutla . 519
EpMle to Davle 177
Ewtle to J Lapralk 177
Epistle to The Rev. John M'Math . . 179
Epitaph ... .370
Epitaph on Robert Canvngc 134
Ero on my bed my limbs I lay . .... 364
Eft nay on Criticism, From An . 1176
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES 1417
PAQI PAQB
on Man, From An 1178 Featherstone's Doom ...1161
Jfetay on Me GfNiiu Mil Wntinps of Pope, Feeling of Immortality in Youth, On the . 1037
From .. 85 FoeUngs of a Republican on the Fall of Bono-
Eternal hatred I have sworn against 984 part e . . .... 086
Eternal Spirit of the cbalnless Kind! 614 Itoffwon* BQtart (1750-74) From The
Ethereal minbtrel' pilgrim of the sky' . 812 Farmer's Ingh 1214
Eve of fit. Agnesf The . . 842 Field Flower, A . I860
Eve of Bt Mark, The 848 Fiend, 1 defy thce' with a calm, fixed mind 606
Evening (Shelley) 780 Fiesolan ItfyZ, A 966
Evening. Ode to (Collins) . . 60 Fifth Day'* Interview, From 996
Evinmg Mar, Ode to tin 47 Ftght, The 1014
Evening Walk, From An . 228 Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn 1000
Evrr let the Fancy roam 826 Hack, ABJU, Ooutera of Wlaohllit* (1661-
EveiyDay Character*, Fiom 1147 1720) 1, ],«2
KxcclcHtc Unlade of Chan tic, in . 182 Fingal, In Antunt Epic Poem, From 92
Emcmswn, From Tht (Wordhworth) . 274 Fir** Father*, Tho . 1151
Ea>cnr»wn, From Tpffroy'b Art trio of The 892 First Looking into Chapman's Homer, On 788
Exert thy voice, bweet harbinger of bprlng' 2 Fittt ^Sunday after Trinity .. 1133
Etopotttulatton and Reply 282 Fint when Maggie was my care 196
Batcmpon Effusion upon the Death, of James Fith, the Man, and the Spirit, The 870
Hogg • 815 Fisherman's Song 474
Extinction of the Venetian Republic, On the 286 Five years have part, five Hummers, with the
Kttia.it From the ConclifMon of a J'oem, Com- length .. . .. 238
posed in Anticipation of Leaving School 22ft Fleece, The ... .... IT
Fletcher, John 922
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green
Falilca for the Holy Alliance, From 480 braei . 196
I< ninth ,is tolls the nrnlng (him*' 425 Flow, Precious Tears I Thus Shall Jfy Rital
Fait IMS 1180 Awotr . . . . 964
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ' . 818 For a Grotto 46
Fair seed-time had mv soul, and I grew up 242 For A' That, an' A1 That .. 184
Fair Stai of <»\enlmc, Splendor of the wet»t 286 For an Epitaph at Fictiole ... 968
Fair tree, for thy delightful shade . 1 For auld lang syne, my dear 196
Faine* Bong (Hong of Fames .Bobbin? Or- For Orford and for Waldegiavf 618
chard) 809 For the Blende) Beech and the Naplmg Oak 998
Fairy Song . 1148 For their elder sister's hair 918
Fairy Tale, A . 8 Foray, The 478
rat&Zemr Ntlly Gran .... 1185 Forc'd from home and all Its pleasures... 148
Falsr Poets and True .. .1187 Ford, John 921
Fame, like a wayward girl, will btill be coy . 830 Forester's Carol, The . . 1164
Fame, On . 880 Fountain, The (Rogers) 212
Familiar BtyU, On . 1011 Fountain, The (Wordbworth) 240
Fancy (Keats) 826 Four *eabons fill the measure of the year . 707
Fancy, Ode to (Warton) . 84 Fragment of an Ode to Mow 826
Fowrm, To 801 France An Ode 861
Far from the Hight of caith, yet bright and Francis Beaumont— John Fletcher . ... 922
plain . 1172 Fresh morning gusts have blown away all
Fore Thcf Will 818 f«ar . . . 768
Fare thee well ! and if forever 614 Ft tar's Song, The (Though I Be Vow a dray,
Fare veil '—But Whenever You Welcome the Gray Friar) 999
J7oi*r 427 Friend of the wite ' and teacher of the good '. 806
Farewell ' Jf Ercr Fondest Prayer . . 484 Friends ' hear the words my wandering
Farewell, life' My senses swim 1144 thoughts would say ... 988
Farciccll to the Forest Oc Wood* That Oft From eve to morn, from morn to parting
at Sultry Noon) 099 night . . 971
Farewell to the Uiahlands, Farewell to the From Heaven my strains begin , from Heaven
North (Uy Ucajt's tu the Jliqhlunds) 190 descends 44
FarewK to the Land 408 From heavy dreams fair Helen rose 488
Farewell to the land where the clouds love From low to high doth dissolution climb 811
to rest .. 468 From Stirling castle we had seen . 29.1
FareweU to the Muse 471 From the brown crett of Newark Its sum-
Farmer's Ingle, From The . . 1214 mons extending ... 406
Fatal ftisten, TJu, . 06 From the ends of the earth, from the ends
Father' the little girl we see 908 of the earth 609
Fear not 'tis but some passing spasm . 000 From the forests and highlands 707
Fears in Solitude ... 868 From unremembered age* we 671
1418 INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIB8T LINES
f
PAGE
Frost at Midnight . ... 360 Ha » wharc ye gaun, ye crowlin ferUe? . 104
Funeral, The 408 Had I bnt the torrent's might . . . 68
Had this effulgence disappeared . . 800
0. A W.t To 768 Hall to our Master '—Prince of Earth and
Qane Were But the Winter Could 476 Air' B60
Garden of Boccaccio, The 868 Hail to the chief who In triumph advances » .455
Garden of Love The 171 Bail to the Headlong 098
Geofr, From 059 Hail to the Headlong ' the Headlong Ap-Head-
GeUatleys Song to the Deerhounds (Hie long' OOb
Away, Hie Away} 465 Hail to thee, blithe spirit ' 704
Gentle Shepherd, From The 9 Hamadryad, The . . . 977
Gentleman, To a 805 Wamilton, William, of Baaffour (1704-
Georgo Chapman 022 1754) 1,1, 1267
Getting Up on Cold Mornings 878 Hamlet 1007
Gipsy's Dirge, The (Watted, "Weary, "Where- Hampstead, To . 867
fore Staj/) • 406 floppy In*< nmbility (Htanoos) 768
Gipsy's Malison, The . . .. . 917 Happy Is England 703
Give me,, O indulgent Fate' 1 Happy is England » I could be content . 768
Give Me the Eyes That Look on Mine . 078 Hark, my M>U! » it Is the Lord . 145
Glee for King Charles ... .478 Hark! 'Tis the Thrush 81H
Glenflnlas 436 Hark' 'tin the Thrush, undauntod, uHdcprost 816
Glory and lovellnem have pass'd away . 704 Harold 445
Glory of Motion, The 1108 Harp of the North' that mouldering long
Glove and the Lions, The 870 bast hung 448
Go, fetch to me a pint o1 wine . . ... 105 Harp That Once through Tara's Hall*, The 426
God moved in a mysterious way .. .. 140 Hartley Colendge, To (To H O) 288
God said— "Let there be light'*' 1166 Hast thon a charm to stay the morning-star 862
God Scatters Beauty As He Scatters Flowers 983 Host Thou ftecn, with Flash Incessant 800
God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop 401 Have ve soon the tuskv boar. . 08
Godwin, William (1750-1836) 211, 1201 Hawker, Bobart •tophra. (1804-1873) lir»o. 1267
Goethe in Weimar sleepy and Grwre 1356 Haalltt, William (1778-1830) 1007, 1208
Going a Journey, On 1022 Ho has cnnn'd the lesson now.. 1148
Going Down uith Victory 1118 Ht> IR gone on the mountain .. . . 456
Gondola, The 211 Hiadlong Hall From 998
Goody Make and Harry GOl . 228 Hear, Kveet Nptrtt, Hear the Spell ... 866
Gordon, Ocovr* Votl, Sort Byron (1788- Hearing Mu*ic . 871
1824) 484, 1217 Hearken, thou craggv ocean pyramid' . . 825
Grasshopper and Criclit, On the (KeaU) 764 Heart of Midlothian, From The 468
Grasshopper and the Cricket, To the (Hunt) 868 Heart' s-Eane 968
Grave, From The . . 37 Hellas, From 737
Grave of Bums, It the 201 Hellenics. From The 975
Gray* of Charles Lamb in Edmonton, At the 1207 Hellenic*, On The 975
Graves of a Household, The 1160 Hemam, itllota Dorothea (1793-
Oray, Thomaa (1716-1771) 57, 1202 1835). 1100, 1271
Gray' B Letters, From 69 Hence, Iron-ncrpter'd Wlntei, haute 76
Great Men Have Been among Us 287 Her Eyes Are Wild ... 229
Great spirit* now on earth are sojourning 768 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare .... 229
Great things are done when men and moun- Here Ever Since You Went Abroad 964
tains meet .. ... 174 "Here lleth One whose name was wilt on
Grecian Urn, Ode on a . ... 827 water" 740
Green Grow the Bashes, 0 176 Here, oh here* 600
Green Linnet, The 200 Here, on our native soil, we breathe once
Green little vaolter in the sunny grass.... 868 more ... 287
Greenwood Tree, A (For the Blender Beech Here Pause the Poet Claims at Liast Thin
and the Sapling Oak) 90S Praise 806
Grongar Hitt . . 16 Here, where precipitate Spring with one light
Grove of Love, The (Beneath the Cypress bound 965
Shade) 998 Herod's Lament for Marlamne . . .512
Gryll Grange, From 1001 Heroic Idyls, From ... 984
Guard-Room. The 456 Hesperus, Ode to (Ode to the Evening Star) . 47
Guy Manuring, From. 465 Hester . ... 916
Heyuood, Thomas 921
H , thoo retarn*st from Thames, whose Hie Awav, Hie Away 465
naiads long , 58 Highland Girl, To a 292
H. C, To ... 288 Highland Laddie, The 7
Ha I ha 1 the caverns of my hollow mountains 695 Highland Mary 202
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES
1419
PAGJD
His Touna Rose an Old Man Said, To 08ft
History of the Caliph Vathek, From The 134
BO**, JftaMB (1772-1836) 470, 1271
Hohenhnden . . . 420
Holly Tree. The ' 401
Holy Pair, The . . . 185
Holy Thursday 170
Holy Willie's Prayer 1212
Homage 003
Homer (H Coleridge) 1172
Homer, To (Keats) 825
Homes of England. The 1101
Honey from silkworms who cnn Bather 050
XOOd, Tnoma* (1799-1845) 11.OT, 127 2
Hope 105
Hours of Idleness, Fiorn Broughani'h RCCH.IO
of . 1220
How does the water 410
How frver'd IB the man, who cannot look 830
How Many Bards Gild the Lap*e* of Tim< 753
How many summera, love 11 TO
How Many Times Do I Lore Thee, Dear? 1130
How Many Voice* Gaily Nina 075
How, my dear Mary, are you crltl* -bitten 710
How Bhall I meet thee, Hummer, wont to fill 105
How Bleep the brave who sink to rest 50
How Sweet I Roamed 100
How sweet I roamed from field to field 100
How Bweet IB the shepherd K fcweet lot ' 107
How Rweet It Is, When Mother Fancy RocTci 301
How sweet the tuneiul bellh' responsive peal ' 104
Human t-tcwons. The 7<»7
Xnnt, JamM Henry &*lgb (1784-1859) 8fl<>. 1L»75
Hunt, Esq , To Leigh 704
Hunter's Song, The 1100
Hunting of the Cheviot, The (The Ancient
Ballad of Chirv-Ghase) 112
Hunting Song 440
Kurd, Bionard (1720-1808) <>7. 1278
Hurray, hurray, the Jade's away 481
Hymn before tiunrittc in the Vale of Cha~
mouni ... 302
Hymn of Apollo 707
Hymn of Pan 707
Hymn on the Seasons. A 23
Hymn to Adversity 68
Hymn to Oontentmtiit, 1 0
Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 644
Hyperion. 849
am a bard of no regard . . 184
am a BOD of Mars, who have been In many
wars 181
am an a spirit whs ban dwelt 001
am not one who much or oft delight 800
am the rider of the wind 551
arise from dreams of thee 001
bring fresh showers for the thirsting floweis 703
Cannot Tell, Not I, Why She . 071
come to visit thee again . . 083
cry your mercy — pitj — love' — aye, love » 81*1
dreamed that, a« I wandered by the way 707
dug, beneath the cypress shade 008
Entreat You, Alfred Tennyson 082
fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 700
Grieved Jar BuonapartA . . 285
PAOB
grieved for Buonaparte1, with a vain . . . 285
had a dream, which was not all a dream . 521
hated thee, fallen tyrant ! I did groan . 685
have beheld thee In the morning hour 068
have had playmates, I have had companions
(The Old Familiar Faces) 01G
have lived, and I have loved 1171
heard a thousand blended noteb 231
Held Her Hand, the Pledge of Bliss 064
know not whether I am proud . 074
loved him not , and yet now he Is gone 066
met a travellei from an antique land 650
mourn Adonis dead — loveliest AdoniB 1841
once was a mold, tho 1 cannot tell when 161
pant for the music which Is divine 741
played with you mid cowslips blowing 1001
Remember. I Remember 1136
sate behlde a sage'b bed . 672
f-aw a horrid thing of many names .1167
saw an aged beggar In my walk . . 284
Raw *here In the shroud did luik 017
shiver, Spirit fierce and bold . 201
sing the fates of Geblr II o had dwelt 050
spin beneath my pyramid of night 607
stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Highs 541
stood on Bio( ken's novran height, and saw 850
7 Mood Tiptoe upon a Little mil 754
I strove, with none, for none was worth my
strife . . 082
I thought of thee, my partner and my guide 311
7 Travelled among Unknown Men 288
I traielled through a land of men 178
7 11 andcrcd Lowly As a Cloud . 205
want a hero , an uncommon want 570
was angry with my friend . 171
was thy neighbor once, thou rugged PilcT 207
weep for AclonalR — he it. dead ' . 730
went to the Garden of Love 171
7 Will A of Loic . . 067
7 Wonder Now That Youth Remains ... 003
I would not enter on my Hut of friends 148
Janthe, Lyrics to . 068
lanthe' you are call'd to cross the sea 064
Idiot Boy, From The 1248
If from My Lips Nome Angty Accents Fell 016
If from the public way you turn your steps . 266
If Nature, for a faiorlte child . .280
If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral Bong 50
If solitude hath e\er led thy steps 627
If there weie dreams to sell 1132
// 77n* Oreat World nf Joy and Pain 814
If Thou Indeed Derive Thy Light from j leaven 814
// Thou Wilt Base Thine Heart .1181
If to thy heart I were as near .1165
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or
twain . ... .468
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor . 177
Imaginary Conversations, From . 085
Imitation of Spenser . 751
Im m 01 1 all ty, Ode on 808
In a drear-nlghted December 763
In a Llbiarv (My Days among the Dead Arc
Past) 408
In Britain's Isle and Arthur's days 8
In lover'B ear a wild volee cried . 1132
In Memory of Walter Savage Lamdor . . 1801
1420
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES
PAGB
IB my poor mind it is most sweet to nnue Old
In such a night, when every loader wind 2
In the atmosphere we breathe . 678
In the blue depth of the water* 550
In the Day* of Old 1001
In the sweet fchlre of Cardigan 280
In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wietch 802
In the world unknown 076
In Virgyne the ftweltrie k.un gan sheene 182
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 858
In yonder grave a drnid lies 52
In youth from rock to rock I went 288
Indian Serenade, The 661
Indolence, Ode on . 828
Influence of Natural Objects (The Pt elude, 1,
401-68) , 243
Influence of Time on Grief 165
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood 287
Inscription for a Fountain on a Htath (Cole-
ridge) 864
Inscription for a Fountain (Procter) 1170
Inscription in the Cfnmea, An 200
In&de of King'H College Chapel, Cambridge 812
Intimations of Immortality 303
Introduction to Hongs of Innocence 166
Introduction to the Pains of Opium, From 1067
Iphigcneia and Agamemnon 076
Iphlgenela, when (.he heard her doom 076
Irish Mtlodiet, From . . 425
Is It Not Btttir at an Early Hour 074
Is there a whim-lnsplrod fool 103
1 8 There for Honent Poverty 204
Is thib a holy thing to see 170
IB thy fare like thy mother'*, my fair child ' 523
IB your war-pipe asleep, and forever, M'Klm-
man? 482
Isabella , or The Pot of Basil 818
Jiaorllr 1238
Isle. The 748
It fell about the Martinmas 117
It flows through old hush'd Egjpt and 1U
sands 868
It interpenetrate* my granite mass 005
It IB a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free 286
It is an ancient Mariner '{35
It Is Not to Be Thought Of That the Flood 2S8
It is the first mild day of March 2 11
It keeps eternal whispering* around 765
It may indeed be phantasy, when I 867
It Ofttn Comes into My Head 063
It seem* a day 237
It was a summer evening 400
It was a well 212
It Was an April Morning 273
\t was an April morning fresh and clear 278
It was not In the winter 1138
Italian Kong, An 200
Italy. From 210
Ivanhoe, From 468
I've had a dream that bodes no good 480
I've often wished that I could write a book 1225
I've wandered east, I've wandered west 1168
I've watched you now a full half-hour 282
742
1273
Jeanie Morrison
Jeffrey, Trundt (1778- 1850)
Jenny kissed me when we met
Jock of Uasteldean
John Anderson Jfy Jo
John An del son my Jo, John
John Ford
John Webster
Johimm, *amu«l (1709-1784)
Jolly Beggar*, The
Joseph Ablctt, To
Journal in Ft ante, From
Journal tn the Lakes, From
1168
884, 1270
870
467
106
106
021
021
1180, 1282
180
.fc 060
68
78
XtAtB, John (1795-1821) 7G1, 1284
Keats, On 740
K cats'* Lettcm, From 801
Xtble, John (1792-1866) 1131, 1204
Afro, Fitful Ousts «ltc ]\ hup ring 11 (.re and
There . . 758
Atone W 477
King Frauds was a hearty king, and Invert a
royal sport 870
King of the stormy bca ' . 805
Ktnmont Wilhe . 441
Knight'* Tombf The 867
Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, On the 1080
Know ye the land where the cypress mid myr-
tle 406
Koskiunko 820
Kubla Khan . 868
La Belle Dame Sans Miroi
La Fauctte
Lachin V <*air
Lady of the Lake, From The
Ladu, WUH It Fair of Thet
820
484
448
1181
To
Jealous, I own it, I was once—
Lady with Flou.cn from the Roman II all, To
a . 486
Lake of Genet a, The 210
Lake of tht Dismal tiwamp. The 424
Lalla Rookh, From 420
Kamb, CharlM (1775-1834) ttlo, 120r»
Lament (Hcott) 462
Lament, A (Shelley) 720
Lament In rhyme, lament in prose . • 176
Lamia 882
Landing of the Pilynm Fathus in Atu/ A1 /a;
land 1161
tandor, Walter fcvage (1775-1864) . OHO. 1300
Laodamta . 306
Lassie wi' the Lint "White Loek* 204
Lout Man, Tht 423
Last Mat/ a Braw Wooet . 202
Last Hay a braw wooer cam down the lang
glen 202
Lately Our Songstcts Loitcr'd in Gu>cn Lanu 084
Laughing Song . . 167
Lay of Roaabelle, The (Harold) . . . 445
Lay of the Imprisoned Huntnman 462
Lay of the Laborer, The 1148
Lay of the Last Minstrel, From The 444
Leaves Are Falling, Ho Am I, The . 078
Leech Gatherer, The (Resolution and Independ-
ence) 283
Leigh Hunt. Bsq, To 764
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIEST LINES
1421
1'AGI
Leofrio and Qodiva 991
Letbia Hath a Beaming Sue 426
Let Dew the Flowct* Fill 1188
Let me ryke up tp dight that teai 188
Letters
Bums to Ahuon 1280
Burns to Thornton 1217
Byron to Murray (2) 1224, 1225
Cowper to Johnson 1248
Cowper to Mm Cowper 1247
Cowpcr to Vnwin (3) 1202, 1247, 1248
Gtay to llurd 1264
Gray to Ma ton (2) 72
Gray to Mrs Qiay 69
Gray to ti ton eh ewer 71
Gray to Walpole (3) 71, 1203, 1205
Gray to Went 70
Gray to Wharton (2) 71, 1244
Johnson to Maepherton 1305
Keats to Bailey (3) 861. 1287, 1291
Keal8 to ft cot of Keat* 1290
Keats to Geotge and Geotqiuna Kent* (3)
R04. 1220
Keats to I/cssty
Kcatfi to Reynold* (4) 802
Keats to Nhdley
KetttH to Taylot
Lamb to Wotd»uo>th (2)
Letters ftom Tnanmovth From
1290
864
805, 1211, 1289
865
863
918. 1299
1146
Lettftt on Chiralty and Romance, Fiom , 97
Levana and Our LadKH of borrow 1097
Lewti, or The CtircaMtian Lore-Chant 852
Library , In a (My Day* among the Dtad 4tr
Past) 408
Lie. mv fond hpart at reat 964
JAfc (Coleridge) 828
Life (Procter) 1169
Life Mav Change, but It May Fly Not . 7.17
Life of Llfp ' tbv lips enkindle 682
Life of Nelson, From The 411
Life Passts Not an Komt Men Kay 968
Lifting of tht Banner of the Ifoune of ttvc-
clruch, Line* on the . 406
Light of the Harem,1 From Tin . 429
Light Mining out of Dark new 145
Like the shout of a dour friend dend 710
Line* (Beddoeft— Write It In gold— A spirit of
the Run) 1129
Lints (Keats — ITnfelt, unheard, unseen) 765
Lines (Hhellev— The cold earth friept below) . 648
IAnet< (Hholley — We meet not an we parted) 748
Line* (Shelley— When the lamp is nhattcred) 741
Linen Composed a Few Miles above Ttntcrn
Abbey 238
Line* Left upon a Heat in a Yew Tree 228
Lines on the Death of Charlts Lamb 1296
Lines on the Lifting of the Banner of the
House of Bueeleuch 406
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 766
Linca to a Critic 650
Lines Written among the Evoanean Hill* 651
Lines Written during the Oastlereagh id-
ministration ...... 655
Lines Written in a Blank Leaf of the "Pro-
metheu* Unbound" 1129
Lines Written in Early Spring . 231
FAOl
Lines Written in the Album at Elbingerodc, in
the Harte Forest , 859
Little Agio* to Her Father on Her Htatue
Being Called Like Her . .968
Literature of Knowledge and Literature of
Power 1101
Little Black Boy, The 167
Lives of the Englmh Potts, Fiom 77i< 1185
Lo ' where the four mimosas blend theli shmle 963
Lo' whore the roKy-hosom'd ITouih . 57
Lochlel, Lochiel f beware of the day 420
Lochiel's Warning 420
Lochinvar 447
Lock the Itnoi, Lar\\ton 483
Lock the door, Laribton, lion of Liddt'bdalc 483
London, 1809 . .287
Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and
white ah they 310
Long night succeeds thy little din 1000
Look how the lark son is upward and is pone 1137
Lord of the Celtic delln 969
Lord Randal 444
Lord Ronald's Coronach 436
Lotd Thorn ax and Fair fiUtnm 118
Loid Thomas he * as a bold fort ester 118
Lord Vllm's Daughter 421
Louie, To a 194
Lore (Coleridge) 859
Love and Age 1001
Love docs A-Ilawktng (A Ho ' 1 Ho ') 11SO
Love in a hut, with water and a ciUbt 838
Love, On (Rhellev) . . 1339
Love seeketh not itself 1o please. 170
Lovely La*n of Prenton Mill, Thi 476
Lovely, labtlng peace of mind ' . 6
Lover of Nature, The 80
Love's Philosophy . 661
Lovest Thou Met . 145
LoOng she is, and tractable, though wild 305
Low was oar pretty rot our t.illest rose . 880
Lucy Ciay 241
Lusty ITeartR' to the mood, to the merrv
green wood 1104
Lyrics, to 2 ant he . 903
Mockery End, in Hertfot<1«Jtirc 944
MAOpfamMm, JuttM ( 1738-1 7 JO) 80. 1.105
Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me . 729
Mahmoud 808
Maid I Love Ne'er Thought of Me, The . 971
Maid Marian, From 998
Maid of Athena, Ere We Pat t 496
Maid of NeUpath. The 446
Maid of the Sea, The . 483
Maid's Lament, The 966
•tallrt, David (1705-1765) 1C, 1307
Manfred 549
Man, who wert once H despot and a ulave 698
Many a green Isle nooda must be 651
Many love mnsic bat for music'* bake 982
Marccllus and Hannibal . 987
March, march, Ettrlck and Teviot-dale . 469
March to Moteow, The ... 405
March, march, Mnke-ragR of Rorrowdalc . 1824
Margatft Lot e Peacock .. 1000
Marmion, From 446
1422
INDEX OF AUTHOK8, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES
I'AQl
Mary if ortgon . 175
Alary, To iCowper— The twentieth >ear U
well-nigh past) ................ 158
Mary, To (Shelley— How, my dear Mary, are
yon critic-bitten) . ...... 710
Mary, To (Shelley— So now my summer task
la ended, Mar>) .. .. 048
Mask of Anarchy, Th*. .. .. h 655
Matthew . 230
Morgan of Mclhuach . . 1151
May, mo ... . . 1172
Ifawppa 5«9
Melancholy, Ode on 827
Manorial Verses. Prom . . 1356
Memory . . . 985
Men of England', wherefore plough 059
Men of Gotham, The (Uteamm TJnee' What
Men Be Tef) 998
Jfeit of Jffn* To the 294
Mental Traveller. The . 178
tfefettiM and JTat IM 989
JfiotaeZ 260
Midnight," and' yet no eye 403
ISSSS 5K ra* «•
Jfild /. *fca Porfiiv rrar, and *wct 904
Milton Prom 174
Milton'' thou Bhonldst IIP living at thi* houi 287
Jf*n«*rclf r/ic, Or The Proyre*« of Qmn* 120
Jftntfre! Boy The 427
Mi**trel*y of' the Scotch Border, Piom Tht 441
Misery, Oh, misery to mo 606
Mitfortunr* of Elphn. Piom The 1000
M'Kimman 482
Monarch of Gods and Damons, and all SphltM (.62
Monastery Prom Tfte 409
Monk, and the Giant*. Prom 77ic 1225
Mont Blant 6-46
Mont Blanc IB the monarch of mountains 550
Mo.tcozn.ry,
PAOI
Murray, To Mr (Strahan, Tonson, Ltntot of
theTimesJ ............. 508
Muse of my native land ' l.rftlwt Muse ' 806
Muses, To the . . 166
M itmo (Shelley) .... ...... 741
*«««, On (Landor) ........ ... 982
Music, when soft voices die 72D
***™* (Wordsworth-Prom low to high
doth dissolution climb) . 811
*«*«&««*¥ (Shelley— The flower that •miles
todav> 729
*«*«W«** (Shcllpy— We arc as doudh that
*"" tnp Anight moon) 684
fir *«•' /• «• »• «»•«• ..... 508
*Iy 1)0nle lttSK» r work In brans 188
4
JJy briar that wnelledst Kweet . . 9«0
M* Illot1lor JaLk was nine In May 1858
M* routers are fod with the lightning 681
*" »W»™™ff1l'r »«** 1"?°** «*
*Jv dwelling Is tho Bhaclow of the night 551
•"* ^ir** i'VW/iifaiirr with Port* 1028
M* nBlr Ik 8rav- l>ut not wlth y<iar" B1B
J!y H awJ V™1 f T h M *? . S
JJy h^art achiH. and a drowsy numlmoss pa Inn 881
y ait thank'd thee, Bowies' for those
K0" s*TllIl|i| . . . ^ ... _ JJJ
**Y heart IB a-breaklng, dear tittle' . . 197
M» "tart *'*•** u*> 2fi2
*Jv heart leaps up when I behold 282
*' "™'\m** "*£*-* 106
** hoart B In the Highland., mv heart In not
h^re 190
%* **<* Js Liftc ta ITn,*!, WiH.r 11(M
-^^ Hope* Retire, My Wtohct As Before 974
^y lov'd my honored much ros^tcMl friend' 188
*'* mother bore mo in the bouthern wild. . 167
*» *anie' ° "
Month after month the gathered lalns do-
709
Celcoration, From ^or I*, 1SOS
MOO!*, ThomaJl (1779-1852) 424, 1 J07
Moore, To Thomas (My Boat Is on the Shore) 508
Moral Bfftots of Aristocracy... . . 221
Mortal ' to thy bidding Iww'd 650
Most Hweet It Is With Uiupltfted Eye* 315
Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel, , , , . . 972
Mother of Hermes' and still youthful Mala ' 825
Mother of mublngs. Contemplatfoo sage 75
WUUua (1797-1835) ...1102, 1 509
Dafoy* To a ...... 194
Mouae, To a 190
Mr Cobl»ett ask'd leave to bring In very noon 1814
Mr Murray, To (For Orford and for Walde
grave) . flS
Mr. Murray, To (Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of
the Times) ............... T08
Mr* Battle's Opinions on Whist 940
Much have I travell'd in the lenlmt, of gold 753
"Multum Dilexit" 1172
Murray, To Mr. (For Orford and for Walde-
e) .......................... 618
281
M p
Jj *«• ^
My p,°nhlve Raral thy B0ft Chw>k redln(Ml •' 829
%* ™£ '^my^weef l^fer ' If a name
M* #MtT T*
My Ron tnpHO ^^ ^^/^ ln|(1 m
M houl iH an pnchantcd boot 682
M y tioul u DarK ..... ^ 012
Bfy BOU, ,g dark_oh i qnl(.kly Btrtnff . 512
M lrlt ,b too weak_moltftmv 765
My ftp|nt ,lke a chanilM balk (loth hwlni 1887
My gplrlr§ <m thp mountain*, whore the blrdh 482
My wlnffH aro fo](1(Ml 0*or minp ^^ 665
Mynstt tiles tiong (Chatterton— O ' bynge un-
toe mle ronndelale) 181
Mvn*trcllr* Honff (Chatterton—The boddynge
flourettes bloshes attc the lyghte) . 130
Naiad for Grecian water*' , ..1168
Napoleon Buonaparte, Odi to 510
Rational Airs, Prom . 428
Natural Objects, Influence of (The Pt elude,
1,401-63) ..248
Nature' thon mayetit fume and fret ... 982
Nature. To ............................. 867
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES 1423
PAOl FAG1
A ay, Thank Me Not Again for Those 988 0, my luve IB like a red, red rose 208
Nay, traveller ' re it This lonely yew-tree 0, Oner I Lov'd a BOMB Lam 175
stands . 228 O parent of each lovely Mnm». . 84
Near Doier, September, 190t 287 0 Patie, let me gang, I maunna stay 9
Negro's Complaint, The 148 O reader' hast thou ever stood to see . 401
Night (H Coleridge) 1171 0, Robin Hood wan a bowman good 471
Night Thought*, Prom 88 0 Sandy, why leaves thon thy Nelly to mourn? 9
Night, To (Shelley) . 728 O, saw ye bonie Lesley 202
Nightingale, Ode to a (Keats) . , 831 O haw ye not fair Ineg? 1186
Nightingale, The (Akenside— Ode to the a fin O soft ombalmer of the still midnight 880
ing Star) 47 0 Solitude! If I must with thec dwell 754
Nightingale, The (Coleridge) 856 O 801 row 808
Nightingale. To the (Counter of WiurhllHpa) 2 O sovereign power of love* O grief1 O
Nightmare Abbey, From .. 998 balm' 780
Night-Piece on Death, 4 5 O ' syngc untoo mle roundclaic 141
Nile, The (Hunt) 868 0 thou by Nature taught 48
Nile, To the (Keats) 767 O Thou that In the heavens doc* dwell 1212
Nile, To the (Shellov) 1278 O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 175
Ninth Decade. To My 985 O thou I whatever title suit thee 101
No cloud, no rellque of the sunken day 856 O thou, who plumed with strong desire 708
Noctcs Imbromatur, From 1158 Othou' whose fancies from afar are brought 288
Nocturnal Revcne, A 2 O thou with dewy locks, *ho lookest down 166
No fish stir in our heaving not 474 0 Time ' who know'st a lenient hand TO lay 165
No more my visionary soul shall dwell 828 0, Wert Thou tn the Could Riant 205
No, My Own Love of Other Ytam 965 O what a loud and fearful shriek was there 829
No, no I go not to Lethe, neither twist K27 "0 where hac ye been, Lord Randal, my son '" 444
Nor those days un> pone away 766 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's
Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame 729 lx»lng . 060
'Worth, Chrli-tophtr" (John Wilton) (1785- O, Willie brew'd a peck o* maut . 197
1864) HM, 1852 O world » Olife' Otlme* ... 729
Not a drum was heard, not n funeral note . 482 O ye who are sao guld yourael 198
Not here, 0 teeming t'ltv, was it meet 1207 O, joung Loohlnvar is come out of the west ' 447
Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard 812 Obm urcst night Involv'd the sky . 154
November (IT Coleridge) 1171 O&amxifiofia on The Fatty Queen of Spenser,
November, nu (Bowles Ibscnce) 165 From 79
November, im (Wordsworth) .. 802 October, IMS 294
"Now," A Dfiwtjpfit'c of a Hot Day . 877 Ode (Bards of I'agbion and of Mlith) 826
Now in hpi green mantle blythe Nature ar- Ode foi Music, An 51
rayg . 208 Odo Intimation* of Immortality . 808
Now Morning from her orient chamber came 751 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton Collto< 57
Now the golden Morn nloft 65 Ock on a Grecian Urn 827
Now the storm begins to lower . . 66 Ode on Immortality 808
Aunt* Fret Not at Their Convent's Narrow Ode on Indolenot 828
R00m 800 Ode on Melancholy . 827
Nurse's Kong 171 Ode on tlie Approach of Hummer, From 76
Hutting 287 Ode on the Death of Mt Thornton . 52
Nymph of the downward smile and Hldelong Ode on the Departing Tear . 881
glance • * 768 Ode on the Pleasure Arising from Vicissitude 65
Ode on the Poetical Character . . 49
O blithe Newcomer f I have beard 294 Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the High-
O, Rtlgnall banks are wild and fair 464 ton** of Scotland, An 58
O Chatterton ' how very sad thy fate ' . 752 Ode on the Spring 57
O friend ' I know not which way I must look 287 Ode to a Nightingale . 881
» O Goddcw ' hear these tuneless numbers, Ode to Duty 296
wrung ... ... . 880 Ode to Evening . . 50
O golden tongued Romance, with serene lute ' 76tt Ode to Fancy . . 84
Ohave ye na heard o the fause Rakelde? 441 Ode to Hesperus (Ode to the Evening Star) . 47
O hone a rie' ' 0 hone a rie' ' 486 Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 510
0 ' I could laugh to hear the midnight wind 915 Ode to Psyche 880
O lady, leave thy silken thread 1185 Ode to Simplicity 48
O, Lay Thy Loof in Mine, Lass 205 Ode to the Evening Star 47
O listen, listen, ladles gay . 446 Ode to the West Wind 660
O, lovers' eyes are sharp to sw 446 Ode Written during the Negotiations with
0 Mary, at thy window be' . 175 Buonaparte 406
0 mortal man, who livert here by toll .. 24 Ode Written in the Beginning of the Tear
O my bonny, bonny Highland laddie!.... 7 J70 00
1421 INDEX OF AUTEOB8, TITLES, AND FIB8T LINES
PAQfl PAGE
O'er the level pining, where mountain! greet On Music . . 062
me as I go 1145 On Boeing a Hair of Luoretia Borgia. 968
O'er yon churchyard the storm may Jownr. . ..1146 On Bering the Biff** Marbles. ... 766
Of A' the Airts 196 On Bitting Down to Read "King Lear" Once
Of a* the airts the wind can blaw .... 196 Again . .... 766
Of a Virtuous Detpotum. . . 219 On 8outhey'9 Death 988
Of late, in one of those moot weary noun 868 On the brink of the night and the morning 681
OJ Legislative and E*ecuti\,e Power 219 On the Departure of fitr Walter Scott from
Of Nelson and the North 422 Abtotofora1, for Naplet . 814
Of the Power* of Man Considered MI His Bo- On the Atinetitm of the Venetian Republic 286
eial Capacity . . . . 218 On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth 1087
Of the Bight of Shops 880 On the Grasshopper and Cricket . . 704
Oft I ha<J hoard of Lucy Gray . .. 241 On The Hellenics 975
Oft. in the Willy Night . 428 On the knocking at the 0aft tn Mactoth 1080
Oht Blame A of the Batd 426 On the Realltiee of Imagination, From 874
Oh' blame not the bard, If be fly to the On the Receipt of My Mothtrt Picture Out of
bowers .. 426 Norfolk ... .149
Oh! Bold Robtn Hood In a Forester Good 999 On*A0 #0a 766
Oh, Breathe Not Ht§ Name' 426 On the Smooth Btow and Clu»t<nng Hair 903
Oh, breathe not blB name' let It Bleep in the On the Statue of bbenezer Elliott, From 1260
•hade . 426 On the wide level of a mountain'! head 800
Oh, Come to Me When Daylight Bet* 428 On This Day I Oomph tc My TMtty~Btvtlt I cat 620
Oht Fly with Me' 'Tin Pawum's If out 1145 Once a dream did weave a shade IftM
Oh, follow, follow ' 076 Once, and once only, have I seen thv faco 129ft
Oh, for a lodge in some vast wJldernchH 147 Once did She hold the gorgeous Bart in fee . 286
Oh' How I Love, on a Fair Bummer1* ffir 754 One Lovely Name -Adorn* My Bony . 968
Oh, Mariamne f now for thce . . 612 One more unfortunate 1142
OA, Kay Not That My Heart Is Cold . 482 One morn before me were three figures Been 828
Oh! Snateh'd Away in Beauty'* Bloom 512 One Singtnv, To 1837
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in Btory . 626 One Who Hat B(rn Long in City Pint, To 754
Oh, that thofte lips had language ' Life has One word is too often profaned 789
pass'd . . . 149 One Year Ago My Path Was Green 073
Oh ' there are spirits of the air . 634 Oiford and for Waldeffrave, Fot 613
"Oh ' what IH that comes gliding in". 1140 Oar Ball 1140
Oh, what will a* the lads do .... ..477 Our bark IR on the water* wide around 1152
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?.. 228 Our hands contain the hearts of men 659
Oina-Morul A Poem 91 Ournpoil IB won 602
Old Adam, the Cumon Crow . 1181 Our vicar trill preaches that Peter and Poule 4B7
Old China . 951 Owen's praise demands my song OR
Old Cumberland Bcgqar, The . .234 Oiymandia* .. . 650
Old Familiar Fa< ex, The 916
Old Lady, The . 871 Pains of Opium, Thf 1070
OldMan'v Comforts, The . . 401 Pain* of Bleep, The 864
Old Man's With. An . 1171 Painter, To a 972
Old Mortality, From . . 468 Panhieb, lilies, kingcups, daibies 282
Olncy Ifymns, From . 145 Pantwooracy . 328
On a battle-trumpet's blast . 672 Paper Money Lyrics, From . . 1824
Ono Bust of Bacchus.. 880 JHJ»«JJ, TfcomM (1679-1718) 3. 1310
On a Faded Violet 651 PMSIOIM, The 51
On a Picture of Leamder... 764 Pott, The . 050
On a poet's lips I slept 672 Pott Run'd IHon Helen JAve* . 004
On an Infant Dying A9 Soon At Bom . HIT "Potcr Venter PMC** /Wo" 1152
On Pome (Keats— Fame, like a wayward girl, Patie and Peggy . 9
will still be coy) 880 Peace' What Do Tears Atail' ... 1170
On Fame (Keats— Bow fever*d Is the man, VMOook, Thoaum tors (1785-1866) 01)8. l.tio
who cannot look) ... .880 Pclion and O**a . 281
OnFamWar Style ... 1011 1'ellon and Ossa flourish bide by Bide . 281
On Fir $t Looking into Chapman's Homer 758 Pmtastrron, From The 996
On Going a Journey.. . 1022 Veroy, Vbrauui (172B-1811) 110, 1311
On Hie Own Agamemnon and IphtgeneU. 971 Pericks and Aspasia, From 967, 998
OnHiB Seventy-Fifth Birthday.. . 982 Perietal to Aspatia (5) 996,995
OnKeatt .... 740 Personal Talk . .. 800
On King Arthur** Round TaWe at Winchester 76 Petition for an Abtolut* Retreat, From The 1
On Leigh Hunt's Poem, "The Story of JHttfaf" 705 Petition to Time, A 1170
On Linden, when the son was low . . . 420 Phantom or Poet . . 369
On Love (Shelley) . . 1839 Pfbroch of Donuil Dh* 467
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES 1425
PAQl PAQl
Picture of Leander, On a .................. 764 Prometheus ........................... 522
Piping down the valleys wild ...... . ...... 166 Prometheus Unbound ..................... 662
Pirate, From The ........................ 470 Proud Maisie ......................... 468
Place Where Soon I Think to Lie, The ...... 978 Proud Malsle IB In the wood ............... 468
Plaint . .......... 1168 Proud Word You Never Spoke ............... 974
Pleasure! Why Thus Desert the Heart ........ 903 Psyche, Ode to ........... 880
PleaRures newly found are sweet ........... 288 Pursuits I Aloe, I Now Have None .......... 974
Pleasures of Hope, From The ........... 417
Pleasures of Melancholy From The ......... 75 Qufen Gnennivar.a Round ........ „ ...... 11B8
.........
f n i .................
Pleasure* of Opium, The ••"•" ..... 10?? Queen Mai, Prom (Shelley) .............. 621
Pleasures of the Imagination, From The.... 44 Ouren To the 1TA
Poet of Nature, thou hart wept to know.... 684 J ,' w J p " Th ................. "!
Poetical Character, Ode on the .......... 49 ..................
Poetmof Pope, From The ............ 1101
Poet'8 Epitaph, A (Elliott) ............. 1167
Port's Epitaph, A ( Wordsworth) .......... 289
Poet'8 Lover, The ................... 661 »MW»y, Allan (1888-1768) .. .. 7, 1316
Port1* Kong to His Wife, The ............... 1170 Barely, rarely, comeat thou . . .728
Poet's Thought, A ...................... 1170 Realities of Imagination, From On the .... 874
Powon Tree, A ...................... 171 Rebecca'* Hymn ... 469
Political Greatness ................ 729 Receipt of My Mother's Picture, On the , 149
Political Justice, From An Enquiry Concerning 213 Recollections of Charles Lamb, From ........ 1082
Poor little foal of an oppremM iare' ...... 328 A***. Red Rose. A . ..... 208
Poor Matlu's Elegy 176 Reflections on ffavtng Left a Place of Re-
Poor Old Pilgrim Misery . 1129 tiremmt . 880
Poor Relations ........... 954 Reflection* on the Revolution in franoe.
Vop«v Alexander (1888-1744) ........ 1175,1313 From ..... .. .............. 1186
Pope, From ................. 1185 Reim-Kcnnar, Bong of the . . 470
Poplar-Fuld, The ............ 148 Religion .......... 1168
Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Rchques of Ancient English Poetry, From 110
Scotland, An Ode on the .......... 53 Remain, Ah Not in Youth Alone .............. 971
Postscript to The E*Ql\ih Matt-Coach .... 1259 Remembrance ............................ 740
Pot of Basil, The . .............. 818 Remorse, From ...................... 866
Po«<r of Music . . ........ 299 Renunciation ........................ 964
jimQ, Winthrop Kftokworth (1802- Resolution and Independence .............. 288
1839) . ... ........ 1145,1314 Best ! This little fountain runs ........... 1170
Prayer ...... ............ 1172 Retirement . ....... 119
Prayer w the Prospect of Death, A ....... 175 Reverie of Poor Susan, The ....... 224
Preface to Adonais ..... .... 1840 Bhalroa wan born amid the hllla wherefrom 977
Preface to Ohilde Harold's Pilgrimage, Cantos Rigidly Righteous, Thf (Address to the Unco
I and II .................. 1222 O*W .............. 198
Preface to ChristaM ................... 1237 Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The ..... 885
Preface to Endymion .............. 1288 Blre » Sleep no more ' VTIs a noble morn ..... 1169
Prt/ai<, to First, or Ktmarnoc* Edition of Blw, young mechanic' Idle darkncw leave*.. 1167
Bunu>9 Poems ........... 206 *'*«• Duddon, From The ............... 811
Preface to Lyrical Ballads ...... 317 R*>* Roy, From ........................ 468
PTC/IMC to I*romrthcus Unbound ......... 1 H3 Robert Brovmnp, To .......... 976
Preface to Rimini, From ............... 1276 *»6*» *ood (Keats) .................. 766
Prefate to Rhakspeare, From ............ 1180 **W» Hood (Scott) ............... 471
Preface to The Borough, From ............ 12T,l ««Wn Flood and Ouy of Upborne ......... 110
Preface to The Castle of Otranto, From ..... 1130 »•••*•, Baauwl (1788-1866) .......... 207, 1816
Preface to The Ei ergreen ............ 11 *«*rtf. From ................ 464
Preface to The Thorn .............. 13^.9 *OfMf/'"?? _ ' ' ''''",', ........... ?J?
Preface to Tin Mston of Judgment ....... 1227 Rosabelle, The Lay of (Harold) ........ 445
tn Tl Inter I'i48 Rose Aylmer •••«.. ... voo
' ".'.'.'.'.'..'.'.".. 1048 Bwwl1 Wlm1- tbat ™°«n««t '«»«>d ... . 74J
. .
-^ mh 1160 "Ruin peiie thee, ruthlem King" ........ 68
Preston MM*' . V.V.V.V." ".""!!! !!'!!!!!!! 1166 ****** Vottage, The (The Emeursion, 453-
PHtoner of Ohillon,' The ' ... !"."..!... 515 n97^)t>J" ' .......................... ,J2
Vkootw, Bryan Waller ("Barry Cornwall") «HJj ***' From .................... JJ«
(1787-1874) .......... 1168,1315 *•** (Hood) ........................... 1186
Proem to Selection from Keats's Poetry ... 882
Progress of Genius, The 120 Sabbath Morning ......................... 1167
of Poesy, The .. . ...... 61 Bt Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill It wai I. . .842
1426 INDEX OP AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES
i
PAGB PAOB
Saint Peter Bat by the celestial gate ... . 618 Stater of jBUa, To the 970
Solly Rimpkin's Lament 1140 Buster, To My.. . 281
Same Flower, To the (The celandine) . 288 Skylark, The (Hogg) 477
Same Flower, To the (The daisy) 2S9 Skylark, To a (Shelley— Hall to tbee. blithe
Sanity of True Gentus. , 9R7 spirit*) . 704
Sappho to Hesperus . 968 Skylark, To a (Wordsworth — Ethereal xnln-
Savannah-la-Mar . . 1100 Btrel' pilgrim of the sky') . 812
Saw Ye Bonie Lesley .... 202 Skylark, To a (Wordsworth—Up with me' up
"Bay, what remains wben Hope Is fled?".. 210 with me Into the clouds) . 297
Scenes that sooth'd 145 Sleep and Poetry 768
Scholar, The (My Day* among the Dead Ate Bleep, Mr. Speaker, It's surely fair . 1149
Past) 408 Bleep > sleep ! beauty bright ... 172
Schoolmistress, From The 40 Sleep, To (Keats) .... 880
Boom not the Sonnet 812 Sleep, To (Land or) ... . . . . 972
Scorn not the 8on.net, Critic, you have Sleep, To (Wordsworth) . 802
frowned . . 812 Small Celandine, To the 282
Scotch Banff, A . 474 Small service Is true service while It lasts 815
Scots, Wha Hoe 208 Smith, JamM (1775-1839)— Tto Baby's
Scots, wha hae wlf Wallace bled 208 Debut 1358
000tt,sttr Walter (1771-1832) . 4.U, 1317 Snowdrop, To a . 810
Sea, On the (KeaU) 765 So Fair, So Sweet, Withal So NcnsiUvc 316
Beat The (Prootei) . 1168 Bo Late Removed from 7/nn She Sworr 964
Sea, To (Beddoes) .. . 1180 Bo now my summer task Is ended, Mary . 648
Seamen Three! What Men Be Yc< . 998 So Then, I Feel Not Deeply' 982
Season of mists and mellow frultfulnost, 860 Bo then, I feel not deeply ' If I did 982
Seasons, From The. . . IB So, We'll (to No More A-Roving 568
Second Brother, From The 1180 Sofa, From The 145
See bow kindred murder kin f 670 Soldier rest ' thy warfare o'er . 454
Bee the amoklng bowl before utT . 184 Soldier's Song . 467
Bee, Winter comes to rule the varied year 18 Bole Listener, Duddon . 811
Sensitive Plant, The . . .699 Sole listener Duddon < to the breeze that
Separation 988 played . ... .811
Seventy-Fifth Birthday, On II tt . . 982 Solitary Reaper. The 293
Shadow * or Spirit ' . 561 Solitude (Lucy dray) . . 241
Shakespeare and Milton 981 Solitude, Sonnet to (Keats) 754
Shakespeare, To . . 1172 Son of the Ocean Isle * . . 1160
Shaking Hands . . 878 Bon of the old moon-mountains African ' 767
She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways 288 Sony (II. Coleridge — She lh not fair to out-
She I Love (Alas in Vain') . 965 ward view) 1171
She Is Far from the Land 1309 Song (Elliott— Child, Is thy father dead?) 1165
She Is far from the land where her young Song (Gray — Thyrsls when we parted, swore) 66
hero Bleeps 1309 Song (Hood— O lady, leave thy silken thiead) 1135
Bhe Is Going 918 Song (Hood— There Is dew for the flow'ret) . .1187
She is not fair to outward view 1171 Song (Motherwell — If to thy heart I were as
She sat and wept beside His feet, the weight 1172 near) . . 1166
Bhe stood breast high amid the corn 1186 Song (Scott— Soldier rest1 thy warfare o'er) 454
She Walks in Beauty 511 Song (Shelley— Rarely, rarely, comest thou) 728
Bhe walks In beauty, like the night 511 Kong from Hhakctpear's Cymbelyne, A ... 48
Bhe Was a, Phantom of Delight 295 Bong of Fairiis Robbing Orchard . 869
n*Utyp Percy Bynh* (1792-1822) 627, 1326 Song of Saul before His Last Battle 512
Xhcttcy's Centenary 1828 Song of the Rcim-Kcnnar, The . 470
MMMtone, William (1714-1763) 40, 1348 Hong of the Shirt. The .1141
fihepherd, The 167 Song of the Tempest, The (The Song «/ the
Shepherd, or huntsman, or worn •nmilnor 209 Reim-Kennar) . . 470
Should auld acquaintance be forgot (\uld Bong of the Western Men, The. .. 1150
Lang Syne) 195 Song to the Men of England 659
Shout, for a mighty victory is won ' 294 Songs of Innocence, Introduction to . 166
Silence . . . 1187 Sonnet (My spirit's on the mountains where
Silent nymph with curious eye . . 16 the birds) ... 432
Silent Tower of Bottreauw, The 1152 Sonnet Concerning the Slave Trade. . 400
Silver Tassie, The . 195 Bonnet of the Sea, A ("Pater Venter Paseit
Simon Lee . . 280 TUa") . . .1152
Simplicity, Ode to ... 48 Sonnet on Ohitton 514
Ring hey my braw John Hlghlandman ' . 182 8on*rt Political Oreatnets 729
Sir Patrick Spenoe . 116 Bonnet to a Friend 881
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou 182 Sonnet to Late Leman 522
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIBST LINES
1427
PAQB
Sonnet to Solitude 764
Souls of Poets dead and gone 766
Bound, Bound the clarion, fill the flf el 468
•outhay, Boborfc (1774-1848) 400,1344
Souther's Death, On 988
South-Sea House, The 927
Sparrow's Nest, The 281
Speak not: whisper not 669
Spenser * a Jealous honorer of thine 767
Spenser, To . 767
Spenserian 1167
Spindle Song, The (Twit > et Twine Ye) 405
Spirit of Political Institutions 218
Spirit of Solitude, The (Alastor) 635
Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time*. . 381
Spirits, That "Walk and Wail Tonight . .. 1145
Splil tH whose homes are flekh • ye beasts and
birds 098
Spring, Ode on the (Gray) 57
Spring, To (Blake) 166
Htand close a round, ye Stygian set 908
Standing aloof In giant Ignorance 825
Stanza* (Ilood— Pare* ell life I My senses
swim) 1144
Stanza* (Keatft — In a drear-nigh ted Decem-
ber) 763
Stanzas (Praed — O'er yon churchyard the
storm may lower) 1148
Stanzas for Music (Byron— There be none of
Beauty's daughter*) 514
Stanzas for Musie (Byron — There's not a Joy
the woild can give) 518
S tangos for Muitte (By ion — They say that
Hope Is happiness) 528
Stanzas on Seeing the Speaker Asleep... . 1149
Stanzas to Augusta 518
Stanza* Written in Dejection, near Naples. 654
Btama* Written on the Road Between Flor-
ence and Pisa . 626
Stars Are with the Vtoiaqer, The 1137
Statue of Ebinezer Elliott, From On the 1260
Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 281
^Stella, To . 1341
'Stepping Westward 202
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 1 296
Stern eagle of the far north-west 470
Still let me pierce into the midnight depth . 19
Still must I hear?— shall hoarse Fitzgerald
bawl ... 4S5
Stop, Christian passer-by '—Stop, child of God 870
Stop, mortal ' Here thy brother lies 1167
Stormy Petrel, The 1169
Story of Rimini, Fiom The 800
Strahan, Tonsont Lintot of the Times 568
Strange Pits of Passion Have 7 Known 238
Strew Not Earth with Empty Stars 1130
Style, From ... . 1087
"Suck, baby, suck, mother's love grows by
giving" 917
Summer, From . 19
Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all 151
Buspiri* de Profundts, From 1007
Swallow Leaves Her Nest, The 1130
Sweet Afton . . 190
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 292
Sweet Spirit* sister of that orphan one 720
PAOS
Sweet upland, to whose walks, with fond re-
pair 867
Sweet Was the Bong That Youth Sang Once 972
Sweet WiUiam'f Ghost 8
Swifter far than summer's flight 740
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave 728
Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi, The 1162
Tables Turned, The 282
Take these flowers which, purple waving. .. 486
Talented Man, The 1149
Talisman, From The 471
Tarn Glen 197
Tarn O'Bhantcr 198
Tanagra1 think not I forget 967
Task, From The 145
Tax not the royal saint with vain expense. 812
Tears, Idle Tears 1348
Tell Him I Lore Him 7et 1148
Tell Me, Thou Soul of Her I Love . 82
Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light 709
Tell me, what is a poet's thought? 1170
Tcnnvwn, To Alfred . . . ..1158
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the
fold 518
The autumn is old . .. 1187
The awful shadow of some unseen Power 644
The boddjnge flourettes blobhea atte the lyghte 130
The breaking waves dashed high . .. 1161
The bride *he Is winsome and bonny 474
The captive usurper .... 559
The Cafctle hight of Indolence 24
The castled crag of Drarhenfels 581
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings.. 982
The city lies sleeping 559
The < ock is crowing 282
The cold earth slept below 048
The crackling embers on the hearth are dead 1171
Tbc curfew tolls the knell of parting day. ... 59
The Daughters of the Seraphim led round their
sunny flocks . . 168
The day returns, my natal day 974
The day was fair, the cannon roar'd 1166
Thedell'b awa, the dell's awa 201
The door of Death Is made of gold 174
The Emperor Nup he would set off • 405
The everlasting unh erse of things 646
The feathered songster chaunticleer 125
The flower that Knilles today 729
The fountains mingle with the river. 661
The frost performs Its secret ministry 850
The gallant youth, who may have gained.... 812
The go wan glitters on the sward 474
The harp that once through Tara's halts 426
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece » 596
The Joy, the triumph, the delight, the mad-
ness' 695
The keen stars were twinkling 742
The king sits In Dnmferllng tonne 116
The lamp must be replenished, but even then 549
The lark had left the evening cloud .... 475
The last of our bteers on the board has been
spread . . ... 478
The Lawland lads think they are flne 7
The. leaves are falling , no am I 978
1426
INDKX OF AUTHORfl, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES
PAGB
The maid I love ne'er thought of me 971
The mellow year Is hasting to its close 1171
The Minstrel Boy to the war Is gone 427
The Minstrel came once more to view 460
The Mother of the Muses, we are taught 985
The mountain sheep are sweeter 1000
The odor from the flower IB gone 661
The pale stars are gone T 690
The pale stain of the morn 670
The past Hours weak and gray 691
The path through which that lovely twain.... 676
The Perse owt of Northombarlande 112
The place whore soon I think to lie 978
The poetry of earth Is never dead 764
The poplars are fell'd , farewell to the shade 148
The sea » the sea ' the open sea » 1168
The serpent id shut out of Paradise 740
The shadow of white death baa passed 696
The ship sall'd on, the ship sall'd fast. . . . 559
TheHleeplpfts Hours wiho watch me as I lie. .. 707
The smiling morn, the breathing spring 15
The Know upon my lifeless mountains 695
Thewoul of man is larger than the sky 1172
The sound is of whirlwind underground 665
The star which rules thy destiny 551
The stars are with the voyager 1137
The stately Homes of England 1161
The summer and autumn had been so wet. . 401
The sun, awakening, through the smoky air . . 456
The mm is set, the swallows are asleep 789
The sun is warm, the sky I* clear 654
The ran upon the Woirdlaw Hill 468
The swallow leaven her nent 1180
The time I've lost In wooing 428
The tongue of England, that which myriads.. 981
The twentieth year Is well-nigh past . 158
The um emitting voice of nightly streams.. . 816
The village life, and every care that reigns . . 154
The violet in her greenwood bower . ... 436
The voice of the Spirits of Air and of Karth.. 691
The warm sun IB falling, the bleak wind Is
wailing 709
The world is a bundle of hay 618
The world IH too much with UR , late and noon 802
The young May moon Is beaming, love .. 427
Thelt The Book of 108
Then weave the web of the mystic measure . 602
There be none of Beauty's daughters 514
There came a ghost to Margaret's door 8
There came a man, making his hasty moan.. 868
There IH a flower, a little flower 1866
There is a flower I wish to wear 908
Thereto a Little Unpretending Rill 810
There Is a mountain and a wood between us . 988
There Is a alienee where hath been no sound 1187
"There is a Thorn — it looks so old*'. . 225
There Is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale... 290
There IM an awful quiet in the air 1 172
There Is delight in singing, tho* none hear . 975
There is dew for the flow'ret 1187
There Is strange music In the stirring wind .. 165
There lies a cold corpse upon the sands .. .1152
"There!" Naid a R tripling, Pointing with Meet
Pride . 814
There those enchanted eddies play 677
There was a little lawny Islet 748
PAOI
There was a roaring in the wind all night . . 288
There was a time when meadow, grove, and
stream .808
There's not a Joy the world can give like that
it takes away 518
There's not a nook within this solemn Paw . 814
These, as they change. Almighty Father 1 ... 28
Theseus and Hippolyta . . . .... 984
They Are Sweet Flowers That Only Blow by
Jfiffht 985
They die— the dead return not Misery 650
They grew in beauty side by Hide ..1160
"They made her a grave, too cold and damp 424
They rear'd their lodges in the wilderness 1151
They say that Hope is happiness 528
They told me in their shadowy phrase 1153
Thiity-Stoth Year, On This Day I Complete
My . . .626
This IB the day which down the void abysm . 698
ThisLtmo-Tree Bower My Pitaon . 884
Thlb pleasant tale is like a little copse 704
This sycamore, oft musical with bees 804
Thomas Heywood . . . 921
Thomas Moore, To (My Boat Is on thf ft h ore) 568
Thomson, Jam** (1700-1748) . 18. 1S47
Thornton, Ode on the Death of Mr .... 52
Thorn, The 225
Tboiowe the halle the Iwlle ban ttounile . . 140
Those who have laid the harp aside 90S
Thou art folded, thou are lying . . . 607
Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul . 69S
Thou Uaitt Hot Ratted, lunthe, Kuch Dnnre WJ <
Thou Lingering fttar . . . 198
Thou llng'rlng star with leaning ray . . . l»s
Thou Moon, which gaceftt on the nightly Earth 60S
Thou Neednt Not Pitch upon My Hat . 983
Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle * ... 78
Thou still nnravlHh'd bride of quietness 827
Thou weit the morning ttnr among the living 1841
Though I Be 2fow a Cray, dray Friar .. 990
Though the day of my dentlnv's over 518
Though Ruin now Ix>vc*s shadow be 673
Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of
£101 tot land 805
ThroMvmcdctt and Eunur . .. 975
Three days the flowers of the garden fair . 701
Three Elliotts there have been, three glorious
men 1260
Three Graves, The 917
Three Ro§c§, The .... 983
Three Tears ffhe Grew in Run and Shower. . . 238
Threnos (A Lament) . 729
Thrice three hundred thousand years 668
Through the Wood, Laddtf . . 9
Thy rein, when we parted, swore 66
Thys mornynge starre of RadcleveB ryaynge
rale 184
TMerlu* and Viptanta 985
Tiger, The 171
Tiger, tiger, burning bright 171
Time (Shelley) 728
Timf (Scott— Why Sitt'at Thou oy Tliat Riling
Ilallt) . 467
Time I're Lost in Wooing, Thf . . 428
Time Long Pant . . . . 710
Time-Piece, From The . ... ... 347
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIBST LINES 1429
PAOl PAOI
Time Real and Imaginary 866 To Jane . 742
Time's Song ,. . . 1145 To Joseph Aolett 969
Tlntadgel bells ring o'er the tide 1152 To Leigh Hunt, E*q 704
Tired Nature'! iweet restorer, balmy Bleep1 88 To Mary (Cowper — The twentieth year IB well-
'Til done— but yesterday a King1 .. 510 nigh past) . . 158
VTls eight o'ctock,— a clear March night 1248 To Mary (Shelley— How, my dear Mary, are
Tto eve1 'tis glimmering eve1 how fair the you critic-bitten) 710
scene 1150 To Mary (Shelley— So now my rammer task IB
Tla not the gray hawk's flight ..1162 ended, Mary) .648
>Ti* Said That Some Have Died for love 273 To me, whom In their lays the sheperds call . 46
Til the middle of night by the castle clock. .. 848 To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love . 167
'Til time thl> heart Hhould be unmoved 626 To Mr. Murray (For Orjord and lor Walde-
Tltan T to whose immortal eyes . . 522 grave) 613
To— (Shelley— I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden) 706 To Mr Murray (Strahan, Toniton, Untot of the
To— (Shelley— Oh 'there are spirits of the all) 684 TmeB) 568
j'0_ ( Shelley— One word Is too often profaned) 739 To My Ninth Decade 985
To— (Shelley— Music, when soft voices die) 729 To my ninth decade I have totter'd on. . . . 985
To— (Shelley— When passion's trance IN over- To My Sister .... 281
pant) . . .729 To Nature 867
ToaBride,Feo 17, 18)6 . 972 Tonight 728
To a Butterfly (Woidbworth — I've watched To One Singing 1837
yon now a full half-honr) 282 To One Who Hat Been, Long in City Pent. ... 754
To a Butterfly ( Word hworth— Stay near me— To Robert Browning 975
do not take thy flight') 281 To Sea, To Seat 1180
To a Child 315 To sea, to sea » The calm Is o'er 1180
To a Cyclamen 988 To see a world In a grain of sand 172
To a Gentleman . . 365 To Khakepeare 1172
To a good man ot moht deai memory . 1296 To Kleep (Keats) 830
To a Highland Girl . .202 ToKlftp (Landor) 972
To a Lady uith Flowers from the Roman Wall 416 To Kleep (Wordsworth) 802
To a Lou*c 104 To Bpenser 707
To a Mountain Daisy. 194 To Spring 166
To a Mou»e 100 To Ktella 1841
To a Mghttngale. Ode (Keats) 831 To f he Cuckoo (Wordsworth— Not the whole
To a Painter . . . 972 warbling grove In concert heard) .... 812
To a Skylark (Shelley— nail to thee, blithe To tM Cuckoo ( Wordb worth— O blithe' New-
spirit') 704 comer' I have heard) ... 294
To a Skylark (Wordbworth — Ethereal mln- To the Daitty (Wordsworth— Bright Flower1
strel! pilgrim of the skv») .. 812 whose home Is everywhere) 290
To a Skylark' ( Wordnwoi th— Up with me T up To the Daisy (Wordsworth— In youth from
with me Into the clouds) .. 297 rock to rock I went) 288
To a Snowdrop . ... 810 To the deep, to the deep 678
To a Young AM 828 To the Grasshopper and the Oncket 868
To a Young Lady . ... 298 To the Lords of Convention 'twab Claver'se
To a Young Lady Who Sent Me a Laurel who spoke . 471
Crown 758 To the Jftn of Kent 294
ToAge .. . 981 To the Moon 709
To Ailaa Rook . . . 825 To thrMutei .... 106
To Alfred Tennyson 1158 To the Nightingale (Countess of Wlnchllwa) 2
To Amanda 82 To Ihc Atlc (Keats) 707
To Autumn 860 To the Me ( Shell ej) 1278
To Byron 752 To the Poet John Dyer 1200
To Ohatterton 752 To the Queen 174
To Davie 177 To t he Reverend IT. L Botcles 329
To Dyer 1260 To the Same Plover (The celandine) 2ft"
To B Arundfll 982 To the Same Flower (The daisy) 289
To Edward William* 740 To the Btsttr oj Elia 970
To Emilia Viviani 729 To the Small Celandine 282
To fair Pidele's grassy tomb 48 To Thomat Moore (My Boat Is on the Shore) 568
To Fannie 861 ToWorfeworth (Hood) 1137
ToO A W. 768 ToWordtvorth (Landor) 968
ToH 0 388 To Wordsworth (Shelley) 684
Toffampstead 867 To Youth 981
To Hi* Young Rose an Old Man Beid 988 Tomorrow 740
ToBomer 825 Tonight retired, the queen of heaven 47
To lanthe, Lyrtot 968 Torrimontf, From 1110
1480 INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIB8T LINES
PAOfl V PAOl
Touch us gently, Time ' 1170 Wasted, Weary , Wherefore Stay 466
Toussalnt, the most unhappy man of men ' 286 W a verity, From . ' . . .... 466
Tragedies of Bhaktptore, Considered with Way Broad-Leaf, The 1167
Reference to Their Fitness for Stage Rep- We are u clouds that yell the midnight moon 684
mentation, From The 928 "We are born ; we laugh ; we weep 1169
Tree, The 1 We are na f on, we're nae that f on 197
Triumph* of Owen, The 68 We Are Seven ......:...•...,...... 226
Trosach*, The 814 We, beyond heaven, are driven along 692
Troubadour, From The 1145 We come from the mind 692
•Twaa a fierce night when old Mawgan died. . .1151 We Do He beneath the Grau 1132
•Twas after drrad Pultowa's day 669 We join the throng 691
Twas at the silent solemn hoar 15 We meet not as we parted . 748
Twas In the prime of Rummer time 1188 We Mtnd Not How the Sun in the Mid-Sky . 968
Twas summer, and the* sun had mounted high 274 We see them not — we cannot hear 1108
Twentieth Sunday after Trinity .. ..1188 We talked with open heart, and tongue.. 240
Twenty Years Hence My Eyes May Grow ... 974 We the fairies blithe and antic 869
Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village We walked along, while bright and red . ..240
green 207 We watch'd her breathing thro* the night 1140
Twist thou and twine, In light and gloom .1161 Weave the dance on the floor of the breese 691
Twist le, Twine Ye 405 Webster, John . . 921
Twist y*. twin* ye * even to 465 Wedded Souls (The Port'* Lorcr) 661
Two April Mornings, The 240 V ee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r 194
Two Races of Men, The 987 Wee, sleeklt, cowrtn, tlm'rou* bemtie ... . 190
Two Rpintt, The An Allegory 708 Welcome, old friend' Theqe many years 981
Two Voices arc there; one is of the sea .... 805 Well I Remember How You Nmilid 965
Tynemout* Priory, At . ... 164 Well! If the bard was weather-wise, who
Tyre of the farther West ' be thou too warn'd. 1184 made .... 860
Well rnay'st thou halt— and gace with bright-
Unfathomable Sea ' whose wave* are years. . 728 ening eye! 801
Unfelt, unheard, unseen . .... 765 Well, they are gone, and here must I remain 834
United State* . 1184 West Wind, Ode to the 660
Unremitting Voice of Nightly Streams, The... 816 Wet Sheet and a flowing Seat A 476
Up ' up * my friend, and quit your books 282 Whun gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks 1214
Up with me ' up with me into the clouds » . . . . 297 What Brave Chief 471
Upon a Sabbath-day It fell 848 What brave chief bhall head the forces . . 471
Upon a simmer Sunday morn 1R5 What Is more gentle than a wind In summer? 758
Upon a Sweet-Briar 966 What Is religion? "Hpeak the truth in love" 1168
Upon a time, before the faery broods 882 What lovelier home could gentle Fnnry choose? 810
Uprose the King of Men with spoed 67 What though, for bliowlng truth to flatter'd
state 7B3
Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent 294 "What, you arc stepping westward?" — "Yea " 292
Various the Roads of Li]e, in One .... 974 When a Man Hath No Freedom fo Fight for
Vathek, From The History of the Caliph. . . 184 at Home .618
Verse, a breeze mid bloKKonm straying 867 When chapman billies leave the street . . 198
Very True, the Linnets Sing . ... 971 When first, descending from the moorlands. .. 315
VioitBitudc, Ode on the Pleasure Arising from 65 When Friends Are Met 473
Village, From The . . 154 When friends are met o'er merry cheer . ... 473
Violet, The .. . 486 When He Who Adores Thee . 425
Vision of Judgment, From A (Sou they) 409 When he who adores thce has left but the
Vision of Judgment, The (Byron) 618 name 425
Vision of Sudden Death, The 1117 When I Have Borne in Memory . . 288
Viviani, To Emilia 729 When I have borne In memory what has tamed 288
Voluntary Aetiuns of Men Originate in Their When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be 765
Opinions, The 216 When in the crimson clouds of even 119
When Israel, of the Lord beloved 469
Waken, lords and ladles gay 446 When, looking on the present face of things . . 294
Walpole, Xoraoe (1717-1797) 100, 1349 When lovely sounds about my ears 871
Wanderer, From The (The Excursion) 274 When lyart leaves beatrow the yird 180
Wandering* of Cain, The 870 When Maggy Gangs Away 477
Waning Moon, The .. . . . 709 When maidens such an Heater die 917
Warriors and chiefs' should the shaft or the When Music, heav'nly maid, was young.. . 51
sword 512 When passion's trance IB overpast 729
War Song of Dinae Vawr, The ... . 1000 When princely Hamilton's abode 489
Warton, Joseph (1722-1800) ... . 80, 1350 Whenshaws beene sheene, and ahradds full
WartOB, ThooMW (1728-1790) 75,1851 fayre 110
Wait It Home B*eet Devioe of Faery 915 When the buds began to burst 988
INDEX OF AUTHORS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES 1431
PiGl P10I
Whenthcgrecn wood! Uugh with the TOice of With • Gutter- To Jute „.« 742
joy 107 "With an Album 974
When the Kye Comes Uame 470 With fingers weary and won 1141
When the lamp la shattered 741 With little here to do or see 289
When the moon Is on the wave 552 With sacrifice before the riling mom 800
When the Spirit withdrew, the Monarch Within a narrow gpan of time 182R
around the assembly 409 Wolfe, Ohmrttf (1781-1823) 482, 1363
When the Yolcei of children are heard on the Woman/ When I Behold Thee FUpfont, Vain. 752
green 171 Woo** and Married and A' 474
When We Two Parted 485 WooaXocfc, Prom 478
When Winter howls along the hill 1107 'Wordsworth, To (Hood) 1187
Whence come ye, BO wild and so fleet 092 'Wordsworth, To (Landor) 968
Where are they gone, the old familiar face*?. 916 Wordtnoorth, To (Shelley) 084
Wheie art thon, beloved Tomorrow? . . 740 Wordsworth, William (1770-1860).... 223, 135.1
Where art thou gone, llght-ankled Youth? .. 981 Wordtuorth's Grave, From 1850
Wheie art thou, my beloved son . . 295 Worfoworth's The Effcurttnn. Fiom Jeffrey's
Where IB the grave of Sir .Arthur O'Kellyn? 807 Review of 892
Where In the land with milk and honey flow- "Wordsworth's The White Doc of Rylstone,
Ing . . 1188 From Jeff ley's Rcww of .. ... 902
Where in Thy favorM haunt, eternal Voice. 1138 Work without Hope . . 808
Whfre ShaU the Lover Rest 440 World la a ttundlt of Hav. The . . 018
Where the pools are bright and deep 4S2 World h Too Much with V*j Late and Soon,
Where the slumbering earthquake... . ..%. 550 The . 302
Where Venta's Norman castle still uprean. ... 78 World's Great \ge Begins Anew, The . 789
Whether on Ida s shndy brow 166 Worlds on Worlds Arc Rolling Ever . .788
While at the stock the shearers cow*r 179 World's Wandtrtrs, Tht 709
While brlen an' woodbines budding green 177 Write It In gold— A spirit of the sun 1129
While nome affect the inn, and some the shade 37 Wntten after the Death of Chatlc* Lamh 1290
While Summer Nun* o'er the Gay Prosptct Wntten at Midnight 209
Plou'd 78 Written at Stonchenffe . 78
While thro* the broken pane the tempest sighs 209 Written in a Blank Ltaf of Duqdale3* Monanti-
Whttl Mart from to hurt the Hill, A . 212 eon 77
11 hMle 0 cr the Lai c 07 100 TT» if tin in London, Heptemlei, 1802 2b"
Whltr Dor of RvWonc, From Jeffrey's I?fr/ri0 Wntten in March 282
of The . . 002 Wntten in thr Highlands of Scotland . . 209
Whither 1* done the Wisdom and the Power 1171 Written in Very Early Youth .... 223
Who counsels pence at this momentous hour 406 Wntttn on tin Blank Npuce at the End of
Who has not heard of the Vfl IP of Cashmere 429 Chaucer's Tale of "The Flout e and thr
Who Ibtbe happy warrior? Who Is he . 298 Ltfe" . 704
Who Ktll'd John Keats 613 Wntten on the Day That Mt Leiqli Hunt Left
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun . 765 Prison 758
"Who, who from Plan's feast would be away* 813
Who will away to Athens with me? who 975 Yardley Oak 151
Whose was that gentle voice, that, whisper- Yarrow Rninted 312
Ing sweet 164 Yarrow Unvuntrd 298
Whj doht thou beat thy breast, and rend thine Yarrow Vimted . 80S
hair . 400 le Iwnks and biaes and rti earns around 202
Why MM Thou toy That Kum'dHallt.. . 467 I e Tloudb ' that far above me float and pau&e 351
"Why weep vo by the tide, ladle? 467 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 57
U hy, It hv /tcpmt 9T2 Ye Dorian woods and \\ n\ es, In metit aloud 1341
Why, why repine, my pensive friend. ........ 972 Ye elemental Genii, who have homes .... 698
Why, William, on that old gray stone. ... 232 1 e Flowery Hanks 201
William and Helen 488 Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon 201
WHliam and Margaret 16 Ye green rob'd Dryadb, of t at dusky eve 80
W<Uura», To Edward 740 Ye happy dead, whom beams of brightest vers* 098
lI'iHlf lixu'dal'ick oJMaut 1»7 Ye holy towers that shade the wave worn
Wilson, John (1785-1864) 1153, 1*152 steep . . 164
Wilt thou forget the happy hours . . 660 Ye Kings of buns and stars, Damons and Clods 09S
Wlnchilstft, ConnttM of (1661-1720) ... .1. 1352 Te Mariners of England 419
Windnot Forrst, From 1175 Ye Woods, That Oft at Sultry Noon 999
Winter, From 18 Y< art After .. . geB
Winter Walk at Noon, From The 148 Y<an, Many Particolored Yean . . . 966
Wisdom and ISpirit of the universe (The Pre- Yearn— years ago.— ere vet my dreams. 1147
Me, 1,401) 248 "Yes , I Write Verne* Now and Then 973
Witoh o' Fife, The . 481 Yen, It Wan tht Mountain Echo 800
Witch of Atla*f The 710 Yew-Trees 290
1432
INDEX OF AUTHOBS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES
PAOB
•Ton are old, Father William," the young man
cried (Southey) 401
41 'Ton are old. Father William,' the young man
•aid (Carroll) 1845
Ton Mutt Off* BaeW Her Mother BoU. ... 971
You Smiled, You Spoke, and I BeUeved. ... 964
You strange, aitonlBh'd-looking, angle-faced. . . 870
You Ten Me I Mutt Oome Ago* 971
You'll come to our ball ;— -since we parted. . . .1146
Young, Idmurd (1681-1765) 88, 1875
Young Ass, To* 828
F1GB
Young Lady, To a (Wordsworth) ........... £98
Young Lady Who Sent Me a Laurel Crown,
Toe, (Keats) .......................... 758
Young May Moon, The ..................... 427
Your call was as a wlngM car .............. 669
Your Ptouuree Spring Kfte Dolefct in the
Qrci* ................................. 965
Youth and Age .......................... 867
Vouth, To ............................ 981
From
866
1 27 087
472
NINETKENTII CENTURY BOMANTIGI8T8
Come open the We*l Port, and let me
gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee!'1
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the
street,
10 The bells are rung backwaid,1 the drums
they are beat ,
But the Provost,* douce* man, wild, "Just
e'en let him be,
The Gude Town IR weel quit of that Deil
of Dundee "
Come fill up my cup, etc.
As he rode down the sanctified bends of
the Bow/
15 Ilk carline* was flyting* and shaking her
pow,7
But the young plants of grace they look'd
couthie and slee,8
Thinking, "Luck to thy bonnet, thou
Bonny Dundee!"
Come fill up my cup, etc.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-
market was cramm'd
20 As if half the West had set tryst to be
hang'd;
There was spite in each look, there was
fear in each e'e,
As they watch 'd for the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
These cowls of Kilmarnock* had spits10
and had spears,
26 And lang-haf ted gullies11 to kill Cava-
liers;
But they shrunk to close-heads,19 and the
causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
He apurr'd at the foot of the proud Castle
rock,1*
>° And with the gay Gordon he gallantly
spoke;
Phe chimes are 'hooded [garment!
Branded In rerene madeatKUmarnock
order ai an alarm (Here med for the
i The
801
on
•Mayor
• sedate ; prudent
< windlnn of Bow
(It was In-
_ chiefly by
ant erf.)
•each old woman
PreibyterianB, who
wore them )
"Rworda
» long-handled knives
M upper ends of nar-
row panacea lead-
from tne street
"Let MODS Meg1 and her marrows2 speak
twa words or three,
For the love of the Bonnet of Bonny
Dundee."
Come fill up my cup, etc,
The Gordon demands of him which way
he goes—
85 "Where'er shall direct me the shade of
Montrose 1
Your Grace in short space shall hear
tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"There are hills beyond Pentland, and
lands beyond Forth,
40 If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's
chiefs in the North ;
There are wild Duniewassals,8 three thou-
sand times three,
Will cry hoighl for the bonnet of Bonny
Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"There's brass on the target4 of barken 'd*
bull-hide;
45 There's steel in the scabbard that dangles
beside ;
The brass shall be burnish 'd, the steel
shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the
rocks—
60 Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the
fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of
your glee,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet
and met"
Come fill up my cup, eta
He waved his proud hand, and the trum-
pets were blown,
66 The kettle-drums clash 'd, and the horse-
men rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermis-
ton'slee,
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny
Dundee.
*The nickname of a
great cannon, tup-
pored to have been
made In Monn, Bel-
glum
• mates: companions
'Highland gentlemen
of secondary rank.
Jjbleld
* tanned with bark
SIB WALTER 800TT
478
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my
can,
Come saddle the horses, and call up the
men,
60 Come open your gates, and let me gae
free,
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny
Dundee!
WHEN FBIENDS ARE MET
When friends are met o'er merry cheer,
And lovely eyes are laughing near,
And in the goblet's bosom clear
The cares of day are drown 'd;
6 When puns are made, and bumpeib
quaff 'd,
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft,
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laugh 'd,
Then is our banquet crown 'd,
Ah gay,
10 Then is our banquet crown 'd
When glees1 are sung, and catches troll M,2
And babhfulness grows bright and bold,
And beauty is no longer cold,
And age no longer dull ;
15 When chimes are brief, and cocks do crow,
To tell us it is time to go,
Yet how to part we do not know,
Then is our feast at full,
Ah gay,
20 Then is our feast at full
From WOODSTOCK
1816 1826
GLEE TOR KINO CHARLES
Bring the bowl which you boast,
Fill it up to the brim ,
'Tis to him we love most,
And to all who love him.
5 Brave gallant, stand up,
And avaunt ye, base cailes!**
Were there death in the cup,
Here's a health to King Charlc*1
Though he wanders through dangers,
10 Unaided, unknown,
Dependent on strangers,
Estranged from his own ,
Though 'tis under our breath,
Amidst forfeits and peril*,
*A glee !• an unaccompanied «mg for several
•olo voices, and usually In contrarted move-
ments A catch differ* In that each of wrcral
perrons ring* a part to one contlnuouH melody.
• nnng loudly
3 churls, peaaanta
15 Here's to honor and faith,
And a health to King Charles!
Let such honors abound
As the time can afford,
The knee on the ground,
20 And the hand on the sword;
But the time shall come round
When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,
The loud trumpet shall sound,
Here's a health to King Charles'
THE FOBAY
1830
The last of our steers on the board has
been spread,
And the last flask of wine in our goblet is
red;
Up, up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords
and begone.
There are dangers to dare, and there's
spoil to be won.
The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances
with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze
from the towers.
And strive to distinguish through tempest
and gloom
The piance of the steed and the toss of
the plume
The rain is descending; the wind rises
loud,
10 And the moon her red beacon has veil'd
with a cloud ;
'Tis the better, my mates! for the
warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream
we are nigh
Our steeds aie impatient* T hear my
blithe grav !
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope
in his neigh;
16 Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of
his mane
Shall marshal your march through the
darkness and rain
The drawbridge baa dropp'd, the bugle
has blown ;
One pledge is to quaff yet— then mount
and begone!—
To their honor and peace, that shall rest
with the slain ;
80 To their health and their glee, that see
Teviot again '
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